Socks Tucked Over Trousers.

Some things are unacceptable. Blatant outright homophobia is one, Jan Moir is another, although you could call those two slightly potato potato* (Ouch, he didn't). Genocide is yet another. I could go on for a long time about how many unacceptable things there are. Really, I mean, there are so many things in this pretty little world of ours that are unacceptable, it defies belief. Lots and lots. Many many. To demonstrate, think of all the things you can do right now, sitting/standing/lying/urinating wherever you are. It's not a massively drawn out list is it? It might well go something like this:

-Continue reading
-Stop reading
-Stand up
-Sit down
-Lie down
-Urinate

And you can't even do all of them- the first two contradict each other, and we've established you're already doing one of the latter. So that's, what, four options for your one choice**. Now think of all the things you can't be doing:

-Riding a bike (if you are, seriously, look up lunatic, this blog has caused enough trouble without your death on its admittedly moderately proportioned conscience).
-Being on a plane (again, if you are I'm going to have to play flight attendant's pet and remind you that internet usage is strictly prohibited, unless you want your captain's instruments to be giving him the impression that he's making an immediate approach on North Korean air territory. Which isn't really fair on him, now is it? Oh and for the record, I would be a flight attendant's pet any day, they are in general to use the technical term "Hot pieces").
-Slaying a badger with your bare hands (yet on this occasion if you are, I can only applaud you for such prestidigitation. Look it up. Although bad form on killing the tiny black and white horses).

The list could and will go on, as, happily for you, I have decided to dedicate this particular post to things perceived by the supreme moral arbiter of life (moi, myself and me and I) to be entirely, wholly and loathsomely unacceptable. Without further ado, well, yes, without further ado. Usually I'd finish a sentence begun by "without further ado" with, ahhm, a fair amount of ado. Very eloquent and sophisticated ado, admittedly, but still ado. Just glad that this time I've risen all above that and am getting to the point immediately. You can trust me that today I'll cut the shit and talk turkey. Well, do you want to know what Turkeys say? Gobble gobble gobble. Clever old Turkeys.

1) Penis jokes. They're coming thick and thin these days... Seriously though, nothing with a bit of unnecessary obscenity every now and again, and occasional childishness can just be good fun and endearing, but there's a word for people who expand childishness to perpetuate every moment of their day: children. I tire of being woken up by the sound of cock, and I only wish it would be of the doodle-doo sort.

2) Marmite. What even is Marmite? Is it some form of hellish black squelched misery coerced into occupying a jar that is entirely pointless, as the Marmite will seize without fail every chance to escape it's restraints, and will accompanied at every turn by it's lingering pong? Yes. Yes it is. Stop it right now.

3) Damn bitches who say my blog uses to many long words and doesn't make sense. I try really hard to moderate my language, I'll have you know. I spend hours minutes ages editing out my more extravagant terminology and bizarre sentence structures, not to mention the hours minutes length of time I spend writing the stuff in the first place, and all for you. And yes, this entire post was a subterfuge to conceal in its ranks this paragraph, to prevent seeming like the only thing I ever talk about on my blog is my blog. And I hope you've noticed how much effort I've put in to making this one vaguely legible, and if you haven't, well then I really hope you've regretted the last few minutes you've spent "deciphering"*** and have thoroughly detested every second, and that you fall into a giant salt grinder. And get grinded. Ground. No, grinded, grinded sounds more vicious. Do you want to know what the real message of this whole thing is?

There are lots of things in this world that are unacceptable, so many it makes your head hurt counting. And when people say "You always have a choice", they're lying, because you never have a choice and if it so happens that you do, the choice will be negligible. Unimportant. Trivial. Potato Potato, without even pronouncing the second potato differently. And I will continue listing things that you can't do in order to restrict your personal freedom, and I will continue using indecipherable language, because to all intents and purposes I cannot presume to impart to you how sincerely that brings an overwhelming potential for resonating schadenfreude throughout every particle of my being. Basically I'm a fairly happy person and will continue to delight in your suffering. Good day.


*I appreciate that the saying potato potato doesn't really work written down. But actually when you think about it, it sort of makes the point even clearer.
**I should point out I get really worked up when people say "You have one/two/no choice/s". You have one choice, and one/two/no options. What? I'd rather be a grammar nazi than a grammar Jew.
***Deciphering, I mean, really. The cheek of some people. Try living in my head, go on try it, and then tell me this stuff isn't deciphered. Actually, after the impression you've given me, you can fuck off, you're not having my brain. And by the sounds you probably wouldn't want it. Get scurvy, in the face.

FootYYYYYY -Greeks.

Football, ey? What to do with it. I don't think in all of my years I've encountered a topic as absolutely hell bent on shredding to pulp anyone commenting for either side, merciless, damning anything that speaks out. Debate on immigration? Pah, move over, the football row would eat you with it's mouth closed. Euthanasia can go hang itself. Wait, no...

So why do people hate it so much? Is it the mass sycophantic audience worship that befalls multi-millionaire crybabies who sometimes can't even find time to beat their wives because they're too busy making racist slurs at their teammates, and who enjoy a hero's welcome for giving a percentage of their income (so minute it could be compared with their brain) to charity, only to find do-gooding bores them, and they'd much rather buy a nineteenth iPad? Is it the angry crowds that make merry and glass one another when one person they're never going to meet and who is probably throughly dislikeable shows slightly superior dexterity and skilled manipulation of their feet*, thus outwitting another person they're also never going to meet, but that they feel some extreme impulse of loyalty towards? Is it the scarring memories of year upon year of frostbitten torture in the school field, being shouted at for failing to "Go long", whatever that may mean? Or is it perhaps equally scarring memories of the old doddery PE teacher's dazzling ability to "Go long", perhaps given incentive by calls to "Man on", "Ball to hand" and other practices which must be against some sort of law. Lots of laws. So many laws.

And if all of these are genuine reasons to detest football with heart, body and soul, why then does it have the largest fanbase of, well, anything, apart from maybe the Beatles? Now I think this we have a proper answer to, and that's something along the lines of it being a universal language, you can hold up a vaguely round thing to pretty much anyone in the world, throw down two hoodies and make a sort of jazz hands gesture. You just know what you're getting, it's standard fare, you don't have to learn any improper verb conjugations and you can have a good laugh with a fare amount of violence thrown in and it doesn't matter that the people you're playing against speak an entirely different language and share next to no other aspects of your culture. Everything's dandy.

What I just find amusing is the entire concept of sport. I think it's fabulous, the idea that once upon a time some Greek** was sat in a field, getting ready to go and give someone a damn good war, when he  noticed another similar Greek on the other side of the field doing pretty much the same. He says in his politest most dignified voice:

"Uhm, hey. I was just over there, doing my thing, and, you know, I saw you over here doing pretty much the same, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, I really just can't help feeling that I'm better than you."

And thus an area of life regarded as a figurehead for equality, peace, and friendly companionship throughout all of time was born. Read what you will***.

So, I don't really have massive new insights to shed on football when it comes down to it. The truth is for many it's a drug that they just can't get out of their system, and they'll spend hour after hour of their life honing to perfection their control of objects flying towards them so that they can be carefully manipulated and sent flying back, which will perhaps prove useful someday, when spherical projectiles about a foot wide but really really light get employed against our young hero with his flexible phalanges. Meanwhile vast crowds will employ every embittered trick in the book to smear the name of the people with the sculptured hair and the nice thighs. What I will say is my own justification for the real reason so many people dislike football: Let's face is, it's not actually a ball. Any damn fool can see that that bitch ain't round. I did my research, it's actually a truncated icosahedron, which sounds about as unround as you can get. It's this sort of impertinent, gross, lamentable terminological inexactitude, or lie, that really sums up everything that annoys me about these people. No attention to detail, the simple name of their sport is just incorrect. Can they really claim to love it truly, with this gaping chasm, this inconsistency, lurking at their heart? It is my belief that this is the real cause of discontent and damn pure angst amongst footballers, and the source of ridicule and scorn amongst haters. All this anger over geometry. Damn you Pythagoras****.

*I mean, their feet, for God's sake. Could it not be their eyebrows or something? Now that I would watch. Christiano Ronaldo furiously waggling his upper forehead, because he knows if he fails he'll get a tickle on the chin from Lionel Messi's (admittedly nonexistant. He'd grow one) monobrow.
**Probably a Greek. Most people were Greek in those days.
***Which I suppose is your job, really. I tend to deal with the writing side of things, it's your job to read. Dat's how we roll.
****Yet another Greek. They really did just have it in for us.

New Horizons.

I've been gratified to have a fair few people start talking to me about my blog. This is nice in theory and it certainly pleases me to know that people are actually looking (although not bothering to get themselves google accounts and actually follow me. Making me look bad), but it can be genuinely a very discomforting experience to have someone who you would never have imagined popping up in this entirely separate world, coming and reading your inner musings. It would be like bumping into your second cousin at school, or having the head prefect sitting in your house and opening presents with everyone at Christmas. The two worlds collide and somehow mutate and fuse in a soggy mush of all things weird and awkward. "Oh yeah Jacob you're the guy who wrote about how adults think kids are twats" says Shaniqua Pogostick, year 11, resident of Framwellgate sewer and winner of the village slime specimen of the year award three years running when she has, each time, simply placed her personality on the judging panel's desk*, who at every turn since then has continually demonstrated that she is the exact reason that I often agree with adults. Anyhow, despite my slightly mixed feelings as to people actually going and reading what I wrote in the hope that they would indeed read (sounds ridiculous, but I'm pessimistic like that), one thing has come up, and it is that I should stop dilly dallying and start facing up to the real big issues out there. The proper meaty controversial problems in todays society. Well guys, that seems like an intent worthy of my pursuit, maybe I will.

Which is funny, because I thought facing up to the big issues was the Big Issue's job. Heaven knows whatever happened to that policy, although this new direction of writing does bring to mind the excellent scenario in which people in red life jackets (I can never fathom why they wear them. To protect them from what, drowning in the delusion that they're holding good journalism?) stood on street corners, handing out snippets and quotes from my life and prose. Wouldn't that make life so much more worth living? Newcastle high street would be transformed, the noises of smells so weird that yes they do indeed make noise, and of promising business magnates showing true skills of market analysis by supplying gargantuan supplies of strawberries to a general public who has never and never will buy that many strawberries, all these would be replaced by a constant background hum of Jacob Bradley witticisms and epithets- "Read all about it, Ed Miliband reveals his permanent facial expression of mild discomfort and slight surprise is in fact due to a fart that has been building up for twenty nine years now", "Imagine a T-Rex conga", "Strawberry man, when will you understand that they're nice, but not that nice". You guys and gals would love that. I know I would.

So, I haven't actually discussed anything today, I'm aware, but this post is a headsup that the large topics, ultimate questions and deep mysteries will be coming. They're on their way. Do breathing exercises or some shit.

*I should point out that no one has actually said this to me, everyone I've talked to has been lovely and not one of them would I call a slime. Yet. You see it's just a situation I'm beginning to fear. Oh, apart from you Charlotte, you're a right slime.

Tuesday.

A remarkable amount of criticism has been brutally slam-dunked onto my unprepared, innocent, damned dashing face because of my last post. Apparently you do get ambulances that aren't 'Emergency Ambulances', which won't come and get you when you're bleeding to death because they're far busier rescuing a man salvaged by that thing where some bile goes into the back of your mouth. Now I'll be the first for the extreme discomfort and slight queasiness this phenomena brings but the whole affair seems just a tad ridiculous to me. Ah well, I'll drop it, it's gotten me in quite enough trouble already. What really infuriated me was the level of scorn with which I was inflicted for my honest mistake, despite my entirely reasonable and logical arguments against, which I should point out are entirely valid still despite my minor mishap coming into public perception. I mean, can a man not just be wrong these days? It's correctness gone mad, is a little bit of truth that important between friends. Shocking is the way in which some people think they can be better than me by knowing more than me and saying what they know more eloquently than I say what I don't. Does the fact that their performance outstrips mine at every turn render them better speakers of truth than I? Alas, yes, and so I say unto you, world, "feck".

And now for my first encore, or to be more precise the actual point I've been meaning to get across today rather than blithering on about mistakes of the past. Here we have it:

Wouldn't it be just absolutely dandy if we could remember being a baby?

Consider it. We lose a good four years of happy memories and baffled luxury at the hands of gawping adults, when we chuck them on the "Bright lights and people pulling weird faces at me" pile, only to be reclaimed often in extreme old age, presumable because of the similarities between such memories and day to day life in the charming and yet entirely bewildered dream state of pensionhood (If pensionhood exists these days. Political BOOM). Surely there must have been some excruciatingly joyful times, or at least occasions so bizarre and confusing that at least they would provide us with a few laughs fifteen years down the line. Now what I'm about to say is pretty immature, but you'll have to bear with me, because I have the keyboard and there's nothing you can do about it. Besides, this is all in the past now anyhow, I've written the next three paragraphs, strictly speaking now I'm editing, and I'm sure I must be blowing your minds, speaking from the future like this. I'd mind out, the next stuff is pretty saucy, don't get our mind blown now. Is this sort of behaviour allowed in a supposedly legible blog? Back to immaturity, which I'm sure you're all now desperate to get back to:

Imagine the first time defecating. That must have been an odd one. The buildup of tension, the sudden relaxation and explosion all at once, and then everything's sticky and smells of, I would say poo, but we don't know what that smells like, now do we? That's just the point, the world is so full of surprises and dangerous things to put in your mouth when you're a baby. Admittedly, there are surprises at our age, but they tend to be in the form of someone unexpectedly punching you in the face or finding out on the day before the exam that chemistry is also known as 'opposite subject' and that EVERYTHING THEY HAVE TOLD YOU IS UNTRUE. And as for dangerous things to put in your mouth, we shan't even go there... Oh to be young again, and feel nappy's cruel sting*. Happy days of pungent innocence, how I long for thee. Call me a stupid little kid, but I want to be a stupid little kid. There's a first time for everything, once in your life you'd never once emptied the bucket. Weirdo.

You should all follow my friend and his new blog, http://dictionariesanddebauchery.blogspot.co.uk/ as he too is just a Darren Smith waiting to be fangirled, and he has many deep insights to divulge if only we can keep him.

*That, I'll have you know, was me being poetic and melancholy. Because, as we all know, people fangirl** melancholy people. Handsome melancholy people. But then, I'm behind a computer. So melancholy is all I can muster. Not that I can strictly speaking muster handsomeness in real life...
**You ma have notice I skipped around topic a lot today. The reasoning behind this is that more topics means more interest, which in turn will lead, as everything does, to the ultimate pursuit and acquisition of fangirls.

High Importance.

Saw an ambulance today. Written on the side of it was "Emergency Ambulance". Emergency Ambulance? In what deluded universe do ambulances exist without emergencies? The bloody sheer waste of the thing was what shocked me into noticing. Jumping straight into things, perhaps someday, I'll find myself in a position requiring urgent medical attention, I'l be stranded, hopeless, convinced of my impending doom, will have shed any hope of return to the happy meadows of my boring life, when lo and behold, out of nowhere appears an ambulance. I am saved! Not so fortunate.

Upon the ambulance pulling up in a frankly surprisingly complacent manner, meandering almost, I'll issue a cry of joy and intense pain combined. The vehicle will stop, the doors will gently open with a swish, a man will stroll out, quickly assess the situation, return back to his yellow and green chariot, and* drive away. Only later on the brink of unconsciousness will I realise my folly- did that ambulance say emergency? Oh, nope, that was one of those non-emergency ambulances, didn't serve the likes of me, was probably off in a hurry to treat someone who burnt their tongue on hot jame tart**. And then I'll die. And as I'm being whisked off to whatever valhalla will take me, I'll have to admit that my ridiculing the categorisation of ambulances was at least misinformed.

As much as that's an entirely silly story, its unfolding in my head led me to think about two things. Firstly, the entire degrading of the word "Emergency". Obviously not ambulances, I accept you could probably just about call them urgent... still. "Panic buying", I heard this first from Rhod Gilbert but he has a good point. In times of genuine panic, do people really go shopping (no. Just thought I'd throw that in for you. Helpful me)? I hear the souvenir desk of the Titanic was flourishing, better hurry though because the returns desk just went under. Life in the present words lives as pretty much a continuation of that thought.

Hey, maybe I'm being unreasonable. Maybe that's because my school had FIVE fire alarms in the last three weeks. Five. Two of them were on the same day. We were on our way back into the building when it went off again, and frankly if that had been a fire we would have been doomed, and the only safety for us would have been the possibility of the flames being drained out by us pissing ourselves. I believe this might to some extent describe how undeniably, incontrovertibly and ultimately awful my school is. It can get excellent results, it can persuade itself that it's smartly dressed and edgey and forward thinking, but peel away the surface of perspex coated scholarship and deep down you'll find an inescapable rotting core of mediocrity and shambling incompetence hurriedly disguised from the outside world. It just can't get the hang of being a fairly good piece utility education, no matter how hard it tries it will always turn up late and having been splashed by a truck to inter-school competitions, it will always have rooms that just smell plain weird, it will always clear out the old reception and pack all the staff out on to the path before it realises that funding for the new building never actually arrived. It will always demonstrate the absolutely ridiculous oddities of bureaucracy with none of the efficiency. It will always be bonkers and ever so slightly shit, no matter how many million students get an A in History. And I will always love it. In the fond way you love an embarrassing parent, you'd never show it to your friends but it will always hold a special giggly place in your heart.

Wow. I must admit that wasn't what I expected this post to be about, but whoever called me one to submit to expectations. Even my own.

*Oh by the way I haven't yet understood entirely, is that an Oxford comma?
**Have you ever done that? It's hot and sticky and is hot and sticks to you and won't be prised off you and ow it hurts so much. But not as dire a situation as my allegorical character.

Cowardly.

Today, I apologise. A huge apology. A gargantuan, genuine and heartfelt session, with one purpose and one purpose only: the begging of forgiveness, with no compromise, excuse or plea of innocence. I apologise to my greatest and most loyal friend, the cleverest, most deeply comforting and greatest man I have ever known. My buddy Michael, how can I even begin. I said something about you, I spread a rumour, a lamentable terminological inexactitude, a lie, and now I know that this caused you discomfort and public scrutiny the like of which I would never have guessed in my own pathetic naively, and the sort of pain to which you are most vulnerable, through my own back-stabbing stupidity.

There's no denying it, I told absolutely everyone I know. I told them, told them about your belief that cows drink through their udders. How I wish I could take back every word now.

It was meant as a feeble dig, I never knew there would be so much at steak. Is there a price or service conceivable through which I could recapture your good opinion and our friendship could moove on? Really, I understand now, I milked it further than I had any right, and it was this that led to your demise. Your new beef with me is exactly how I would react, I don't deny. Doing what I did was like holding a red rag to, a, well, bull, and there's no question that the situation is entirely black and white. If you wanted to throw a hoof I would make no objection, I can't emphasise enough my willingness to make any sacrifice for reconciliation. There I was, mincing along with my buffed up opinion and believing I could say any old thing and not face the consequences. I dairy say I cheesed you off, yoghurt the right to throw it back in my face if that pleases you. Without hesitation I say to you, I can't possibly understand what it must feel like just to have to stomach it. Stomachs, even. I herd you were very upset. Set the animals on me, bring the hounds to my door, I'm sure your catt'le pounce on me if you tell it to. Frankly, you deserve a pat on the back for how you've taken it. Bringing this limelight upon you I thought would make me happy, now I appreciate that truly, the grass is always greener on the other side. Hay, I would die for you man, and I know it was a sorry tail to go telling. Seriously though, I would go to the moon, to Jersey or Guernsey for you, I just want you to know that. Cud you even bring yourself to talk to me? I'd appreciate it. From the bottom of my heart, I never knew how grazing this experience would be for you, no one would consider it unreasonable of you never beeped your horn at me again on the way past. If you weren't far mer peaceful than me this entire situation might have deteriorated even more than it has. We will never again be the Tarzan and Jane we once were, swinging from the bovines, that is just a truth I'm going to have to accept.

Michael, it was udderly ridiculous of me. I'm sorry.

Honest, I was only having a bit of pun. No need to grass on me.

Kids These Days.

Before I begin, it needs to be clarified that I, in almost all cases, would out of instinct locate the mass consensus of the collective wisdom of my age group, I'd feel naturally inclined to pinpoint it down to the finest specification, and then without a moment's hesitation throw myself as far away on the spectrum of opinion as is logically reasonable. It should go without saying that some of the views of my peers are entirely malicious, fallacious, contemptible and generally about as attractive as a rough shag with Nicky Minaj on a bed of nails. Established as it will become that this post will be predominantly be centred around defending the charming bunch with whom I share a general age, such a fact should never be confused with me actually liking them. Glad we could get that clear.

I've encountered many opinions on our grand* nation's youth, they can be incomprehensibly positive and infuriatingly negative, which is almost an exact parallel to the speaker being incomprehensibly not-a-teenager or infuriatingly a teenager. Life's harsh and there's no escape, world, I will categorise you and treat you in pretty much the same derogatory manner, for at best trivially different reasons. With it, deal. Anyhow, I'd like to list a few, ahem, arguments I've encountered on my roams, and some vague queries I have with them. Let's hit it:

"I honestly believe kids are born without manners these days"- uhhm, yes. Yes they are?...

That's kind of how birth/childhood works, to the extent of my understanding. Seriously though, it's an almost entirely self-defeating argument, as it leads directly to the main argument for our cheery hormonal ASBO friends, without even pretending to support the people using it. I hate to make overall judgements thus, but I feel I can't avoid it. Well then, Jacob's overall judgement 1: if a) you don't understand how birth works, which when though about is really unlikely to help with your child-managing skills anyhow, and b) have the genuinely fascinating ability to create debating strategies not only passively useless but actively usurping and feasibly reducing your chances of i) winning the argument, ii) being respect by other humans, then you're probably a moron.

"Kids these days [if you'll excuse the cliché] don't know boundaries. They're wild and dangerous and a menace."- well, sometimes we come across things in life that aren't true. Not that there are two conflicting opinions or interpretations and there is no strict right or wrong answer. Not that two extremes of thinking exist and the truth must lie somewhere in between. It's possible for people just to say something, and it's incorrect. Oasis are damn fine fellows. Easy, see?

Very well, to ensure that people don't think I'm such a crap-spouter, I may have to make a rare leap into seriousness, and consult those terrifying objects, the facts. In the past ten years smoking has gone in adolescents, drug use is down, alcohol is down, ASBOs are down. And would you but know? If you go ten years back further, ten years ago had lower alcohol, drug and tobacco use than twenty years ago. The same for thirty. It all seems to be piling up, doesn't it? It's almost as if- god forbid- the most antisocial group were those most enthusiastic with their accusations, the golden oldies. They don't have something to hide, do they? If so, the choice of gossip as something intimately linked with the faults of their own generations, does seem a little, well, moronic. Again. With a fair dose of hypocrisy thrown in or good measure.

So. Two broad categories into which most complaints at teen culture fall, if you can call it culture. Do we have a culture? We have kind of music, I hate to call it a music taste. We uhhm, wear clothes. I'd call it more of a 'niche' than a culture. Culture sounds far too healthy. Which gets to my main point, that when it comes down to the facts and the logic, teenagers are actually pretty damn decent, but yet still those nine times out of ten I'd choose to move away from the lump reasoning of a large number of lumps, because, well, they're dislikeable. Apart from you people, of course. You're loooovely. Honest.

*Ah yes. The patriotism thing. For newcomers, see Hey, Don't Take the Piss Out of MY Royal Family.

A Year and a Bit.

The world moves on. Swings swing, people die, politicians babble, teenagers masturbate, fangirls squeal, general boo hah-hah. And somehow in the midst of all that, the world really pays no attention to the fact that I've been gone, a free agent roaming the world, for an effing year.

My straining ego finds this hard to believe. Even in the hayday, (And I'll come to that), I admit a pitiful number of people read this blog, and the few tens, stretching into the occasional glorious 3-digit sum attending this glint into my life have drained away in my absence, and I suspect that those left are left only because they too have abandoned their embarrassing clichéd internet monologues to the ravages of time, and in the process have neglected to abandon my ship in the hustle of capsizing their own.

So why, I hear your wise voices chant, am I back?

Those of you who can recall anything of what used to go down will remember that almost all the problems I present here and their solutions eventually find their root in the megalomanic sanctuary of embittered perversion that is my brain, and its fairly buffed up opinion of itself. I didn't get much attention when I was here: I didn't need to, that wasn't what it was about. I enjoyed the feeling of writing and producing and being creative, and making myself laugh if not you chilly-hearted freaks. I regret to announce this simple pleasure ceases to delight me. Seriously though, could no one have mentioned my choice to leave? Not one soul? I poured my heart out, I gave you Greenpeace Spitfire, the sadistic Easter bunny, the many failings of Jeremy Clarkson. I had my weak points*, no doubt, but for the newly pubescent ragings of a contorted year nine, it wasn't that bad, was it? Really? I might have stuck with it out of genuine heartfelt warmth towards the internet that treated me so cruelly if I'd been reassured of that fact. I wasn't though, and so another reason will have to do, some other cause to facilitate my return to the whimsical musing of this sorry practice, and so here comes Jacob's silly cringey admission 1 of the new series: Oh god, I want to be fangirled. So so bad.

What, what what what. This is not how I roll. I exist the swashbuckling self-styled intellectual**, who resists the thronging masses of happy go-lucky sonsos who'll jump on any bandwagon that'll fit them and be damn glad to wear nerdy glasses for the rest of their days if needs be. Truth is, I would hugely appreciate being a bandwagon, and so here comes Jacob's twist of reasoning and logic 1 of the new series (It's a series? I know, sounds awesome dunnit):

In the future, I find it hard not to see myself being rich and famous and well loved, and decidedly not bald (which I should point out I'm not at the moment, my curly locks are perfectly well intact, ta). I'll go places and have crowds of squealing (An activity of fangirls, as has already been pointed out) admirers serenading my happy travels. I'll have achieved it all, and I'll be reaping the rewards. It all sounds dandy, aside from Jacob's catch/flaw in the plan 1 of the new series: I need my squealing adoring hug-desperate dedicated followers NOW.

It's not that I view myself as a lonely person; I don't. I have an entertaining and perfectly sufficiently sized friend base, all of whom I love very much and mean more to me than anything. Most things. Okay, there are a lot of things that mean more, but I like my friends right? So it's not out of desperation then, I live a happy life, it's probably more out of, I dunno, resistance to recluse. I live in a tiny corner of the world in which I will almost never be remembered for anything other than having slightly dodgy hair. I want renown, I want acknowledgement, I want greatness, I want a followers count that exceeds five digits never mind three. I want to get laid. What, sorry, did I say that out loud... That wasn't actually me that said it, it was, erm, my friend. The little bugger. IT'S A PIPELINE DREAM OKAY. Point is, I honestly believe you should all fangirl me, because let's face it, if there's a reasonable proportion of the world's population convinced I'm hilarious, than whatever crap I say, it's gonna sound funny to them, right? Can't beat the system. Might as well just anticipate my rise to wealth and fame and get fawning now, we can have a deal in which you treat me like a God, and in return I'll become a God-like figure. For sure, who has time for getting round to actually becoming a God? Far better to leave it til later.

Does the word 'fangirl' bring to mind for you images of attractive oh-so-naive teenage girls? Doesn't for me. Nooopedy no. Nooooo. Absolutely, tres not. You can be male, I'd happily go gay for fame. Is that the sort of thing you say?  Probably not. You could be sixty, but please please ignore the laid comment, it's illegal and just sorry, no. Just put my followers total back where it belongs, humour my huge worship of myself, and I promise I'll give you all the hilarity and embarrassing revelations I can come up with. Over and Out.

*Piece of String being the one that springs to mind. I think of any failing, the sheer unrelenting shitness of that post posed the largest contributor to me leaving BlogSpot to its merry business.
**I find it much easier that asking others to style me intellectual. They tend to a) punch me in the face, which is unpleasant, and b)point out my lack of an actual intellect, which is rude if nothing else. Although, they say the truth hurts, but I'd take having my academic presumptions shattered over being punched in the face any day of the week. It's just a fact.