Greetings, my loyal minions. Have you missed my unfortunately prolonged absence from the interwaves, as my Grandma calls them? I bet you have. I can just picture you, crying yourself to sleep, eating too much, watching Eurovision*, the usual signals that someone has given up on life. And now I return, awesomeness radiating from me like objects that aren't usually glow-in-the-dark radiate from the Fukushima power plant. And what does this second coming of Oh Christ** talk about? Cricket. I can just hear your disappointed "Oh"s.
I don't really get the impression that people on my cricket team think on the same wavelength as me. Or, come to mention it, think it all. It's not that they're stupid, it's just me and them don't really click, y'know? They're still giggling at naughty words and sinking to annoying levels of unhygienic verbal interpretation (For those of you overwhelmed by long words, they laugh whenever someone says "do", "pencil" or "had". They're basically childishly dirty minded in a way most of us got over by year 7), while I'm, uhhhm, showing off my fancy vocabulary and being pedantic (The other day someone who's got it into their head that I'm religious told me I don't like horror films "Because thou shall not kill". I told them it was actually "Shalt". See what I mean? It was the wrong answer).
Plus I don't think they properly appreciate my bland optimism in the most hopeless of situations. My cheery grins and assurances we're going to kick ass are usually greeted with stony silence (And even more annoyingly, are quite frequently blatantly wrong at the moment). They might think I'm being sarcastic. They're wrong. I genuinely believe we're going to win every match this season in high style.
I would delight you with more details of my fascinating experiences on the cricket pitch (for instance, what makes it so impossible to resist start using the work "Ha'way"), but I've been told my posts are getting too long. I leave you with the observation by someone or other that war isn't about dying for your country, it's about making the other bastard die for his. Goodbye.
*Funnily enough, I do usually watch Eurovision, but for the supporters of this blog (to whom I am the human embodiment of pure masculinity) it might come as a bit of a shock. So on with the dissing.
**A complicated pun, may be lost on you.
Monday, 16 May 2011
Saturday, 14 May 2011
The R factor
Anyone seen the IT crowd? Probably not, but then again, you're probably normal. And what have I always said about normal people? They're idiots, of course. So, regardless of your views on the varying levels of idiocy in the massing public, or on the IT crowd, or whether you've even watched the IT crowd, I will continue, as I always do. Cue sighs.
Well, as is so rightly pointed out by Jen (Katherine Parkinson) in Calendar Geeks, the R factor is "Things that make you go Awwwww". It really should be Rrrrrrrr, I know, but what they said is what they said. Besides, Rrrrrr and Awwww sound quite similar. Ask the dinosaurs, a peace-loving era of pleasant yet slightly patronising reptiles, constantly mistook for mindless ravaging killers, all because of misinterpreted Awwws.
So yes, The R factor is stuff like naked calendars of unemployed men and old women from Devon, or that kid in Come Fly With Me who never gets to go to pilot school. But not Cats or Dogs. Never. The stinky, constantly excreting, evil, frankly scary things should be struck regularly, like gongs.
They've been here for centuries, carefully manipulating us until they're in a position to take over, while at the same time harnessing our technological advancement to have a cushier life. What was the first animal to orbit our planet in a space ship? A dog called Laika. To be fair, it died, but it must have been enjoying itself before it plummeted down to it's flattened doom. Serves it right, the malign canine.
Dogs and Cats are much scarier at eye level. I can just about deal with them when I tower over them like a towering thing, but when you've just fallen off your chair and a dog starts licking your face, you know what a terrifying death must feel like. Particularly drowning, this fellow was a bit over-keen on the saliva front.
I do not like Cats and Dogs, but I have a solution. Bring back our Awwwing friends the dinosaurs, who will find scaring them off quite easy, I'd assume. Then convince the dinosaurs that they have, in fact, been dead the whole time, and are just hallucinating future existence. Then, when they're busy trying to work out whether this is true, by nipping each other and the like, we should (as would be said on the Armstrong and Miller show) "KILL THEM".
Well, as is so rightly pointed out by Jen (Katherine Parkinson) in Calendar Geeks, the R factor is "Things that make you go Awwwww". It really should be Rrrrrrrr, I know, but what they said is what they said. Besides, Rrrrrr and Awwww sound quite similar. Ask the dinosaurs, a peace-loving era of pleasant yet slightly patronising reptiles, constantly mistook for mindless ravaging killers, all because of misinterpreted Awwws.
So yes, The R factor is stuff like naked calendars of unemployed men and old women from Devon, or that kid in Come Fly With Me who never gets to go to pilot school. But not Cats or Dogs. Never. The stinky, constantly excreting, evil, frankly scary things should be struck regularly, like gongs.
They've been here for centuries, carefully manipulating us until they're in a position to take over, while at the same time harnessing our technological advancement to have a cushier life. What was the first animal to orbit our planet in a space ship? A dog called Laika. To be fair, it died, but it must have been enjoying itself before it plummeted down to it's flattened doom. Serves it right, the malign canine.
Dogs and Cats are much scarier at eye level. I can just about deal with them when I tower over them like a towering thing, but when you've just fallen off your chair and a dog starts licking your face, you know what a terrifying death must feel like. Particularly drowning, this fellow was a bit over-keen on the saliva front.
I do not like Cats and Dogs, but I have a solution. Bring back our Awwwing friends the dinosaurs, who will find scaring them off quite easy, I'd assume. Then convince the dinosaurs that they have, in fact, been dead the whole time, and are just hallucinating future existence. Then, when they're busy trying to work out whether this is true, by nipping each other and the like, we should (as would be said on the Armstrong and Miller show) "KILL THEM".
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
The rants that never were.
I was going to have a lovely little anti-parental rant, and even planned out the basics of it while lying fuming in bed last night, but naturally (yet still annoyingly), my parents were very nice to me today, possibly in reconciliation, and now I'd feel bad about it. They do this all the time, and while I know that as a decent human being I should accept their apology and carry on with my sad, wretched life (of which you have a small insight), it does feel somewhat like a waste of good venting material. Carrying our volcano analogy one step further, I'm a real lava spurter being bombed with liquid nitrogen canisters. I've run out of steam. Still, ah well, this was the basic vent, which was either going on facebook or being contributed as a delightful addition to your reading material:
Geez, it's just brilliant when you've returned from a cricket match in which you managed to seriously injure yourself, yet heroically kept on playing (I know, I'm quite the martyr), returning by your own means, despite being under the impression that a pick-up was being arranged (the "So what time should I come and pick him up" was what really sold that idea to me), and feeling like collapsing in a bruised and battered heap, not to wake until some time late the next millennium. Even more splendiferous when, instead of fulfilling the aforementioned sleeping ambitions, you have around one and a half hours worth of history homework to complete. Having finished that, it's so late now you might as well wait for your parents to come home from the pub, which in the meantime you have learned is where they are enjoying a pleasurable Jacob-free evening, and just talk for a bit- not necessarily for a long time, you're still feeling like falling unconscious on the spot- you know, tell them about what's been happening while they've been drinking, ask them what they think of the cuts and grazes you can now proudly display as a tribute to your sporting determination and dedication, ask them how they've been, inform them of your glorious victory, generally spend some, albeit limited, quality time with them that you think you've been missing out on with them over the last few days. Alas, not to be, you foul child! Obviously you enjoy staying awake past the stage of bleary eyed incomprehension, and should be punished. Now, go to bed! At this point you might well consider trying to explain why you're sitting waiting for their slightly swaying return, it's quite hard for them to guess, but you'd really rather go to bed. Clearly the "Quality parent son communication" isn't going to happen, made as obvious by the scent of beer and wine in their breath as by their unnecessary snappiness. So, with a slight yawn/groan as your aching muscles protest after a long, painful evening, you stand up to leave. Unfortunately, this yawn/groan is clearly a sign of unruliness, and you will now be taken to task in a tirade filled with about as much empathy and understanding as would be displayed by a giant comet crashing into a weary planet, utterly destroying it. So, now you're crawling up the stairs, as at some point during the evening the calf muscle that had been causing problems after you pulled it during a warm-up (one of the subjects you were planning to discuss with your parents) has gone from uncomfortable to agonising, and hear something shouted from below about how in future there might well have to be times by which you must be in bed being enforced. Well, frankly, looking back on the evening you've had, that idea doesn't seem so bad.
I'm afraid I have have got slightly back into the spirit of it again just there... sorry about that. So yes, as the post of this title suggests, rants such as that are often never really voiced. Strangely enough, a post about non-existent rants seems to have spawned its very own, quite existent, rant. Such fun.
Geez, it's just brilliant when you've returned from a cricket match in which you managed to seriously injure yourself, yet heroically kept on playing (I know, I'm quite the martyr), returning by your own means, despite being under the impression that a pick-up was being arranged (the "So what time should I come and pick him up" was what really sold that idea to me), and feeling like collapsing in a bruised and battered heap, not to wake until some time late the next millennium. Even more splendiferous when, instead of fulfilling the aforementioned sleeping ambitions, you have around one and a half hours worth of history homework to complete. Having finished that, it's so late now you might as well wait for your parents to come home from the pub, which in the meantime you have learned is where they are enjoying a pleasurable Jacob-free evening, and just talk for a bit- not necessarily for a long time, you're still feeling like falling unconscious on the spot- you know, tell them about what's been happening while they've been drinking, ask them what they think of the cuts and grazes you can now proudly display as a tribute to your sporting determination and dedication, ask them how they've been, inform them of your glorious victory, generally spend some, albeit limited, quality time with them that you think you've been missing out on with them over the last few days. Alas, not to be, you foul child! Obviously you enjoy staying awake past the stage of bleary eyed incomprehension, and should be punished. Now, go to bed! At this point you might well consider trying to explain why you're sitting waiting for their slightly swaying return, it's quite hard for them to guess, but you'd really rather go to bed. Clearly the "Quality parent son communication" isn't going to happen, made as obvious by the scent of beer and wine in their breath as by their unnecessary snappiness. So, with a slight yawn/groan as your aching muscles protest after a long, painful evening, you stand up to leave. Unfortunately, this yawn/groan is clearly a sign of unruliness, and you will now be taken to task in a tirade filled with about as much empathy and understanding as would be displayed by a giant comet crashing into a weary planet, utterly destroying it. So, now you're crawling up the stairs, as at some point during the evening the calf muscle that had been causing problems after you pulled it during a warm-up (one of the subjects you were planning to discuss with your parents) has gone from uncomfortable to agonising, and hear something shouted from below about how in future there might well have to be times by which you must be in bed being enforced. Well, frankly, looking back on the evening you've had, that idea doesn't seem so bad.
I'm afraid I have have got slightly back into the spirit of it again just there... sorry about that. So yes, as the post of this title suggests, rants such as that are often never really voiced. Strangely enough, a post about non-existent rants seems to have spawned its very own, quite existent, rant. Such fun.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Talk of many things.
I usually try to enforce some level of cohesion and flow between parts of my posts, to limit the number of people understanding them. My theory is that if people get an impression that I'm trying to say something deep and significant, and attempt to understand how I get from one point to the other, they will give up fairly quickly and just appreciate the comedy of individual sentences/paragraphs. Today I will be abandoning this tradition, and go for a more "Where are the crayons and jelly beans" approach, with various anecdotes and opinions strewn about the place like Osama Bin Laden's face was strewn about the wall behind him, just without the beard.
Firstly, I had a slightly strange request for content yesterday. Actually, no, the day before. I would edit out the sentence in which I incorrectly informed you of the time I received this request as yesterday, but I want you to understand certain levels of thinking do go into these posts, on an intellectual level, if not a grammatical one, as my family are so gung-ho about pointing out. They've never really let me forget the time I said "I am righting this post to...". And, in a neat little circle of thought, it was a member of my family who asked me to tell you all about this. All seven of you. No, five, as two of my followers are my family and were there at the time. But yes, a member of my family drew my attention to this, although I am having trouble remembering which one. Maybe one of those Darth-Vader-without-a-mask creatures from DW, they're so strange I must be somehow connected to them. ENOUGH WITTER, I hear you cry. So to the content.
Well, Norway's about to collapse, I am told. The whole western coastline is on the verge of plummeting down into the sea, causing a massive tidal wave to come over and teach us Japanese. As much as that pun was nonsensical and lacked a bit of decent human empathy, I think you get my point. I don't really know much about the specifics, for once even the internet was a bit vague, but from what I can tell the North Sea has been busy eating away underneath, meaning they're basically sitting on top of a giant cave. So now if they eat to much and press too hard on the ground, it'll all topple over. As the hitchiker's guide would say in nice, friendly letters on the front though, Don't Panic, although I'm having trouble locating the hitchiker's guide's reasoning right here. I'm sure it'll all be fine though, and if it isn't then most of us probably won't really care.
Cheery stuff. Still, moving swiftly onwards (interestingly, the words moving swiftly onwards can be arranged in any order and still mean the same thing). I'd like to draw your attention to some extremely cool palindromes. So, without ado (which is unusual in itself), here they are:
The noon sex alert relaxes no one.
Nurse, I spy gypsies. Run!
Sex at noon taxes.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Do geese see God?
Rats live on no evil star.
Stressed? No Tips? Spit on Desserts.
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak.
And my personal favourite...
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention.
That's pretty much it for today. I leave you with news that Pirates of the Caribbean 4: On stranger tides, and Kung Fu Panda 2 look AWESOME! Here are the links:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZTtvYLvCRI&feature=fvst
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIW5oo-8NYw
Firstly, I had a slightly strange request for content yesterday. Actually, no, the day before. I would edit out the sentence in which I incorrectly informed you of the time I received this request as yesterday, but I want you to understand certain levels of thinking do go into these posts, on an intellectual level, if not a grammatical one, as my family are so gung-ho about pointing out. They've never really let me forget the time I said "I am righting this post to...". And, in a neat little circle of thought, it was a member of my family who asked me to tell you all about this. All seven of you. No, five, as two of my followers are my family and were there at the time. But yes, a member of my family drew my attention to this, although I am having trouble remembering which one. Maybe one of those Darth-Vader-without-a-mask creatures from DW, they're so strange I must be somehow connected to them. ENOUGH WITTER, I hear you cry. So to the content.
Well, Norway's about to collapse, I am told. The whole western coastline is on the verge of plummeting down into the sea, causing a massive tidal wave to come over and teach us Japanese. As much as that pun was nonsensical and lacked a bit of decent human empathy, I think you get my point. I don't really know much about the specifics, for once even the internet was a bit vague, but from what I can tell the North Sea has been busy eating away underneath, meaning they're basically sitting on top of a giant cave. So now if they eat to much and press too hard on the ground, it'll all topple over. As the hitchiker's guide would say in nice, friendly letters on the front though, Don't Panic, although I'm having trouble locating the hitchiker's guide's reasoning right here. I'm sure it'll all be fine though, and if it isn't then most of us probably won't really care.
Cheery stuff. Still, moving swiftly onwards (interestingly, the words moving swiftly onwards can be arranged in any order and still mean the same thing). I'd like to draw your attention to some extremely cool palindromes. So, without ado (which is unusual in itself), here they are:
The noon sex alert relaxes no one.
Nurse, I spy gypsies. Run!
Sex at noon taxes.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Do geese see God?
Rats live on no evil star.
Stressed? No Tips? Spit on Desserts.
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak.
And my personal favourite...
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention.
That's pretty much it for today. I leave you with news that Pirates of the Caribbean 4: On stranger tides, and Kung Fu Panda 2 look AWESOME! Here are the links:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZTtvYLvCRI&feature=fvst
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIW5oo-8NYw
Saturday, 7 May 2011
My lack of resistance to torture.
I often wonder how long I would last under the scrutiny of heavy torture. I like to think I'd stick by my friends to the heroic but slightly annoying and no doubt excruciatingly painful death, but I know in my heart of hearts that this is, as they say, falsch. Well, I say they, I mean the Germans, obviously. I don't think we should view our relationship with Germany as us and they*, because there are so many more enjoyable and intelligent ways to be Racist out there (although even more ways to diss racists. Option one, gatecrash a BNP party conference and scream "I F***ING LOVE LENNY HENRY". Two, be black and on a train, wait for someone to tell you to "Go home", then explain to them that's why you're the train. Three, punch the hateful little bastard very hard in the face).
The thing is, I might even view my friendship as being worth some bruises and a cool eye-scar, like Scar off The Lion King has (A slightly self-explanatory name, if ever there was one). Maybe. Depends on the friend, and if I might be able to thus extort money out of them for the trouble. This is only, however, when I'm running little fantasies of me saving the whole world in a dastardly overthrow of the hideous regime ring-led by Bruno Mars and Justin Bieber. I know it won't look so good when someone's actually holding the knife to my throat.
How do I know this? Well, over the last week I've had two dreams. The first entailed a different scenario, in which I was told I had 10 days to live. I asked what my illness would do after that, to which I was answered, and I quote, "It will DESTROY you". Like the torture situation, I enjoy thinking I would be calm and collected and make the most of my last few days on earth, winning the respect of the global community. In reality (well, sort of, I didn't realise it was a dream, so I guess my reaction was sort of genuine) I went completely insane and pushed my Granddad off a boat. I know, what a hero.
My second dream was a scene vaguely similar to my hero fantasies, but with considerably meaner looking interrogators and a more expansive collection of pointy objects of purpose that wasn't obvious, but clearly painful. I was having a bit of an inner pickle about what to do, and I have the feeling my inner wimp was about to win, when it turned out they only wanted a pound. "A pound", I thought. "That sounds quite... reasonable". I can't honestly say I've ever been stabbed, but I can imagine it might somewhat inconvenience you, even put a damper on your evening. And here was this man, offering me the opportunity to forgo such a horrific experience, for a mere pound. I was beginning to like him.
So, aside from the obvious fact that this post has no relevance or point whatsoever, my point is that I might or might not stick by my friends (you lot) in a torture situation. There you go, see, whoever said my posts weren't enlightening?
*Yes, I know it's grammatically incorrect, just trying to keep up the continuity.
The thing is, I might even view my friendship as being worth some bruises and a cool eye-scar, like Scar off The Lion King has (A slightly self-explanatory name, if ever there was one). Maybe. Depends on the friend, and if I might be able to thus extort money out of them for the trouble. This is only, however, when I'm running little fantasies of me saving the whole world in a dastardly overthrow of the hideous regime ring-led by Bruno Mars and Justin Bieber. I know it won't look so good when someone's actually holding the knife to my throat.
How do I know this? Well, over the last week I've had two dreams. The first entailed a different scenario, in which I was told I had 10 days to live. I asked what my illness would do after that, to which I was answered, and I quote, "It will DESTROY you". Like the torture situation, I enjoy thinking I would be calm and collected and make the most of my last few days on earth, winning the respect of the global community. In reality (well, sort of, I didn't realise it was a dream, so I guess my reaction was sort of genuine) I went completely insane and pushed my Granddad off a boat. I know, what a hero.
My second dream was a scene vaguely similar to my hero fantasies, but with considerably meaner looking interrogators and a more expansive collection of pointy objects of purpose that wasn't obvious, but clearly painful. I was having a bit of an inner pickle about what to do, and I have the feeling my inner wimp was about to win, when it turned out they only wanted a pound. "A pound", I thought. "That sounds quite... reasonable". I can't honestly say I've ever been stabbed, but I can imagine it might somewhat inconvenience you, even put a damper on your evening. And here was this man, offering me the opportunity to forgo such a horrific experience, for a mere pound. I was beginning to like him.
So, aside from the obvious fact that this post has no relevance or point whatsoever, my point is that I might or might not stick by my friends (you lot) in a torture situation. There you go, see, whoever said my posts weren't enlightening?
*Yes, I know it's grammatically incorrect, just trying to keep up the continuity.
Friday, 6 May 2011
My psychic powers.
I hate writing short posts. There's nothing more disappointing to me than to log in, see someone's written a new post, clap my hands with glee and anticipation at a few minutes good reading, only to find a couple of sentences with all the wit and scintillatory merit of a toilet roll. But alas, a short post I must write, as I have pressing business to attend to, a sister standing behind me who wants to use the computer, and not much to write about.
I'd like, in a shocking display of psychic ability, to draw your attention to a blog that may well not have started yet. I believe it's going to be called "Juice in an empty cup" and is being written by my friend Tiffany. I'm also under the impression that it might contain references to me. See if you can find them :P
I'd like, in a shocking display of psychic ability, to draw your attention to a blog that may well not have started yet. I believe it's going to be called "Juice in an empty cup" and is being written by my friend Tiffany. I'm also under the impression that it might contain references to me. See if you can find them :P
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Swing Life Away.
I've not posted for a few days now, mainly because I've been so darn busy. I've had English, History, Tech, Science and more English homework. I've had to deal with crisis after crisis, I've had to act as a little barrister in my head to decide who's side of an argument I'm on. I've generally had to cram all the action of a few months. And today hasn't got much better. Actually, it's been downright worse. Instead of just having no time to enjoy doing nothing, I've been having a downright bad time. Let's have a look at my lessons, for a start. Languages: a big hate for me. I like German, but not French, today we had a French assessment, after which I had a detention with my language teacher that some thickshit decided to remind her about, for no apparent reason. English: I like my English teacher, but it seems that, like me, the strains of life are getting to her a bit. She could almost be described as waspish. And two nights ago at eleven o'clock in the evening I Emailed her the homework that was supposed to be in for before the Easter holidays. Completely my fault, but that doesn't mean it's not unpleasant. IT: not only do we have a teacher who goes past stroppy and ascends into mythological levels of pure undiluted rage at the slightest provocation, I'm about three weeks behind on my work, this time not my fault, but because of my illness a few weeks ago. My afternoon brightened a bit, admittedly, but couldn't exactly be described as similar to having a picnick up a hill.
My lessons weren't what really got me down today, though. I could find things to be annoyed about most days, and in the end I've got no more of a worse lot than anyone else, and I try not to whine too much. No, what really made me just want to scream and run away to somewhere I could keep myself to myself was lunchtime. What I really wanted to do was lie down in the sun and just forget about worldly stresses for a while. Nope. No rest for the wicked. While normally I consider a water fight and several little adventures involving stealing things and hiding them fair game (and later having a slightly heated discussion with a wandering dinner nanny about what you were doing with a massive pole you suspected contained your tie, but then turned out not to), today I frankly just couldn't be arsed. How do you say that, though? Do you get angry? Cos the people you hang around with haven't done anything wrong, you're just feeling a bit self-indulgent and self-pitying. Do you just groan and ask them to give you some peace for a bit in a not too annoyed manner? Because then the chances are they won't take you seriously, once again through no fault of their own.
I really have no excuse to be annoyed and depressed at the moment, the sickening self-pity I find manifesting in the corners of my brain really pisses me off. My teenage brain can't seem to accept that it's not really that bad, and it should just get over itself.
Tonight's no less busy. I have to complete an essay on the relative significance of the battle of Stalingrad, D-day, the battle of Berlin and Hiroshima (another brilliant and catchy title there, almost comes close to "How does Willy Russell use setting and environment in his play Educating Rita to comment on education and social class?" Dammit, I should come up with headlines). I'm not doing it at the moment, though. I'm listening to music and writing this (obvious when you think about it). Whatever I'm feeling, music completely controls my emotions. It makes me angry, passionate, sleepy, happily complacent, sad, and sometimes put on camouflage trousers and commando roll down the corridor, in a military, decisive manner. It takes me to the happy place where it's just me and I can think my own thoughts and not have to deal with mere mortals like yourselves (I condemn the use of improper grammar in this blog as much as possible, but this would be a good time for a winky face. ;) ).
So I'm spending most of the time lying down with my eyes closed and earphones in, occasionally writing a couple of sentences of this. Grooveshark has saved me, once again. Some of my calming favourites include Run by Snow Patrol, Wires by Athlete, Hesitate by Stone Sour, and Swing Life Away by Rise Against. That's what music helps me do, swing life away.
Anyway, Joseph Stalin's life story won't write itself, so I should probably give it a hand. It's been nice talking to you. All the best.
My lessons weren't what really got me down today, though. I could find things to be annoyed about most days, and in the end I've got no more of a worse lot than anyone else, and I try not to whine too much. No, what really made me just want to scream and run away to somewhere I could keep myself to myself was lunchtime. What I really wanted to do was lie down in the sun and just forget about worldly stresses for a while. Nope. No rest for the wicked. While normally I consider a water fight and several little adventures involving stealing things and hiding them fair game (and later having a slightly heated discussion with a wandering dinner nanny about what you were doing with a massive pole you suspected contained your tie, but then turned out not to), today I frankly just couldn't be arsed. How do you say that, though? Do you get angry? Cos the people you hang around with haven't done anything wrong, you're just feeling a bit self-indulgent and self-pitying. Do you just groan and ask them to give you some peace for a bit in a not too annoyed manner? Because then the chances are they won't take you seriously, once again through no fault of their own.
I really have no excuse to be annoyed and depressed at the moment, the sickening self-pity I find manifesting in the corners of my brain really pisses me off. My teenage brain can't seem to accept that it's not really that bad, and it should just get over itself.
Tonight's no less busy. I have to complete an essay on the relative significance of the battle of Stalingrad, D-day, the battle of Berlin and Hiroshima (another brilliant and catchy title there, almost comes close to "How does Willy Russell use setting and environment in his play Educating Rita to comment on education and social class?" Dammit, I should come up with headlines). I'm not doing it at the moment, though. I'm listening to music and writing this (obvious when you think about it). Whatever I'm feeling, music completely controls my emotions. It makes me angry, passionate, sleepy, happily complacent, sad, and sometimes put on camouflage trousers and commando roll down the corridor, in a military, decisive manner. It takes me to the happy place where it's just me and I can think my own thoughts and not have to deal with mere mortals like yourselves (I condemn the use of improper grammar in this blog as much as possible, but this would be a good time for a winky face. ;) ).
So I'm spending most of the time lying down with my eyes closed and earphones in, occasionally writing a couple of sentences of this. Grooveshark has saved me, once again. Some of my calming favourites include Run by Snow Patrol, Wires by Athlete, Hesitate by Stone Sour, and Swing Life Away by Rise Against. That's what music helps me do, swing life away.
Anyway, Joseph Stalin's life story won't write itself, so I should probably give it a hand. It's been nice talking to you. All the best.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
My small venture into adulthood.
Those of you who've logged into my blog recently might have been given the "Contains adult content" treatment. It was up for a couple of hours, after I got a message asking me to put it up, but then after I tried to establish with my contact what exactly was the problem, they went sort of quiet. So woo, invite the whole family, gather round and listen ;) Well, read.
It's the mornings that are bleurgh, but I'll blame school.
I got a sense of deja vu this morning, slightly, kind of, vaguely, a bit. You see, the other day I was chewing a glow stick. Don't ask me why, but if anything's not immediately disgusting, like most foods, I'll probably end up biting it. Common examples are shiny new coins, single bus tickets* and my nails. In that respect, I really haven't moved on much since I was a baby, apart from now I can only reach one set of nails. So, I was chomping away at this glow stick, delighting in the crunchy sound it makes, when it cracked just a little bit, and some of the glow juice dribbled out on to my waiting oh-so-picky taste buds, and made short work of them. I don't know if anyone else has ever swallowed glow stick juice before, but it just makes you go... bleurgh. Sometimes all over the place.
And so to the crux of the matter. Bleurghing is the little sound you make when anything slightly miserable and petty tempts you to give up on life. And it's exactly what I did this morning, as the morning call that I thought had descended into the bowels of history as the Easter holidays stretched on came marching into my room with frankly sickening optimism and positiveness, practically gushing with warm feeling towards the world. Or maybe just enjoying putting me through the misery, the torment that is waking up. Not properly waking up, no, I only really achieve that around half way through second lesson (During languages, the aforementioned second lesson, you start asleep from the night and end asleep from boredom, so you go through a sort of transitional phase where you can just about keep your eyes focused), but beginning on the winding, bleary road towards consciousness, and as with all journeys, the starting is the hardest part.
Now, breakfast tables in my house are quite engaging events, with subjects ranging from deep philosophy and music theory to possible strategies for an invasion of the Isle of Wight. It's quite soothing to discuss such matters freely without the usual restrictions of common sense and tact that come with being awake. But this morning, I went into "Teenage social recluse" mode, and when Sarah started a See-who-can-name-the-most-counties-in-Europe-beginning-with-L competition, I barely managed to grunt "Latvia Liechtenstein Lithuania Luxembourg Macedonia" through the white mist of sleepiness. Naturally, my family immediately didn't see my current annoyance with life, and went on to tell me some random drivel about how Macedonia doesn't begin with an L.
After much more grunting and grimacing on my my part, they finally caught on to my unhappiness, and in true Bradley style that I would have laughed and grinned a wicked grin at on any other occasion, or if I hadn't been the recipient of such blatant rudeness, they completely ignored me. I think it was purely out of concern for the diminishing amount of remaining undamaged crockery that they finally had the decency to ask me what was up. "School" was all I could be bothered to say. I mean, why should they take an interest? It's none of their business, they keep on interfering.
I'm very reasonable on mornings.
So, yes, I was convinced school was to blame, despite (As I've mentioned in a previous post, which I'm sure you've read) my awareness of my morning problems. But, shock horror, school was actually quite good. People who get unreasonably annoying later in the term were fairly reasonable, although for reasons I can't quite fathom spent the whole morning talking about golf. My friends were on form, with new jokes and crack fresh from the holidays, rather than the wearisomely familiar, slightly stagnant produce spurting from their mouths later in a term. I had a good time catching other people, was shown the same cut about five times by Aaron, and generally enjoyed the sun/company (Apart from when Emilie stole my tie. That was just cruel, it added at least another 400 meters walking to my day, ergo, added pointless excercise).
So it must have just been the morning that put me in a bad mood to begin with. Still, I can hardly come home from school and tell my family that "I've changed my mind, I actually quite enjoy school." Can you imagine the depths to which my street cred would plummet? And it's blatantly untrue. Ask me tomorrow morning when you see me.
As a quick final note, I get the feeling that, shocking though it may seem, I'm running out of decent inspiration and material for my blogs. Rest assured I will prevail, of course, and soon the feeling will have gone away, and I feel that the length and quality of my posts counterbalances the time between them. Not like the quick jottings down every week or so you'll get from my competitor blogs ;)
*If you ask me why not returns, I will probably bang your head off something, the next time I see you. I'm in a bit of a peevish mood at the moment and idiots, after all these years of fraternising with them, are starting to bore and annoy me.
And so to the crux of the matter. Bleurghing is the little sound you make when anything slightly miserable and petty tempts you to give up on life. And it's exactly what I did this morning, as the morning call that I thought had descended into the bowels of history as the Easter holidays stretched on came marching into my room with frankly sickening optimism and positiveness, practically gushing with warm feeling towards the world. Or maybe just enjoying putting me through the misery, the torment that is waking up. Not properly waking up, no, I only really achieve that around half way through second lesson (During languages, the aforementioned second lesson, you start asleep from the night and end asleep from boredom, so you go through a sort of transitional phase where you can just about keep your eyes focused), but beginning on the winding, bleary road towards consciousness, and as with all journeys, the starting is the hardest part.
Now, breakfast tables in my house are quite engaging events, with subjects ranging from deep philosophy and music theory to possible strategies for an invasion of the Isle of Wight. It's quite soothing to discuss such matters freely without the usual restrictions of common sense and tact that come with being awake. But this morning, I went into "Teenage social recluse" mode, and when Sarah started a See-who-can-name-the-most-counties-in-Europe-beginning-with-L competition, I barely managed to grunt "Latvia Liechtenstein Lithuania Luxembourg Macedonia" through the white mist of sleepiness. Naturally, my family immediately didn't see my current annoyance with life, and went on to tell me some random drivel about how Macedonia doesn't begin with an L.
After much more grunting and grimacing on my my part, they finally caught on to my unhappiness, and in true Bradley style that I would have laughed and grinned a wicked grin at on any other occasion, or if I hadn't been the recipient of such blatant rudeness, they completely ignored me. I think it was purely out of concern for the diminishing amount of remaining undamaged crockery that they finally had the decency to ask me what was up. "School" was all I could be bothered to say. I mean, why should they take an interest? It's none of their business, they keep on interfering.
I'm very reasonable on mornings.
So, yes, I was convinced school was to blame, despite (As I've mentioned in a previous post, which I'm sure you've read) my awareness of my morning problems. But, shock horror, school was actually quite good. People who get unreasonably annoying later in the term were fairly reasonable, although for reasons I can't quite fathom spent the whole morning talking about golf. My friends were on form, with new jokes and crack fresh from the holidays, rather than the wearisomely familiar, slightly stagnant produce spurting from their mouths later in a term. I had a good time catching other people, was shown the same cut about five times by Aaron, and generally enjoyed the sun/company (Apart from when Emilie stole my tie. That was just cruel, it added at least another 400 meters walking to my day, ergo, added pointless excercise).
So it must have just been the morning that put me in a bad mood to begin with. Still, I can hardly come home from school and tell my family that "I've changed my mind, I actually quite enjoy school." Can you imagine the depths to which my street cred would plummet? And it's blatantly untrue. Ask me tomorrow morning when you see me.
As a quick final note, I get the feeling that, shocking though it may seem, I'm running out of decent inspiration and material for my blogs. Rest assured I will prevail, of course, and soon the feeling will have gone away, and I feel that the length and quality of my posts counterbalances the time between them. Not like the quick jottings down every week or so you'll get from my competitor blogs ;)
*If you ask me why not returns, I will probably bang your head off something, the next time I see you. I'm in a bit of a peevish mood at the moment and idiots, after all these years of fraternising with them, are starting to bore and annoy me.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Oh darn it... or maybe wayaye.
The world is divided in two. It's divided into two big sects of society, and naturally the difference revolves around me. So here we go: approximately half of this slowy dying planet's population, upon seeing me look through a car window, assume I'm casing the joint, and will soon return with my sledge hammer and rave music. The other half know fine well that I'm checking my reflection. While many of you might dismiss this as a poofish thing to do, you try living with a face like mine, i.e. a face you know is utterly perfect, yet you can't look at. You'd end up checking yourself out now and then, trust me. Anyway, I don't really need to justify myself, most people have got used to me by now.
Still, one thing that ceaselessly annoys me is the rest of the worlds blatant failure to even try and understand me. It's not really that difficult. You see, I like to think of myself as a complicated person, which obviously means I'm not. This general rule of opposites apllies to most people, although there are some people who would consider themselves simple who just... are. Anyway, now we've eliminated half the world as ageist crime fighters on acid, even amongst my own I'm not properly understood.
I think this has something to do with where I live. You see, I was talking with my Cambridgeshire bound cousin the other day (When I say talking, I mean we were just about scraping together a meaningful inter-species conversation. Compared to him, a prime example of humans' successful evolution and intelligence, I look a bit like one of those squidgy watery insecty things in the old guiness advert- woop if you remember it- or maybe just a toothbrush. He really is very clever. Anyway...) when we got onto the subject of our respective locations. While I limited myself to mildly insulting posh puns, he, in a shocking abandonement of civilty, went on and on about us northeners and our brand new hi-tech wooly jumpers, or unnnecessary lack of them.
But on the same day, I was talking to a scottish person and a person who lives quite near to me, and apparently they'd both been living under the illusion I came from down south, because of my annoying habit of using multi-syllabular words.
So that's it then, I'm a half-caste, not quite clicking with those who are older than me, the same age as me, who live far away from me, who live far away from me in the other direction, or who live near to me. Does this mean I shall be banished to the midlands where I shall be forced to be middle-aged? Oh, the horror. Hmmm, maybe, but somehow I doubt that. You see, I'm simple to understand, as we've already established. So how come no-one's got around to understanding me then? I think I've worked it out. I'm simple, but everyone else is even simpler. Apart from my friends and family. They're complicated in strange, disturbing, yet funny ways. They don't understand me because frankly they can't be arsed, and I applaud them for it.
Two last things. I woke up in the middle of the night a couple of days ago and found myself sleeping in a shoulder stand. Just thought you'd like to know. Also, in French, tights (Le Collants) are masculine and single. From which it seems to have been deduced by someone ***Ruth*** that all French men in tights are single. I disagree, I think the opposite. All single French men are obviously tight.
Still, one thing that ceaselessly annoys me is the rest of the worlds blatant failure to even try and understand me. It's not really that difficult. You see, I like to think of myself as a complicated person, which obviously means I'm not. This general rule of opposites apllies to most people, although there are some people who would consider themselves simple who just... are. Anyway, now we've eliminated half the world as ageist crime fighters on acid, even amongst my own I'm not properly understood.
I think this has something to do with where I live. You see, I was talking with my Cambridgeshire bound cousin the other day (When I say talking, I mean we were just about scraping together a meaningful inter-species conversation. Compared to him, a prime example of humans' successful evolution and intelligence, I look a bit like one of those squidgy watery insecty things in the old guiness advert- woop if you remember it- or maybe just a toothbrush. He really is very clever. Anyway...) when we got onto the subject of our respective locations. While I limited myself to mildly insulting posh puns, he, in a shocking abandonement of civilty, went on and on about us northeners and our brand new hi-tech wooly jumpers, or unnnecessary lack of them.
But on the same day, I was talking to a scottish person and a person who lives quite near to me, and apparently they'd both been living under the illusion I came from down south, because of my annoying habit of using multi-syllabular words.
So that's it then, I'm a half-caste, not quite clicking with those who are older than me, the same age as me, who live far away from me, who live far away from me in the other direction, or who live near to me. Does this mean I shall be banished to the midlands where I shall be forced to be middle-aged? Oh, the horror. Hmmm, maybe, but somehow I doubt that. You see, I'm simple to understand, as we've already established. So how come no-one's got around to understanding me then? I think I've worked it out. I'm simple, but everyone else is even simpler. Apart from my friends and family. They're complicated in strange, disturbing, yet funny ways. They don't understand me because frankly they can't be arsed, and I applaud them for it.
Two last things. I woke up in the middle of the night a couple of days ago and found myself sleeping in a shoulder stand. Just thought you'd like to know. Also, in French, tights (Le Collants) are masculine and single. From which it seems to have been deduced by someone ***Ruth*** that all French men in tights are single. I disagree, I think the opposite. All single French men are obviously tight.
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