It appears that I may have caused offence with the title of one of my recent posts, 'Microwaves and Cats'.
Concerns have been raised that this title may have mistakenly given people the impression that I was subtly advocating the practice of putting a cat in a microwave oven and, as a consequence, children may be encouraged to 'follow suit' and actually harm a cat.
I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I do not condone the mistreatment of cats or any other domesticated pets.
I am an avid 'animal lover' and, indeed, once embarked on an exciting, tempestous, yet ultimately ill-fated, three-month affair with an angora goat called Raquel.
It ended abruptly and unpleasantly when I discovered that she was seeing another goat 'on the side'. Despite her infidelity, I still think of her often.
Some wounds never heal, regardless of time and introspection...
31 December 2004
30 December 2004
Self-flagellation and Dairy Milk
This is an ancient practice which goes hand-in-hand (or stump-in-stump in severe cases) with general self-mutilation. There are many people throughout history who have felt the need to cut off their genitalia (The 'Day of Blood' festival to commemorate Attis), pluck out their eyes (Soordas saw Krishna and in order to preserve the memory in his mind, enucleated both eyes) or amputate body parts (popular amongst some African bushmen, apparently).
But surely, the safest and yet most satisfyingly painful is pure and simple self-flagellation. Take a small bunch of sharp twigs (or perhaps rose stems, complete with thorns, if you've got the money), tie them together at one end and fan the other, rather like a rudimentary brush, and proceed to beat your own back until you bleed and pass out. Allow the wounds to heal, then do it all again. It's usually accompanied by copious weeping.
For the more advanced self-flagellator, there is always the option of fashioning a cat o' nine tails. Nine thin leather strips, again bound together at one end, but each one with a small piece of sharp rock, twisted metal or broken glass tied to the end of the strand. You can then beat yourself across the spine, allowing the fragments to bury themselves into your flesh, and then draw them through your skin as you drag the 'cat' off your back. Not exactly my idea of fun, but certainly preferable to watching the Eurovision Song Contest.
Nobody self-flagellates anymore and I don't understand why. I think it's time we had a resurrection of this much-maligned pastime. The purpose of it is to purge yourself clean from sin and guilt. So, if you snogged someone you shouldn't have at the office Christmas party, simply beat the guilt away! Your wife need never know!
Perhaps you're on a diet and you just can't stay away from those oh so tempting bars of Dairy Milk. Not a problem. Every time you eat one, thrash yourself soundly with a birch sapling and, I swear to God, your chocolate addiction will be cured within days.
All of this leads me to my point which is this - I have invented a new diet revolution. Self-mutilation!
The larger the indiscretion, the more severe the self-administered punishment. See the sample chart below for examples:
1 salted peanut = A small paper cut
1 bag of Wotsits = Smashing your little finger with a toffee hammer
1 Roast dinner (with buttered vegetables and 2 Yorkshire puddings) = A sharpened fork scraped across both corneas
5 pints of Guinness, 1 bag of pork scratchings, 3 Whiskies and a large mixed Kebab = Disembowelment (self-working)
Forget Atkins! Maim yourself thin in 30 days! Coming soon to a bookshop near you!*
*RRP £24.99.
They say insanity is just a hairsbreadth from genius. I like to think I have a foot in both camps.
But surely, the safest and yet most satisfyingly painful is pure and simple self-flagellation. Take a small bunch of sharp twigs (or perhaps rose stems, complete with thorns, if you've got the money), tie them together at one end and fan the other, rather like a rudimentary brush, and proceed to beat your own back until you bleed and pass out. Allow the wounds to heal, then do it all again. It's usually accompanied by copious weeping.
For the more advanced self-flagellator, there is always the option of fashioning a cat o' nine tails. Nine thin leather strips, again bound together at one end, but each one with a small piece of sharp rock, twisted metal or broken glass tied to the end of the strand. You can then beat yourself across the spine, allowing the fragments to bury themselves into your flesh, and then draw them through your skin as you drag the 'cat' off your back. Not exactly my idea of fun, but certainly preferable to watching the Eurovision Song Contest.
Nobody self-flagellates anymore and I don't understand why. I think it's time we had a resurrection of this much-maligned pastime. The purpose of it is to purge yourself clean from sin and guilt. So, if you snogged someone you shouldn't have at the office Christmas party, simply beat the guilt away! Your wife need never know!
Perhaps you're on a diet and you just can't stay away from those oh so tempting bars of Dairy Milk. Not a problem. Every time you eat one, thrash yourself soundly with a birch sapling and, I swear to God, your chocolate addiction will be cured within days.
All of this leads me to my point which is this - I have invented a new diet revolution. Self-mutilation!
The larger the indiscretion, the more severe the self-administered punishment. See the sample chart below for examples:
1 salted peanut = A small paper cut
1 bag of Wotsits = Smashing your little finger with a toffee hammer
1 Roast dinner (with buttered vegetables and 2 Yorkshire puddings) = A sharpened fork scraped across both corneas
5 pints of Guinness, 1 bag of pork scratchings, 3 Whiskies and a large mixed Kebab = Disembowelment (self-working)
Forget Atkins! Maim yourself thin in 30 days! Coming soon to a bookshop near you!*
*RRP £24.99.
They say insanity is just a hairsbreadth from genius. I like to think I have a foot in both camps.
Microwaves and Cats
Good afternoon my faithful readership.
Few things in this life give me genuine pleasure. Bourbon. Striking small children. Peanut butter. Vigorous self-abuse. These are staples which never let me down, and always shine a light into my dingy, upsetting world. However, occasionally, the fog of disappointment has been known to clear for unexpected reasons and, for a few brief moments, I actually smile. Here, for you, dear, dear readers are a couple of things which temporarily amused me.
First off, we have this site which details experiments that you can conduct with your microwave oven.
http://margo.student.utwente.nl/el/microwave/
Things that you can put in your microwave include light bulbs, CDs, bars of soap, toothpicks and marshmallows. If, like myself, you are something of an athlete and sports enthusiast, you can take up a brand new sport - grape racing! Pierced grapes placed in the microwave will heat up and emit tiny squirts of grape steam thus propelling themselves around the ice-rink of your glass microwave plate. Fantastic.
One thing, don't ever, EVER put a plastic icepack in the microwave. Apparently they contain ammonium nitrate which is a high order explosive. This was discovered by several potheads who tried to heat one up so that they could warm soup whilst on a marijuana induced picnic on a cliff. It seems they were lucky not to blow their faces off. Shame really.
The second (and last, actually) site is this one:
http://www.bitboost.com/pawsense/index.html
Now, how many of us have been working on an important document (say, an official report on the existence of WMD in Iraq), popped to the toilet for a moment and, upon returning, found that the cat has walked all over the keyboard and completely deleted your data. Doh! That darn cat! Not a shred of WMD evidence left!
Well, worry no more. An utterly insane computer programmer has created this piece of software which will detect from the pattern of key depressions* whether or not your keyboard has a feline visitor prowling over it. The message (and I swear to God, I'm not making this up) "Cat-Like Typing Detected" appears, the keyboard locks and the speakers emit the sound of a harmonica to frighten the cat and deter it from re-offending. To unlock the keyboard, simply type the word 'Human'.
Re-read the above paragraph. Please, do it for me.
This product is not a joke; I've checked it out. It actually exists.
It's name? Pawsense.
God Bless America.
*Here's a picture to better explain the above. Ain't it great?
http://www.bitboost.com/pawsense/keybpaws-small-004.gif
Few things in this life give me genuine pleasure. Bourbon. Striking small children. Peanut butter. Vigorous self-abuse. These are staples which never let me down, and always shine a light into my dingy, upsetting world. However, occasionally, the fog of disappointment has been known to clear for unexpected reasons and, for a few brief moments, I actually smile. Here, for you, dear, dear readers are a couple of things which temporarily amused me.
First off, we have this site which details experiments that you can conduct with your microwave oven.
http://margo.student.utwente.nl/el/microwave/
Things that you can put in your microwave include light bulbs, CDs, bars of soap, toothpicks and marshmallows. If, like myself, you are something of an athlete and sports enthusiast, you can take up a brand new sport - grape racing! Pierced grapes placed in the microwave will heat up and emit tiny squirts of grape steam thus propelling themselves around the ice-rink of your glass microwave plate. Fantastic.
One thing, don't ever, EVER put a plastic icepack in the microwave. Apparently they contain ammonium nitrate which is a high order explosive. This was discovered by several potheads who tried to heat one up so that they could warm soup whilst on a marijuana induced picnic on a cliff. It seems they were lucky not to blow their faces off. Shame really.
The second (and last, actually) site is this one:
http://www.bitboost.com/pawsense/index.html
Now, how many of us have been working on an important document (say, an official report on the existence of WMD in Iraq), popped to the toilet for a moment and, upon returning, found that the cat has walked all over the keyboard and completely deleted your data. Doh! That darn cat! Not a shred of WMD evidence left!
Well, worry no more. An utterly insane computer programmer has created this piece of software which will detect from the pattern of key depressions* whether or not your keyboard has a feline visitor prowling over it. The message (and I swear to God, I'm not making this up) "Cat-Like Typing Detected" appears, the keyboard locks and the speakers emit the sound of a harmonica to frighten the cat and deter it from re-offending. To unlock the keyboard, simply type the word 'Human'.
Re-read the above paragraph. Please, do it for me.
This product is not a joke; I've checked it out. It actually exists.
It's name? Pawsense.
God Bless America.
*Here's a picture to better explain the above. Ain't it great?
http://www.bitboost.com/pawsense/keybpaws-small-004.gif
29 December 2004
Readers Poll
I'm curious as to how many people actually read this thing.
Obviously, there's the bearded devil, the ruinor of potential relationships, the cyber-hussy, Bad Rat and a few others who really have too much time on their hands, but other than that how big is my actual readership?
Obviously, I could do stuff like add a counter or something, but I really can't be arsed as there's simply too much bourbon in the world for me to commit to something so straightforward.
Therefore, I want to start a poll of readers. It's really simple. What you do is click on the little link at the bottom of this post that says 'comments' and you, well, leave a comment.
It may be "Hi".
Alternatively, "I love your site - can I have your babies?". (To which I will reply 'Join the sizeable queue.' My desirability is at an all-time high.)
Possibly, it could read "You pathetic piece of shit time-wasting sad bastard. Get a life and stop being a twat."
Whatever your level of communication, leave a message because it seems that at the moment I'm merely writing these posts for the benefit of people that I speak to virtually every other day anyway.
Obviously, there's the bearded devil, the ruinor of potential relationships, the cyber-hussy, Bad Rat and a few others who really have too much time on their hands, but other than that how big is my actual readership?
Obviously, I could do stuff like add a counter or something, but I really can't be arsed as there's simply too much bourbon in the world for me to commit to something so straightforward.
Therefore, I want to start a poll of readers. It's really simple. What you do is click on the little link at the bottom of this post that says 'comments' and you, well, leave a comment.
It may be "Hi".
Alternatively, "I love your site - can I have your babies?". (To which I will reply 'Join the sizeable queue.' My desirability is at an all-time high.)
Possibly, it could read "You pathetic piece of shit time-wasting sad bastard. Get a life and stop being a twat."
Whatever your level of communication, leave a message because it seems that at the moment I'm merely writing these posts for the benefit of people that I speak to virtually every other day anyway.
The Blog of Eternal Disappointment - A New Hope
Well, it's been a while since my last update, my little virtual friends. What's been happening, I hear you ask, full of anticipation and barely contained excitement...
Where do I begin? OK, a quick rundown:
1. Currently seeing someone else. She's nice. She's clean. She has her own teeth and a car. We'll see how long it takes for it to go horribly, horribly wrong.
2. Was given £200 by my Dad for Christmas to buy an i-Pod. Spent it on beer. Arse.
3. Vowed never to drink Champagne again. (You know who you are...)
4. Erm, that's it.
5. Oh yes, bought the remake of Dawn of the Dead on DVD. (See http://blogeternaldisappointment.blogspot.com/2004/11/payday-dubbya-dawn-of-dead-and-george.html for the full, shocking story.) Kind of wish I hadn't now. On careful and considered reflection, it is a bit shit, isn't it?
So, that's my update. Worth waiting for? Of course not.
I shall post again at some point soon on the following subjects:
Women and Films
The secrets of Magic - revealed!
Cats - good, bad or just plain evil?
Is excessive punctuation ever justifiable????
My favourite websites
Self-flaggelation - is it right?
I foresee that the New Year will bring many posts and a cornucopia of dazzling insights into human frailty and our never-ending quest for that elusive state, 'happiness'.
Long may disappointment reign!
Where do I begin? OK, a quick rundown:
1. Currently seeing someone else. She's nice. She's clean. She has her own teeth and a car. We'll see how long it takes for it to go horribly, horribly wrong.
2. Was given £200 by my Dad for Christmas to buy an i-Pod. Spent it on beer. Arse.
3. Vowed never to drink Champagne again. (You know who you are...)
4. Erm, that's it.
5. Oh yes, bought the remake of Dawn of the Dead on DVD. (See http://blogeternaldisappointment.blogspot.com/2004/11/payday-dubbya-dawn-of-dead-and-george.html for the full, shocking story.) Kind of wish I hadn't now. On careful and considered reflection, it is a bit shit, isn't it?
So, that's my update. Worth waiting for? Of course not.
I shall post again at some point soon on the following subjects:
Women and Films
The secrets of Magic - revealed!
Cats - good, bad or just plain evil?
Is excessive punctuation ever justifiable????
My favourite websites
Self-flaggelation - is it right?
I foresee that the New Year will bring many posts and a cornucopia of dazzling insights into human frailty and our never-ending quest for that elusive state, 'happiness'.
Long may disappointment reign!
13 December 2004
Headache
I have a headache.
I was up until 1 a.m. drinking vodka and arguing with my flatmate. I believe the saying goes, "I put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains".
Perhaps, if I manage to feel like a normal human being again at some point in my life, I’ll post a few details. We’ll see. For now, entertain yourselves. Go outside and play, or something.
I was up until 1 a.m. drinking vodka and arguing with my flatmate. I believe the saying goes, "I put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains".
Perhaps, if I manage to feel like a normal human being again at some point in my life, I’ll post a few details. We’ll see. For now, entertain yourselves. Go outside and play, or something.
9 December 2004
Drink and 'dumped again' Part 2
It is as I feared. I have been dumped.
From now on, I shall shun human contact and become a recluse, friend only to a legion of 104* bad-tempered cats.
I will develop Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and never throw anything away, displaying a complete disregard for the Feng Shui of my surroundings. To manoeuvre from the bedroom to the toilet will take several hours as I pick my way through a maze of rubbish bags, cardboard boxes and discarded bottles of urine.
The council will come round with a television crew, clean my flat and remove all my cats whilst I dissolve into floods of tears. Some time later, I shall rebuild my mighty cat army.
Then one day my corpse shall be discovered after an absence of several weeks, the police only alerted to my condition after the neighbours spot bluebottles swarming at the window.
Clutched in the partially-eaten remains of my right fist shall be an empty bottle of bourbon. Clutched in my left, a cigarette made from butts. The cats, driven half-mad by starvation, will have eaten my face and, forever, my final expression will be a grisly, rictus grin of yellowed tooth and stripped white jawbone.
Well, you've got to have something to aim for in life, otherwise what's the point?
More hilarity next time...!
* Devotees of the Kaballah will already know that it was long ago agreed that the optimum number of cats for one to truly possess an 'army' is 104. 103 simply isn't enough. 105, on the other hand, is obviously too many - a fool can see that.
From now on, I shall shun human contact and become a recluse, friend only to a legion of 104* bad-tempered cats.
I will develop Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and never throw anything away, displaying a complete disregard for the Feng Shui of my surroundings. To manoeuvre from the bedroom to the toilet will take several hours as I pick my way through a maze of rubbish bags, cardboard boxes and discarded bottles of urine.
The council will come round with a television crew, clean my flat and remove all my cats whilst I dissolve into floods of tears. Some time later, I shall rebuild my mighty cat army.
Then one day my corpse shall be discovered after an absence of several weeks, the police only alerted to my condition after the neighbours spot bluebottles swarming at the window.
Clutched in the partially-eaten remains of my right fist shall be an empty bottle of bourbon. Clutched in my left, a cigarette made from butts. The cats, driven half-mad by starvation, will have eaten my face and, forever, my final expression will be a grisly, rictus grin of yellowed tooth and stripped white jawbone.
Well, you've got to have something to aim for in life, otherwise what's the point?
More hilarity next time...!
* Devotees of the Kaballah will already know that it was long ago agreed that the optimum number of cats for one to truly possess an 'army' is 104. 103 simply isn't enough. 105, on the other hand, is obviously too many - a fool can see that.
Drink and 'dumped again'
Yesterday, I drank too much. Two bottle of cheap, white wine and then a healthy measure or six of Jack Daniels.
I fell asleep on the floor.
Now it is the following day and I'm at work. I'm not hungover. I don't have a headache, and I don't feel like vomiting. In fact, I don't feel anything.
It's as if my conscious self has become detached from my body and I'm simply inhabiting it like a slightly wary bystander. I'm currently watching my fingers typing this and thinking 'Whose are those?'.
I should stick to diet coke.
STOP PRESS:
I have been recently chatting to someone at work who fancies me. She has made no small secret of the fact that she likes me. We were planning on going out for a meal and drink on Friday evening.
I just received the following via e-mail:
"I do need to speak to you regarding Friday.
There have been unforeseen developments in my life.
Have you got any time free?"
We're meeting for lunch today in the pub. I believe that I'm about to be given the 'heave-ho'. Rejected twice in the same week. That's a record even by my standards. I shall update later....
I fell asleep on the floor.
Now it is the following day and I'm at work. I'm not hungover. I don't have a headache, and I don't feel like vomiting. In fact, I don't feel anything.
It's as if my conscious self has become detached from my body and I'm simply inhabiting it like a slightly wary bystander. I'm currently watching my fingers typing this and thinking 'Whose are those?'.
I should stick to diet coke.
STOP PRESS:
I have been recently chatting to someone at work who fancies me. She has made no small secret of the fact that she likes me. We were planning on going out for a meal and drink on Friday evening.
I just received the following via e-mail:
"I do need to speak to you regarding Friday.
There have been unforeseen developments in my life.
Have you got any time free?"
We're meeting for lunch today in the pub. I believe that I'm about to be given the 'heave-ho'. Rejected twice in the same week. That's a record even by my standards. I shall update later....
8 December 2004
Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment
I'm experiencing some confusion over the issue of break-ups.
I don't wish to go into details of my most recent break-up as it is still rather fresh and I'm still, frankly, slightly drunk.
But you see, this is what bothers me. Every time - EVERY TIME - I've broken up with someone and it's been at their behest, they always tell me what a great guy I am and how wonderful I've been shortly before tearing my heart out, squeezing it slowly in their gnarled fist and allowing my blood to run down their elbow like kebab grease. I'm unsure as to how this whole thing really works. It usually goes something like this:
"Look Dan, you're a really nice guy, you're interesting and hilarious and a fantastic lover and I want to travel with you to Venice and sip outrageously expensive sanguineous wines under a peach sunset whilst gazing into your steely-blue eyes and imagining us in ten years time, married, with our two beautiful, flaxen-haired, apple-cheeked children entertaining us with a cello recital in the music room of our palatial mansion on the Surrey border. Having said that, I don't want to ever speak to you again. If you died tomorrow, I would barely notice. And if you attempt to contact me in any way, I will call the police and have you shot in the face. Now leave before I start screaming."
Why can't people be honest? Why the lies and subterfuge?
Isn't it strange that these people who are 'really not ready for a relationship at the moment' seem to get over it at frightening speed and find themselves mere minutes later inan intense and lurid sexual bond with a bouncer called Dave who has no neck to speak of and regularly shaves his forehead?
Or the ones who claim that they 'need some space' to deal with their personal issues. Invariably, the addressing of these issues then involves going to clubs every night of the week until 2 a.m. and, variously, dancing, smooching and sleeping with a procession of sparkly-shirted neanderthals whose idea of foreplay is to smash a glass onto their own head, grin and vomit noisily into the corner, wiping the bile from their chins with a balled-up chip wrapper.
The one thing that I'm starting to learn is - never, ever get involved with someone.
You WILL end up getting hurt.
You WILL end up drinking too much.
You WILL end up downloading way too much pornography.
And, finally, when the pain is a dull, non-specific ache somewhere in your chest, you WILL start chatting to someone in a pub and the whole horrible, pathetic, ultimately disappointing cycle will start again.
Remember: Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment. Don't be taken in.
I don't wish to go into details of my most recent break-up as it is still rather fresh and I'm still, frankly, slightly drunk.
But you see, this is what bothers me. Every time - EVERY TIME - I've broken up with someone and it's been at their behest, they always tell me what a great guy I am and how wonderful I've been shortly before tearing my heart out, squeezing it slowly in their gnarled fist and allowing my blood to run down their elbow like kebab grease. I'm unsure as to how this whole thing really works. It usually goes something like this:
"Look Dan, you're a really nice guy, you're interesting and hilarious and a fantastic lover and I want to travel with you to Venice and sip outrageously expensive sanguineous wines under a peach sunset whilst gazing into your steely-blue eyes and imagining us in ten years time, married, with our two beautiful, flaxen-haired, apple-cheeked children entertaining us with a cello recital in the music room of our palatial mansion on the Surrey border. Having said that, I don't want to ever speak to you again. If you died tomorrow, I would barely notice. And if you attempt to contact me in any way, I will call the police and have you shot in the face. Now leave before I start screaming."
Why can't people be honest? Why the lies and subterfuge?
Isn't it strange that these people who are 'really not ready for a relationship at the moment' seem to get over it at frightening speed and find themselves mere minutes later inan intense and lurid sexual bond with a bouncer called Dave who has no neck to speak of and regularly shaves his forehead?
Or the ones who claim that they 'need some space' to deal with their personal issues. Invariably, the addressing of these issues then involves going to clubs every night of the week until 2 a.m. and, variously, dancing, smooching and sleeping with a procession of sparkly-shirted neanderthals whose idea of foreplay is to smash a glass onto their own head, grin and vomit noisily into the corner, wiping the bile from their chins with a balled-up chip wrapper.
The one thing that I'm starting to learn is - never, ever get involved with someone.
You WILL end up getting hurt.
You WILL end up drinking too much.
You WILL end up downloading way too much pornography.
And, finally, when the pain is a dull, non-specific ache somewhere in your chest, you WILL start chatting to someone in a pub and the whole horrible, pathetic, ultimately disappointing cycle will start again.
Remember: Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment. Don't be taken in.
7 December 2004
Blog and Dumped
It's just occurred to me that I really hate the word 'blog'. At some point, someone, somewhere with way too much time on their hands decided that the word WebLog was simply too lengthy and confusing for common usage. Hence 'blog' was born. How fucking twee is that? Have we really reached the stage in our evolution where any word with more than two syllables is thought of as simply too much trouble?
I may, in protest, write my next entry purely using words of no more than a single syllable. Then again, I might not. Can't be arsed, to be honest.
Oh, by the way, just got dumped. Again.
You want disappointment? Come round. We'll have a drink and I can tell you about my life. I'm so bloated with inertia that I can barely be bothered to breathe.
Actually, forget the thing about coming round. I don't like you anyway, you bastards.
I may, in protest, write my next entry purely using words of no more than a single syllable. Then again, I might not. Can't be arsed, to be honest.
Oh, by the way, just got dumped. Again.
You want disappointment? Come round. We'll have a drink and I can tell you about my life. I'm so bloated with inertia that I can barely be bothered to breathe.
Actually, forget the thing about coming round. I don't like you anyway, you bastards.
The Beautiful South
On Saturday night I went to Hammersmith to see The Beautiful South in concert.
What a fantastic night. I went with a very good friend of mine who'd always wanted to see them. As soon as I saw tickets were available I bought a couple so that we could go. She was really looking forward to it.
We travelled up, found a pub, had a few drinks and a much needed chat and then went to the gig.
Unfortunately, it started to go wrong from that point. Behind us was a guy who, let's be honest, had probably had one too many and then compounded the mistake by drinking a bottle of vodka and a barrel of Old Jim's Arse-Clenchingly Strong Bitter.
The guy was drunk to the point of being a complete twat which, ironically, he was anyway. He made a noise, throughout the gig, which I can only describe as gruff hooting. At the beginning of every song, at the end of every song, even during the songs themselves. "Yeah!", "Hoo!" and "Aaaargh!" punctuated every finely crafted tune.
I saw my friend becoming more and more annoyed throughout as the guy was just behind her and shouting in her ear.
Now, I should explain at this point that I'm not a fighter. I'm a thinker and a lover and a run-awayer. In a fight, the best that I can hope for is that whatever assailant is pummelling me somehow slips in my blood and breaks their neck. So, accordingly, I sat and did that very English thing of tutting loudly, but not loudly enough to be actually heard by anything other than say, a dog with extremely acute hearing.
In the end, I lost my temper, rounded on the guy and said in a loud voice, "You do realise that your constant hooting is not only ruining this concert for both myself and my friend here, but every other person present. If you can't control yourself, can I suggest that you leave and find a pub as, clearly, a man with your lack of regard for anyone else can only find a friend in the bottom of a pint glass. Now please, for the love of God, shut up."
The entire building fell silent. Even the band stopped playing. Then, a single person started clapping. Another joined. Then another. Finally, the entire audience were applauding and cheering. The man, obviously mortified, stood up and left whereupon, I have no doubt, he probably threw himself in front of a train.
I was carried, shoulder-high, over the audience onto the stage where the band slapped me on the back and invited me to duet with the lead singer on a particularly innovative version of 'You're the one that I want'.
I was taken backstage after the gig, given large quantities of Crack Cocaine and white rum, and fellated by the lead female singer.
All in all a fabulous evening, and another victory for good manners and courage.
Note: Some of the above may not be entirely true.
What a fantastic night. I went with a very good friend of mine who'd always wanted to see them. As soon as I saw tickets were available I bought a couple so that we could go. She was really looking forward to it.
We travelled up, found a pub, had a few drinks and a much needed chat and then went to the gig.
Unfortunately, it started to go wrong from that point. Behind us was a guy who, let's be honest, had probably had one too many and then compounded the mistake by drinking a bottle of vodka and a barrel of Old Jim's Arse-Clenchingly Strong Bitter.
The guy was drunk to the point of being a complete twat which, ironically, he was anyway. He made a noise, throughout the gig, which I can only describe as gruff hooting. At the beginning of every song, at the end of every song, even during the songs themselves. "Yeah!", "Hoo!" and "Aaaargh!" punctuated every finely crafted tune.
I saw my friend becoming more and more annoyed throughout as the guy was just behind her and shouting in her ear.
Now, I should explain at this point that I'm not a fighter. I'm a thinker and a lover and a run-awayer. In a fight, the best that I can hope for is that whatever assailant is pummelling me somehow slips in my blood and breaks their neck. So, accordingly, I sat and did that very English thing of tutting loudly, but not loudly enough to be actually heard by anything other than say, a dog with extremely acute hearing.
In the end, I lost my temper, rounded on the guy and said in a loud voice, "You do realise that your constant hooting is not only ruining this concert for both myself and my friend here, but every other person present. If you can't control yourself, can I suggest that you leave and find a pub as, clearly, a man with your lack of regard for anyone else can only find a friend in the bottom of a pint glass. Now please, for the love of God, shut up."
The entire building fell silent. Even the band stopped playing. Then, a single person started clapping. Another joined. Then another. Finally, the entire audience were applauding and cheering. The man, obviously mortified, stood up and left whereupon, I have no doubt, he probably threw himself in front of a train.
I was carried, shoulder-high, over the audience onto the stage where the band slapped me on the back and invited me to duet with the lead singer on a particularly innovative version of 'You're the one that I want'.
I was taken backstage after the gig, given large quantities of Crack Cocaine and white rum, and fellated by the lead female singer.
All in all a fabulous evening, and another victory for good manners and courage.
Note: Some of the above may not be entirely true.
6 December 2004
Cigarettes and Chocolate
This is a post for smokers. If you don't smoke - leave. No, really. Get out. You're not wanted here. This is a smoking zone. If you're not puffing contentedly on a Marlboro, get out of my site (see what I did there?). I'm not writing this so that some mewling little scrotum with an immortality fantasy can sit there and say, 'oh, you're a stinker! You reek of cigarette smoke!' or 'Excuse me, could you not smoke while I'm trying to eat?' or 'please god, stop stubbing that cigarette out on my eyeball, I'm so, so sorry!'.
Actually, I made that last one up, but it's only a matter of time, believe me.
This is what I think. Lots of non-smokers don't go to pubs. The reason? 'Because of the smoke. It smells and it makes me cough and...' - shut the fuck up. Really. SHUT UP. Non-smokers don't go to the pub for one reason and one reason only - because it's full of charming, amusing, good-looking people quaffing alchohol, smoking tasty cigarettes, munching yummy pig-based snacks and, above all, HAVING A GOOD TIME. And that's what non-smokers don't like - having a good time. Whining, miserable, depressing, sour-faced fuckers, all.
Have I evidence to justify that? Hell, yes.
Southend-on-Sea, Essex. My home town. A non-smoking pub was opened several years back. Absolutely no smoking allowed. Don't even think about it. In fact, if you even have a stub from someone elses cigarette stuck to the sole of your shoe when you walk in, we'll cut your fingers off, paint the stubs with vinegar and slam them in a car door. That's how much we hate cigarettes.
The result? It closed down after about six weeks. No-one went in there. Why? Because who wants to spend an evening in the company of non-smokers? Nobody. Even non-smokers hate other non-smokers! Irritating, smug bastards, the lot of them.
So, on to my point. I wish to start a revolution in the field of smoking. It's not been done before, but I really think it could work. Here it is:
As a smoker, have you ever been in that situation where you light up a cigarette and you get a strange taste in your mouth? Something goes wrong with your withered, blackened tastebuds, an electrical impulse gets screwed up on its way to your shrinking oxygen-starved brain, and your cigarette doesn't taste like, well, a cigarette. It tastes like something else. This has happened to me a number of times. Once, whilst waiting for a train, I lit up a cigarette and, I swear to God, it tasted of cream cheese. Another time, I had the flavour of honey-roasted ham. It's happened a few times over the years, and it's always a pleasant surprise. After a while, it's almost like eating a bag of revels* - you're never sure what flavour it's going to be, but the anticipation gives you a buzz. You see, even after smoking them for years, cigarettes still occasionally pluck something new out of the bag. They're like a friend who on an impulse decides to buy you a present to say 'There you go. Just felt like letting you know how much I love you, man'. Cigarettes are our buddies and always will be.
So, this all got me thinking and I decided that if you can have cigarettes that taste like Polo's (for anyone not from the UK, insert the name of your favourite minty thing) why not have ones that taste like, say, a good steak dinner. Or maybe a peanut butter sandwich flavour cigarette? Not allowed to drink? Doctor forbidden it? On anti-alcoholism medication? 'Hey, shopkeeper, gimme a packet of those burbs will ya?'. Hey presto, bourbon and coke flavour ciggies. Mmmm-mmm. All the flavour, none of the random vomiting.
And of course, it would only be a matter of time before science, wonderful thing that it is, synthesised the taste of Angelina Jolie and incorporated it into the tobacco. Man, I'd be on 80 a day...
* Revels. For non-UK readers, these are a sweet confection consisting of a variety of different tasty centres all wrapped in chocolate. The Malteser is easy to guess because it's the size of a baby's head. Same thing with the Minstrel-thing due to its distinctive shape. The peanut, similarly, is easily identified. The confusion and sense of anticipation comes with the toffee, the orange cream and the coffee cream because they all look alike! Genius! But now, they've introduced a new Revel! Oh yes, each packet now has a new 'mystery' sweet inside. I looked at the packet and was instantly hooked. A new flavour? Wow, what could it be? Strawberry, perhaps? Or blackcurrant cream? Maybe a nice white chocolatey thing? Perhaps a gooey liquer of some sort, cointreau or amaretto or something?
It's a fucking raisin.
Piss off.
Actually, I made that last one up, but it's only a matter of time, believe me.
This is what I think. Lots of non-smokers don't go to pubs. The reason? 'Because of the smoke. It smells and it makes me cough and...' - shut the fuck up. Really. SHUT UP. Non-smokers don't go to the pub for one reason and one reason only - because it's full of charming, amusing, good-looking people quaffing alchohol, smoking tasty cigarettes, munching yummy pig-based snacks and, above all, HAVING A GOOD TIME. And that's what non-smokers don't like - having a good time. Whining, miserable, depressing, sour-faced fuckers, all.
Have I evidence to justify that? Hell, yes.
Southend-on-Sea, Essex. My home town. A non-smoking pub was opened several years back. Absolutely no smoking allowed. Don't even think about it. In fact, if you even have a stub from someone elses cigarette stuck to the sole of your shoe when you walk in, we'll cut your fingers off, paint the stubs with vinegar and slam them in a car door. That's how much we hate cigarettes.
The result? It closed down after about six weeks. No-one went in there. Why? Because who wants to spend an evening in the company of non-smokers? Nobody. Even non-smokers hate other non-smokers! Irritating, smug bastards, the lot of them.
So, on to my point. I wish to start a revolution in the field of smoking. It's not been done before, but I really think it could work. Here it is:
As a smoker, have you ever been in that situation where you light up a cigarette and you get a strange taste in your mouth? Something goes wrong with your withered, blackened tastebuds, an electrical impulse gets screwed up on its way to your shrinking oxygen-starved brain, and your cigarette doesn't taste like, well, a cigarette. It tastes like something else. This has happened to me a number of times. Once, whilst waiting for a train, I lit up a cigarette and, I swear to God, it tasted of cream cheese. Another time, I had the flavour of honey-roasted ham. It's happened a few times over the years, and it's always a pleasant surprise. After a while, it's almost like eating a bag of revels* - you're never sure what flavour it's going to be, but the anticipation gives you a buzz. You see, even after smoking them for years, cigarettes still occasionally pluck something new out of the bag. They're like a friend who on an impulse decides to buy you a present to say 'There you go. Just felt like letting you know how much I love you, man'. Cigarettes are our buddies and always will be.
So, this all got me thinking and I decided that if you can have cigarettes that taste like Polo's (for anyone not from the UK, insert the name of your favourite minty thing) why not have ones that taste like, say, a good steak dinner. Or maybe a peanut butter sandwich flavour cigarette? Not allowed to drink? Doctor forbidden it? On anti-alcoholism medication? 'Hey, shopkeeper, gimme a packet of those burbs will ya?'. Hey presto, bourbon and coke flavour ciggies. Mmmm-mmm. All the flavour, none of the random vomiting.
And of course, it would only be a matter of time before science, wonderful thing that it is, synthesised the taste of Angelina Jolie and incorporated it into the tobacco. Man, I'd be on 80 a day...
* Revels. For non-UK readers, these are a sweet confection consisting of a variety of different tasty centres all wrapped in chocolate. The Malteser is easy to guess because it's the size of a baby's head. Same thing with the Minstrel-thing due to its distinctive shape. The peanut, similarly, is easily identified. The confusion and sense of anticipation comes with the toffee, the orange cream and the coffee cream because they all look alike! Genius! But now, they've introduced a new Revel! Oh yes, each packet now has a new 'mystery' sweet inside. I looked at the packet and was instantly hooked. A new flavour? Wow, what could it be? Strawberry, perhaps? Or blackcurrant cream? Maybe a nice white chocolatey thing? Perhaps a gooey liquer of some sort, cointreau or amaretto or something?
It's a fucking raisin.
Piss off.
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