1) Guy Goma. Due to an almost amusing misunderstanding, a man who was simply turning up for a job interview accidentally got picked up at reception, made up, and thrown in front of a camera to participate on the BBC news. Clicky link: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4774429.stm
It's good.
2) Morning Glory. Very wrong. Very funny. If you are easily offended, do not clicky. http://www.mgcomics.net/
3) Themanwhofellasleep. Amusing. Clicky on Sad Jokes. http://www.themanwhofellasleep.com/
24 May 2006
23 May 2006
18 May 2006
Sabbatical, headaches and facial recognition.
First things first - I'm leaving the blog for a while. I received some feedback from someone recently who claimed that I seemed to be "bitter". Although I don't necessarily agree with that, I did re-read some of my posts and have realised that, well, I ain't as funny as I used to be.
This blog was always meant to represent a kind of heightened reality, sort of like Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm, where I could breathe life into a alternate version of myself and exaggerate certain elements of my life. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened lately. Instead, I've been maudlin and unamusing. It's been like watching a car crash as I've slowly spiralled into 'breakdown'. Nobody wants to see that, least of all me. So, I'm going on sabbatical. I may be back, I may not. We'll see.
In the meantime, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Benny C. Yeah, he isn't as funny as me, but he's just a youngster. One day he may cease to be my Padawan learner and become a Master.
I've been off work for the last few days with a sore throat, aching muscles, a blocked up nose, and a headache that has been constant for approximately 72 hours. I may kill something soon. So, apologies for not being amusing or entertaining.
Before I go, one last thing. Check this out: http://www.myheritage.com/FP/Company/face_recognition.php?s=1&u=g0&lang=EN&restore&category=1
You have to sign up with your e-mail address, but it's all kosher.
Upload a photograph of yourself and the website conducts a comparison with over 3,200 well known people, then gives you a list of those that you most closely resemble.
I uploaded two photos and found that I was a combination of the following:
Sean Penn - 67%
WB Yeats - 58%
Sting - 50%
Jude Law - 50%
Emilio Estevez - 48%
Charles Manson - 48%
Groucho Mark - 47%
So, if asked on an Internet chatroom, I shall claim that I'm a cross between Jude Law and Sean Penn, with a soupcon of Charlie Manson thrown in. If that doesn't get them interested, nothing will.
Bye.
This blog was always meant to represent a kind of heightened reality, sort of like Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm, where I could breathe life into a alternate version of myself and exaggerate certain elements of my life. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened lately. Instead, I've been maudlin and unamusing. It's been like watching a car crash as I've slowly spiralled into 'breakdown'. Nobody wants to see that, least of all me. So, I'm going on sabbatical. I may be back, I may not. We'll see.
In the meantime, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Benny C. Yeah, he isn't as funny as me, but he's just a youngster. One day he may cease to be my Padawan learner and become a Master.
I've been off work for the last few days with a sore throat, aching muscles, a blocked up nose, and a headache that has been constant for approximately 72 hours. I may kill something soon. So, apologies for not being amusing or entertaining.
Before I go, one last thing. Check this out: http://www.myheritage.com/FP/Company/face_recognition.php?s=1&u=g0&lang=EN&restore&category=1
You have to sign up with your e-mail address, but it's all kosher.
Upload a photograph of yourself and the website conducts a comparison with over 3,200 well known people, then gives you a list of those that you most closely resemble.
I uploaded two photos and found that I was a combination of the following:
Sean Penn - 67%
WB Yeats - 58%
Sting - 50%
Jude Law - 50%
Emilio Estevez - 48%
Charles Manson - 48%
Groucho Mark - 47%
So, if asked on an Internet chatroom, I shall claim that I'm a cross between Jude Law and Sean Penn, with a soupcon of Charlie Manson thrown in. If that doesn't get them interested, nothing will.
Bye.
10 May 2006
DrunkSense
Regular readers (both of you) may remember that I wrote a post a while back on the excellent product Pawsense. Linkage here: http://blogeternaldisappointment.blogspot.com/2004/12/microwaves-and-cats.html
Re-reading some of my recent posts, some of which were melancholically tapped out whilst I was 'much disguised in drink', I have decided to invent something called 'DrunkSense'.
Drunksense (tm) is a piece of software which you can run on your PC as a background application and if at any point you arrive home as pissed as a lemur and decide that you want to share your pain with the world, it will detect the agonisingly slow key depressions, whilst conducting an internal log of how many times you press the backspace key to delete your repeated spelling mistakes, and lock you out.
If you attempt to resume your drunken ramblings, the PC will play 'I Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)' until you're reduced to pitiful, sobbing tears, whereupon you shambolically stumble off to bed and collapse, fully clothed, into the covers. It's a kind of audial Mace.
Thus, when you awake the following morning, you don't have to gingerly log in to your blog to a) witness the self-pitying torrent of spleen you have vented on to the World Wide Internet and b) cringe when you realise how many people have already read it and are dolefully shaking their heads and wondering how long it'll be before you finally cave in and deliberately drown yourself in a sinkful of dirty dishes.
I think it's a winner.
Re-reading some of my recent posts, some of which were melancholically tapped out whilst I was 'much disguised in drink', I have decided to invent something called 'DrunkSense'.
Drunksense (tm) is a piece of software which you can run on your PC as a background application and if at any point you arrive home as pissed as a lemur and decide that you want to share your pain with the world, it will detect the agonisingly slow key depressions, whilst conducting an internal log of how many times you press the backspace key to delete your repeated spelling mistakes, and lock you out.
If you attempt to resume your drunken ramblings, the PC will play 'I Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)' until you're reduced to pitiful, sobbing tears, whereupon you shambolically stumble off to bed and collapse, fully clothed, into the covers. It's a kind of audial Mace.
Thus, when you awake the following morning, you don't have to gingerly log in to your blog to a) witness the self-pitying torrent of spleen you have vented on to the World Wide Internet and b) cringe when you realise how many people have already read it and are dolefully shaking their heads and wondering how long it'll be before you finally cave in and deliberately drown yourself in a sinkful of dirty dishes.
I think it's a winner.
8 May 2006
TEPS, sunscreen, achievement, and the future.
I have just participated and, thank the Lord, been succesful in a game of TEPS (The Emergency Poo Sprint).
For those of you unfamiliar with TEPS, this involves an evening of drinking and eating, culminating in a sudden and rather frightening need to immediately excrete.
The need hit me about five minutes ago as I wended my drunken way home after an evening out with my father. Thank Christ, I made it in time. Racing in through the front door like an impatient penguin, I waddled upstairs (curse my first floor flat, despite its admirable view) and burst into the toilet before, well, bursting into the toilet.
I am now sitting, drinking water and enjoying the kind of buzz that is usually only experienced by potheads who have just smoked a twelve-inch skunk roll-up marijuana pipe.
Is this a male only phenomenon or do women experience TEPS too? Feedback please. I like to think I'm closing the sex gap.
So, I listened to Baz Lurhmans 'Everyones free to wear sunscreen' again yesterday. I love the song. If you don't like it, get out. Now. I mean it. Fuck off out of my blog you neanderthal.
It appeals to me on so many levels, not least of which is my own tendency to dispense sage advice to people regardless of my apparent inability to control a single event in my own life.
One of the lyrics in the song is "Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t."
That lyric has been haunting me.
I don't know what I want to do with my life. I'm 33. Surely I should know by now?
Sadly, however, I don't.
Does that mean that I'm an interesting person?
Maybe it means that I'm far from interesting and have only succeeded in failing spectacularly.
I don't know.
I lack direction.
What does the future hold? Is that the question that should be occupying my time? Should I be concentrating on what destiny has in store? Should I be ignoring destiny and concentrating on my next masturbatory fantasy? Should I just go to sleep.
These are the questions which, ironically, keep me awake...
Answers on a postcard.
For those of you unfamiliar with TEPS, this involves an evening of drinking and eating, culminating in a sudden and rather frightening need to immediately excrete.
The need hit me about five minutes ago as I wended my drunken way home after an evening out with my father. Thank Christ, I made it in time. Racing in through the front door like an impatient penguin, I waddled upstairs (curse my first floor flat, despite its admirable view) and burst into the toilet before, well, bursting into the toilet.
I am now sitting, drinking water and enjoying the kind of buzz that is usually only experienced by potheads who have just smoked a twelve-inch skunk roll-up marijuana pipe.
Is this a male only phenomenon or do women experience TEPS too? Feedback please. I like to think I'm closing the sex gap.
So, I listened to Baz Lurhmans 'Everyones free to wear sunscreen' again yesterday. I love the song. If you don't like it, get out. Now. I mean it. Fuck off out of my blog you neanderthal.
It appeals to me on so many levels, not least of which is my own tendency to dispense sage advice to people regardless of my apparent inability to control a single event in my own life.
One of the lyrics in the song is "Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t."
That lyric has been haunting me.
I don't know what I want to do with my life. I'm 33. Surely I should know by now?
Sadly, however, I don't.
Does that mean that I'm an interesting person?
Maybe it means that I'm far from interesting and have only succeeded in failing spectacularly.
I don't know.
I lack direction.
What does the future hold? Is that the question that should be occupying my time? Should I be concentrating on what destiny has in store? Should I be ignoring destiny and concentrating on my next masturbatory fantasy? Should I just go to sleep.
These are the questions which, ironically, keep me awake...
Answers on a postcard.
7 May 2006
Myspace, webpages, writing, and dog turds.
Just finished 'doing up' my Myspace profile thing. The legitimate thought process behind this is that if I throw myself into enough different bits of cyberspace, I'm bound to be recognised eventually. Of course, that may not work.
I also have my own website which I purchased through 123reg. This was a big mistake. 123reg is bastard-well difficult to use, and so far all I've managed to achieve is a holding page. If anyone can help me to set up a very, very basic website, then I'd be much obliged.
Rob Pratten is a film director. He optioned the Gentlemen's Club screenplay that I co-wrote. However, he isn't making it at the moment because he's committed to another project called Mindflesh. This was hugely disappointing. However, I then realised that it was probably a good thing. If Mindflesh is the critical success that London Voodoo was, then that may give him a little more power to be able to get the financing for GC. Check out Rob's website. www.zenfilms.com
As I typed this, with the sun peeking through the window and Aimee Mann playing in the background, I looked out into the garden with a beatific smile on my face only to see my neighbours dog squatting on the grass, back legs juddering like Michael J. Fox, curling a huge brown cable. I don't like dogs. And I don't like dog eggs.
I also have my own website which I purchased through 123reg. This was a big mistake. 123reg is bastard-well difficult to use, and so far all I've managed to achieve is a holding page. If anyone can help me to set up a very, very basic website, then I'd be much obliged.
Rob Pratten is a film director. He optioned the Gentlemen's Club screenplay that I co-wrote. However, he isn't making it at the moment because he's committed to another project called Mindflesh. This was hugely disappointing. However, I then realised that it was probably a good thing. If Mindflesh is the critical success that London Voodoo was, then that may give him a little more power to be able to get the financing for GC. Check out Rob's website. www.zenfilms.com
As I typed this, with the sun peeking through the window and Aimee Mann playing in the background, I looked out into the garden with a beatific smile on my face only to see my neighbours dog squatting on the grass, back legs juddering like Michael J. Fox, curling a huge brown cable. I don't like dogs. And I don't like dog eggs.
30 April 2006
The loneliness of the long distance surfer
So, it's now just after 4.30 am and I'm still bastard well awake.
Benny C, the crazy little Northerner, is asleep on the floor in my living room. He has to be at work in 2 hours. Hehehe.
I've spent the last few hours surfing the net, trying desperately to engage someone - ANYONE - in a meaningful conversation. It ain't happening.
But I'm amazed by the amount of people still awake in the UK and posting messages on various forums. Also, there are quite a lot of people in the UK chatrooms. Sadly, they are all buffoons of the highest order with absolutely nothing to say.
Which reminds me, I was recently 'kicked' out of a chatroom for offensive behaviour.
My crime? Trying to start a discussion. I explained to those present in the room that all I was trying to do was stimulate intellectual debate via an argument. Sadly, we're not allowed to argue anymore in this country. We must be nice and pleasant and caring.
Absolute arse. Since when did conversation become a crime?
I remember becoming quite angry, joining other chatrooms and complaining about this terrible injustice. I was, unfortunately, quite drunk so the point may have been lost in my incoherent ramblings. Regular readers of this blog will be used to these...
Benny C, the crazy little Northerner, is asleep on the floor in my living room. He has to be at work in 2 hours. Hehehe.
I've spent the last few hours surfing the net, trying desperately to engage someone - ANYONE - in a meaningful conversation. It ain't happening.
But I'm amazed by the amount of people still awake in the UK and posting messages on various forums. Also, there are quite a lot of people in the UK chatrooms. Sadly, they are all buffoons of the highest order with absolutely nothing to say.
Which reminds me, I was recently 'kicked' out of a chatroom for offensive behaviour.
My crime? Trying to start a discussion. I explained to those present in the room that all I was trying to do was stimulate intellectual debate via an argument. Sadly, we're not allowed to argue anymore in this country. We must be nice and pleasant and caring.
Absolute arse. Since when did conversation become a crime?
I remember becoming quite angry, joining other chatrooms and complaining about this terrible injustice. I was, unfortunately, quite drunk so the point may have been lost in my incoherent ramblings. Regular readers of this blog will be used to these...
22 April 2006
Recycling. Pissed. Photos. Update. (Edited due to sobriety.)
I've just put two empty Pepsi Max Cino (fuck you, I like it) bottles in the pink recycling sack. Although, truth be told, I have my doubts about exactly what's going to be recycled here. I suspect that some guy in a big warehouse somewhere, takes all the pink sacks, rips them open and tips them into a skip, where they are then added to the other landfill shit that is being buried in our green and pleasant land. It's all about ticking boxes. Trust me, I work for the Government and my entire fucking job is about ticking cunting boxes.
I work in security. I'm a qualified security auditor. I have certificates. But I've been told, don't actually go out and do security audits so that we can prevent terrorists, eco-warriors and the like from getting to our deep dark secrets, just tick a few boxes. Bunch of arse.
Anyway, I've been told to tick boxes. On paper, we're doing our job. We're making society safer, we're protecting assets, we're 'MAKING A DIFFERENCE'. Oh, if only. Bunch of cunt.
Just spent ten minutes looking through some old photos that I found whilst looking through my drawer for something. Photos of my Grandfather (the nice one) and my father (the white one). Came to belated realisation that both of these people that came before me had their own lives, dreams, hopes and regrets. Realise that the next time I see my Dad I need to ask him about his Dad. Reason? Because one day, my Dad will be gone and I'd love someone to ask me about him. He's my hero. Yes, he's an aggravating old bugger who likes to carp on about whatever topic of the week is currently annoying him, but he 's my Dad, so fuck it, he's allowed.
One day, I'll be him. Apart from the 'Dad' thing, cos I haven't got kids and I'm unlikely to have any. But apart from that, it is my duty to carry on the 'Leonard' line until my inevitable heart-attack-related death and be a right annoying bugger who'll piss on anyone's parade just to irritate them. So, just to sum up, I need to ask my Dad about his Dad because it's important.
Update.
The Gentlemen's Club is currently being taken to Cannes to see if the Director can get some financing to make the fucker. Poster and tagline available at www.zenfilms.com
I work in security. I'm a qualified security auditor. I have certificates. But I've been told, don't actually go out and do security audits so that we can prevent terrorists, eco-warriors and the like from getting to our deep dark secrets, just tick a few boxes. Bunch of arse.
Anyway, I've been told to tick boxes. On paper, we're doing our job. We're making society safer, we're protecting assets, we're 'MAKING A DIFFERENCE'. Oh, if only. Bunch of cunt.
Just spent ten minutes looking through some old photos that I found whilst looking through my drawer for something. Photos of my Grandfather (the nice one) and my father (the white one). Came to belated realisation that both of these people that came before me had their own lives, dreams, hopes and regrets. Realise that the next time I see my Dad I need to ask him about his Dad. Reason? Because one day, my Dad will be gone and I'd love someone to ask me about him. He's my hero. Yes, he's an aggravating old bugger who likes to carp on about whatever topic of the week is currently annoying him, but he 's my Dad, so fuck it, he's allowed.
One day, I'll be him. Apart from the 'Dad' thing, cos I haven't got kids and I'm unlikely to have any. But apart from that, it is my duty to carry on the 'Leonard' line until my inevitable heart-attack-related death and be a right annoying bugger who'll piss on anyone's parade just to irritate them. So, just to sum up, I need to ask my Dad about his Dad because it's important.
Update.
The Gentlemen's Club is currently being taken to Cannes to see if the Director can get some financing to make the fucker. Poster and tagline available at www.zenfilms.com
20 April 2006
The French and Pandas. And Cages.
A French playwright, Norbert Aboudarham, has spent a week inside a cage at the zoo to gain an insight into how pandas live for a theatre project he is developing.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4926280.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4926280.stm
He stated that it was "about the universe, you have to put yourself in a cage smaller than the universe." Well, that's hardly bastard well difficult is it?
A zoo employee stated that the experiment was a way of "questioning man about his belonging to nature". And all the time that Mr Aboudarham was communing with nature and learning to become one with the cosmos so that he could make a small bundle of money with which to pay the rent and stock up on unfiltered cigarettes, what was he actually doing? Using his laptop.
I shit you not. He broke up the boredom of contemplating the Universe by checking his e-mails, doing a bit of e-Baying and getting to the next level on Doom. Twat.
To most people, all of this will seem like a) a rather silly, yet lucrative, publicity stunt, b) a heartfelt attempt to discover the reality of the plight of caged pandas, c) pretentiousness of the highest calibre, d) a Frenchman taking the wrong things far too seriously, as usual, or e) a lot of old wank.
I'm withholding judgement until I see the actual theatre project itself. You can all sit and scoff, but I shall be able to self-righteously recline and nod intellectually as I watch a group of poorly paid actors cavort childishly around the stage earnestly attempting to communicate the spiritual decline of big, stupid Chinese bears that would rather eat sticks than fuck.
However, I think the cage thing is an excellent idea for two quite distinct reasons:
1) I am going to establish 'Le Zoo Humain'. Effectively, this will be an international chain of Human Zoo's in which people from across the world can see the French, safely behind bars, living in total seclusion from the rest of humanity.
"Look, Timmy! There's a Frenchman swilling back cheap red wine*, half naked, whilst disinterestedly mauling the disappointing breasts of his tawdry, lipstick-smeared girlfriend!"
"Oh, Daddy, can we come back and see the French people again next week? They make me giggle in my tummy!"
I have nothing against the French, but for some reason I just feel that they should be segregated from the rest of society. Like midgets. And Northerners.
2) Rule one in 'How to be an author' is - write what you know. Mr Aboudarham wants to write about Pandas, therefore he sits in a panda cage for a week. So simple, so obvious.
Taking that idea on board, and bearing in mind my current scriptwriting project which is about social isolation and the spreading phenomenon of Hikikomori, I have decided to radically alter my lifestyle and spend the next six months indoors, with no-one to talk to, listlessly trawling the internet in an unceasing quest to find some small flicker of human contact, recognition or love, whilst...
Shit.
*Those wine glasses that you can buy which hold an entire bottle; they were invented by the French. For children. To drink at breakfast time.
I'm withholding judgement until I see the actual theatre project itself. You can all sit and scoff, but I shall be able to self-righteously recline and nod intellectually as I watch a group of poorly paid actors cavort childishly around the stage earnestly attempting to communicate the spiritual decline of big, stupid Chinese bears that would rather eat sticks than fuck.
However, I think the cage thing is an excellent idea for two quite distinct reasons:
1) I am going to establish 'Le Zoo Humain'. Effectively, this will be an international chain of Human Zoo's in which people from across the world can see the French, safely behind bars, living in total seclusion from the rest of humanity.
"Look, Timmy! There's a Frenchman swilling back cheap red wine*, half naked, whilst disinterestedly mauling the disappointing breasts of his tawdry, lipstick-smeared girlfriend!"
"Oh, Daddy, can we come back and see the French people again next week? They make me giggle in my tummy!"
I have nothing against the French, but for some reason I just feel that they should be segregated from the rest of society. Like midgets. And Northerners.
2) Rule one in 'How to be an author' is - write what you know. Mr Aboudarham wants to write about Pandas, therefore he sits in a panda cage for a week. So simple, so obvious.
Taking that idea on board, and bearing in mind my current scriptwriting project which is about social isolation and the spreading phenomenon of Hikikomori, I have decided to radically alter my lifestyle and spend the next six months indoors, with no-one to talk to, listlessly trawling the internet in an unceasing quest to find some small flicker of human contact, recognition or love, whilst...
Shit.
*Those wine glasses that you can buy which hold an entire bottle; they were invented by the French. For children. To drink at breakfast time.
9 April 2006
Time for resurrection?
There's an old adage which says, "Quit while you're ahead".
For instance, the current series of Hustle on BBC1 is really, really awful. They should have stopped after the second series. The new Derren Brown series on Channel 4 is also similarly terrible.
Sometimes, people need to learn that you really should stop while you're on top.
So, in that spirit, I've decided to restart The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
After all, it was never particularly popular anyway, so it's not like I have anything to live up to.
Welcome back.
For instance, the current series of Hustle on BBC1 is really, really awful. They should have stopped after the second series. The new Derren Brown series on Channel 4 is also similarly terrible.
Sometimes, people need to learn that you really should stop while you're on top.
So, in that spirit, I've decided to restart The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
After all, it was never particularly popular anyway, so it's not like I have anything to live up to.
Welcome back.
26 January 2005
And so it ends
Life is a strange and wondrous thing and it never ceases to amaze me. Wherever you go, you will find disappointment, but you will also find beauty, kindness, generosity and laughter. Life, real life, is an unforeseeable, yet exciting, combination of so many things, both positive and negative.
Over the course of the last few months, I've used this blog to write of my experiences (some real, some imagined) contribute bizarre ideas and, in certain circumstances, exorcise a few demons. It's been strangely cathartic and I've had great fun doing it.
You see, if you can take those things that bother you, that keep you awake at night, that break your heart and tear at your soul, and you can find the humour in them, then you're on the way to becoming a much better person.
Like they say, life isn't the destination, it's the journey. Enjoy the journey, make it a good one, and never forget to laugh at yourself. Bill Hicks said, "It's just a ride". Amen to that.
All of this leads me on to my point.
This blog had a purpose, but I'm increasingly feeling that purpose has been served and it's time to move on. Also, there's a lot of truth in the cliché 'Quit while you're ahead'.
I've spent the last year collaborating on a screenplay (The Gentlemen’s Club), which may soon be sold. I have another screenplay (Forty Thousand Thieves) to work on which will take up the next year of my life. Something's got to give, and that thing is The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
It's been fun, I've been in contact with some interesting and very funny people but, as the man said, All Good Things Must Come To An End.
I may, from time to time, come back and add the occasional comment or insight, but for now I feel that the time is right to say goodbye.
Thank you for visiting.
Thank you for your comments.
Most of all, thank you for 'getting it'.
It's been good.
Dan.
Over the course of the last few months, I've used this blog to write of my experiences (some real, some imagined) contribute bizarre ideas and, in certain circumstances, exorcise a few demons. It's been strangely cathartic and I've had great fun doing it.
You see, if you can take those things that bother you, that keep you awake at night, that break your heart and tear at your soul, and you can find the humour in them, then you're on the way to becoming a much better person.
Like they say, life isn't the destination, it's the journey. Enjoy the journey, make it a good one, and never forget to laugh at yourself. Bill Hicks said, "It's just a ride". Amen to that.
All of this leads me on to my point.
This blog had a purpose, but I'm increasingly feeling that purpose has been served and it's time to move on. Also, there's a lot of truth in the cliché 'Quit while you're ahead'.
I've spent the last year collaborating on a screenplay (The Gentlemen’s Club), which may soon be sold. I have another screenplay (Forty Thousand Thieves) to work on which will take up the next year of my life. Something's got to give, and that thing is The Blog of Eternal Disappointment.
It's been fun, I've been in contact with some interesting and very funny people but, as the man said, All Good Things Must Come To An End.
I may, from time to time, come back and add the occasional comment or insight, but for now I feel that the time is right to say goodbye.
Thank you for visiting.
Thank you for your comments.
Most of all, thank you for 'getting it'.
It's been good.
Dan.
19 January 2005
Insomnia and strap-ons
I've never felt any real sympathy for insomniacs.
After all, what kind of moron can't sleep? Surely it's a talent that we all possess? The ability to sleep isn't so much a choice as a necessity. I remember reading about David Baddiel being an insomniac and, secretly, I was quite pleased. The man is a wanker and the idea of him laying awake at night, unable to fall into a slumber, whilst realising that, essentially, he is a talentless scumbag, gave me a sadistic thrill.
So, insomniacs, you're a shower of idiotic buffoons who deserve every sleepless moment of your pathetic, unfulfilling lives.
So, to the present. I can't sleep.
It's the early hours of the morning and I'm completely awake. I'm sipping from a small bottle of dutch beer and a plastic glass of a Czechoslovakian spirit made from plums or goat feotuses or something, listening to Miles Davis. My psychic flatmate has hidden her bottle of vodka. All week long I've seen it sitting in the kitchen and completely ignored it. The night that I could actually use some, she's hidden it. Smart.
For the last week or so I've been experiencing a combination of insomnia, horrific headaches and quite frightening chest pains. I was convinced yesterday that I was going to die and, indeed, gave myself until midnight. I truly believed that I would feel a terrible pain in my chest, akin to being hit with a ten-pound sledgehammer, then pass away screaming, vomiting and soiling my underwear. 'Bad Rat' even went so far as getting me to write out a will bequeathing my Tom Baxter CD to her. However, I added a sub-clause which meant that, in the event of my death, she has to delete all the porn from my PC before my poor old mother comes round and finds it.
I think that's a big fear of mine, that when I die all the people around me will realise that I've built up a sizeable collection of hardcore pornographic images and videos which, frankly, are frightening. Even more frightening is the fact that I'm so ridiculously anal (in the organisational sense) that I've actually arranged my porn into specific folders: Blowjob, Fuck, Handjob, Titfuck. Is that obsessively sad? I don't know. At least there isn't a folder entitled 'being anally abused with a strap-on by a large-breasted woman wearing a hockey mask'. That'd probably be under miscellaneous, anyway.
I've decided that I'm going to write a blog entry and store it in perpetuity until my death. In the event of my impending heart attack (that's how I'm going to go, I just know it), the blog entry will be posted (Bad Rat may well be involved in this) and it will detail the things that I REALLY think about my friends and acquaintances. Hell, I'm going to draft it tonight.
Oh, and I've quit smoking too. What a week.
After all, what kind of moron can't sleep? Surely it's a talent that we all possess? The ability to sleep isn't so much a choice as a necessity. I remember reading about David Baddiel being an insomniac and, secretly, I was quite pleased. The man is a wanker and the idea of him laying awake at night, unable to fall into a slumber, whilst realising that, essentially, he is a talentless scumbag, gave me a sadistic thrill.
So, insomniacs, you're a shower of idiotic buffoons who deserve every sleepless moment of your pathetic, unfulfilling lives.
So, to the present. I can't sleep.
It's the early hours of the morning and I'm completely awake. I'm sipping from a small bottle of dutch beer and a plastic glass of a Czechoslovakian spirit made from plums or goat feotuses or something, listening to Miles Davis. My psychic flatmate has hidden her bottle of vodka. All week long I've seen it sitting in the kitchen and completely ignored it. The night that I could actually use some, she's hidden it. Smart.
For the last week or so I've been experiencing a combination of insomnia, horrific headaches and quite frightening chest pains. I was convinced yesterday that I was going to die and, indeed, gave myself until midnight. I truly believed that I would feel a terrible pain in my chest, akin to being hit with a ten-pound sledgehammer, then pass away screaming, vomiting and soiling my underwear. 'Bad Rat' even went so far as getting me to write out a will bequeathing my Tom Baxter CD to her. However, I added a sub-clause which meant that, in the event of my death, she has to delete all the porn from my PC before my poor old mother comes round and finds it.
I think that's a big fear of mine, that when I die all the people around me will realise that I've built up a sizeable collection of hardcore pornographic images and videos which, frankly, are frightening. Even more frightening is the fact that I'm so ridiculously anal (in the organisational sense) that I've actually arranged my porn into specific folders: Blowjob, Fuck, Handjob, Titfuck. Is that obsessively sad? I don't know. At least there isn't a folder entitled 'being anally abused with a strap-on by a large-breasted woman wearing a hockey mask'. That'd probably be under miscellaneous, anyway.
I've decided that I'm going to write a blog entry and store it in perpetuity until my death. In the event of my impending heart attack (that's how I'm going to go, I just know it), the blog entry will be posted (Bad Rat may well be involved in this) and it will detail the things that I REALLY think about my friends and acquaintances. Hell, I'm going to draft it tonight.
Oh, and I've quit smoking too. What a week.
15 January 2005
Alcohol and Depression
They (they, of course, being that ephemeral, undefined group of moral guardians who, unbidden and often unappreciated, dispense advice to the slimy, unkempt, unsavoury masses) say that alcohol is a depressant.
Well, let me tell you that alcohol is not a depressant. I am, as we speak (or type or read or whatever the fuck it is that your contribution to this is) extraordinarily, lavishly, quite unfeasibly drunk and, personally, I don't believe a word of it. Alcohol is not, repeat NOT, a depressant. I should know.
Anyone who says otherwise (THEY for instance) are merely trying to ruin what is already a pointless, depressing, ultimately very disappointing life.
Don't believe them. Alcohol is good. It is our saviour.
God, I'm so depressed....
p.s. I soooo love being me. I can be really pissed off all the time and get away with it because of this blog. This is the best thing I ever did. Apart from that thing with those Asian twins. That was pretty good too.
p.p.s. I didn't really do anything with Asian twins. If there are any American ladies out there who find me strangely attractive, don't be put off by my bluff exterior and claims of enjoying a menage a trois. I'm really very nice.
p.p.p.s. If there are any Asian twins out there who find me strangely attractive, don't be put off by my penchant for American ladies. I'm really very dirty.
Well, let me tell you that alcohol is not a depressant. I am, as we speak (or type or read or whatever the fuck it is that your contribution to this is) extraordinarily, lavishly, quite unfeasibly drunk and, personally, I don't believe a word of it. Alcohol is not, repeat NOT, a depressant. I should know.
Anyone who says otherwise (THEY for instance) are merely trying to ruin what is already a pointless, depressing, ultimately very disappointing life.
Don't believe them. Alcohol is good. It is our saviour.
God, I'm so depressed....
p.s. I soooo love being me. I can be really pissed off all the time and get away with it because of this blog. This is the best thing I ever did. Apart from that thing with those Asian twins. That was pretty good too.
p.p.s. I didn't really do anything with Asian twins. If there are any American ladies out there who find me strangely attractive, don't be put off by my bluff exterior and claims of enjoying a menage a trois. I'm really very nice.
p.p.p.s. If there are any Asian twins out there who find me strangely attractive, don't be put off by my penchant for American ladies. I'm really very dirty.
13 January 2005
Freestyle blogging
It is 1 a.m. here in lil ol' England and I can't sleep. Thus, I have decided to post something on the blog.
Trouble is, I don't have anything prepared so I've decided to ad lib. Yes, oh faithful readership, this will be an unabridged, unedited, unexpurgated and, probably, uninteresting post. Replete with spelling mistakes and poor grammar too, no doubt.
So, what do I write about? Erm...
I know! I'll give you a fascinating insight into a day in my life! Joy oh joy...
I couldn't get to sleep last night until 2.30 a.m. Then I had a nightmare in which I murdered someone and was so shocked by the experience that I woke up. Didn't get back to sleep for another half hour. Woke up at 5.30 and hit the snooze button repeatedly until about 8.00. Arrived at work late. (See? The disappointment starts even at that time in the morning...)
Had an uneventful day at work.
Popped round to my lady friend's house because she's off work sick at the moment. Had a cup of tea. Caught the wrong bus home and had to get off and wait for another one.
Ate a chicken stir-fry which was made by my flatmate. She is one of the worst cooks in the world. No really. The stir-fry contained whole spring onions (scallions, for transatlantic readers). For some reason, she didn't realise that they should probably be chopped. To make matters worse, she always cooks stir-fries on a low heat, but at the normal timings. Thus, the vegetable were 'al dente'. I've had better meals.
I then set up her new PC for her. Also tidied my room, which included cleaning my PC. I removed each key from the keyboard individually, wiped them thoroughly with a soft cloth and replaced them. You've never really known desperation and despair until you've done something like that.
Watched TV.
Dyed my flatmate's hair. She cut my hair. Now my neck itches.
Drank a glass of vodka.
Logged on to the Internet.
And so, here I am!
I'm 31 years old and that was my day.
Now perhaps you can understand what a deep personal disappointment my life is in so many ways.
To make matters worse, I've just realised that there isn't a single amusing thing in this entire post. God almighty in heaven, today has been such a waste...
More fascinating insights next time.
Trouble is, I don't have anything prepared so I've decided to ad lib. Yes, oh faithful readership, this will be an unabridged, unedited, unexpurgated and, probably, uninteresting post. Replete with spelling mistakes and poor grammar too, no doubt.
So, what do I write about? Erm...
I know! I'll give you a fascinating insight into a day in my life! Joy oh joy...
I couldn't get to sleep last night until 2.30 a.m. Then I had a nightmare in which I murdered someone and was so shocked by the experience that I woke up. Didn't get back to sleep for another half hour. Woke up at 5.30 and hit the snooze button repeatedly until about 8.00. Arrived at work late. (See? The disappointment starts even at that time in the morning...)
Had an uneventful day at work.
Popped round to my lady friend's house because she's off work sick at the moment. Had a cup of tea. Caught the wrong bus home and had to get off and wait for another one.
Ate a chicken stir-fry which was made by my flatmate. She is one of the worst cooks in the world. No really. The stir-fry contained whole spring onions (scallions, for transatlantic readers). For some reason, she didn't realise that they should probably be chopped. To make matters worse, she always cooks stir-fries on a low heat, but at the normal timings. Thus, the vegetable were 'al dente'. I've had better meals.
I then set up her new PC for her. Also tidied my room, which included cleaning my PC. I removed each key from the keyboard individually, wiped them thoroughly with a soft cloth and replaced them. You've never really known desperation and despair until you've done something like that.
Watched TV.
Dyed my flatmate's hair. She cut my hair. Now my neck itches.
Drank a glass of vodka.
Logged on to the Internet.
And so, here I am!
I'm 31 years old and that was my day.
Now perhaps you can understand what a deep personal disappointment my life is in so many ways.
To make matters worse, I've just realised that there isn't a single amusing thing in this entire post. God almighty in heaven, today has been such a waste...
More fascinating insights next time.
10 January 2005
Ouch
Never chop chilli peppers and then go to the toilet without washing your hands first. It hurts. A lot.
A New Year - A whole host of disappointments....
Wow! It's 2005! Hoo-hah! Woo, yay and hoopla!
You do realise that 2005 is going to be just as disappointing as 2004, don't you? Just wanted to check.
You see, the New Year is a time for hope, desires and heartfelt wishes. We see the New Year arrive and we think 'Yes, this is the year that I'm going to find love and wealth and health and everything I desire'. And, of course, before you know it you've broken all of your resolutions and you realise that 2005 is exactly the same as 2004 except you're one year closer to dying alone and miserable surrounded by the dusty memories and weeping ghosts of what could have been. Still, it's not all doom and gloom - Star Wars Episode 3 comes out in May. Yay!
**************
Recently, a friend of mine (the ruiner of potential relationships) remarked that there had been no new posts on my blog in a number of days. He went on to say that, in his opinion, this was something of a disappointment and, accordingly, wanted to know if that was the slightly ironic point of the whole thing.
I had to admire his thinking.
However, I should clarify that the reason I haven't posted recently is that I couldn't really be bothered.
I shall post again at some point, but I need to get my arse into gear first. Apologies, etc.
You do realise that 2005 is going to be just as disappointing as 2004, don't you? Just wanted to check.
You see, the New Year is a time for hope, desires and heartfelt wishes. We see the New Year arrive and we think 'Yes, this is the year that I'm going to find love and wealth and health and everything I desire'. And, of course, before you know it you've broken all of your resolutions and you realise that 2005 is exactly the same as 2004 except you're one year closer to dying alone and miserable surrounded by the dusty memories and weeping ghosts of what could have been. Still, it's not all doom and gloom - Star Wars Episode 3 comes out in May. Yay!
**************
Recently, a friend of mine (the ruiner of potential relationships) remarked that there had been no new posts on my blog in a number of days. He went on to say that, in his opinion, this was something of a disappointment and, accordingly, wanted to know if that was the slightly ironic point of the whole thing.
I had to admire his thinking.
However, I should clarify that the reason I haven't posted recently is that I couldn't really be bothered.
I shall post again at some point, but I need to get my arse into gear first. Apologies, etc.
31 December 2004
Microwaves and Cats - A clarification
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...
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...
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.
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