Strange.

Short one today.

By gradually changing the style of music we listen to, with each new song tending slightly towards a particular genre but retaining enough of the stuff that made us like the old song, we can become able to listen to pretty much anything (Aside from Crazy Frog. May God show no mercy to his soul or any other body parts. May the pearly gates fall on and suffocate him like an oyster mafia. May he rot in the fieriest chasms of obscurity that constitute the history of child pop. That creature filled my infant life and was creepier than the set for a Tarzan movie. I detested). You can imagine a string of songs that would link Nirvana to Red Hot Chilli Peppers to Kasabian to Snow Patrol to Mumford and Sons to I dunno, Damien Rice, to No Surprises by Radiohead, to Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Part, to Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber, Chopin prelude opus 9 number 2 in E flat major to Rachaninov's prelude opus 23 number 4 in D major to Le Grande Porte de Kiev by Mussorgsky to Beethoven's fifth symphony. Easy (By the way I'm perfectly aware there are probably people existing for each progression I just stated that would find it offensive. It's meant to give an impression, okay?) So then,  if we can't distinguish between music because "That's just what we like", as we can like anything if we really set our minds to it, what can we judge it by? Well surely we should be judging it by how, well, musical it is. And it's hard to deny that while we may not always entirely adore it (Although all the pieces I mentioned above I must assure you are hot stuff), the most technically proficient music is classical music. So what is it that makes us not listen to Bach's unaccompanied cello suite, and turn instead to the slightly less scholarly but certainly sexier Take That? And why is Queen just obviously infinitely better than Europe? And why is Liam Gallagher an utter arse? Beats me.

Facebook annoys me politically. Twitter annoys me socially. Hello, Blogspot.

It's entirely true though. Facebook, once a paragon of internet freedom and worldwide communication, has become ever more commercially centred as it's reached the height of its bubble as one of the top dogs of the business world. Twitter, ah and Twitter, once also a shining symbol of the bright new age, has become a breeding ground for crowd anonymity as corpses of what used to be opinion skulk in the shadows, slamming any subject of their vulgar gossip machine and using considerable social might to line up against the wall and publicly execute anyone who so much as flicks a butterfly of a leaf in the Himalayas, causing tornados and cyclones to be dispensed with a self-righteous passion that borders on the holy back here in our great country of cynicism. Sorry, is this meant to be funny...

I posted a Facebook status yesterday which is fairly self-explanatory and which conveys my general points, but that frankly I can't be bothered to write out again, and so shall appear as a direct quote: "Oh so what's that Facebook, you're now offering an exclusive service allowing me to pay £5.01 for my statuses to be publicised to a wider audience and appear on more peoples' news feeds? Diddums, did someone's share floatation go badly? And while this is an entirely valid status, unfortunately no-one will see it of course. Because I'm not paying £5.01 to enforce my crappy opinions upon the world." Now several things annoy me about this move from Facebook. First is the penny. What the hell* is it doing there? Is it some taunt from the man that no reasonable convenience will be spared? Not satisfied with the bizarre move to add a price to popularity (I've noticed that they retain their "It's free an always will be." tagline. Hs Ryanair expanded into the Internet business? One can only wonder.), they seem determined to pule as much inconvenience as is humanly possible (Okay, it's not ridiculously inconvenient, but then neither are the Welsh and they get plenty of stick) on their customers' users' user's head. (<- c'mon, the first joke was economic satire, the second was just pure goddamn grammatical slammage). One penny? Has Zuckenberg ever tried getting a bus? That would teach him how much anger a simple penny can give rise to. Now a penny and a fiver on a bus as Facebook is requiring, that would just add insult to injury, it would warrant an immediate ban from the service provider if I'm not mistaken. Of course, it has occurred to all the rest of us that in this modern age of Internet finance that £5.01 is no more or less convenient than £5. Computers, y'see, they just don't tend to get bothered. Perhaps they're more patient and the painstaking handling of coppers is no water under the bridge, or perhaps, just perhaps the bloody things were designed to outstrip our outdated need for meaningless worthless pieces of metal, and a few binary digits are pretty easy to handle whether they add up to 500 or 501. Really Mark, you think you can intimidate us and satisfy your twisted power complex by squeezing a few extra seconds of time out of us? Well hah, we went and invented computers so that we didn't have to be intimidated anymore, not by genuine real life confrontation and certainly not by you. Now if you'd like to harness the power of the Internet in controlling your own little pet race, at least have the decency to do your research, master double clicking before ou try and rig up the matrix. You insult our intelligence. Extra bloody penny. Pah. And perhaps this fundamental lack of understanding is what led your entire franchise into monetary despair and is the reason you're needing all the extra pennies your greasy little palms can cling on to.

Interlude: this goes against practice but I need to talk to you guys now (theses posts tend to amass over a period of days or weeks as I'm so damn busy nowadays but every now and again I'll be forced to the break continuity and appearances, like here. And here again, as now I'm hurriedly editing (the fact that I'm hurrying gives you a sneak peak as to what occurs a couple of lines down.  Oh god I love doing that. Back to me. Today I did a talk burp. I was walking along with a girl, a perfectly normal, charming person, our conversation was just delightful, when out of nowhere "I really thin-ARRRRP". How humiliating, right? I kept a brave face of it and to her credit so did she, we made light of it, but deep down we both knew fine well that it was over. Any pretences of merry dialogue were to be replaced there and then by any soulless small-talk we could desperately wrench out of the gaping chasms of our panicking brains. It was MORTIFYING. Stomach, how could you let me down so. AND you decided to fart that time I was in the hairdresser and me and lovely lovely gay Alan gave a particularly raucous laugh, that was a desperately tense moment, trying to slyly waft away fumes I was convinced were not merely tangible but visible. You could have ruined everything, and you know what you have. You know what, this what meant to be an interlude but I have nothing else interesting to say, and this is a big well of emotion inside me that needs opening up, so that all the Chillean miners of my soul can wander blindly back into the daylight of comfort with myself. So for that reason, and that reason alone I end this blog now, the inevitable spelling errors that come with a speedy editing and all. oh, and the people are here to take me to my new home, where they assure me burps and humans can live in peace for all eternity.

It was bound to happen.

Might have happened to my grandparents before me though.

That would have been a bit better on the old ego.

Ah well.

*fuck. It's my new policy to leave swearing to the footnotes, and so I shall, yet I just feel that fuck is my word of choice for the situation, and that you should know this. And if you're my employer in ten years time frowning disapprovingly at obscenities you encounter, browsing my internet records (which seems to be a real and genuine threat), I promise that I fully intend to work harder in my life and do better jobs than any other employee you've ever encountered**. Swear down. Or if you're me in a similar length of time, suffering a cringe at your embarrassing previous tendency to abuse foul language, I really am sorry to cause you such devastation***.

**Twat off you nobless cuntcheese. 

***You better be bollocking getting some.

Bits and Bobs and Flowerpot Men

So lots of things have been happening in the last few hours/days/weeks, and I've been gone near as makes no difference a month, and I'm sorry but I'm not sorry because this little sideline of intrigue in the periphery of my experience really is second to many things. Like slouching. And sleeping. And I thought we might all just have a little catchup. And I've just started lots of sentences with and, my primary school teacher would have my guts for not just garters, but as a noose for my execution as well. Anyhow. Well. Catchup. I'm gonna tell you lots of things that have happened to important me, and you're going to listen. Feel free to skim through at will, pick up the bits that seem interesting. Okay, I know what you just said and it was rude.

 I want to start with a little encounter between me and my little brother Luke, which I found sweet to the point of near-as-makes-no-difference painfulnes:

"Hey, Jacob, do you wanna watch a film?"
"Yeah, sure, what film?"
"I think we should watch a scary film."
"Yeah sure, but isn't that Nanny McPhee you've got there?"
"Woooahh, no I didn't say that scary. I was just putting this away."

Don't you just want to curl up in a ball and stroke the world? 

Has anyone else realised "opposite day" is a paradox? It's entirely likely that everyone else has in fact come to this conclusion, which makes it a really bad thing to put near the start (or include at all...), but listen I worked this out myself and I'm dead proud. You could argue that I'm already prouder than Simba on Prozac without this added fuel for the egotistical fires, but this is dead proud. In that people have died for my pride*, and they might just die again when I unleash this stinkbomb of a revelation unto the world**. Retreating hastily to the relatively solid ground of my point, let's consider how the possibility of an opposite day is entirely implausible. There are two situations to consider:

1) Noone declares it to be opposite day. We can fairly safely assume it to be a normal day.
2) Someone declares it to be opposite day. By the definition of opposite day, this must mean that it's a normal day.

I.e. it is opposite day if and only if it isn't opposite day.

Of course, this doesn't apply if the opposite day is planned, i.e tomorrow will be opposite day. But as most opposite day's are spontaneous, I think I may just have spared the world of a common and bewilderingly tedious topic of year seven conversation.

On the subject of year sevens, some have started following me around. They're very giggly, female, and convinced that my hair isn't real. To them I am known as "Wiggy", wherever they got that from. As per my typical helpful, friendly and conversational nature, I extended a hand of friendship towards them in order to teach them what is going so terribly wrong with their lives and generally to make fun of them at any turn. Strangely enough, they've not just taken the hand they're practically nibbling at it's wisdom. I asked for fangirls but this is just odd and I'm not prepared to go on with it.***

Next, I'm getting old, and for this I cite two pieces of evidence. Firstly, I've started making unnecessary and unwanted noises under strain. Where have you gone, oh happy days of lifting (hypothetically. Lifting is a fairly standard exercise, and I'm using it because examples of genuine effort I've made sportingly are are far too few and far between for this. "De ye even lift?" No. Never) without an involuntary accompanying grunt? I miss happy hours of silence, silence free from the embarrassment and strange glares that accompany a slight hum of strain as I ascend the fifth stair. Silence free from the rapid outward breath with the throw of a tennis ball that sounds EXACTLY like a fart. Secondly, a long story involving a glockenspiel happened to me the other week, and I've told the same person six times. Six times. Even more befuddling is that each time they forgot about it as well, until I reminded them I'd already told them. So we're all getting old together, which is entirely normal. Nothing to worry about? No I'm not going to tell you about the Glockenspiel (with a capital G).

Why do viola players stand outside houses? Because they can't find the key and don't know when to come in.
Why are violas like bombs? By the time you can hear them there's nothing to be done.
What's the difference between a viola player and a washing machine? Vibrato.
What's the difference between a viola and a coffin? With a coffin, the dead person's on the outside.
Why can't viola players play hide and seek? Because noone will look for them.

I finished my computing (programming. Not to be confused with IT. Not that I'm derisive) controlled assessment. I could rattle on about how unfathomably complicated JavaScript validation of radio forms is, or I could just tell you that I really am very very clever. And that is what I shall do.

Are we looking forward to The Hobbit? I certainly am, if nothing else it'll produce a new spurt of comments about my hair looking like Frodo's. People never seem to notice that I'm five foot eleven and fifteen sixteenths. Probably because I'm not, but I will never admit to being six foot in height (In width maybe. They sell boxes of cheese at our school now. A box, of cheese. Who's idea was that? Wherever you are, cheese man, I pray that a service is done unto you when you fall into a massive salt shaker, and, to quote the gay cruising website, "Grindr". Wherever you are, cheese man, I hope you realise that what you've done in both confusing, pathetic and oh god irresistible. I can't take my hands off them). It's an unflattering number. But yes, the Hobbit, and by association re-watching Lord of the Rings (don't have time to re-read them) often late at night in dangerously influenceable moods. It's made me realise how much I want to go on an adventure. How much I want to move into the world and do bad things and good things but what's important is that I'm doing things. I want to fight what I believe in, or at least have something in which I believe. Proper belief, belief that can inspire a person to do great things. I want something to define me for better or worse, I want to be a character in someone's story, whether it's my own or a friend's or a strangers, whether I become remembered or disappear into the uncaring centuries. It's forced me to think lots of deep thoughts, which was bizarre, and finally to bounce back, which was easy with the new cheese installations in my torso, with a fully formed philosophy "Things just happen. What the hell.", which was plagiarised. Things will happen, and I promise that I'll be here to merrily take the piss, for my year seven following, for the greater good, for Frodo, and for you.



*Notably not me. Funny how these things happen.
**I say unleash, it's fairly likely to be quite a bit tamer than that. What I'm doing is taking my revelation and gently prodding the world with it, as if to say "Uhmm, hey, I've got this." My revelation is a teenage boy's desperate attempt to show off to the girl he likes, with inevitable disastrous consequences, as he hasn't quite caught on that the girl's seeing a man with legs to break rocks upon. I'm marching in what I hope is a confident manner but is obviously internally squeming to the world, declaring that I have something absolutely hilarious to say, in the hope that this forlorn idea will somehow lead to us making love. This is me going "Hey world, I'm really clever honest. Should we make out?". Judging from experience, this is when the world slaps me.
***I made a pact to myself never to use emoticons on this blog, but if I hadn't, and let's imagine I hadn't, O.o