Aw man I am so bored. So fricking bored I'd nearly do anything to alleviate it. Five finger fillet maybe, like Bishop in Aliens? Maybe a midnight swim in the freezing English Channel, with bricks in my pockets? Turn on the telly, catch some Children in Need, watch Tess Daly and Alesha Dixon until my eyeballs bleed and my brain gloops out of my nostrils in total submission? In fact, let's up the anté here, I'd nearly smear myself in Rohypnol and throw myself naked down the darkest alley in Worthing, and as I'm about to pass out from the date rape fumes I'll wedge a "No Parking" sign and a tube of lube into my butt crack to see if anyone gets the joke as they brutalise my bored, disinterested and ungrateful asshole.
So bored.
I tried playing the Xbox, but after 20 minutes of walking round as Batman, trying to find a fucking robot that I needed to examine the head of to open a fucking door (really?) I for some reason grew sick of the sight of his stupid flapping cape and the back of his stupid fucking cowl, listening to his stupid hoofs clodding along the stupid floor and turned it off. I've looked around the otherwise uninhabited flat for some source of ribaldry, but all I've got is a pile of DVD's I've seen before, a rapidly dwindling stash of booze, and a pile of dishes that'll never get touched no matter how bored I am.
Bored.
When I got in from work I powered up the laptop, and opened Facebook, and expecting the wave of Bore even opened the chat thing on it to see if anyone would open a communicae. More fool me. The most boring of all boring things, dressed as 'social' networking, I spent a half hour or so casually glancing at it between the ad breaks of the white-noise I call TV to see if anything would happen. 'Anything' did happen. Maybe it was everything. Or maybe it was just something. Maybe just something of the most benign, tedious and ball-aching shit I've encountered in a while. People sharing photos of their friend's make-up doing thing (whatever that's called, Salon Stuff?), and it's meant to be boutique fashion or something, but looks like a weekend of slappers caked in war paint. Then there's your one who's sharing their photos of that gig they went to, which wouldn't be so bad but they're using that same camera effect that's standard on all smart phones now, the one that gives the picture a vintage, worn look. It's also the same effect they use in all of their fucking photos. Jesus, if you're twenty-odd but want everyone to think you're from the 70's, smoke some crack and find yourself a good old fashioned wife-beater, that'll get you all authentic 'era' looking. Don't even get me started on the whole "If you know someone who's been date-raped down an alley with a road sign in their ass and wouldn't have liked it if they weren't so drugged up, please re-post this" type of chain-letter posts I see all the time. Nothing reeks of individuality more than rehashing a blatantly obvious statement so everyone can see that you agree with the basic principles of civilisation.
I'm not not guilty of my Facebook bore-radge either though, I'm not going all holier-than or anything. I'm bored of seeing my own stupid, boring face on there too. Each photo I get tagged in, I see a further decaying husk of a man, shit photo after shit photo. No, check that, I'm not denigrating the camera work. Shit face after shit face. An old, hairy potato. To some extent I used to be alright looking, apparently, in that I've managed to get laid at some point of my life, but I'm not even 30 and can't be bothered any more. My status updates are getting even worse. Dancing with the malaise of my boredom on the whole matter, I recognise that all I do is post a link to a tune that I've been listening to, and hope that someone in the whole world reacts. A boring, decaying leathery shoe, muttering incoherrent rambles is what I am, but at least I've stopped posting the whines on Facebook, and keep it to this exclusive little piss-post I call a blog.
I think my sphincter just twitched there, so I better let the Facebook rant go, or else there'll be another sympathy chain-mail about my poor, battered, signposted, bored asshole.
Bored.
I suppose I'll wash those dishes then.
Friday, 18 November 2011
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Conspiracy
Deceptions, duplicities, illusions and allusions. They're there if you're looking for them. I was watching the Arsenal vs. Newcastle game and the sole flash point of an otherwise unextraordinary game was Arsenal's (almost-marquee[BUT NOT REALLY] signing) Gervinho having a tussle with world famous agitator Joey Barton and getting sent off. Gervinho was the biggest name signing Arsenal captured in the close-season, amongst a clamour for Big Name Signings. Joey Barton was a contract rebel, infamous for his litany of crimes against both football and, indeed, the general populace. His rap-sheet can be easily found, but I can't be arsed re-feeding it here. Offered to the world for free, Newcastle were willing to cut their losses for nothing, with a year left on his contract, even though he was possibly their best player last season. Too much baggage. The biggest surprise was that he actually started in that game for Newcastle, after being so publicly ostracised by the club. Amongst the potential suitors were Arsenal, who carefully linked themselves with a move for the firebrand Barton, while waiting for the media to decide if it was a good move to sign a media-deigned panto villain.
As everyone knows, you need a panto villain. As in any good panto, you need the villain, otherwise it's just some ex-celebrity norks-out-dolly-bird dressed as a man (or ex-celebrity Hollyoaks-lite pretty boy with plastic norks and over-the-top makeup dressed-up-as-a-maid man) who panders for attention, but just scares the kids. And shouts IT'S BEHIND YOU!!!
Terrifying.
But I digress. The Pretender clashed with the Panto Villain. New signing duelled with lost signing. And lost. For his part, Barton stayed on the pitch, a yellow card for him after Gervinho's red. Gervinho was pressurised by a defender in the box and (as if shot) went down under minimal contact. A dive. Barton was furious and hauled him up by the scruff of his neck. A set-to occurred, Gervinho play-slapped him, and Barton went down (as if shot) under minimal contact. A dive. Nothing out of the ordinary, maybe, it's just football.
It got me thinking though. In a game of high stakes, all the pressure was on Arsene Wenger (Arsenal's manager), as a media storm encapsulated his squad about two of his most coveted players leaving for (heated & hated) rivals. Cesc Fabregas was the team captain and often fond of being fonded and fondled by Barcelona, his home-town team. Then there was Samir Nasri, who wanted nothing more than to be fonded and fondled, but was willing to just get fingered for the exotic Dubai dollar of Manchester. This was the dilemma the Arsenal manager found himself in, and the team that he felt could cope without them floundered. For 75 minutes or something, the cutting edge either player would have brought to the pitch just wasn't there. The Newcastle keeper didn't have a single save to make, the Arsenal players guilty of having all the possession but no cut-and-thrust. A familiar tune to the ears of any frustrated Gooner. The media will no doubt paint this as another example of Arsenal's lack of incisiveness and discipline, but I thought Barton did in no small part do us a favour. Overreacting to the slightest of touches, he's given Arsenal a reason to circumvent the questions that would have come otherwise from the obvious ineptitude.
The whole incident looked ridiculous, the outcome dafter, and it felt almost orchestrated from the instant the Instant-Replay played. But suited all parties involved. Arsenal were trying to convince everyone that they didn't need their own rebels, the ones they owned, and the biggest rebel in the league gave them an excuse to stave the calls for heads and another reason to cry foul. Arsenal have almost become a parody of a byword for imagined injustice these days; the artisans who will only be appreciated in generations later, once the dust settles.
HAHAAA!! As if, once the dust settles, the cockroaches will give a fuck!
It suited Newcastle in that they got the result they wanted, a point against one of the 'Big Four' to assure everyone that they're not relegation fodder. Barton got the result he wanted in that he appeared to single-handedly get the point for his team, even despite the calls for his head. The new Gennaro Gattuso (look it up if need be, he's good). The chief mixer and agitator, professional to the end. And to top it all off, as the final whistle went, the camera stayed on Barton, walking across the pitch and congratulating all the Arsenal players. And each and every one of them congratulated him. Not one of them tried to dodge him, or call him out for a fight. He'd done himself a favour too, displaying his wares for all to see and bumping up the cost of his contract to any interested clubs. His foes hugged him too, as he'd saved them some awkward questions.
The panto villain is essential to any story, but this all reeks of stage managed corporate bullshit. Both clubs come out of the sorry debacle lighter than their actual playing of the sport merited, the journo's have enough grist to chew on and Rupert Murdoch gets his story from the channels he largely owns for the next day's papers (that he owns). It all felt like machinations in big business bullshit. The conspiracy that I alluded to earlier is in this. You can take it either as sport that's televised and entertaining, or that it's Sports Entertainment. Sports Entertainment, you know, like wrestling (WWF, before the Black Eyed Polar Bears got hold of it, WWE now). If we're willing to look at it like this, big business capitalism, full of smoke and mirrors, then where do we go next? Either way a lot of things seem too coincidental in a sport with no governable international boundaries and the favourable decisions always seem to go to the more econimcally viable. Big business owns it now, the sport that was once ernestly performed by the Dapper Dans and Charles 'Charlie' Charles of the old days. All BOOMBANGCRASH and delirium as the new season starts, and the new season feels like the last, but redressed and worse. At least in this case the panto villain rides off into the sunset wearing his comedy tits.
As everyone knows, you need a panto villain. As in any good panto, you need the villain, otherwise it's just some ex-celebrity norks-out-dolly-bird dressed as a man (or ex-celebrity Hollyoaks-lite pretty boy with plastic norks and over-the-top makeup dressed-up-as-a-maid man) who panders for attention, but just scares the kids. And shouts IT'S BEHIND YOU!!!
Terrifying.
But I digress. The Pretender clashed with the Panto Villain. New signing duelled with lost signing. And lost. For his part, Barton stayed on the pitch, a yellow card for him after Gervinho's red. Gervinho was pressurised by a defender in the box and (as if shot) went down under minimal contact. A dive. Barton was furious and hauled him up by the scruff of his neck. A set-to occurred, Gervinho play-slapped him, and Barton went down (as if shot) under minimal contact. A dive. Nothing out of the ordinary, maybe, it's just football.
It got me thinking though. In a game of high stakes, all the pressure was on Arsene Wenger (Arsenal's manager), as a media storm encapsulated his squad about two of his most coveted players leaving for (heated & hated) rivals. Cesc Fabregas was the team captain and often fond of being fonded and fondled by Barcelona, his home-town team. Then there was Samir Nasri, who wanted nothing more than to be fonded and fondled, but was willing to just get fingered for the exotic Dubai dollar of Manchester. This was the dilemma the Arsenal manager found himself in, and the team that he felt could cope without them floundered. For 75 minutes or something, the cutting edge either player would have brought to the pitch just wasn't there. The Newcastle keeper didn't have a single save to make, the Arsenal players guilty of having all the possession but no cut-and-thrust. A familiar tune to the ears of any frustrated Gooner. The media will no doubt paint this as another example of Arsenal's lack of incisiveness and discipline, but I thought Barton did in no small part do us a favour. Overreacting to the slightest of touches, he's given Arsenal a reason to circumvent the questions that would have come otherwise from the obvious ineptitude.
The whole incident looked ridiculous, the outcome dafter, and it felt almost orchestrated from the instant the Instant-Replay played. But suited all parties involved. Arsenal were trying to convince everyone that they didn't need their own rebels, the ones they owned, and the biggest rebel in the league gave them an excuse to stave the calls for heads and another reason to cry foul. Arsenal have almost become a parody of a byword for imagined injustice these days; the artisans who will only be appreciated in generations later, once the dust settles.
HAHAAA!! As if, once the dust settles, the cockroaches will give a fuck!
It suited Newcastle in that they got the result they wanted, a point against one of the 'Big Four' to assure everyone that they're not relegation fodder. Barton got the result he wanted in that he appeared to single-handedly get the point for his team, even despite the calls for his head. The new Gennaro Gattuso (look it up if need be, he's good). The chief mixer and agitator, professional to the end. And to top it all off, as the final whistle went, the camera stayed on Barton, walking across the pitch and congratulating all the Arsenal players. And each and every one of them congratulated him. Not one of them tried to dodge him, or call him out for a fight. He'd done himself a favour too, displaying his wares for all to see and bumping up the cost of his contract to any interested clubs. His foes hugged him too, as he'd saved them some awkward questions.
The panto villain is essential to any story, but this all reeks of stage managed corporate bullshit. Both clubs come out of the sorry debacle lighter than their actual playing of the sport merited, the journo's have enough grist to chew on and Rupert Murdoch gets his story from the channels he largely owns for the next day's papers (that he owns). It all felt like machinations in big business bullshit. The conspiracy that I alluded to earlier is in this. You can take it either as sport that's televised and entertaining, or that it's Sports Entertainment. Sports Entertainment, you know, like wrestling (WWF, before the Black Eyed Polar Bears got hold of it, WWE now). If we're willing to look at it like this, big business capitalism, full of smoke and mirrors, then where do we go next? Either way a lot of things seem too coincidental in a sport with no governable international boundaries and the favourable decisions always seem to go to the more econimcally viable. Big business owns it now, the sport that was once ernestly performed by the Dapper Dans and Charles 'Charlie' Charles of the old days. All BOOMBANGCRASH and delirium as the new season starts, and the new season feels like the last, but redressed and worse. At least in this case the panto villain rides off into the sunset wearing his comedy tits.
Friday, 13 May 2011
Black Swan - A Quick Review
Everyone tries to finger her, but she just wants to dance. Is she mad? Maybe.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Tweet
The clock is ticking. One more year. Everything is turning to shit and you have one more year to turn things around. What do you do? Take stock and look around you. Civil unrest in Tunisia and Egypt. Floods in India, Australia and Haiti. Ireland's gone down the sink and the Tories are back in Britain, sneaked in on a liberal ticket. Obama's gone from saviour to just, well, not the messiah. Optimism in the ranks is at an all time low. We 're all going to Hell in the same hand cart. The same hand cart that sponsors freezer-fave Iceland, which in turn sponsors I'm A Celebrity. Which in turn sponsors us all, since we're all celebrities in this modern age of 15 minute fame wet-patches. Tweet this, tweet that, we're all becoming such insufferable twats. #Twat I may be, but I got, like, 12 Likes from that dig! Oh Yeah!
One more year. I only say one more year through that whole Mayan calendar thing, which gives us until 2012 December, or something, but in all honesty if that doesn't mean the end of days I might just fucking do myself anyways. I hate you all, and there's not very many of you's that I think give a fuck about me. That's the nature of this day and age though. The internet, Facebook and Twitter have brought us all closer together in communication, but not in actual interaction. We all sit here, by our laptops, computers and fancy mobiles, closer in this age of communication, and have never been further apart. I PMSL that you like that Im drunk, and ROTFL that you LOL, but time is that I've forgotten what you look like, and all I picture is a monkey laughing, flinging shit from its hairy paws. A faeces flinging freak beast that caws like a bird. Yeah, a monkey that shrieks like a crow, that's what your avatar is to me. Defriend me! OMG! No wait, come back, you were the one who took my friend count over 200! That must mean I'm popular! Stone the crows though! What do I see, but you, with your 500 friends! Turns out I was wrong, and I always thought you were a special breed of cunt! Please accept my friend request, you'll take me up over 200! I need you in my life! And you're a cunt, so you probably will anyways, just to make yourself look better!
Where to next then? While the world crumbles, where to, super special media friend? Shall we discuss Berlusconi, and his predeliction for getting laid while his country becomes more and more right-wing? Monkey chants at football games, proper '80s style hooliganism of an ilk the Brits are fondly remembered for? Not even dipping into the whole legal age of consent thing, since 13 is the age in Vatican City, so God doesnt care for a slippery lizard paying a child for fuck. Nah, won't happen. Who cares?! Here's a picture of Timmy passed out, and everyone has graffitied him, ha haaa! PMSL. Do keep me on your list though, we can be ignorant together, and you know what they say about strength in numbers...
Timmy deserved it though, the fucking lightweight. Some men cant do booze. Wish I was drinking with him, but I'm not, I'm just nosying in on the pictures and words of a night out I wasn't at. I'd HaHaa! it, but in this day and age words and sentences dont work reeeel good massur, so ROFL. The world collapes in on its arse, while we trade pictures. The clock is ticking, we'll all be dead in a year, so stop Rolling On The Floor Laughing, and start being honest.
You're all cunts.
One more year. I only say one more year through that whole Mayan calendar thing, which gives us until 2012 December, or something, but in all honesty if that doesn't mean the end of days I might just fucking do myself anyways. I hate you all, and there's not very many of you's that I think give a fuck about me. That's the nature of this day and age though. The internet, Facebook and Twitter have brought us all closer together in communication, but not in actual interaction. We all sit here, by our laptops, computers and fancy mobiles, closer in this age of communication, and have never been further apart. I PMSL that you like that Im drunk, and ROTFL that you LOL, but time is that I've forgotten what you look like, and all I picture is a monkey laughing, flinging shit from its hairy paws. A faeces flinging freak beast that caws like a bird. Yeah, a monkey that shrieks like a crow, that's what your avatar is to me. Defriend me! OMG! No wait, come back, you were the one who took my friend count over 200! That must mean I'm popular! Stone the crows though! What do I see, but you, with your 500 friends! Turns out I was wrong, and I always thought you were a special breed of cunt! Please accept my friend request, you'll take me up over 200! I need you in my life! And you're a cunt, so you probably will anyways, just to make yourself look better!
Where to next then? While the world crumbles, where to, super special media friend? Shall we discuss Berlusconi, and his predeliction for getting laid while his country becomes more and more right-wing? Monkey chants at football games, proper '80s style hooliganism of an ilk the Brits are fondly remembered for? Not even dipping into the whole legal age of consent thing, since 13 is the age in Vatican City, so God doesnt care for a slippery lizard paying a child for fuck. Nah, won't happen. Who cares?! Here's a picture of Timmy passed out, and everyone has graffitied him, ha haaa! PMSL. Do keep me on your list though, we can be ignorant together, and you know what they say about strength in numbers...
Timmy deserved it though, the fucking lightweight. Some men cant do booze. Wish I was drinking with him, but I'm not, I'm just nosying in on the pictures and words of a night out I wasn't at. I'd HaHaa! it, but in this day and age words and sentences dont work reeeel good massur, so ROFL. The world collapes in on its arse, while we trade pictures. The clock is ticking, we'll all be dead in a year, so stop Rolling On The Floor Laughing, and start being honest.
You're all cunts.
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