Correct. This post is named jointly after a biblical character and modern poet. The reason? Because I bring news of a prophet. I am prophecising a prophet, you could say*. That prophet is Michael, or to you MickayC. He not only pre-empted me so long ago** when I was internally debating the possibility of creating a blog, taking the cyber baton and leading the field in electrical publishing, but has done so again in being the first of us to create a second blog.
I would strongly encourage you read his second blog. It's called Stand Up Beside the Fireplace***, and is an excellent counterpoint to his light-hearted, whimsical and extremely funny 3 Year Old Trapped in a Teenager's Body. The plan is that it will allow his debut blog to remain light-hearted, whimsical and extremely funny while the broodings of a moody adolescent can be successfully diverted. Diverted is the wrong word to use, I don't mean to say that they aren't a good read. To understand any teenager you need to hear about the good bits and bad bits. If you'll forgive me for sounding dramatic, Michael speaks for the entire 13-19 year old world about emotional issues the rest of us don't have the guts to share. It's brilliant.
Alas, I sounded a bit like a reviewer there. Now, to the news I wish to bring, my new blog. In itself that statement was an inaccuracy (One of very few in this blog. Not), as while it will sail under my banner (The creation of an entire google account proved to strenuous for my lazy cranium), it mainly belongs to my uncle. My uncle has shown interest in blogging in order to "get down with the kids". His use of the phrase indicates the necessity thereof, if you catch my drift. I have not yet asked permission to reveal my uncle's name to the world (All seven of you following this), so let us for now call him John. The blog was originally going to be named Grumpy Young Men, and be a general moan at life, albeit a humorous and sarcastic one, but we've changed our minds and as per an excellent suggestion from him, it's going to be called "Agony Uncle", with Grumpy Young Men demoted to tagline. I hope I don't have to explain the title and layout of the blog, I really do value the intelligence of my readers. So, I'll get cracking then. You can have the link in a couple days when we get the final details sorted.
In explanation of the slightly strange title of this post (For those of you less well versed in Christian teaching, Zephaniah was a minor prophet amongst many, possibly hundreds), I chose Zephaniah because it brought to mind a crossword clue me and Michael (We're quite the pair, he's coming up a lot in this post, isn't he?) solved (Naturally). It read "Biblical prophet/modern poet", obviously referring to previously mentioned Zephaniah and Benjamin Zephaniah, a Jamaican poet from Birmingham (What the hell, it's late, I only had a chance to quickly scroll down his wikipedia). Can I just say that I'm using so many parenthesis' because after a while footnote markers take up more space than the actual footnotes. If I'd continued with them in this post, I'd have reached **********, which looks more like a profanity than a footnote. Coming back round to the subject, Zephaniah was just a little mental connection I made, which is apparently something I need to stop doing. According to my source of worldly wisdom and knowledge of every subject (Dad.), such little neural rushes are one of the reasons for my insomnia****. My mind flitters from one subject without bothering to stop, giving it no time to rest and fall asleep. For instance, the mere mention of prophets brought me to remember a strange incident earlier today when I was given a prediction that a flood would claim the earth, and that I, Jacobia (Not even my proper extended name), would have to build a boat (A slightly copycat announcement, I thought). Actually, I'm just the man, I have a book on building boats. No word of a lie. I can show you it if you like. I got it for my tenth birthday, the same birthday I received the GCSE Usborne Dictionary of Science, which is currently lying on the shelf above my bed, which reminds me, OH SHIT, I have to do my science homework. You see? While this took me several minutes to write down, it flickered through my brain far too fast for me to fall asleep, although in this case the flickering was quite useful, as I have no wish to fall asleep, and it alerted me to my science homework. About that. It doesn't exist mum and dad, so don't you start getting naggy. It's mention was purely for demonstrative effect. Not really, I need to get it done fucking now.
Oh, one other thing. I'm aware Ruthenium Witters has recently written about basically the same mind flickering, I wouldn't want her to think I wasn't reading her posts. She reminded me I was planning to write about it, so, erm... well done her. Oh my god, not another prophet
*Not strictly true. I am bringing word of a prophet with whom I have had encounters. Retrospectively prophecising a prophet, perhaps. I would include this in the main text, but I get the feeling this post is going to be long enough as it is. Another hitch in my reasoning is that Michael hasn't predicted anything, merely emulated my exact actions several days in advance. Much easier, obviously.
**Okay, the Easter holidays.
***http://subtf.blogspot.com/
****Just as a disclaimer, he only mentioned this theory once, and this was as a passing comment many years ago. He probably doesn't remember, and I detect he might be getting annoyed at me publishing blatant lies as his "Opinions". This is simply how I interpreted what he said. Although I can hardly be blamed if I was wrong, he should be more careful about what he says to nine year olds. I spent most of my childhood believing my full name was Wajacob Bradley, all because of him.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Hair
Men are unsociable. Get over it. But even I have to admit, at the climax of our unnecessary emotional solitude, we can be downright unreasonable. Particularly when discussing that least manly of topics, hair. A boy can drag himself out of bed at five o'clock in the morning to ensure not a single strand is out of place, but try and discuss it with him and you'll receive a look that would make a homicidal pubescent rhinoceros with a crick in its horn feel faint. It is the elephant in the room, that which is constantly fretted over and checked in car windows (sometimes to the bewilderment of their owners), but never mentioned. I am no exception. For me, asking someone else about their hair would be almost inviting them to ask about mine, and that might drag the conversation into an excruciating cross-examination of coiffures difficult to come out of with any dignity.
And is there a more compromising setting to be seen in than a hairdresser's? Sitting being pampered over by a gay man* with clips holding your hair in strange directions is possibly the worst time to turn around and find your best friend sitting next to you. This isn't exactly what happened to me, I was queuing for the gay man's attention when from the door emerges a rain-sodden, windswept specimen. With a comical double take, I realised who he was. My instincts and the wisdom of experience told me to sit very still and make no sudden movements. My darling mother had different ideas, dragging him and his mum's attention to us in the same way a suffocating blue whale might, with limbs flapping about the place and a strange twisted expression that to the two parents present was probably a smile, but to me and Zac was a pained grimace probably present before an indescribably agonising death. After all, how could she be pleased about this dreadful coincidence? Of course, for girls and women bumping into each other in the hairdresser's is the same as bumping into each other anywhere else, but we hadn't worked this out. Luckily for us, we were sent to opposite ends of the room, where our pact of mutual ignorance (I won't look if you don't) wasn't really necessary, but it was close.
I'm unsure whether it would have been worse for us seeing each other have our hair cut, or hearing each other talk about our hair. It's not something boys are accustomed to doing on a regular basis, so when in the sort of pressurised situation we're talking about, either tend to act mute and adopt the complex of watermelon innards, or burst out with everything we haven't been saying to each other about our hair preferences for our whole lives. It's not cool.
To conclude then, boys are a bit stupid, but if you're a girl you probably already knew that, and if you're a boy that's the way you like it. So congratulations again Jacob, another post successfully written that will provide useful insights to, give or take very little, absolutely no-one.
*My particular gay man happens to be one of the loveliest people I know, and I hold nothing against him. Yes, that can be taken literally or emotionally; I like him, but not in that way.
And is there a more compromising setting to be seen in than a hairdresser's? Sitting being pampered over by a gay man* with clips holding your hair in strange directions is possibly the worst time to turn around and find your best friend sitting next to you. This isn't exactly what happened to me, I was queuing for the gay man's attention when from the door emerges a rain-sodden, windswept specimen. With a comical double take, I realised who he was. My instincts and the wisdom of experience told me to sit very still and make no sudden movements. My darling mother had different ideas, dragging him and his mum's attention to us in the same way a suffocating blue whale might, with limbs flapping about the place and a strange twisted expression that to the two parents present was probably a smile, but to me and Zac was a pained grimace probably present before an indescribably agonising death. After all, how could she be pleased about this dreadful coincidence? Of course, for girls and women bumping into each other in the hairdresser's is the same as bumping into each other anywhere else, but we hadn't worked this out. Luckily for us, we were sent to opposite ends of the room, where our pact of mutual ignorance (I won't look if you don't) wasn't really necessary, but it was close.
I'm unsure whether it would have been worse for us seeing each other have our hair cut, or hearing each other talk about our hair. It's not something boys are accustomed to doing on a regular basis, so when in the sort of pressurised situation we're talking about, either tend to act mute and adopt the complex of watermelon innards, or burst out with everything we haven't been saying to each other about our hair preferences for our whole lives. It's not cool.
To conclude then, boys are a bit stupid, but if you're a girl you probably already knew that, and if you're a boy that's the way you like it. So congratulations again Jacob, another post successfully written that will provide useful insights to, give or take very little, absolutely no-one.
*My particular gay man happens to be one of the loveliest people I know, and I hold nothing against him. Yes, that can be taken literally or emotionally; I like him, but not in that way.
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
In defense of Apple.
I begin today with a question. Yes, that's right, a question. I hear you recoil in shock and awe. Jacob... consulting the opinion of other people? Although it has to be said I have preserved some of my self-saturated dignity by making the question about myself.
Are there any kinds of Apple that I don't like?
Computers or fruity snacks, I just love 'em. I once collected the stickers of apples I'd eaten*, and put them on a door. The door became so heavy it wouldn't open and we had to throw it out. Okay, a slight exaggeration, but the door quickly became full of apple stickers, and incidentally, it was thrown out, although that was more because a) There was blood on it, and b) We had an extension and put a massive wall in front of it. I have to say, the blood slightly ruined the effect; it looked less like the happy hobby of a healthily eating nine year old and more similar to the souvenirs collected from hundreds of murders, carried out by a brutal criminal cartel dedicated to avenging apples throughout the world.
Regardless of my psychopathic habits or lack of such, my favourite brand of apples were Pink Ladies (the shiny red ones), I found that in general green apples were more reliably satisfying, but prime specimens of red apples far out-tasted their green elite rivals, and I spent my childhood in the happy company of fruit. And blood. Mwahahahaha. But I keep wittering on about that, and it really isn't what I'm trying to talk about.
Then lo, in a moment of enlightenment and discovery casting those of Buddha and Columbus into shadow, I found a way to connect the two main obsessions of my life at that point, fruit and computers, when I discovered the Mac.
AppleMacs, as is their full name, were brought out by the dying company, Apple, which had been all but destroyed in the IBM revolution, as an almost last-ditch effort. They brought together everything they knew, and made it work. It was named after the Macintosh, the brand of Apple favoured by an employee at Apple. It was fast, it had a handy little application bar called "Doc", and was very, very, cool. Since then Apple has exploded, making lots of stuff, but most importantly, of course, the iPod. Now, did you know that a few years ago, every single "Zune" (Microsoft's equivalent of the iPod), froze, because it couldn't handle a leap year? They were just crap, and now, if I may quote my esteemed friend Emilie, "APPLE IS BOLLOCKS". This would annoy me anyway, but even more so because the reason her iPod's screen is cracked is because I dropped it on the floor**, not through any fault of Apple. So, if I may quote President Nixon and the Green dude from underwater in Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace, "BRBRBRBRBRBRBRBR".
*I am obviously talking about the fruit here.
**I am intending on paying for her new screen, I'm not completely unreasonable. She is though. I think she blamed Apple because she couldn't face tarnishing the reputation of a flawless innocent like me. Yeah, that's definitely it.
Are there any kinds of Apple that I don't like?
Computers or fruity snacks, I just love 'em. I once collected the stickers of apples I'd eaten*, and put them on a door. The door became so heavy it wouldn't open and we had to throw it out. Okay, a slight exaggeration, but the door quickly became full of apple stickers, and incidentally, it was thrown out, although that was more because a) There was blood on it, and b) We had an extension and put a massive wall in front of it. I have to say, the blood slightly ruined the effect; it looked less like the happy hobby of a healthily eating nine year old and more similar to the souvenirs collected from hundreds of murders, carried out by a brutal criminal cartel dedicated to avenging apples throughout the world.
Regardless of my psychopathic habits or lack of such, my favourite brand of apples were Pink Ladies (the shiny red ones), I found that in general green apples were more reliably satisfying, but prime specimens of red apples far out-tasted their green elite rivals, and I spent my childhood in the happy company of fruit. And blood. Mwahahahaha. But I keep wittering on about that, and it really isn't what I'm trying to talk about.
Then lo, in a moment of enlightenment and discovery casting those of Buddha and Columbus into shadow, I found a way to connect the two main obsessions of my life at that point, fruit and computers, when I discovered the Mac.
AppleMacs, as is their full name, were brought out by the dying company, Apple, which had been all but destroyed in the IBM revolution, as an almost last-ditch effort. They brought together everything they knew, and made it work. It was named after the Macintosh, the brand of Apple favoured by an employee at Apple. It was fast, it had a handy little application bar called "Doc", and was very, very, cool. Since then Apple has exploded, making lots of stuff, but most importantly, of course, the iPod. Now, did you know that a few years ago, every single "Zune" (Microsoft's equivalent of the iPod), froze, because it couldn't handle a leap year? They were just crap, and now, if I may quote my esteemed friend Emilie, "APPLE IS BOLLOCKS". This would annoy me anyway, but even more so because the reason her iPod's screen is cracked is because I dropped it on the floor**, not through any fault of Apple. So, if I may quote President Nixon and the Green dude from underwater in Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace, "BRBRBRBRBRBRBRBR".
*I am obviously talking about the fruit here.
**I am intending on paying for her new screen, I'm not completely unreasonable. She is though. I think she blamed Apple because she couldn't face tarnishing the reputation of a flawless innocent like me. Yeah, that's definitely it.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Facebook has let me down for the last time.
Confusion is a state in which I often find myself. I will be casually swimming at a steady front crawl for hours before the knowledge that I am in fact pacing about the house strikes, and I will be lost in a maelstrom of dizziness and headaches for an amount of time seemingly without correlation to how long I had been lost in my thoughts for. I wonder why it is that I may have started swimming, but to no avail. That information is locked deep within my subconscious, and can only be extracted through torture. I have tried this on occasion, and eventually I cracked, of course, but because the restraints imposed by the Geneva convention I cannot tell you why I deluded myself into thinking my house was in fact the North Sea. It's bloody annoying.
Still, while mild bewilderment is my natural habitat to some extent, some things I am sure do not make sense to anyone, in any way. Often, these supremely odd occurrences come from Facebook. Do not get me wrong, Facebook is an amazing website, and has got me through some of the trickiest times and stickiest situations of my life, but it does tend to change itself suddenly in ways that cannot be understood. One of these was the merging of inboxes and chat. It strikes me as slightly strange that now when you have a conversation with somebody, everything they say is sent to you twice. For instance, I am talking to my good friend Jeremy about, let's say, Leviticus. We reach the conclusion of our conversation, and go our separate ways (digitally, if not physically). Now I check my inbox, to find Jeremy has also sent me a message. Hmmm, if seems vaguely familiar, is it, yes it is, its exactly the same as he's just been saying to me on chat. How bizarre.
Moving on. While the above and various other things confuse me, albeit* in a slightly endearingly eccentric way, some make me downright angry, and nothing more so than a new addition to facebook, the "Say Happy Birthday" tool. How dare you, Facebook, how dare you. For years, I have been simply notified that it is someones birthday, and have happily strolled along to their page, and delivered my specifically tailored, bespoke birthday message. Now though, mass produced Happy Birthdays are taking over the market, crushing lovely, home made, heartfelt birthday greetings into the ground. It makes me fume so much just thinking about it, the condensation from the skylight above me is dripping onto the screen. What now shall I do on my birthday, during the times I used to lovingly scroll down the wall, evaluating my social status by considering carefully any smiley faces, kisses or capital letters I may have received? I'll tell you, I'll sit and cry at pages and pages of "Happy Birthday Jacob"s that will be all there is on offer. I will weep salty tears** of depression at legions of brainwashed humans devoid of all their past character and flair. I will shriek curses at the sky, condemning the day Mark Zuckenberg woke up feeling the need to meddle in my affairs.
Oh no, wait, it doesn't post a message, it just directs you to their wall. Well that's OK then.
*That's right, I used the word albeit, a life goal of mine.
**What other sorts are there?
Still, while mild bewilderment is my natural habitat to some extent, some things I am sure do not make sense to anyone, in any way. Often, these supremely odd occurrences come from Facebook. Do not get me wrong, Facebook is an amazing website, and has got me through some of the trickiest times and stickiest situations of my life, but it does tend to change itself suddenly in ways that cannot be understood. One of these was the merging of inboxes and chat. It strikes me as slightly strange that now when you have a conversation with somebody, everything they say is sent to you twice. For instance, I am talking to my good friend Jeremy about, let's say, Leviticus. We reach the conclusion of our conversation, and go our separate ways (digitally, if not physically). Now I check my inbox, to find Jeremy has also sent me a message. Hmmm, if seems vaguely familiar, is it, yes it is, its exactly the same as he's just been saying to me on chat. How bizarre.
Moving on. While the above and various other things confuse me, albeit* in a slightly endearingly eccentric way, some make me downright angry, and nothing more so than a new addition to facebook, the "Say Happy Birthday" tool. How dare you, Facebook, how dare you. For years, I have been simply notified that it is someones birthday, and have happily strolled along to their page, and delivered my specifically tailored, bespoke birthday message. Now though, mass produced Happy Birthdays are taking over the market, crushing lovely, home made, heartfelt birthday greetings into the ground. It makes me fume so much just thinking about it, the condensation from the skylight above me is dripping onto the screen. What now shall I do on my birthday, during the times I used to lovingly scroll down the wall, evaluating my social status by considering carefully any smiley faces, kisses or capital letters I may have received? I'll tell you, I'll sit and cry at pages and pages of "Happy Birthday Jacob"s that will be all there is on offer. I will weep salty tears** of depression at legions of brainwashed humans devoid of all their past character and flair. I will shriek curses at the sky, condemning the day Mark Zuckenberg woke up feeling the need to meddle in my affairs.
Oh no, wait, it doesn't post a message, it just directs you to their wall. Well that's OK then.
*That's right, I used the word albeit, a life goal of mine.
**What other sorts are there?
Friday, 3 June 2011
Cambridgeshire
I know. I've been away for too long. I have betrayed your loyalty, and you are probably baying for my blood. No, that would be tame, you are howling to a bleak and stormy sky of your undying hatred for anyone vaguely connected to the name Bradley. If I ever show my sorry face in your presence anon, you will rip my skin and hair off slowly using nothing but cans and trouser zips. You will scatter the parts of me that can't be mentioned (and as someone very rudely suggested the other day, probably wouldn't be worth mentioning even if they could be) over an area encompassing most of the known world, and some of Narnie, my highly original own little fantasy universe.
Still, I've been busy. I have ventured past the first frontier, surely the place where all legendary explorers must start on their way to greatness. I have voyaged to a land where sheep are mythical creatures on a par with the Jabberwocky and Balrog, where Ian Hislop roams free spreading poncyness and baldness in equal proportions behind him, and of course, where it is possible to call immediate female ancestors "Mam" without being subject to constant public ridicule. That's right, I've gone to see my cousins.
My trip began, and indeed was strewn throughout, with water. It rained the whole sorry four hour journey. Still, I had my crosswords, a new found passion of mine, and my great book of Blackadder, a slightly older but just as passionate passion of mine. We turned up at the campsite, ready to start our holiday merry-making, but we'd forgotten how wet the rain was, so we retreated to an Italian restaurant, which, if I might say so, served the most delicious lasagne.
I think I should point out at this point that about half an hour ago I unwittingly wrote almost three pages of boring waffling crap continuing in a similar vein, which I have now deleted (I was disgusted at myself concerning the whole "most delicious lasagne" affair, and that has only remained becuase it really was most delicious lasagne), and will now serve you the cream and marshmallows (extending the hot chocolate analogy, the stuff I've deleted was the dregs at the bottom of the mug, that no matter how long you pour down into your mouth, will never finish. I like this analogy). Our first relatives served cake, earning them almost infinite brownie points, or chocolate sponge points, whichever you prefer. A novel experience for me was playing Nazi Zombies for the first time, against lots of people who just sounded southern*. I even heard one of them state "I might go and do some homework now", surely worthy of the social death sentence up here. Back to the zombies. Suffice to say I died, in almost every sense of the world.
The second bunch of cousins in the ultimate banana tree of my family are extremely amusing, and small. For fear of reprimands, the fact they are small and amusing are in no way connected. The evening ended in the most violent game of football I have ever seen, which my team (the boys) won. Full stop**.
However, I'm almost certain the highlight of the trip, for my sister at least, came on our final day in Cambridge. For those who are not aware, punting is extremely popular in Cambridge, and entails one person standing on a raised platform at the back of a small boat and pushing against the bottom of the river with a massive pole. In short, which seems to be a developing theme in this post, we were nearing a bridge partially obscured by a tree, in a particularly difficult stretch of river, and the circumstances combined so that I fell off the boat. If I'm honest, I don't see why everyone doesn't, the one thing I've noticed about small boats across the world is that the occupants are almost always sitting down. Still, I digress, I fell off the boat, much to the mirth of my sister as I paddled around the frankly disgusting water. I think I would have at least waited for her to resurface before screaming with laughter.
I shall talk more on this subject another time, for now though, farewell.
*I realise now that they were actually on my team, and it was the zombies we were fighting. I got slightly confused, and actually did quite a good job of getting everyone killed.
** Do you have any idea how hard it is not to elaborate on a point like that? I was adamant though, we won, that's all. I've eventually settled for a compromise, and down here I can tell you the final score was six-four to the boys, although we carried on with a penalty shoot out, which the boys also won.
Still, I've been busy. I have ventured past the first frontier, surely the place where all legendary explorers must start on their way to greatness. I have voyaged to a land where sheep are mythical creatures on a par with the Jabberwocky and Balrog, where Ian Hislop roams free spreading poncyness and baldness in equal proportions behind him, and of course, where it is possible to call immediate female ancestors "Mam" without being subject to constant public ridicule. That's right, I've gone to see my cousins.
My trip began, and indeed was strewn throughout, with water. It rained the whole sorry four hour journey. Still, I had my crosswords, a new found passion of mine, and my great book of Blackadder, a slightly older but just as passionate passion of mine. We turned up at the campsite, ready to start our holiday merry-making, but we'd forgotten how wet the rain was, so we retreated to an Italian restaurant, which, if I might say so, served the most delicious lasagne.
I think I should point out at this point that about half an hour ago I unwittingly wrote almost three pages of boring waffling crap continuing in a similar vein, which I have now deleted (I was disgusted at myself concerning the whole "most delicious lasagne" affair, and that has only remained becuase it really was most delicious lasagne), and will now serve you the cream and marshmallows (extending the hot chocolate analogy, the stuff I've deleted was the dregs at the bottom of the mug, that no matter how long you pour down into your mouth, will never finish. I like this analogy). Our first relatives served cake, earning them almost infinite brownie points, or chocolate sponge points, whichever you prefer. A novel experience for me was playing Nazi Zombies for the first time, against lots of people who just sounded southern*. I even heard one of them state "I might go and do some homework now", surely worthy of the social death sentence up here. Back to the zombies. Suffice to say I died, in almost every sense of the world.
The second bunch of cousins in the ultimate banana tree of my family are extremely amusing, and small. For fear of reprimands, the fact they are small and amusing are in no way connected. The evening ended in the most violent game of football I have ever seen, which my team (the boys) won. Full stop**.
However, I'm almost certain the highlight of the trip, for my sister at least, came on our final day in Cambridge. For those who are not aware, punting is extremely popular in Cambridge, and entails one person standing on a raised platform at the back of a small boat and pushing against the bottom of the river with a massive pole. In short, which seems to be a developing theme in this post, we were nearing a bridge partially obscured by a tree, in a particularly difficult stretch of river, and the circumstances combined so that I fell off the boat. If I'm honest, I don't see why everyone doesn't, the one thing I've noticed about small boats across the world is that the occupants are almost always sitting down. Still, I digress, I fell off the boat, much to the mirth of my sister as I paddled around the frankly disgusting water. I think I would have at least waited for her to resurface before screaming with laughter.
I shall talk more on this subject another time, for now though, farewell.
*I realise now that they were actually on my team, and it was the zombies we were fighting. I got slightly confused, and actually did quite a good job of getting everyone killed.
** Do you have any idea how hard it is not to elaborate on a point like that? I was adamant though, we won, that's all. I've eventually settled for a compromise, and down here I can tell you the final score was six-four to the boys, although we carried on with a penalty shoot out, which the boys also won.
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