Never think of the big picture.

The big picture will scare you more than Paranormal Activity scared overwhelmed American students; more than socialism scares capitalists, and certainly a lot more than the time when I thought a ghost had opened my bedroom door because there was a draft coming from my window. True story!

When things get grandiose, like the word "grandiose", one is suddenly inundated with responsibility, but not in a Spider-man way, more like a "I'm a student and I need to meet these deadlines but I need to do 10,000 words in a week" way. I worked it out the other day; adding up the word count for self-reflective accounts, evaluations, essays, blogs (seriously) and other tomfoolery in the academic bible that is the course handbook comes to about 10,300 words. After tomorrow's deadlines and next week's deadlines, this will total almost 20,000 words written for coursework in just two weeks. That's more than any dissertation I've ever heard of (a dissertation, for the least among us, is what gets you your degree at the end of your degree), yet it's part of the first half of the second (of three) year of my degree. Horrifying.

Remember when you tried to contemplate spending the rest of your life with your current partner? It was just out of reach, and comfortably so. I'm having to stare it in the face and ask it to be gentle as it caresses and squeezes my brain. True story.

That's it, let it all out...

Is it pathetic that I'm pissed off because someone's pre-determined what I'm to have for tea when I had something else in mind? Or is it more pathetic to cry when someone tells you that you shouldn't have made something when my whole argument prior was that there was no space to do such a thing?

When I complained that there was "nothing in" for tea, and elaborated that my brother was using the cooking apparatus AND using the last of the chips (the only thing left to compliment the mountains of Birdseye beef in the freezer), one person translated that as "Make way for the tea I was complaining I couldn't have, no matter how illogical and impractical this may be."

You do not cook frozen burgers on the same cramped grill as you are cooking fresh turkey. You do not share one serving of chips between two people. You do not cook them both at the same time. Quite frankly, the idea's bullshit. If you think this is feasible, you're a moron. Go fuck yourself.

Then again, I guess when you think you're never wrong and someone contradicts you to the point where you can't possibly be right, then perhaps it could be acceptable to cry. After all, it's not like you have to eat that shit.

I fought the law...

I'm currently watching lots of segments of Dateline NBC's "To Catch a Predator" back to back for no other reason than to laugh at Hansen's voice and everyone else's inability to cope with the law and being put on the spot.

I once chatted to a sociology tutor at my old sixth form college about Jeremy Kyle, Jerry Springer, etc, but I feel her reaction to those shows is still applicable. She said not only is it sad that we laugh at people because they're of a different class than us and because they break hegemony with their situations, but also that the people on it are in some utterly dire situations.

I do totally agree, I really do, but I can't help but laugh at "Why don't you take a seat over there?" and the other one-liners that totally stumps the pedophiles. Additionally, you occasionally get people who recognise him on the show who are totally mortified at their misfortune, but at the same time are inspired by the guy. I'd imagine Hansen loves it too, given it's one of the few times he will ever NOT have to say "Well I've got something to tell you, I'm Chris Hansen with Dateline NBC...".

One massive thing about the show is the way how people are screwed by the law. I'll just brush around the edges and offer an informative overview of why you DO NOT TALK TO POLICE:

1. Anything you say can and will/may be held against you in court. This does not mean that your testimony or confession can EVER work in your favour.
2. Even if you're telling the absolute truth and are innocent, if a misinformed witness contradicts your testimony you could be charged with lying to the police AND committing the crime you never did.
3. Something illegal is bound to slip out of your mouth (e. g: "How fast do you think you were going?" "About 35 mph."; as the speed limit is 30, it's still an illegal act).

As much as I can be a mega leftist sometimes and I'm not a fan of repressive state apparatus, the fact is you should learn the law to mould it to your own amends. At least you'll make a level playing fiend between yourself and the police.

The Chronicles of Sheffield

I write blogs on trains. This time I wrote two. Hot stuff.

Might as well face it...

You're addicted to BLOG! You see, I've come to the conclusion that the direct plan of action on a train is to blog. It's horrifying.

I've left my headphones at home, so I can't play Postal 2 or Left 4 Dead because people will complain, especially given there are children sat next to me (and yes, I have already taken a seat over there). I brought a book, but the books I need (perhaps a more appropriate word would be “should”, seeing as I have a rather nasty habit of not reading “essential” texts) are all on my computer regardless. It's funny though, if I were to read Walter Benjamin's “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” it'd probably last me until Christmas....in 2112, although it apparently was expected of me to read it in one week. BULLSHIT. First time I've contributed to the swear jar today, that's mildly impressive....

So, that paragraph has taken me from Cleethorpes to Grimsby station. As yet I still have to visit Habrough, Barnetby, Scunthorpe, Doncaster, Meadow Hall before I get to my destination: Sheffield. I'm waiting for the announcement system (TANNOY IS A BRAND) to say exactly where the train's headed before I confirm the former list. It hasn't happened. You know this kind of misinformation (well, lack of information) actually allowed me to persuade my own mother that Eddie Guerro returned at Hell in a Cell driving a low rider with Chris Benoit in the back of the car. Madness!

Iggy Pop just stared me down from a massive billboard. He is a genius, after all, I don't know anyone else who chooses to sell time over car insurance. In fact he was wearing a clock as a monocle at the time.

Have you ever noticed how when you're on a form of transport you end up being incredibly selfish, depending on the medium on which you're travelling? For example, when I attended Franklin Sixth Form College for two years, I got the bus there every day. I became frustrated when people didn't let buses out from their stops at the side of the road. When I'm in my car I adopt a completely different personality. I've always got somewhere ridiculously important to go, and screw everyone else! Buses are my bitches! Yet, I still envy cyclists who can circumvent road works and red lights by shooting onto the pavement momentarily. Trains are a little odd though. They stop for nobody, asides from other trains, but that happens about as often as I play games online. All the cars pale in comparison to the power, size and oddly enough, comfort. I don't get to lounge about when I'm driving; perhaps Pimp My Ride is in order?

We've just about arrived at Barnetby now. I should say that the overall train journey is going to be one hour and fourty minutes (Why do I write everything that isn't a year in full words? It would be easier to say “14: 15” than “a quarter past three o'clock”. I'm too English for my own good.)

Is it wrong that as the train went past some gas cannisters I wanted to shoot them? I mean after all, real-life physics are better than games physics, right? I even ragdolled once when I tried to kick a football. Funnily enough, I permanently damaged my foot from that. People have fallen off cliffs and made better recoveries than my fucking football accident. Disclaimer: Football means soccer ball for all you yanks.

Some kid's playing on their DS next to me. I guess I should be grateful that they sound like they're on Wario Ware and not Nintendogs. After all, Nintendogs is so annoying it's sold more than the combined sales of Metal Gear Solid and Final Fantasy VII combined. There is no justice.

I think I'll play Postal 2 with no sound on. If anyone sees the gore then they can throw themselves off the train.

Written at 12:55 on Friday, 16^th October

Zeitgeist is Infuriating

Zeitgeist is a documentary film that in a couple of hours of your time will decimate your pre-existing views on religion, 9/11, war and capitalism. You'd could call me an unequivocal leftist for enjoying the film, and trust me, it's the basis for much of my disenfranchisement with modern society, but I think even the liberals would squirm at some of this film's material.

Zeitgeist offers evidence and fact to substantiate its claims that the world has been mastercrafted by an elite aristocracy whose selfish regime has been built on fear and money. For example, how many religions would you say share the same sort of mythos as Christianity? (By “mythos” I mean Christ was born on December 25^th, adored by three kings who followed a star to the east to Bethlehem, etc.) None? A couple? Maybe a few, after all we're all somewhat ignorant? Try hundreds, most of which pre-date Christianity's conception by thousands of years. Even Horus of the Ancient Egyptian mythology (whom I would commonly associate with pyramids, the Valley of Kings, Tomb Raider: The Last Revelation and other quaint voodoo) shares many of the same traits as our beloved saviour, Jesus Christ. What's more is that both aforementioned religions are based on PAGAN beliefs about the Sun, constellations, the seasons and other more down to earth things. Remember the last time you saw a “Christian” fish symbol on a car? The Jesus fish is a symbol of the NEW AGE: PISCES. What about the cross you sometimes see on gravestones and churches, especially the ones with the circle around the centre where the lines intercept? It turns out that's actually based on the Pagan cross of the Zodiac. It nails religion the the cross and crucifies it (oh LOL).

However, by far the most maddening (and that means driving me insane and angry at the same time) segment is when they dedicate a substantial period of time to deconstructing the story of the alleged September 11^th 2001 terrorist attacks. I find myself in a difficult situation on that one because LOGICALLY it would be fair to say that it was set up by the government. There is so much evidence given to contradict what has been said OFFICIALLY about the attacks, as well as offering you a spade to dig yourself a hole full of betrayal and mortification; you know, that feeling of being lied to. The problem with this is that people are not only up themselves with being politically correct about the incident, but also it's an event that has such a massive effect on the world we live in that it seems almost impossible to deny it being an inside job. We trust our nations' leaders to make the world run smoothly, why would they ever even consider doing that? That question sounds rhetorical, but I'll answer it anyway. It comes down to profit, fear and profit (put broadly, of course).

But what was EVEN MORE appalling than the content of this film was that my friend I was watching it with clearly didn't understand what was being dissected. The amount of times I was asked “So does that mean....? What did that say?” was more than just a few times, to be sure; I guess I just naturally have a knack for all things political and sociological. I eat that stuff up (as I'm sure my classmates will back me up on); nevertheless, it says somewhere that Americans were too stupid to realise all the evidence against the popular 9/11 story was right there on the live television broadcasts. That claim is not entirely true. Years have gone by, facts have multiplied and this remarkable film has been made to showcase the best (or worst) of them, yet people don't get it even when it's been slammed in their face like a glorious steel chair doused in fire and barbed wire.

It reminds me of PLATO'S CAVE. Once you're out you can see how much of a charade the world you used to know is, yet if you mingle with the dwellers you end up being killed and made to look as credible as a shadow-puppet.

Written at 20:55 on Sunday, 18^th October

Super genius or super wankered?

The title is nothing to do with this blog...ish.

You see, as I stepped through the door after a quality night out with my best friend and other cool subjects of my drunkenness, my step dad told me he was "downloading a new password" for something or other. I don't give a shit to be honest. I then made a ham and cheese sandwich. ANYWAY, my point was that he allgedly downloaded a password.

That raises a couple of issues, of which the second I can't remember for the life of me. The first of which is the older generation's inability to cope with the internet. They approach it in a way that I can't fathom how they could believe it would work. It's almost like they actually believe in religion the way how they seek the easiest or most obvious explanation for something...wait a minute!

If my mum asks me to replace an ink cartridge I do so, but I have no fucking clue what the hell I'm supposed to do. I look at solutions listed by the program and by Google and then come to a plausible antidote to the problem. This simple process is apparently beyond people about 50 years old and beyond kids aged 12. These kids want everything on a plate. That may sound old of me, but it's true. Allow me to elaborate. I get comments on videos I've posted on YouTube. The youngest kids want every question answered by me. Everyone else found the answer either in the video or through common sense (AKA Google).

I wish people could understand the internet more. It'd save us from the cancer that is killing /b/ and the newfags.

I am the eggman, they are the eggmen...

I am the ARSEHOLE! (goo goo ga joo!) You see, I realised today how unfathomably bitter I can be. By that I don't mean I can be a wanker to anyone who challenges my way to the breakfast table when I wake up, nor do I mean when people laugh at jokes that genuinely aren't funny and I sit there alienated because I have good taste. I mean I have an answer to everything and it's always the antithesis of what people want to hear.

Someone talks about how amazing a Windows PC is. I immediately think about the blue screen of death, how shit Windows Movie Maker is, how many viruses there are for Windows (unless you've got Norton), how Macs can install Windows on them anyway, so why even bother with a PC? The list goes on.

Hell, I'm perhaps worse for things I love. I'm a huge Metallica fan, but that doesn't mean I'll not take the piss out of them if someone says how cool they are. I have hundreds of things I could say. It's almost my instinct to use my knowledge of a subject and manipulate it like I'm some kind of evil genius. My jokes are horrifically ironic, and it's no secret that 90% of them aren't funny, but they're considerably awesome in the tiny little world echoing around in my skull. It's always amusing to be facetious. After all, that Hitler's a pretty cool guy.

Additionally, I think it takes the piss that an assignment I've been given this week from my course is to start up a BLOG. Yes, they're FUCKING SERIOUS. Everyone who has Facebook blogs in their status updates. Everyone who's heard of it knows to a degree how it works. Why do we have to write a new blog on the Grimsby Institute's online facility that's not only ridiculously hard to navigate, but also nobody will fucking read. That's not a shot at the course tutor, that's a shot at the establishment trying to control and integrate the internet. Some people just don't realise that thanks to the international web-o-vision, the world shrank like a dick in a box of ice, in a room packed full of ugly motherfuckers; that, and while the world was shrinking someone on the outside picked up the world and bowled it down a hill. The ball's not going to stop and we can't see through the clouds to the floor yet.

That being said, it was probably 3D Realms' Duke Nukem development team who're responsible for this. They spent all the time they should've spent designing the game and put it into designing the whole internet and brainwashing the planet into thinking they're acting on their own independent thought. DEVIOUS BASTARDS.

An old friend of mine died today.

And it's starting to hit me. Not in an uncontrollable burst of tears way, but in the annoying way how you start to think when someone dies. I can remember things about him I've not remembered since he left school and as I see the scenes play out in my head through smog by pure search lights of remembrance and imagination, I'm looking at the situations in a new light.

It's annoying. I empathise with the dead more than I do the living. Perhaps it's because when you imagine your friends, you remember the funny things they've said, their personality radiates from them. In your mind, they converse without words. Your ideal rendition of them smiling at your jokes, but in reality they contradict those imagined traits. Or maybe that's just me. Each new encounter with them fuels my imagination. How odd then, that I saw him over a year ago and I can picture him clear as day with a smiling face laughing at silly jokes and making his own. I remember him in school classes simply doing what he could: being himself.

I think the saddest thing to me is the suddenness. He had things to do, friends to see, a life to live. It feels so...pointless.

A-Ha!

This past week I've rediscovered the two series of I'm Alan Partridge, hosted a ridiculous session of Pro Evolution Soccer 6 (featuring Inter Milan Vs. Czech Republic; or Vs. France), had a pint with two wrestlers mentioned in a prior blog and unwittingly been somewhere in the eye of a shit-storm between friends.

Yes, life's perfectly balanced...like every character in GUILTY GEAR. Nothing happens, then everything happens. It either predominantly goes super wrong, or goes super right. This time around everything seems to be going alright. HOWEVER, thanks to GLORIOUS karma (why isn't that spelled with a "c", it makes more sense; "k" makes it look like it's trying to be hardcore), that means that the next time nothing's going on, it will be followed by floods of VOMIT and shit. THAT'S LIFE, FOLKS!

ERNAN CRESPO IS INCREDIBLY BROKEN. He is a fucking menace on every Pro Evolution Soccer game I've played in the last two months (and Viera is the most likely to be injured). I'm not that into football (any Americans reading can screw yourselves with your inverse logic; Americans play FOOTball with their HANDS. LOLWUT?), but I appreciate the video games and I like playing it in real life. One might call me a FREAK for not liking to watch on television, but rather partake in the activity; if you are one of those people, fuck off. It's not even funny. Hang thyself.

Tuesday night was a little mental too (though not in the sense that it was exactly where it needed to be to score a goal). I had the OBLIGATORY couple of pints (if you drink cocktails EXCLUSIVELY you've either just turned 18 and/or you have appalling taste), popped down to McDonalds (in which they game me a fucking cup for buying a large meal. Where do I put a cup on a night out? Idiots). We went back to the pub and found Sykes and Havok (two wrestlers I saw a couple of weeks ago). WHY? They were welcomingly friendly and stayed to chat, but I spent the whole time thinking "WHAT?". Why the fuck were SYKES and FUCKING HAVOK in THE LLOYDS ARMS drinking pints with me and my mate and talking about everything wrestling? It was stupid and AWESOME at the same time and will probably never happen again.

I could chat to my audience of 7 (on a good day) about the MASSIVE FURIOUS FIRE STORM that erupted yesterday between some of my friends, but I don't want to bring my mood down. SCREW YOU JEREMY KYLE! (a more considerate Jerry Springer, for those reading from over seas) Instead, I'm just going to say this: "HOLY SHIT THAT ROCKET LAUNCHER JUST TOOK OUT HALF A SUSPENSION BRIDGE!...FUCKING HELL, IT'S BREAKING AWAY AT THE MIDDLE...GOOD LORD I'M STILL ON THE BRIDGE *girders flying everywhere*...RUN!" That was the scene just prior to Alec Mason plummeting 60ft to the floor off a suspension bridge. Red Faction Guerrilla was excellent while it lasted.

Fuck You

Earlier today I was considering writing another blog, but I had no motivation, so I figured I'd leave it and do one another time. Well a moment ago I got my fucking inspiration. Fuck you.

Having to been to a good friend's abode, I got in at about one o'clock. I checked my emails, checked the forum, put some music on and then felt inspired to play the guitar. Given it's a (to some) silly hour in the morning, I was playing my electric guitar with headphones in; my bedroom door was closed. I was playing for a good fifty minutes too.

Enter the fucking bastard. I hear my door open, look, then take off my headphones. Before me I see a woman nearly fifty with hair looking almost like Emmet Brown's and drooped cheekbones like a sad looking dog. She then gets serious. In her own little world she's the boss of physics and time as we know it. How dare I play my guitar the quietest it'll go for almost an hour undetected, but then suddenly be heard apparently on televisions, radios, morse code machines, ice cream van chimes and even a sign on the bloody moon. Yes, that is very loud. That's what she heard in her custom built world where everything's right as soon as she says it is. I, on the other hand, heard the noise from the headphones only.

It seems the pranging of the strings on its own was reason to get out of bed and have a go at me. After the dust settled and she shut her mouth, I said "alright", with an intonation of "why the fuck have you stormed into my room and acted like I've just killed everyone you've ever loved". She wasn't happy. I wish I could've squeezed in "unfortunately" at the end of that sentence, but it's beyond that. 90% of the grief she thinks I give her, she manufactures herself. If I'm out until three in the morning, she's waiting until three in the morning for me to get in the house, even though she's in fucking bed. If my room's untidy, the whole house needs hosing down because it's allegedly caked in my ironing that's not been put away.

So, I think I can justify calling this blog "Fuck You", because as far as I can see, I'm not that far wrong, am I?

I love you, but...

Don't we all love Facebook. Well I say all, EVERYONE HIP seems to use Twitter because Stephen Fry's on it (a perfectly valid reason), but they seem to forget that Twitter is just Facebook status updates...without anything else. What kind of shit is that? Really? You prefer the inferior application? COME ON! You need to remove that Dell branded mouse from your arse, or vagina, or whatever orifice you've chosen to stick your John Cena action figure in today.

Well, I was just Facebook minutes ago, read one status update and did a quiz in reaction to how balls to the wall the status message was. I don't go on Facebook to read you alluding to oral sex with your flavour of the fucking month, I went on Facebook to see who's tagged me in drunken photos (I was in seven) and who's just friends enough with me to leave me a message on it, but not inclined to communicate with me outside of the internet (although emails are still quite taxing for some people). Some people seem to have forgotten the realm of real life exists these days.

I called the man a faggot and moved on (he's not gay, the humour was in the irony of him certainly not being gay due to the implied blowjob...hur hur). Then on the sidebar I noticed that there was a half naked picture of my brother in bed with his girlfriend. WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS? WHAT SICK FUCK MADE THIS SHIT POSSIBLE?

And as iTunes plays Coldplay's Fix You as a fitting backdrop to my dissatisfaction and emotional torment, I can conclude that Facebook (incestual blowjobs aside) is still miles better than Myspace.

Ever felt like someone REALLY wished you didn't exist?

I certainly did tonight, but it was funny as fuck.

I attended a local wrestling show tonight called Real Deal Wrestling. There were a random selection of random wrestlers, faces and heels (although clearly jobber material) who had various flawed, yet faithful gimmicks to carry their characters along. The room was packed with excited, John Cena fueled kids and their unwitting parents. The ring was battered and smudged with the sweat of a summer full of wrestling events at the same, small-time venue. The bar was open and the alcoholic drinks were constantly pouring. Good times.

Enter me and my friends. The four of us (well, five, but one of our troupe doesn't make an effort to speak) strolled in, just under twenty years old, reminiscing the Attitude era WWF, looking for some booze and some baseline wrestling. Just something to muse at for £5 for a couple of hours. We did have fun all the time and we acted like a wrestling fan should. Shame I don't think they quite had us in mind for the show.

You see, we know all kinds of jargon like keyfabe, how match rules work, what good selling looks like, who's being stiff, common sense, you know, that kind of thing. I found myself watching a tag team match where the heel team were attacking one of the faces less than a meter away from the referee inside the ring, who was apparently too busy keeping the other face out of the ring to notice the mat making a tremendous racket, nor the floor bouncing beneath his feet. I shouted (to the referee) "Where's your ears!?"; the heel outside the ring told me to shut up. It sounds like he was just being in character, but it was different if you were actually there.

We didn't get distasteful (see: "Where's the Bible?"), but it was clear that our superior wrestling knowledge was annoying parents and wrestlers alike. I do feel bad about it, but to place it in perspective, imagine their argument summed up in one sentence. "How dare you chant and partake as an active spectator at a WRESTLING event!"

Success!

Two weddings, a headline spot at a popular local bar, and a potential set on Saturday. Not bad for a first gig reaction.

Yes, last night's Calling the Shots gig at The Lloyds Arms was ballsy as fuck. Our first gig was at one of the most prestigious venues in the area. Let me clarify. OUR FIRST GIG. Holy shit! Plus, I won £8 on the games machine before hand. Last night went incredibly well.

It was an odd feeling though. I was nervous, then perfectly tranquil, then nervous, then excited, then nervous; at crunch time none of that mattered. It was merely a matter of "get on with it", and that's what I did. Sure, I went wrong a couple of times and I should've used more energy, but fuck it; people had fun, I had fun and the band had a great reaction. It's certainly better than any prior experiences I've had with bands.

Louis Theroux is my new religion

Over the last week I discovered BBC iPlayer (well I say discovered, I mean I actually used it for once) and proceeded to watch Mock the Week and Top Gear. However, something else caught my eye. While "studying" a module on factual programming (AKA mostly documentaries) the name Louis Theroux (pronounced "loo-wee fur-oo") popped up. The latest documentary of his, The City Addicted to Crystal Meth, was promoted on iPlayer's main page.

From what I'd heard of the man, he was a regular looking bloke who could blend into a random crowd (like the Lance Henrikson Terminator concept [obscure reference, much?]), but because of this, got along with all of his contributors. While his documentary on the narcotics problems of Fresno, California was riveting at times, it ultimately gave a mostly negative view of the situation (while I'm not saying the themes discussed were positive, I still like to see balanced arguments).

In my opinion, his best work is that made spending time with the Westborough Baptist Church (Fred Phelps' Christian gang). In the face of the unfounded picketing of funerals, a seeming tyrannical pastor who won't answer any questions posed to him, the brainwashing of children and a woman who laughs up the concept of Theroux going to hell for eternity because he beleives a couple of things that she doesn't; Louis still asks pertinent and deep questions which challenge the church some times, and merely bounce off their bubble of hate (and I use the latter word loosely).

The man is open-minded, intelligent and ballsy. Cracking.

How does it feel to have no obligations?

Well? How does it?

I remember back a year or so going to bed for a solid straight week and feeling completely awesome. Nothing short of it. I had no job, I didn't need one; I had no work to do, it was the summer holidays; I had any number of cool DVD's to watch (Jurassic Park, The A-Team, Phoenix Nights). I resided in my own little world.

Cut to August 4th, 2009. I've just completed the sum of two weeks of resubmitted work; I have a job at Tesco which is alright, but hardly enjoyable; my voice begins to cut out after singing two songs that push my voice; I've got to sort out the council with my student loan in the balance; plus, I'm out of money.

Getting older is not an excuse for the government or whoever it is who wants to make my life shit to make my life shit (does that make sense?). NON NEGOTIABLE. I will quote Lieutenant Worf when I say "I PROTEST! I AM NOT A MERRY MAN!"

Fagg: The Actor

I seem to be doing pretty well for myself this week. I haven't stopped moving, not even while I've slept. It seems I'm in high demand these days.

I've acted in two completely different roles, both to positive reactions. The first of which was a crazy man who wears a dog's head (for a rather popular Fallout 3 Machinima The DC Chronicles). The second being a man under witness protection in a live action crime drama. Needless to say, I got killed in both. AWESOME.

I always wanted to be an actor, prior to taking GCSE Music. I would have done Drama, but doing a GCSE in Expressive Arts (I know it sounds gay) sort of killed that dream for me for reasons which I will not divulge into. What makes this interesting is that my characters' receptions were top notch. Even while I had no dialogue in the crime drama coursework, I was still commended on my ability to be murdered on cue. Plus, everybody loves the character I portrayed on the Machinima. Interestingly, I had a vast amount of free reign over the latter and not over the former.

On the other hand, because I've been working, editing, filming, writing, planning and gaming, I'm ready for bed at ten o'clock. Ironically, I am not Ironman.

Why BLOG?

While waiting in a taxi rank just up the road from the pub I graciously consumed a mere two pints in, I noticed a particular free leaflet book thing that said, in rather large typography, BLOG. If I weren't half tipsy I'd probably have left it alone, but I get considerably more inquisitive after the alcohol has begun to seep its way into my brain.

Upon inspection, it was laughable. A male model lorded over every page in a familiar setting of rubble and broken buildings. The inner notes and sparse paragraphs were littered with conventions used seriously, yet constantly creating a parody for themselves. Bold, capital words such as "MASCULINITY", "GENTLEMAN", "INDIVIDUAL" AND "INNOVATION" randomly intruded in the text. It was the written equivalent of Sonic the Hedgehog 2006. EXCUSE ME, I'VE GOT TO SPEED OFF!

It's a pretty bold and incorrect statement to say that a blog influenced by that book, which can only have been written in shit, could ever be original. There were that many stereotypes that if the text were to some how, some way, interpellate its target audience then there would be so many of the same blog. The notion of blogging is not innovative, it's not masculine and it's not original.

I don't read other blogs. I don't place myself on a pedestal above everyone else who's ever blogged, I just don't see the point. I tried reading the blog of the famous (well at least, in the blogging and Star Trek world) Wil Wheaton. I didn't find it entertaining. I'm not sure why. I write what I want to say in my own way, and people seem to like it, including me. You don't blog to a deadline, you don't have a timetable of issues to raise.

Furthermore, I'm much more articulate in writing than in speech. Writing has the ability to be changed in future, it allows for thought and time to reconsider what happens next, while remaining spontaneous. Conversation is fleeting. Conversation is one of my weak points. I'm good at one thing: coming up with spectacular contextually biased insults.

You do your own thing. Don't make an image of yourself, just be yourself.

To do:

Get a filling
Hand in coursework I handed in but was nethertheless lost
Make a film in one week
Do paperwork for said film
Do paperwork for completed film that was lost
Get a hair cut for work
Go to work
Find out what's been said at work and why
Sort out student loan documents because the council is so vague it's a shadow
Be ridiculously happy to clock out and go home tonight

Kinder Egg Idea Crunch

The credit crunch has wrecked the economy of the universe over (or so The Daily Star tells me). Mortal Kombat has suffered a fatality, Duke Nukem Forever evades the shelves, and NatWest are now fucking idiots. However, there is yet a more serious problem. One bigger than the deaths of Michael Jackson, Steve Irwin, Jade Goody, Eddie Guerro and The Great Moolah combined.

Today I was bought a Kinder Egg. I remembered what fun I had with them as a child, having to put together the pieces of something when I'd lost half of them under the bloody arm chair. I successfully made a number of handicapped rodents on wheels. I ate the egg bit (which now suffers from Easter Egg syndrome) in two perfect halves. The capsule was there in the middle. I imagined the brightest of gold sparkling gold stars would spring out of it as it opened, like some kind of pixie's LSD trip.

The toy was covered in instruction booklets and the little catalogue sheet of additional items to collect in the series (this time Ice Age 3 themed). Then disaster struck. The toy...was already made. DO THE KINDER TWATS NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY'VE DONE? THEY HAVE RUINED ONE OF THE GREATEST PIECES OF CONFECTIONARY FUN OF ALL TIME FOR FUCKING ICE AGE 3. I WANT ELASTIC BANDS AND SLOTS FOR WHEELS IN GORILLAS THAT COME WITH OPTIONAL STICKERS, NOT SOME SHIT YELLOW THING WITH AN OVULAR HEAD. THE MOULD LINE ISN'T EVEN TAKEN CARE OF PROPERLY.

I flung it across the room. What's worse is that after bouncing off the door, the wall and then right back beside me like some God damn boomerang, it had no damage. None.

I've just looked at the instructions. They list some kind of game. The bottom of the toy isn't even fucking flat. Kinder, in their much toted infinate wisdom, have managed to spin this design flaw into a game, where you and one friend can TRY AND BLOW THE OTHER'S TOY OVER FIRST. What percentage of pure WANK does your brain have to be in order to want to play that. From what I've tested, the toy won't even stand up on a flat surface to begin with.

The only good thing to come out of kinder in recent memory is the Kinder Bueno, and that's not even English.

Customers should GTFO

I had the honour of being a "green coat" at work today, so essentially when people didn't need things doing for them (which was, oddly, very sparingly) I floated around like a ghost. That also meant I got be bear witness to something which was not only unfair, but unnecessary and GOD DAMN STUPID.

At Tesco there is an "Under 25?" policy for age restricted goods, which includes, amongst other things, alcohol. One particular rule is that if a customer is purchasing an age restricted item, everyone they're with who looks under 25 must show their ID. It is the store's policy which we must oblige to. If we were to be caught out by trading standards' snitches then we could face a fine of up to FIVE-THOUSAND POUNDS. If someone asks you for ID, don't go off on one, accept it. We're just doing our jobs.

However, one particular Londoner, probably on holiday, pulled the dick move tactic. She was with a group of people who did look under 25, thus leading to a request for ID. They had none. FUCK. Rather than accepting it being store policy, they requested to see a manager, who obliged and told them the same thing as the checkout operator: No ID = no sale. I then tended to my duties.

Five minutes later, the same woman is giving the person at the checkout a blitz of insults. Totally unwarranted. I would have refused them service, but bless her, the checkout operator still completed the transaction...and then broke down in tears. It was a bloody travesty. You DO NOT treat people like shit, especially people who are just doing a job.

I could perhaps empathise if it were the person wholly believing in the policy with a closed mind, or perhaps if the asking for ID was not the prudent course of action, but it certainly was. My only regret is not stepping in while it was still going on, but to be honest, I did fear for my life. There are all kinds of legal constraints. If there were some kind of customer being correct policy we weren't told about (and trust me, there are a lot of things about the job Tesco doesn't tell you about) then I'd have been wrecked.

It's a sad day for civilisation when people think they can wreck havoc on others when they're actually WRONG but can't face it. Perhaps Serj is right, CIVILIZATION IS OVER.

Thistles, sausages and Christianity.

I'm listening to Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi. That's a good one. It sounds very cheesy and film noir, but fuck it. I'm currently living in the aftermath of a barbecue. What a God damn stupid word. I know what it means, but phonetically it can only be described as “inappropriate,” or “a rape of the English language”.

Funnily enough, the house it was hosted at (and I'm now in) is owned by a devout Christian, to the point where there are crucifixes on the walls. I say “funnily” because I'm wearing a t-shirt with a pentagram and a ram's skull on it. I could be more out of place, IF I WERE HITLER.

Futhermore, the reason I'm posting this the day after the BBQ commenced is because I can't connect to a fucking access port. It's asking me to log in ON AN AUTOMATICALLY REDIRECTED SERVER. Home pages have no significance in this world of shit. I'm not sure if the access port is that bad, or if it's because there's a statuette of Jesus in a cabinet behind me using his divine power of misdirection to kill my connection.

I'm sure it was a good idea at the time, but my hands are riddled with thistle stings from playing hide and seek earlier. The best hiding places hurt like a bastard. I was a little careless, sure, but it's quite hard to spot thistles behind a garage when your tipsy and it's pitch black...and you need a piss.

I'm the only person awake from the sounds of things, but fuck it. At least there's an insect on my Macbook's screen. Perhaps it's one of the many plagues I've incurred while writing this blog. YAWN. I'll try and sleep now. Written at approximately 02:30, Sunday 28th June, 2009.

It's now 14:32. I couldn't sleep last night. Not one chair in that house is comfortable. NOT ONE. Nor's the carpet! Well I took the initiative and drove home at 06:30, having had 1-2 hours of sleep. Oh joy! It still paid off though. I actually slept in my own bed and not on the floor.

On Michael.

I was going to call this blog "Tragic", "Re-God-damn-diculous", amongst other things, but nothing is more fitting that the title I've chosen.

When I received a text mere hours ago, I thought it a cheap chain letter, the likes of which YouTube would've envied. However, with Cefax and even my news RSS feeds confirming the story, it seems the world just got a bit emptier.

Sure, make jokes about molestation and changing skin colour, but remember that unanimous verdict of "not guilty" accompanying the court case, remember the presumptions of skin cancer in the red-top tabloids, and most of all, remember the man's musical success.

What's overcome me the most, however, is the fact that I'm so bothered about this. Perhaps it's because I finally dispatched the general consensus of the man being guilty, when in fact proved innocent by numerous parties. Perhaps it's because I just disagree with anything the tabloids spin (ranging from his guilty until proven innocent persona generated by the media to his sympathy for the last world tour and the hypothetical skin cancer). Perhaps it's because his music amounts to far more than anything that challenged the man could ever become.

Even in death Michael Jackson's music will live on and remind us of the happy, young, enigmatic persona that developed over the course of his biggest hits and bigger music videos.

For another blog is my hypothesis of the surge of recent media coverage of this artist, but this one is strictly for a celebration of this icon, who I'm sure that if people overlook the miss-information they've received, they will appreciate as  do.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.

Self-fulfilling prophecy.

It would appear that I've been the very opposite of Mr. Commitment lately. Quite ironic.

Regardless, I do need to consider a subject for this blog. Should I talk about how the latest Star Trek film is universally loved, yet people are surprised that they like it. If you are one of those people, you are an idiot.

Star Trek (or more appropriately, J. J. Abrams Trek) is an action film. It uses unoriginal characters in a chronologically past Enterprise, but with more high-tech gizmos than even the Enterprise-E. FUCK. How to you maul a franchise so badly? In celebration of one of the most influential television series' ever, you destroy its atmosphere.

In Star Trek: The Next Generation the plots are about morality and relevance to the present day. Issues in the series are still relevant now as they were over twenty years ago. Yet there I was in a cinema being hurled through explosions and confrontations more than anything else in the film.

The odd reference was nice to see. The Kobayashi Maru test was a welcome scene, as was a considerably important role for Leonard Nimoy. However, the original qualities are what truly stood out about that film, not the new guys and designs. The characters lacked the depth of those on the television series'. Sulu bore no resemblance to George Takei's mannerisms, Chekov was missing the Monkees haircut and failed to detect any enemy "wessels".

Hurray for depth! Let's hope that for the next film they MAKE IT SO!

Mr. Commitment

My name is Mr. Commitment...and I hate being Mr. Commitment. It carries so many connotations of responsibility and is just generally an encumbrance.

While I wouldn't mind being on Look North (the regional BBC news segment) at Immage Studios (a television studio situated in  Immingham), I certainly don't want to go without friends. Yes, I have friends. So when 9AM rolls around in about 9 hours, I'm fucked. Do I go and be bored, or do I ring in?

I have devised a scheme to sort out all parties. I could go at the required time and see who's there. If there are any entertaining individuals I will stay and if not, then I'll bolt. I'm not sure what my excuse will be though. Overtime at work might be a good one.

Still, commitments get me in all kinds of shit. Things like appointments, which you then have a possibility of missing. Furthermore, the penalty for booking an appointment is substantially less than missing one. God damn!

Dammit Jim! I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker!

Did I mention the headache?

After many drinks, a beef sandwich (why the hell is it called a sandwich, there's no sand at all in there!), and watching sxephil on YouTube, as well as being bitter over last night's events, I find myself unable to spell  or comprehend anything.

I keep pressing Cmd + S to save the blog so  nothing is lost, yet it's written in a browser, negating such actions.

Furthermore, life looks from the perspective of the D00m 3 engine, but with motion blur. I don't know why, but this computer screen is inordinately crisp, yet as I look around the world becomes  blurrier for a moment.

Worry not, there will  be a real blog soon.

Welcome to the friend zone.

Welcome to the worst place in the fucking universe. If you consider the former swearing unnecessary, don't read on.

Welcome to the friend zone. You bought a ticket to happiness in Hawaii, but the plane diverted to Bhagdad. Furthermore, I got nuclear-shitting-bombed. FUCK.

Welcome to the fucking staff room. It's like the Apocalypse, but Tesco happens to be far worse then getting stabbed in the dick by an imp with a pitchfork.

Welcome to the angry zone. It's not my doing, but some idiocy is just out of my hands.

I'm a very angry man who can't get out of the friend zone with someone working at the worst place in the fucking universe: Tesco.

Let's be positive!

NO.

A reader of mine asked me why my blogs aren't more positive. My answer oddly enough relies on one basic principle: people are shits.

For example, leaving the rave tonight, I was confronted by a horde of people (Dead Rising maintenance tunnel style). While I politely waited for even a millimetre scale opening, some woman behind me repeats over and over behind me "are you going to move?" I politely IGNORED THE BITCH and moved on. I have a tendancy to seethe on the inside at the time and then spiel later.

It is far easier to write about things that frustrate, trouble and challenge me because there is far more emotion about that that can be expressed in so many lexical euphemisms, motivated by anecdotes. It can be funny in a black humour type of way. Any way you look at any text, it can be decoded differently. If one were to take my writing as a work of parody, then surely the message of the blogs would be far more positive.

Coming to Coventry

So, this morning (as I'm writing this particular blog) I got up obscenely early to visit my friend at Warwick* University (ironically situated in Coventry*). Right now I'm on the train. If you've never considered this type of transportation because you know what a bus is like, and after all a train is a bus that just moves faster and uses rails to move rather than the blood of a howling toddler I previously murdered for NOT SHUTTING THE FUCK UP; however, this train certainly is luxurious for public transport (for the record, I'm NOT in First Class, I'm sitting about ten metres from its doors....God damn bourgeoisie!).

You see, the advantage of living in a scummy little seaside resort is that the train station is the END OF THE LINE (sounds rather sinister, doesn't it?), thus the train you get on is EMPTY 80% of the time, every time! Hence why I dare to have my Macbook Pro out on display for all the little grimy plebs to marvel at (but not in a gay Superman way), and struggle to read what I'm typing, by using polysyllabic lexis, such as PLIRALITY, or TRANSPENNINE.

There's a suspicious looking businessman walking past. I say suspicious because his general demeanor is that of a businessman, however he has SHIFTY EYES, one might say EYES MADE OF WOOD, he didn't get onto the first class carrages. How very uncharacteristic of such a stereotype.

GOOD LORD. There's a building adjacent to my window labeled “railgourmet” (lol, indeed), and approximately ONE FUCKING BILLION train pilots (for lack of a better term) just burst out from in and around it and onto my train. I'm actually scared for my life.

“This town is from, Cleethorpes to Manchester Airport, stopping at....” I wasn't aware that GLaDOS was employed by the public transportation sector. “If you have any questions, please ask the conductor.” YOU ARE THE BLOODY CONDUCTOR. Computer intelligence is apparently an ironic term made up by some genius computer whiz who doesn't know his penis from his anus (after all, they do rhyme), although he takes it up both, presumably.

We're on the move now. I'm looking at the cars moving past in a symetrical order of “cut-me-off-and-you're-dead-ness” and feeling incredibly happy that I'm not driving there. Asides from it being a long journey, I just generally hate driving, especially when every other person is incessantly unpredictable.

Huzzah, refreshments! One coffee with sugar, but not just any sugar, Fairtrade certified “WHITE SUGAR”. How very ironic! It should be pointed out that I like my coffee as little like coffee as possible, so I've just added about 4 lumps of sugar and two pods of milk to it. I swear, it is necessary.

[UPDATE: Coffee is half way gone.]

Christ, it just keeps getting sunnier! I would say I hope it's even sunnier when I get to Coventry, but to be honest, it would be that hot that it would melt your face.

Just stopped at Barnetby. A man has joined me at my table. I'm THAT popular. He seems to want to keep to himself. He looks like a cross between Father Gregory from Half-Life 2 and someone from UFC. I smiled. He didn't share it.

Christ, he's so cool! Somebody just phoned him and his ringtone was from Thunderbirds. THUNDERBIRDS for crying out loud! Also, apparently he knows someone called fat boy. Don't we all...

“We will shortly be arriving in Scunthorpe.” Given that for the ten minutes prior to the announcement we'd been going past some kind of tarmac foundry place called “Scunthorpe works”, I'd not be wrong in assuming that the announcement is incredibly wrong.

Yet another individual has joined my party. This is all beginning to look disturbingly like Left 4 Dead. Fingers crossed we don't end up in a subway, I know there's a Tank spawn point somewhere in here and I don't think our team skills are anything short of IMMACULATELY bad IRL (ROFLCOPTERLOLLERSKATES).

The next stop is Doncaster. There I leave this train and board another heading in the direction of Reading. If there's a massive blank spot in the blog, that'll be the place it happens. Getting a seat on an already active train NOT at the end of the line is something like a miracle. Considering I'm not a religious man, I'd assume that if a miracle were to take place, I'd not be privy to it.

I just saw a man by a fishing spot with a sickle. I have no idea what he intends to catch with that. But do I want to know?

The train's going considerably slow now. About running speed. We're going past some kind of river, but there are visible lilypads. I don't think I've seen them outside of a book or a zoo. Quite extroadinary. [Train is now picking up speed like a bastard] This stretch of water reminds me of a trip I went on when I was at primary school. We went to a place called “Hubbard's Hills”, a few miles away from the town. We were measuring water levels or something, and it involved using a lolly stick and a metre long measuring stick. Somehow they were both dropped. I saved the lolly stick, in some quickly thought attempt to save the apparatus, leaving the measuring stick to the current of the water. Later I was punished for leaving the metre stick, be to be frank, they both had the same value to me.

Amazing, I've managed to find my own seat, complete with plug socket for my laptop! I'll be on FlatOut 2 until I reach my next stop in Birmingham New Street station. Good day!

[AFTER THOUGHT: FlatOut 2 is not the way to go on a long journey, video editing is preferable.]

I decided to spend this portion of the journey editing my coursework. It should be on my YouTube account soon enough. Right now it's almost eight minutes long! Full of gags, in-jokes and a poorly connected SLR cable (for the microphone, essentially) creating literally a buzz.

We're scheduled to arrive at Birmingham New Street station in six minutes, then I'll have twenty minutes to essentially find my platform. It's a maze in there, trust me.

So I've found my platform, a seat and the train (after all, that would follow). However, it's a miracle I did. I miss-read the route of the trains and thought the train went to just Coventry, however I needed toe train to London Euston, which I discovered my chance on a stroll down the massive station. It was like being in Shadow of the Colossus. The only way I found the appropriate train was by looking at thed televisions scattered throughout the station. It didn't help that the train't departure time was six minutes. I know that doesn't sound like a lot, and it isn't, but with regards to things I'm not hugely confident about, I prefer to have EXACT information.

Just got to get to Coventry now. The train departs about.....NOW!

*If you don't know where either of these places are, use Google Earth, or Google Maps.

Simply: Denied

Today's blog was originally going to be called "TescOWNED", yet this is not the case. Nothing particularly pissed me off at work today. At all. I can't believe it; usually I bitch about the management, the fact that they never praise us, yet always find the time to penalise us for incorrect practice, narrowing down to even not wearing a name badge. It really can be that absurd! You'd think a conglomertate like Tecso would figure that out for themselves. I guess not. But regardless, there was no misgivings today. Unbelievable!

So what can I say? Perhaps how I'm increasingly becoming pissed off with JDPro, a member of the NaturalMotion community forum, who continually fails to realise how stupid he sounds, trying to be rebellious in his own self-righteous bastardry. Perhaps how I wish I'd neglected those first two pints of obscenely strong cider. At 7.5% and coming in pint measurements, it's surely not a great idea to begin the night with two of them!

If only work allowed for being drunk. Sure, it's unreliable when handling money, but I'll be damned if it wasn't fun!

P. S: My Christian Bale syndrome has improved and my recovery is nigh.

Christian Bale Syndrome

For the last week I've been suffering from what can only be described as "Christian Bale Syndrome". It seems that whenever I, succumb to the same rhaspy, face-made-of-sand gargling as John Connor, except I don't have the Resistance fucking me in the eyes 24/7; I guess it's a good thing. Alternatively, it could be likened to the pitch black vocals of Dani Filth, but that would be too positive an analogy.

Still, as metal as it sounds, the fact remains that I can't use FALSETTO, nor any other super high notes I could molest prior, which is a complete bastard, given I've got to sing Breakout by the Foo Fighters in a matter of weeks at a gig. MASSIVE BUGGERY! That being said, it means that I have to sing properly and put my DIAPHRAGM to good use, if there ever was a use for it. Why does that have any relevance? The diaphragm is essentially the top quarter of the abdomen, so if that actually moves (which is more than I do on any particular day), then I get exercise FROM SINGING. Take that Wii SHIT!

But regardless, the problem is that even the music that you sing manages to make you conform to every stereotype in the book (assuming there is a book called "Stereotypes in Singing Technique: Christian Bale Syndrome, By Christian Bale"). Through singing "clean" (i. e: Not sounding cool, e. g: Stereophonics), you manage to appeal to a wider target audience, considering black metal is a niche (as is Bale metal), you become slimmer, becoming more like someone in a magazine.

Yes, I can boil ANYTHING down to the media or sociology.

Perhaps this needs more explanation: Metal or screaming vocals come largely from the throat, if not trained properly. This is why some screaming vocalists live will eventually sound like crap. However, if you're lucky you go all Wolverine and your throat turns into Adamantium. I digress. Singing from the throat requires little or no effort from the diaphragm, thus once a fat slob, you're always a fat slob. Promising!

P. S: The Christianity Party didn't win. Thank God!

Voting for DUMMIES

Today started like any other day: I woke up, I got dressed, I read my mail, etc, but then BOOM! “Official poll card” sitting right there on top of the fireplace. I was tempted to drop it into the gaping, flaming hole in the wall. What an inconvenience. Don't get me wrong, but handing the vote to the public is the worst thing you could possibly do in the aims of a “democracy”.

Allow me to explain; in terms of hierarchy (from most powerful to least powerful): The USA, the Prime Minister, the UN, MP's, government controlled organizations, la policia, people with money, minorities (generally ethnic), then YOU. Therefore, any spiel that anyone above you says gets put in the news, or adverts, or films, or reality TV, or soaps, or the internet for you to sponge up

Well, essentially. I walked in the polling station and was baffled. There were the usual Labour, Conservative and BNP choices on the massive yellow sheet of doom, but accompanied by random people I've never heard of, like “the English Democratic Party”, something to do with Christianity, somebody with a £ in their logo. It was all very foreign to me, which is ironic, given it's a vote for my country, however screwed up it is.

Who did I pick? Well Labour and Conservative are practically the same party these days. I'd previously wanted to vote for the Green party in this situation, but since that epiphany I found out that humans are far less fatal to the environment than the emissions of algae, volcanoes, squirrels, etc. I wasn't going to vote BNP because regardless of how far right they are, they're still self-righteous *******s.

So, this left me with the unknown parties. The Democratic Party would be nice if democracy worked, the Socialist Party would be nice if it didn't lead to Nazism, Britain relies on so many outsourced materials that the Independent Party was out of the question.

Ultimately I voted for Christianity. I'm a raving Atheist, but besides not voting at all, it was the best choice because I'll be damned if they ever win anything political (and Scientology wasn't on the list).