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.