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stuff undecided on
I have been
...neglecting this blog. I am a shit blog daddy! Well, as I've mentioned on here before, I have mostly moved to a blog on Vox. And it is this : subideal.vox.com Recently, I have posted my (non-definitive, and wholly unsatisfying) list of top twenty favouritest songs. So harkit! This is just one of many advantages of Vox over 20Sux: you can post streaming mp3s in your entries; and - for no discernable reason - no-one seems to give a yellow rubbery fuck about copyright infringement. Or so it seems at least. The main disadvantage of Pox is that folk who aren't signed up as members can't comment. This is a shame, as I am rather fond of getting unexpected comments from kittenfuckers after I'm disparaging about their home town. I crave the abuse. So, just to keep things ticking over on this spam-addled sickburp of a platform, here's my most recent entry wot I've just cut-and-pasted straight from Vox : Some queries from the last few days, and also one unrelated solution : Queries - What possessed someone to write 'Smurfs are the kings of toytown' on a toilet roll dispenser in a motorway services gents?
- A student in an Oxford branch of Tesco eyes up two DVDs priced at £2.74 apiece. Now, which of 'The Karate Kid' and 'xXx' do you think will be regarded as more 'ironic' in the eyes of his peers?
- An article from The Sun is drawn to my brother's attention. It claims that Charlotte Church and Gavin Henson are thinking twice about their wedding venue, since it has been brought to their attention that it is a known dogging spot. It is - in fact - the same venue in which my brother was married last year. Whilst discussing this with his parents, it transpires that our mother already knew it was a dogging spot, before my brother was married even. Which begs the question - exactly how did my mother know this?
- Why did that chap in the 'zany' orange jester's hat push some stranger into the river outside a bustling pub? I think the answer was touched on as the poor drenched soul climbed out of the water, shouting "What fucking cunt did that?"
- A further query, relating to the one immediately above : In the heated debate that followed, the culprit protested "It could have been worse". Now, I don't think I'd take overly kindly to being waterlogged, embarrassed in front of dozens of people, having possessions (including my mobile phone) ruined, and exposed to the risk of Weil's disease at the hands of some pissed-up bottom-feeder. So, I have to ask, what did this chap and his slightly skewed sense of social responsibility have in mind exactly? How could it have been worse? Well, the river was not comprised of hydrochloric acid, nor indeed lava, I suppose. So really, in the face of this irrefutable line of reasoning, I think that the victim should have shown more grace, and allowed the man in the 'crazy' hat unfettered carnal access to his girlfriend.
Solution - If I spend all afternoon with my port side facing the sun, it will balance out my current two-tone colouring.
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I have been putting off
...writing about leaving The Edge Of The World. I'm not entirely sure why this is. Maybe it's because the last time I displaced, it was a bit more dramatic. This latest move seems wholly anticlimactic. Plus, I'm not relocating as far. You don't really say goodbye to friends that you're only moving a couple of hours away from. Or possibly I'm unwilling to fully accept that I've moved to yet another place for a significant period of my life, and that things simply haven't worked out. I had the closest thing to an ideal job for a while, but it couldn't be sustained. I didn't find love. Or, arguably, I did - just with the wrong person. I am leaving no richer, no more fulfilled - just a little older and slower. Perhaps I am being harsh. I have made some great friends. I have learned to fish. I have spent a whole lot of time doing nothing in a place that is pretty sleepy and stress-free. I have slipped into a comfort zone. At times, it was almost like having some of my eventual retirement on loan. On the last weekend of officially living at The Edge Of The World, I got back very late one night. It was wild outside, and the windows in our living room had blown wide open in the wind. I decided to join the seafront for a constitutional nightcap. It was five in the morning, the waves were thrashing against the sea wall, and the throb of the sea was illuminated by an almost full moon. It was eerie and enchanting. Rocks and water were being hurled across the orange road at certain points. It was putting on a show, seemingly all for me. At high tide, you occasionally observe a phenomenon where waves rebound, causing a backwash. So you get waves going both in and out. Some of these rebounding waves slip away under the radar without incident. Some of them collide with incoming waves, causing water to jet into the air. Some such collisions that evening were causing splashes that must have leapt up a good twenty-five foot. A friend of mine told me that this effect is called a clypotis; although I have uncovered no evidence that this is in fact so. However, I would like it to be. I have tried to slip away unnoticed to a certain degree. But a decent amount of folk have fondly teased me that I will never get away from The Edge Of The World. I get a feeling they don't want me to. I even got a hug from a woman working in the local Londis. It feels like I am missed. Which is consolation, I guess. Although things haven't concluded in the way I might have hoped, at least sometimes in our comings and goings we collide spectacularly for fleeting moments, before breaking apart and subsiding anonymously once more into the sea.
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I text
...Busty Farm Girl : Lemonsquash : I am watching King Kong after a heavy weekend. It is certain that I will cry like a sissy girl x Busty Farm Girl : The monkey dies x Wot was the last film that made you blub ?
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As brought to my
...attention by a good chum, look at this : http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/6244153.stm She also requested Smiths/Morrissey-based potential headlines. So far we have : - The Integrity Is Dead
- Frankly Mr Wogan
- Smiths Fans In A Coma
- There Is A Light That Never Comes On
- Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Voted For Me
Any thoughts ?
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Living with parents is
...subideal in many respects. I haven't got a definite place sorted out in The Metropolis yet, so now all my admin stuff (bank details, car registration, subscription to 'Wabs') is addressed to Chez Walrus. The upshot of this is that I live with my parents OFFICIALLY. Gnaa! Sproo! Flee! But, in this shiny new virgin year, I have decided to always be POSITIVE. So rather than dwell on the cessation of adventure and death of my soul that all this would normally bring; or look wistfully through the window, wondering wot all my friends are doing (probably at work); I am going to list the GOOD POINTS of living with Mr and Mrs Walrus : - They are nice, and only nag me about what the hell I plan to do with my life when I'm awake.
- I am taking over the role of chef from my mother, which I enjoy. Not in the least because now I have twice as many ingredients to choose from ('Shall I make this pasta sauce with basil OR oregano ? The choices are ENDLESS!').
- I don't normally watch TV, so doing so here is novel. I delighted in watching the response of my folks to the gay snog on 'Torchwood' last night - my mother giggled hysterically, and The Walrus peeped at it gingerly through his fingers.
- I get to blog.
Actually, I am finding the respite from the real world mildly relaxing. So I think I shall put off dusting my armour and polishing my arsenal until tomorrow. There'll still be a world to take on then.
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So New Year's
...Eve was a peculiar one. I was introduced to my Doppelgänger. I was roundly lambasted for not wearing fancy dress. Hell, my Mr T impersonation last year was sufficient effort for two years, I thought. And I didn't get too drunk until an Irish chap started feeding me with moonshine that he had smuggled into the pub; and the decline was rapid. Earlier in the evening, I had met a rather lovely young lady. In one of our first conversations, she went into some depth as to how much she appreciated Sally Phillips - to the extent that her performance as Cinderella in the recent 'Jam and Jersusalem' had left her awash with drool. 'Hmmm,' thought I. Just after midnight we hugged. A little while later still, I was talking to Irish chap, and the sapphic stunner pushed her way between us mid-conversation, to steal an unexpected snog. Carumba! After a protracted bout of rather shameless public passion, it suddenly became time for a serious chat. Blee! "Now. You are very lovely. But it's important that you know that I'm gay." "Yes; I can tell." "No, seriously... I am gay. Gay with a capital 'G'." "Ok." "But you are very lovely." "Thank you!" "But I am gay." "Are you trying to tell me something ?" I reassured her that I wasn't about to get hung up or stalkerish, and that I understood that we stray from the path sometimes. Blame drunken high spirits. I wasn't about to be too pushy. This is possibly where I'm going wrong. There, and everywhere else. I texted my chum Busty Farm Girl, and told her that - amongst other things - I'd kissed a lebannon. Or rather, she'd kissed me. Her response :
Well, one finds love in the most unlikely of places. Maybe she was attracted to your moobs? Maybe it was your secret fanny? Maybe it was your girlish walk? I think 2007 will herald a new confidence.
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We have had a
...CD of Christmas songs on for about the last hour. All the classics - 'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day', 'Rock & Roll Christmas', Shakey, Slade... The works. At the moment, we've got 'Last Christmas'.
You'd think my little heart would be jumping for joy. But I am actually close to vomiting out my intestinal tract. This might be because
(a) I am now officially emotionally bankrupt.
Although I suspect that it is more likely to be
(b) Christmas songs are a manifestation of Dark Forces - hell-bent on Engorging us all.
Sweet mercy!
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Well, I'm back at
...The Rag, doing my old job on a freelance basis for a couple of weeks. Now, I set myself a project some time ago, which was to try an slip photos past the subs which had been modified in some way. I grafted a shark's fin - approaching a group of people in a river - onto a picture ages ago; but it got cropped out. I gave the sports editor a moustache in a photo where he was handing over a trophy, and had to have a 'talking to' by the editor after a complaint was made by the head sub.
Today I was asked to "cut the fingers off" a young chap in a group photo, who was making a two-fingered sign at the camera. Which has given me a great idea. I am going to see how many amputees I can create for the paper over the course of the next two weeks.
If anyone thinks that this is in poor taste, feel free to fuck off make alternative suggestions.
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So last night was
...quiz night. After the first two rounds, I take the teams' names and scores, and give everyone a rundown of the current table as it stands. As I was reading out the scores, a young lady approached me, and requested that a team name be changed. It was altered to 'The Quiz Master Will Get Laid If We Win Tonight!' Their score then mysteriously catapulted from 15 to 20. If anyone suspected that I was a man of principle, and not open to bribery and corruption, then I'm afraid that they were woefully off target. Now, this team - which happened to include two rather toothsome young ladies - left the building a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates and £99 better off. Yet was sweet booty ya-ya forthcoming ? Was it cock. Ok, one for the lawyers among us. Do we have a binding contract here ? It looks like that to me. We have an offer - 'we get you laid'. We have acceptance - they win. We have consideration - the aforementioned prizes. There were plenty of witnesses. And I still have their quiz paper, so we even have it in writing. Can I legally hold this team to ending my thousand year drought ?
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It's
...pack up my life time again, which is often more emotionally demanding than you anticipate. At the moment I'm boxing my 'miscellany' drawers. You know the type. Where you'll find stuff like : - Ticket stubs to gigs and films you can't remember going to.
- Handwritten itineraries and hand-drawn maps for journeys you cannot recall making.
- A letter which is signed off 'Sorry and goodbye'.
- A pre-first uni year reading list.
- A photo of the lineup from your football party when you turned eleven.
- Immigration papers.
- A depiction of a farting cat, drawn by some li'l art girl or other.
- The card you made of someone being blessed by Jesus, that was thrust back into your hand immediately after being opened next to the local vicar.
- Some Charles and Camilla commemoration stamps you stole from work to save for choice birthdays.
- A postcard from your sister, telling you that she misses you being on her side of the planet.
- Hundreds of birthday cards (each one from your brother will have a crudely drawn penis adorning the front in some place or other).
- Orders of service for funerals. There seem to be far fewer weddings.
- The note left for you from the girl you made an epic hot chocolate for, who you were too scared to chase after.
- Fake valentines.
- Forms with a post-it from your mother demanding that you fill it in and send it off (which remain in your drawer to this day).
- An ode prepared for you by a chum in the sixth form, which reads :
'Lemon's funky, Lemon's cool,
Squash makes all the girlies drool.
Squash has style, Squash has grace,
Lemon's loved by all his mates.
x'
Ones like the last make it worthwhile, I feel.
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My last entry was
...criticised by my so-called friend Pinkwellies, who claimed at last night's quiz that I was "scraping for content". Well, especially for him, here's something else I found littering my hard drive : 
Which brings me quite nicely onto my next point. The Heart-Stopping Alleged Lesbian was at the quiz again last night, looking more adorable than I can ever hope to adequately explicate here. I was almost unnerved by how pleased she seemed to see me, and beamed an awful lot. She also seemed to be looking at me an awful lot during the course of the evening (although she could probably say the same about me). Now, when you catch someone's eye across a busy pub (not with a fishing line), what should you do next ? Should you instantly look away abashed ? This is the tactic I have been almost involuntarily applying thus far; and I'm as good as certain that it's the wrong one. What should I actually be doing ? I didn't get the chance to ask one of her mates if the girl I always see her with is actually her lebanese lover, which was remiss of me. Although the evening wasn't entirely bereft of reconnaissance, as I have invited her (and admittedly all of the others on her table) to my leaving party; and I have also been invited to a party at which she will be in attendance. So two good potential 'get to know you' opportunities. Oh my god. What the fuck am I like ?
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A new record was
...set this morning for amount of absolute shit that dropped into my inbox after just one night - 457 messages. Yes, that's 457 people who I suspected might love me for a fraction of a second, before realising it was actually *NO-ONE*. Harumph! Anyway, onto slightly less whingey matters. I am being interviewed by a reporter from The Rag this evening. The subject of his piece is 'The Dangers Of Blogging'. Now, I have already devised wot I think is a moderately comprehensive list of the associated perils and pitfalls. But I would like to know what you think The Dangers Of Blogging are, please.
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An interesting debate
...can be found here : What is it to be an 'animal' ? "I'm a little surprised this issue hasn't been tackled before in another case," Lucci said. Well, quite.
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Now, I wouldn't normally
...blog my dreams, but I've had two notable ones this week : 1) There's an epidemic of some new-fangled disease. Symptoms include delirium and incredibly hairy hands. Fatalities' last words all concern some long-lost Van Halen album from the mid-seventies. It is a jazz odyssey. I figure maybe I can help find out what's causing the disease if I locate said album. But can I find it on Google ? Can I jizzbiscuits. 2) I had this one this morning. People who've been very naughty are sent to a corrective school - Blog School. Aaarrrrggghhhh! Does this mean I should eat less cheese, or more ?
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