Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Merry Fucking Christmas!!

So it's Christmas Day, and it's pretty safe to say I've had a fucking marvelous day. I've received many fantastic gifts from my family, had easily the largest and best meal I've had since the last Christmas meal I had, and I'm now sitting here, looking at my beautiful new monitor, listening to Rush through my wonderful new headphones, sipping a pint of festive spiced apple and rhubarb cider, which tastes interesting to say the least.

I really do like Christmas, in case you hadn't noticed, or thought I spent my entire year being a skeptical git. Which, to be honest, I kind of do. Except around birthdays and Christmas.

This isn't going to be a long post, I just wanted to wish my very small audience a merry Christmas, you beautiful motherfuckers. In a couple of days, I'm going to be getting absolutely sausaged with some friends, which will be fucking mental in the face, and then on Friday I'm going to have several very young seconds cousins in my room, which I've had to child-proof (which, if you haven't read any previous posts, involves covering up all the Swastikas and removing any metal spiky things I have lying around) which took way more work than I initially thought, but by the good grace of Thor's mighty hammer, it's worth it.

May your holidays be fucking badass as all shit.

A few corrections:
A couple of posts back, I said Christmas was looming over us like the Burj Hotel in Abu Dhabi. That was embarrassingly wrong, what I meant was the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. There, now I don't look racist or ignorant.

Also, just one correction.

Saturday, 22 December 2012

Apocalypse? More Like Apoca-Bullshit... Or Something

So it's December 22nd, 2012, and the world hasn't ended like the Mayans said it would. They said (along with a load of paranoid Americans) that the world would end on the day of winter solstice in the year 2012, which was yesterday; so for the past couple of years or so, people have been shitting themselves because they thought the world was going to come to an end in a spectacular explosion, or something. The Mayans even accounted for all the timezones by not giving a specific time, they just said "The 21st." In reality, very few people actually believed that it was Armageddon, and the four horsemen of the apocalypse were going to rise from Hell on their fire-retardant horses and claim people's soles, or rape all the women who sinned, or some shit like that, and Cthulu and Jesus' evil twin brother Horace will come and do whatever the opposite of blessing people is.

The best part of this whole 2012 thing, by a country mile, is the fact that these conspiracy theorists aren't just going to give up and do something productive with their lives, oh no; they've only gone and postponed the bloody apocalypse, haven't they? It's now on September 3rd, 2015, all because they claim the Mayans made a mistake. "What? The world hasn't ended? We're all still alive? That's impossible! The Mayans said, thousands of years ago, that the world would cease to be on this very day, and it hasn't. The only logical conclusion must be that they made a mistake. It must be in 2015 or something. Yes, that's right, it's in September, three years from now. Silly Mayans."

"So what's going to happen in October 2015?" You may very well be asking. Well, my inquisitive friend, the simple answer is, they're probably going to set the date back even further, like they keep doing with the rapture, so this apocalypse crap isn't going to go away for a very long time because neither are stupid people.

Fuck's sake.

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Good God, it's Nearly Christmas!

Yes, as the title would suggest, Christmas looms down upon us like the Citadel looms over City 17, or the Burj Hotel looms over Abu Dhabi, or Andre the Giant loomed over just about everyone else. In spite of this, I'm not exactly getting into the 'Christmas Spirit'. At my (dad's) house, for instance, the decorations haven't gone up yet, six days before Christmas is due to commence.

The only reminders of Christmas time I have are the constant bombardment of Christmas-themed commercials on the TV and the radio, and the billboards, the bus stop posters, posters in shops, and just about every spare square inch of exposed wall in the city centre. All of which keep telling me "It's fucking Christmas, motherfucker! Just look at these motherfucking Christmas motherfucking deals, motherfucker! Christmas bargains fit for a motherfucking messiah!" and so forth. If you didn't just read that last sentence in Samuel L Jackson's voice, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Christmas also means having to buy people things, which is all very well and good if you have the financial means to do so; being an unemployed student, I do not. It's a good thing my dad buys things for my family on my behalf (he does this for my two brothers as well). I'm so spoiled.

There are of course good things about Christmas; receiving free shit, for a start, tearing into the wrapping paper of your first present; then there's the food, whatever it is you eat on Christmas day where you come from, I have roast turkey because I'm English and that's what we do. No it's not with chips. There are also bad things; I have to cover up all the swastikas in my bedroom, for instance, and I don't think I have that many posters to cover them with. There are laborious things, like putting up the decorations; if we didn't have any decorations, Santa wouldn't know where to put the presents, so he'd just assume we're Jewish or something and donate them to charity and we paid good money for those presents, god dammit!

Christmas is also the time of year Satan gets a load of letters from dyslexic children.
May you have a supremely white Christmas.

I shouldn't have to tell you lot that I don't actually have a load of swastikas in my bedroom, and I'm not actually racist but I will anyway because some of you will believe any old shit, won't you? 

Monday, 19 November 2012

It's Been Awhile

As the above would suggest, it has indeed been awhile. Since I last posted on my blog, that is, and as usual, I can't think of what to write about. This often happens, so I'm not worried.

I can't seem to find much motivation to do anything lately. Maybe I need more sleep, that's what my dad would say. That's why I haven't done a blog in nearly two months. That and I can never think of anything to write about.

I'm trying to listen to Shiny Happy People by R.E.M. on YouTube on a different tab at the moment and it keeps buffering, even though it's running at 360p. This is, I think, because I'm currently using my father's desktop PC, which is okay, it's a rather powerful machine with a decent processor, it's just that I'm using Internet Explorer and I'm not on an admin account so I can't download Firefox or Chrome. By the sacred wounds of the Lord Jesers Crust, this is the worst browser I've ever had the misfortune of having to use. It's slower than a dead horse with broken legs, it can't run YouTube videos without intermittantly crashing, and it keeps trying to push toolbars on me.

Moving away from ranting about things I don't like, I can't quite figure out if having little motivation to do anything productive is my fault. Is it my fault that my mind keeps going blank every time I try doing anything creative? It's really off-putting. Even writing this is taking far longer than it should because I'm having to stop and think for ages every other sentence. It's also really buggering up my college work. I'm finding it really hard to write practice essays for my English A-level because I just don't know how what to write or how to go about writing it. Same goes for my UCAS personal statement. I end up writing about eight lines of text before ceasing up completely because I've forgotten everything about the subject I'm writing for. The only thing I seem to know what I'm doing in is photography, and even then I'm in two minds about it. Only one of the two teacher I have for that subject approves of my work, the other just critisizes everything I do to the point where I don't know what to do anymore. What I really want to do is take pictures of real life, not some moody black-and-white photo of a pretty teenage girl with an emo fringe and too much eye makeup with some text on it saying something like: "Why is life so hard?" or "Look, I'm pretending to cry, give me an A*!"
But I can't take pictures of real life and get anything above a D, so I've had to resort to heavily editing my photos. Which I'm actually okay with because I'm making them look creepy rather than 'moody', but it's not like that hasn't been done before.

I'm sure it'll pass...

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Lessons in Time Wasting

If you attend college in England (and possibly the rest of the UK as well) you have to take what's known as an 'enrichment' course, wherein you are taught things like 'thinking' and 'reasoning' and 'critical thinking,' and the most productive of all, 'general studies' which are all things that are supposed to help you get into university. What they actually do is teach you nothing in particular that is any more helpful for getting into uni than being taught first aid. The best thing in the world, without a shadow of doubt, is doing 'extended project' in A2 (second year) because you failed thinking and reasoning in the first year because you were ill. Especially when the teacher isn't there because she seems to be permanently ill. All that happens whenever I actually attend one of these extended project sessions (to call them "lessons" would be like referring to the CIA as an "afterschool club") is a bloke called Richard takes the register, sends us all an email containing a useless document which nobody's going to take the time to read because we're all too busy trying to get an education, and a noticeable amount of time is wasted.

I haven't actually been told what I'm supposed to be doing in these extended project sessions, all the documents tell me is that I can do "literally anything." Like what? At least give me some bloody ideas. I can't ask Richard because he probably doesn't really know either and all he does is takes the register and then bloody leaves. He doesn't come back. He's probably gone to make himself a cup of instant coffee with semi-skimmed milk and two teaspoons of white sugar and sit in the staffroom doing the crossword in the papers.

Now, my father's been sent a letter by the college telling him that I've only been going to 20% of the extended project lessons I've been required to go to. It told him that if my attendance were to drop to below 75% by half term, I'd have to go into college on a day off, and attend an all-day session. Big fucking brass bollocks. I bet what's going to happen is I'll go to the first of my bi-weekly sessions to be told I don't have to attend for the next few weeks because my teacher, although in college and teaching English, isn't quite '100%.' Gah!

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

Anger Issues

Everyone seems really angry these days. This could be because the vast majority of the people I know are in their late teens and at this age, you either love something, hate something, or couldn't give a shit either way. You can't quite like something, or not really like something, or be impartial to a bit of something on the odd occasion, for instance, I don't know many people who love the PS3 and also rather like the Xbox 360, they either love the PlayStation and hate the Xbox or vice-versa, the same goes for Marmite, Stella Artois, and "heavy metal" band Black Veil Brides.

People always say "The Black Veil Brides". That's wrong. It's like saying "The Spider-Man" or "The Red Dwarf", there's no 'the'. Believe me, I hate BVB as much as the next guy but that's not the point. It's also annoying when people say "Porsh" instead of "Porsha", as it should be because it's German (about the German car manufacturer Porsche, if you don't know what I'm talking/writing about). Same goes for Asbergers. It's Ass-Burgers because it's an Austrian name and the Austrian national language is German, and in German, the letter G is pronounced as a hard G ('guh') if it precedes a vowel within a word. So nyuhh. I mean you don't say "Mer-seeds" (Mercedes), do you?

Anyway, where were we? Anger, that's right. People need to stop being so angry about music that's not to their tastes; it was created for people to enjoy, and they do, so be angry about something worth being angry about, like racism, or homophobia, or Nickelback, or something.  

Goodness me...

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Silly People Are So Silly

It's okay to think Steely Dan is a solo artist if you've never heard of them. I did. It is not, however, okay to think Lynyrd Skynyrd, Pink Floyd, or Fleetwood Mac are solo artists, it is unbelievably silly. The kind of people who think this also think Adolf Hitler is still alive, they think Titanic is a work of fiction, they even think the Apollo 11 moon landings were filmed in a studio in California. Silly, silly people.

I am a silly person.  Silly for not liking Queen because my mum doesn't, silly for eating breakfast at 1:30 in the afternoon, silly for eating that Chinese curry which has (along with a buggertonne of caffeinated energy drinks) given me the furious shits, which isn't pleasant considering I've spent the last week or so with a colon like a game of Kerplunk - i.e.: I pull out a straw and hope I don't drop a marble - although on the flipside, having the brown mist descend gave me the unending pleasure of shitting on a largely empty beach in the Norfolk sunshine. It was messy. It's probably still there.

There's nothing quite like finding a nice, picturesque, pristine sand dune overlooking a nice, picturesque, pristine beach one side and a nice, picturesque, pristine salt marsh on the other with a nice, picturesque, pristine English countryside landscape, and pouring a well-cooked bum casserole all over it.

This entire post is very silly indeed, and needs to end before I lose my marbles (in more ways than one).

Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.

Thursday, 16 August 2012

Day of Reckoning

So I got my A level results today. They were pretty good, considering I failed the shit out of music. Don't feel too bad for me, it's not the end of the world, I can still go back in September.

Some of the systems my college have are really silly sometimes. For instance, this year my college aren't printing out hard copies of results for students, which means we can only access them online. What if a student has no internet connection? I know it's 2012 but you still can't completely rule it out. Also, their security is severly flawed, using turnstyles activated by swipe cards (something which I imagine isn't uncommon) which only work if they feel like it. Much like the students who pass through them on a daily basis. The cards themselves are disabled by the slightest crack or split in the least compromising area (my which I mean nowhere near the magnetic strip). They are silly. Very silly indeed.

Not much has happened in the month since I last posted. Coffee still summons the chocolate monsoon, I still can't drive, and I've still got more useless crap than I know what to do with. Maybe I'll use them to build a glider and fly to Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty; or Hotel California, such a lovely place.

I'm running out of ideas now.

Monday, 16 July 2012

A Letter to Coffee

Dear coffee,

Oh, how I love you so; your ability to give me the energy to face the day; your strong, wonderous flavour, unspoiled by semi-skimmed milk and/or sugar; and your seemingly endless supply, instant or otherwise. But I have one question to ask, coffee:

Why, dear God why, do you always insist on giving me the raging shits every time I feel like a hot cup of brown? Honestly, it's really annoying. I still can't figure out if instant is worse than ground, or vice versa. Even if I consume the rich, brown, almost immorally delicious nectar that you are on an empty stomach, you can turn nothing into a metric tonne of shit. How in the name of Jesus H. Tapdancing Fucking Christ do you do that? Even weapons grade laxatives have a hard time doing that.

What I'm trying to say, coffee, is that you are everything I could want in a hot beverage: hot (always a good place to start), strong, brewed, rich, dark, invigorating, and fucking God damn delicious. Except you punish me (and everyone else's sinuses) for no reason. It's a shame we can't take our relationship further, it really is. Unfortunately, there's no chance of us ever having a sexual relationship because

A) You're a drink
B) The human personification of the kind of coffee I like is Mr T and quite frankly I'd rather have a sexual relationship with the leftover bits of Anne Robinson.

Your's sensually,

Sam x

Thursday, 28 June 2012

I'm Full of Drugs!

Jesus tap-dancing Christ it's hot in here. The windows here only open so far and the air isn't conditioned, it's filtered so it isn't being cooled, so it's hot as fuck in here. Jesus.

Hospitals are boring. It's nothing like the hospitals in Scrubs or Holby City or Doctors, there's no drama, illicit sex, conflict, or even a flatline (at least not since I got here). I'm just sat in my really fucking hot room watching daytime TV and perusing the internet on this decade old laptop I've been given, waiting for a nurse to come in to fill me up with antibiotics through an I.V. line in my left arm. Either that or waiting for a different nurse to take another gallon of my blood by stabbing at any raised vein with a needle like a frightened criminal. Mind you, it's not all bad. Despite what they all say about hospital food, it's actually not that bad. I also get offered a cup of coffee every now and again.

If someone tells you they're not squeamish, they're lying. They can watch all the gory horror movies, genuine gore pictures from the darkest corners of the internet, surgical videos, whatever, as soon as someone puts a 50cm wire into their arm to guide the plastic tube that's about to follow it, they'll show you just how strong-stomached they really are. When I was nine, I was admitted into the Children's Hospital in central Birmingham for I.V. antibiotics for the second time. At the time I thought I could handle anything, that was of course until I saw blood erupting from my arm like it had been holding in a piss for four hours. That still disturbs me when I think about it.

Seeing my consultant tomorrow to find out if I'm being filled with the right drugs because, worryingly, nobody's quite sure. Oh well, early days.

Sunday, 3 June 2012

The Kitchen Incident

Great globs of fetid milk fall repulsively into the rinser, the foul stench filling my nostrils.
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.

My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.

And I wonder why I can't pull...

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

U.S. - British English Translator

  • Antenna - Plinky-plonky radio stick
  • Aluminum - Aluminininium
  • Apartment - Stacked living-box
  • Asphalt - Cobblestone wibble-wabble
  • Attourney - Wigged bell end
  • Baby carriage - Wheely-deely baby cart
  • Cellphone - Magic man-talker
  • Cheap - 99p
  • Check - William
  • Counerclockwise - Black magic
  • Crib - Baby cage
  • Curse word - Cunty-wunty fuck bollocks
  • Diapers - Shit-towels
  • Drug store - University
  • Elevator - Magic uppy down box
  • Eraser - Anti-pencil block
  • Faucet - Drippy-droppy twizzle wetter
  • Flashlight - Flishy-flashy criminal exposer
  • Inexpensive - 99p
  • Laundromat - Cheapo rag sudding
  • Lawyer - Rich bastard
  • Line - Queueueueue
  • Math - Witchcraft
  • Movie theater - Magic picture house
  • Pants - Two legged leggy-coverings
  • 'Pardon me' - 'Fuck off'
  • Railroad - Longy-liney steam extravagence
  • Restroom - Kidderminster
  • Shopping cart - Nom-noms cage
  • Silverware - Stabby-prongy nom-nom helpers
  • Sneakers - Villains
  • Stroller - Rolly-poly baby car
  • Subway - Imminant underground explosion.
  • Sweater - Itchy-scratchy rash creator
  • Trash can - Birmingham
  • Truck - Susan Boyle's make-up artist
  • Turtle neck - Dickhead cover
  • Underpass - Stabby-drug tube
  • Vacation - Hiding from the authorities
  • Wrench - Tinkery-tighty bollock tinkerer
We live strange lives, here in Blighty.

Sunday, 22 April 2012

I've Just Had Some Fucking Jelly Babies

A lot of people say nowadays that the world is going to be fucked if we carry on as we are, polluting the atmosphere, rivers, lakes, and oceans, blowing up mountains to get valuable minerals largely for financial gain, fracking for natural gas right outside peoples' houses, and so on. Here's what I say to these people: The world is not GOING to be fucked; the world is never GOING to be fucked because the world has ALREADY been fucked by us and our wars, our greed, our relentless destruction, intolerance and ignorance of nature. The world was fucked right about the time we showed up. As for society, society died when George Carlin did.

Anyway, enough of that shit.

On a slightly odd - if concerning - note, I keep seeing discarded jeans everywhere. Not just in my bedroom (hurr), but fucking everywhere, and they're always draped over railings or fences in a suburb somewhere. I saw my first pair a couple of weeks ago in Bristol when I was staying with my Mom, a pair of perfectly serviceable blue jeans lying over a railing in the middle of Bristol. Since I've been back in Birmingham, I've seen three more pairs: one in a tree in a small woodland area next to my house and two next to each other on a fence by a bus stop that I saw on my way back from a friend's house earlier this afternoon. Whose going around just leaving jeans everywhere? Is this some kind of new cult I should be aware of? I might get in on it myself, actually, I'll even add my own little twist, leaving corduroys on top of bollards. Yeah. That'll show those... erm... Tories? Show them some of my vast collection of corduroy trousers, that is.

Fucking Tories.
P.S. I don't really own a pair of corduroy trousers.

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

I'm So Fucking Bored Right Now

As the title suggests, I'm really goddamn bored. So bored, in fact, that I thought I'd write a blog entry. Although, now I've started, I've absolutely no idea what to write about. I've been thinking about updating my largely ingored blog for a while now, I've just been putting it off because I really have nothing to write about. Well, I'll just have to moan about stuff again. Sorry...

See, now I can't concentrate because I keep trying to think of things to moan about, thing is, I can't think of anything to moan about that I haven't moaned about before. Like buses. I still seriously dislike public transport, but until I can drive a car, I'm just going to have to make do. The disconcerting lack of literacy skills among the general public. These people who can't tell the difference between 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. Same goes for 'your' and 'you're'. These people have been (or should have been) through full-time education, so they've got no excuse, really. "I'm dyslexic" isn't a good enough excuse. Being dyslexic is different to having bad grammar. One's a serious problem and one's dyslexia.

The Sellotape vs Scotch tape case. There's something I haven't addressed yet. Someone I know (you know who you are) seemed to think that Scotch tape and Sellotape were the same thing. While they are by definition the same thing (cellulose tape) they aren't the same thing, if you see what I mean. It's like calling all brands of potato chip (or crisp) 'Walkers' (or 'Lays' depending on whether or not you're from the UK). Some other things that I only recently found out were different things: gaffer tape and duct tape - gaffer tape can be removed cleanly whereas duct tape can't; turpentine and white spirit - turpentine is wood based whereas white spirit is petroleum based. I think you can probably tell how bored I am as I write this. I'm actually telling the internet the difference between turpentine and white spirit. I will never have another girlfriend...

I'm still bored so I'm going to continue writing because fuck you. Death metal, there's a thing. As much as I love death metal, I don't like it when some of the people I'm with go into a crowded bus shelter and start blasting Amon Amarth or Lamb of God (yes, I know, they're groove metal) at full volume. I get extremely uncomfortable when all of the people waiting inside the bus shelter glare at us because we're blasting 'Guardians of Asgaard' at full volume on a Sony Ericsson W395 (a really loud phone) and I'm dressed like a Soviet (read: cunt). I can taste the comtempt from those people. I don't like doing things that draw attention to me or the people I'm with because nine times out of ten it attracts the wrong kind. It's like when I go into town on a Saturday to do some underage drinking, we buy a crate of beer (ususally bottles of Budweiser) and fruitlessly attempt to get tipsy from the four or five bottles I manage to drink. Sometimes some people I don't know tag along, this is normally fine as long as they don't drink all the fucking beer. Sometimes someone's younger sibling comes along gets blind drunk of four bottles and thinks it's a fucking brilliant idea to throw all the empty bottles against a brick wall. And they wonder why the police keep coming...

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

It (Probably isn't) the End of the World As We Know it

So that's 2011 done and dusted. It's gone rather quickly, hasn't it. With the double-dip recession; the coalition; the riots in London and other major cities; the tremendously warm autumn and this depressingly mild winter.

2011's been an interesting year for me. I finished school and started college... drank quite a bit of beer... that's about it I think. I didn't make any new year's resolutions because I won't keep them. I've already done a to-do list (in August) on which nothing has been crossed off, or ticked off or struck off, or whichever of those is more aesthetically pleasing to you people (all five of you).

I'm going to change the subject because I've got nothing else to write about 2011. It was just another year, we'll have many more like it.

If there are two things people are going to remember me by after I've died; they'll be my hair, and the smell of my farts. Nothing else, not the fact that I play guitar, not the fact that I died prematurely, not this blog, not even the fact that my pubic hair is obnoxiously ginger (and when I say ginger, I mean bright fucking orange, my cock has no soul because of my magnificently orange pubes), it'll just be my 2' long blond hair and the noxious gases coming from my arsehole every so often.

There's someone who hangs around in 'Pigeon Park' who refers to me as "Blond Pubes" (this is presumably because she doesn't know my name). I've only recently told her my pubes are, in fact, ginger. She still calls me Blond Pubes...

God dammit...