Saturday, 10 December 2011

I Can't Think of a God Damn Title

I haven't done one of these in a while. I'm not sure why, really, I mean I've got time to do it and everything, despite all my coursework (which is almost done, plus I've got the entire Christmas holidays). It's been immersion week at college this week. This means that starting Tuesday, college days will consist of two two-and-a-half hour long lessons with lunch break in the middle. Joy of fucking joys. Oh well, I don't give a fuck anymore because it's Saturday morning (12:39am) and that was all last week AND I only had two lessons the whole week. So fuck you society. For some reason.

Meanwhile, I've written a song about Jagermeister, been rather ill, broken my ESP (fixable but the strings are rusted to buggery), and taken some blurred pictures of cars going past my bedroom window at night using a technique I learned on my photography course called 'panning'. How interesting. I'm fairly sure I've done other things since then but I either can't remember them or can't be arsed to remember them. I've also damn near fapped my dick off. I should seriously cut down on that, it's ruining my laptop's keyboard. Not the screen though, the screen can go and fuck itself.

So yeah, to summarise, my life's not especially interesting at the moment. Mabye if I stopped fapping so much... and stopped being such a miserable dickpenis... mabye if I ate more fruit and vegetables... no fuck that, beer's a vegetable, right? You know what they say: "Several beers a day keeps the liver inflamed." or something along those lines. It bugs me when I hear thirteen year old children telling everyone that they 'need a beer', because very few kids that age actually like beer. I'll admit, when I was thirteen I didn't particularly like beer, I didn't like the flavour or the texture. However, I much preferred it to Frosty Jack's, vodka, or WKD. Three years later, and I fucking love beer and I've recently acquired a taste for Jagermeister - hence the song I've written. Also, thirteen year olds get very drunk, very quickly and like most teenagers, they're godawful drunks. They vomit everywhere except where it's socially acceptable to vomit (i.e. into the canal, into the toilet, not on the fucking living room floor all over someone's bag and someone else's bass you know who you are), they fall over all the time making impossible to get them either home or to a bus stop in order to get home, they will fondle fucking EVERYTHING on EVERYONE. By the hammer of Thor, this is a big paragraph.

Needless to say, I don't trust my internal organs any more. Crafty fuckers. A few weeks ago my digestive system tried to escape through the long closed-up scar from my operation. My operation that happened back in 1995 (when I was no more than a fortnight old), then my colon went on the offensive, and now my respiratory system keeps interrupting my every third sentence with an assault of hoarse, loud, disease-y coughing. Ah well, I'll live. Probably.


Anyhoo, farwell and praise Odin. Or the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Or whatever.
Oh, and merry Christmas. (Because I'm not going to update this blog before the 25th. Fuck.)

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

I Really Need to Cheer Up.

I don't know why I bother sometimes. Having said that, most of the time I don't. Right now, for instance, I should be doing Photography coursework. Lots of it. Seriously, like several weeks worth.

Very few things I've ever done in my short life have actually worked out. It's really depressing. Mind you I can guarantee I'm not the only person my age who feels this way. What have I acheived in the past sixteen years? I ask myself. Well, let's see, I can play guitar, I grew my hair, and I managed to get into a decent college. Good, that's three things. Mind you, what did I expect? World domination? I think in order to actually acheive more in life I just need to think "Fuck how I feel, just get shit done." Because my current frame of mind is if I don't see the point in something, I don't do it. I'm behind on my photography coursework because I haven't seen any point in doing half the stuff I need to, and yet I still want to do photography. What the tits? What is wrong with my brain?

You know what? I think from now on I'm going to completely disregard my own conscience and just do shit. I'm not going to go around murdering and raping people, that's not in my nature, I mean if my conscience tells me to work out, as it does often but is swiftly ignored because I'm too fucking lazy, I'll work the fuck out. If my conscience tells me to do that God damn photography work (as it's doing now) I'll do it. If my conscience tells me to 'break into that car' or ' you see that there woman? Rape the shit out of her.' I'll seek immediate psychiatric help.

Now, I have coursework that needs doing, then I'm gonna get a coffee, then I'm gonna write a song called "GROAARRGHARHG" and then I'll probably do some pushups or some shit, I don't know.

Good day.

Monday, 3 October 2011

Accidental Buggery

Don't worry about the title, it's got nothing to do with this entry. (Ba dum tish). Right then, now for a long-winded and inconclusive blog entry about me and my sad, dull life.

Everything is pissing me off this month. Everything. I expected this to happen, I am, after all, going through puberty. So this means trivial irritants are really getting on my tits. Like my laptop's mousepad; whenever I'm typing, my thumb inadvertantly touches the pad causing it to click the mouse which stops me from typing whatever I'm trying to type. I tried to combat this by attaching a USB mouse, which I thought would render the enfuriating mousepad useless. Nope. Then there's the fact that Facebook keeps raping the CPU causing everything to freeze for a few seconds; this wouldn't be too bad if it didn't happen every two minutes, and I seem to be getting the cream of the incompetent bus drivers this week. This not helped by the fact that the road network near to where I live in Birmingham is so fucking awkward that there are two bus stops literally within a hundred yards of each other. One of which I have to get off at. So I press the stop button at the first stop which leaves me a total of ten seconds to get up, stagger down the stairs as the shitclown driver swerves past yet another horrendously parked hatchback at 40mph and get to the front by the driver as he overshoots the fucking stop again. This means I have to get off at the next stop which is down a motherfucker of a hill (as is the norm in Bartley Green).

I genuinely worry about the increasing incompetence of the people who Travel West Midlands allow to control 25 tonne, 10ft high vehicles full of people. As soon as you get onto a bus in Birmingham, you have 5 seconds to sit the fuck down before the driver finds a kerb to mount or something, and bus drivers don't seem to understand the concept of braking distance, they just wait until they're about 50 yards away from where they want to stop and then they jump on the brakes forcing everyone and everything not sat down or bolted to something to lurch forward colliding with either a metal bar or an overtly hostile Brummie.

College is going quite well, though. Except photography. I don't like the teacher, who constantly reminds everyone that they're probably going to fail. She designed a shite course, aswell, with an imperial cockton of sketchbook work and artist research with barely any actual photography. As far as I'm concerned she can go tackle a band saw.

I need a shit...

Thursday, 15 September 2011

College: Better than School

So it's been awhile since I updated my blog. This is for two reasons; I couldn't be bothered and I've been busy because I've started college. Just finished my first week, actually and so far so good. If you really want to know I'm studying Music AS, Art AS, Photography AS and English Language AS, all of which require an imperial buggerload of work. Such is life in college, or so I'm told. I've been there for a week so I can't say I'm experienced. More experienced than everyone still in school perhaps, but still, compared to upper sixth students, I'm a newborn.

College has been really interesting so far, there isn't a lesson I don't enjoy for some reason or another (except mabye Music Theory), I've met a bunch of awesome new people, been reunited with some people I haven't seen in the best part of half a decade and I get to go home before 12pm on a Monday. Awesome (I say that a lot by the way). However, mabye there's something more to college. Perhaps I'm enjoying it too much? I've been told by some of my friends in upper sixth that college is really good for about three months and then the novelty wears off. "Three months isn't too bad" I thought to myself shortly afterwards... I then realised that five years had just gone past. Really quickly. I mean really fucking quickly. I honestly does not seem that long since I was a snivelly little eleven-year-old starting secondary school, feeling all superior to those damn dirty primary school bastards. 2006 was a shit year. I may have mentioned this in a previous blog, but I don't think I can emphesize quite how biblically shite that year was for me. I don't think you, as the reader, can emphesize how little fucks you give about my average childhood. Suddenly, year eleven came from fucking nowhere along with GCSEs and the stress that constantly surrounded them.

It still feels weird having completed school and mandatory education as a whole. It's going to take me awhile to fully adjust to the semi-adult world of higher-education, bearing in mind I'm not yet a legal adult. I keep thinking back to the first few days of primary school, in September, 1999 and having no idea what to do, or how it worked. On the first day, I remember seeing my mother outside the classroom towards the end of the day, just when the class teacher, Miss Burrows (now Mrs Earl), was about to tell the class one of Aesop's Fables, I ran outside to greet my mother after six hours of uncertainty and probably tears. Now, this wasn't just outside the classroom, this was outside the building, I ran outside the building to see my mother whilst everyone else was inside, sat in a group on the floor looking out the open window to see me, embarrassed as fuck by this point, looking back in at the teacher who was just beginning to suspect that I might just have learning difficulties. So after being told to go back inside, I spent the last ten minutes or so of that day anxious to rush outside again. I feel that same uncertainty now that I'm just starting college, twelve years later.

I really do remember that fateful September afternoon twelve years ago that vividly, and yes, I know what you're thinking because it's likely that you, the reader, is older than me so you're probably thinking "Yeah I remember 1999 really vividly, dude, fuck I remember 1989!" Well, I was four years old. I was four and I remember that as if it happened two years ago. I know this is me just figuring out how age works but it kind of blows my mind how quickly the years have gone; I mean, back then I though year six kids were full-blown grown-ups, same goes for the secondary school kids I had to walk past every day on the way to school and as for college students, fuck, they drive actual cars. Now I am one. Except I don't drive an actual car. Another year before I can do that.

Time flies if you don't keep track of it. By that logic, I'll be dead soon.

Monday, 29 August 2011

Brace Yourselves; This One's About Puberty...

So I haven't updated my blog for awhile. This is because I spend so much time on YouTube, Facebook, Facepunch or watching porn (what? I'm sixteen), and so little time anywhere else that I keep forgetting I have a blog. When I started the blog in July of this year I told myself I was going to update every Friday, and I stayed true to this until I went on holiday for the last week of July; so I missed a Friday, updated the next Friday, only to go to Somerset to see my mother the following week, thus missing another Friday. So I updated on the following Sunday. Because fuck it, I'm the boss of me, not Blogger. I'm writing this on a Monday afternoon for that very same reason.

Now then, puberty. As I'm sure the two or three of you actually reading this are aware, puberty is a bitch. A temperamental bitch, at that. By which I mean puberty can hit people at varying intensities. It hit me like a runaway freight train. The instant I hit the age of thirteen, I became so fucking angsty I basically went about my life as if it were a soap opera.

2008 was the year I hit thirteen; curiously, it was also the best year of my secondary school career. In year eight, you do fuck all. No vital homework, no important exams, no real classwork, nothing. I hadn't hit puberty when I entered high school (let's face it, how many eleven-year-olds have?) so it should have been childish shinanigans with former Primary school mates. Thing is: nobody from my bloody primary school came with me to secondary save for my brothers, one came one year before me, one three years after. So for that reason I was new to everyone there, and because I had shoulder-length hair and an absence of a Brummie accent I was an outcast. Remember Hugh Laurie in the fourth series of Blackadder? Right, everyone in my year at that point saw me as someone like his character. And because I went to a primary school that actually allowed me to develop some kind of a personality, I was more intelligent at that point than most of the kids in my classes (that all changed by year nine) so they all thought I was some posh, rich, emo wizard who wore a suit and ate what they perceived to be posh food every night (anything from Sainsbury's).

Anyway, puberty changed everything. Suddenly I thought I was a fully matured adult, I was drinking, fucking (in the loosest possible sense) and going out every week to meet up with most of the older friends I'd made in year eight. I thought life was about toilet humour, botched sexual experiences, cheap lager (which I still consider to be fuel for life right now) and rebelling against any form of authority, whether it be the Police, my long-suffering parents or school teachers. Although I wasn't in any way a wannabe criminal, I could easily have got myself a criminal record had I been caught drinking that much, at that age, at that time in the afternoon. I was lucky I looked a few years older than thirteen. I got my first girlfriend that year aswell, which lasted a good eight months on-and-off but eventually ended in spring 2009 and as you can imagine made me as dramatically depressed as I've ever been. And then I turned fourteen...

I'm not going to go into too much detail in regards to the year 2009. In short: holy dicks with wheels it was terrible. I never really came to terms with how young I actually am until I was well into the age of fifteen. I realised this because I was still strutting around in a school uniform, having shop owners eye me with more suspicion than a registered sex offender walking by a playground full of worried parents. My bus tickets still said 'child' on them. I thought £30 was a lot of money. I still get £10 pocket money every week from my father. My point is, although I have a bank card which has more money on it than I've ever had access to, although I'm now paying almost a full quid more for a bus ticket that says 'adult' on it, although I'm old enough to be legally sexually active in the UK and although I've left school to study A-levels. I'm still just a child on the tail end of puberty, who can't drive a car, can't go down to the pub for a few pints of warm ale and a fistfight, can't even purchase GTA without the presence of one of my parents. Really, the only thing I've achieved at the age of sixteen, is some GCSEs and the ability to almost grow a visible mustache. So if you're fifteen and you think you're invincible and can do anything and think that you turn into a proper adult when you turn sixteen. No. I hope you enjoy endlessly and fruitlessly looking for a shit job next year when you don't think you need to go to college. Good day.

Oh and another thing, just because you went to a resturaunt and the waitor called you 'sir' does not mean you're an adult because one person thinks you look like one.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Gotta Get Down on Sunday

It's Sunday, Sunday got to get down on Sunday. You get the idea; you may or may not have noticed or cared that I normally post my blog on a Friday and today's Sunday. There are two reasons I'm posting on a Sunday instead of a Friday: Number one, I was in Somerset last Friday and number two, I can't be arsed to wait until next Friday to post a blog entry that nobody's going to read anyway. So yeah, if you read my last entry (probably not) I mentioned that I was going on holiday to Northumberland for the week. I've since been on that holiday. It wasn't too bad, we went on a few walks, visited some ruins and a castle and I drank mead for the first time, specifically Lindisfarne's own. It tasted dank as fuck (in other, more civilised words, really rather good) and, considering it's made from honey, it's quite dry but also quite sweet. In that week we went to visit my aunt and uncle and two cousins up in Edinburgh. If you've never been to Edinburgh just imagine any other city in the UK (e.g. York) and make it about 5x better (or in my hometown Birmingham's case 4000x better).


I've had alot on my mind, recently. Probably the most trivial of which is a comprehensive list of my all time favourite visited cities, which is as follows: (least to most favoured) London, York, Cardiff, Bristol, Cambridge, Edinburgh and then Paris. Birmingham doesn't even come close. Norwich, Coventry and Dundee are equally as average but still not as shit as Birmingham. Or Wolverhampton. Or West Bromwich. In fact, you should probably stay away from the West Midlands. It is not a nice place. The least trivial and most important of which is that I've been single now for almost six months. Which, I'm not going to lie, is really fucking shit.

I've heard several people say after ending a long relationship that they want to stay single because they've given up on relationships. Now, I can kind of see where they're coming from and being single is kind of cool for a month or two but after that long the novelty wears off and you just start feeling lonely. My point is that completely giving up on long-term relationships is going to get you fucking nowhere in the long run; you either turn bitter and depressed and your self esteem fucks off completely or you start sleeping round and using the patented 'Hump and Dump' technique and destroy your reputation as a respectable human being. Now, although I haven't been in many relationships (three since I was thirteen) none of which have lasted less than three months, so take my advice as you will, if you want a long-term good relationship with someone, don't go for the best looking person you can find because it probably won't end well for either of you. Do the clich├ęd thing and go for the person who you really get along with, who makes you laugh, who you've got alot in common with, whose never pissed you off. Oh, and you have to be mildly attracted to them at the very least or else that won't end well either. Or begin well. Or even last.


Anyway, that's enough of me pouring my heart out. You'll hear less soppy bollocks next time, promise. But then, nobody's actually reading this. Hm.

To Infinity and beyo- oh, fuck it...












Friday, 22 July 2011

Here We Go Again...

So a week's passed since my last blog. Not that anyone's actually interested. Fuck it, I'll tell you how my week was anyway since there's nothing you can do about it.

  • Saturday: The usual barrage of beer and booze mixed with energy drinks, followed by a paralytic teenager and some unnecessarily aggressive people getting all pissy for trivial reasons such as: "Ooh, all his friends just left him there all unconscious." and "Ooh, the one person here who actually is bipolar is on a downer and talking to HER and not ME." I did, however, take solace in that the girl I have feelings for seems to like me back. Although she was drunk.
  • Sunday: Went up to Tipton with that girl I was talking about (she lives there), which was good. We had upwards of twenty tickle fights and then one of her friends who lived nearby found some Lambrini which, as expected, got her pissed. She found more of her friends from the area, and wandered around for awhile and eventually we all went home. Not a bad day. 
  • Monday: Nothing. I mean literally nothing. All day. Except watch TV and eat things.
  • Tuesday: Had a shower. TV, teh internets and eating things again. 
  • Wednesday: See Monday. 
  • Thursday: Recieved my weekly issue of Kerrang! magazine. Read it. Went on teh internets. I also have a couple of guitars that I play from time to time.
  • Friday (Today): Showered again, more TV, food, internets and looking forward to seeing my mates in town tomorr... Oh wait. I'm going on what my father considers a 'Holiday' to Northumberland tomorrow, so my next blog post will be belated because the cottage we're staying in doesn't have Wifi. £650 for a week and no sodding Wifi. Fuck's sake. Oh well, not that anyone actually gives half a shit. 
 That girl I was talking about: her name's Dani (short for Danielle).

Back in a fortnight.

Friday, 15 July 2011

First Blog

Right. Well. Ermm... first blog, struggling to find something to write about, really. Please bear in mind that this is my first, so you'll have to bear with me. Ooh, I know I'll write about things that annoy me, you have to start somewhere, right?

Anyway, things that annoy me, right, well, I'll start with my age. I'm sixteen, in case you didn't know, and this annoys me to no end because I feel mature enough to do everything an eighteen year old is allowed to do (drink, drive, vote, enter pubs, etc.) but everyone says "NO!! YOU MUST WAIT TWO MORE YEARS, YOUNG RAPSCALLION! YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY HANDLE MODERATE AMOUNTS OF LAGER OR CONTROL ANY VEHICLE REGARDLESS OF SIZE OR WEIGHT!" And: "NO! YOU CAN'T COME IN HERE, YOU MIGHT STEAL THINGS AND STAB PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU'RE A TEENAGER, AND THAT'S WHAT TEENAGERS DO!!" Plus I can't browse in a shop for any longer than five minutes without somebody telling me to buy something or get out. If I was ten years older they might ask if I need any help. Alas, I am not, so they don't. Also, I can't walk down the street without someone shouting "GET YOUR FUCKING HAIR CUT YOU FUCKING PRATT!!" This doesn't bother me it just scares the crap out of me because its so unexpected. Fucking chavs.

There's a Machine Head concert in Birmingham in December. "Fantastic!" I should be thinking; "I'll see if I can afford tickets (HA!)" But no, that isn't what I'm thinking. I'm thinking "WHAT THE EVERLOVING PISS IS GOING ON HERE?!" I'm thinking this because the lineup includes the screamo non-metal band Bring Me the Horizon. Whose bright idea was this? It sure as shit wasn't Machine Head's. I've never heard of a metal band who actually likes Oli Sykes and his stupid face with his fucking ridiculous over tattoo'd body which he incessantly shows off to various magazine photographers. "Ooh! Look at me, I'm so edgy because I'm covered neck to cock in obscure tattoos which were not at all painful and I won't regret when I look fucking ridiculous at age 60." Fucking moron. And he will live to that age, because he's straight-edge. I was thinking I might go and just fuck off when BMTH come on and go back for Machine Head, but then I don't want to lose my place at the front. "Why don't you stay at the front for Darkest Hour and DevilDriver and go into the Machine Head mosh-pits?" I hear you ask. I don't tend to go into the pits, my inquisitive friend, because I'm not a huge fan of pain and I'm not old enough to pay through the nose for semi-pints of lager at the bar to block the pain, unlike quite a lot of my metalhead friends. Which is a pain in the arse, really, because I like circle pits, but I dont like the pain that comes with them and yes, there is always pain because some brick shithouse comes along and goes haywire just punching everything he sees. I pay £20+ for gig tickets sometimes and I don't want to go home afterwards looking like I've been hit by a goddamn freight train. My Dad won't let me go to many gigs if I come home from them like that. (What can I say? I'm sixteen.)

So there. That's it. First blog done. Rant over. No, it's not very long or very good, but they will get better, trust me.

Toodle-pip.