Visual traits: None. Highly dangerous. Actually, one possible clue: wearing a
Blogger T-Shirt. Unf.
Aural clues: talk about it continuously. All the f*cking time.
Dangerous aspects: all bloggers are obsessive. Anyone, who regularly writes
down their most intimate thoughts to a PC must be slightly psychotic.
Especially anyone who writes their views on politics, as these blogs are
typically links to news articles with some of the bloggers own deranged
commentary. They only do this beacuse they are unable to talk to people and
engage in conversation, which would expose their lunacy. Socially retarded,
one and all. Worst of all they all think they are going to be multimillionaire
authors once penguin or random house find their blog. Yeah, right."
"I understand that it is necessary to have a penny,
because it is the smallest unit of currency, but why-oh-why a coin that
represents two of the smallest unit? It's useless as I have yet to find a
price that ends in .98 and, worst of all, the two pence coin is huge. As the
second most valueless coin, it's also the third biggest"
"The reason we Europeans don't like your accent (apart
from you southerners, we love that one) is that you sound like you are
talking out of your noses to us. All we hear is a kind of twangy WAAA WAAA WAAAAAA
WAAAA WAAAA WAAAA WAAAAAAA thing, which has the same effect
as scraping a fork down a plate to our ears. Afrikaaner South Africans aren't
much better, I'm afraid, as all we hear when they speak is coughing. Much
like the Dutch.
"I was sitting on a bus last night on my way over to
Umbrella's when an old drunk approched me. Hello beautiful. I was
not in the mood to be polite so I gave him a *who the fuck are you* kind of
look and then looked out the window. He got the message, staggered off and
sat in the seat behind me. I may be a sad old bastard but I still have an
eye for the ladies he then said and opened a can of beer."
"All I gotta say is that it's just great, GREAT that
we're depicted as obsessive compulsive computer geeks who would rather blog
than do anything. Lemme tell you something, there are lots of things I'd
rather be doing else. Like, sex for example. Much more fun than blogging.
Shut up, I have so DONE IT before.
You don't know her.
She lives in Canada."
"I could get drunk, but that is rather mundane. I could go get a tattoo
on my lower back to complete my slut look. I could take my ?one day I will
buy a house? savings and spend the day at Churchill Downs. It must feel
exhilarating to say ?$10,000 on 4 to win in the 6th and . . .? Really, I am
never going to buy a house. I could take a sabbatical and spend the summer
following the Professional Bull Riders circuit around the county. I could
just fuck it all and finally join that convent. I don?t know. I am open to
"Willow, what should
daddy write on the computer?
Should I write...Willow is sick?"
"I don't give a fuck whether or not you give a fuck. You
know why? I don't need to you validate my existence. I can only hope that the
feeling is mutual. But honestly, I don't give a fuck. Fuck a blog."
"A hyperlinked Sparkline would make webpages like
superdense, fractal, layered, zoomable resources, and make the top-level of
each topic look vital and organic like a terrarium of squirming data.
The next step would be to see Sparklines in the street, not just delivering
data, but harvesting it - being it.
Crawling up lamposts as electricity consumption spikes during the ad-break of
Coronation Street. Or infesting the wounds of a pigeon flattened by a
delivery truck, updating the national epidemiological database and the air
pollution record for that borough based upon trace metal readings in the
Lost in Hype
"Obviously she'd been there before. Obviously she was
smarter than me.
Then in the space of a second the following happened:
1. I realised where I recognised the girl from.
2. I remembered her face from her book.
3. I remembered her photo in City Life.
4. I remembered her voice from a radio interview.
5. I remembered her smile from a TV interview.
6. I knew that the girl was Gwendoline Riley.
7. I remembered that I actually had her first book, 'Cold Water', in my
8. I considered talking to her.
9. I remembered another interview with her where the journalist called her a
10. I considered asking her for help with the terrifying Easy-Internet ticket
machine from hell.
11. I considered some sort of lame 'oh hello aren't you Gwendoline Riley?'
sort of greeting.
And then, finally, 12. I completely bottled it, imagining that I would
probably sound like some sort of deranged stalker, incapable of working the
ticket machine, and Gwendoline would quote a line from a Russian classic at
me and I would be forced to retreat to the Disney store and find solace with
a life-sized Tigger."
"Sometimes I completely forget the reason why I'm not
calling you when I feel like it, or sending you a birthday present, or
writing you a pretentious e-mail trying to display my so-called literary
capacities and trying to make you laugh. I forget why I'm neither responding to
nor deleting your cellphone messages.
The reason is love.
I try to tell myself that as long as I do not forget this, you will be
""Ah, this is the
one we've been waiting for," said one of the little gang of bus fans
outside. It's like a smaller, unrevamped version of the Routemaster, all
wooden floors and springy seats. We set off up the Bow Road, a couple of
mums-and-kids got on, past the church (as Steve Norris' campaign bus passed
us) and up the Blackwall Tunnel approach road for a short distance as usual.
Left at Old Ford, straight on... "Wrong way!" Oops. These all being
run by enthusiasts, and the 8 being a tricky route, something had to go wrong...
a quick bit of reversing, and back on course. Going on a bus going backwards
seemed to make the kids' day."
"I don't want to go into
the touchy, weight issue territory but I just want to confirm my hypothesis
about human behavior. I really wonder why I find fat men excruciatingly
adorable but can't say the same thing about fat women? Fat men compensate for
their chubbiness by being sweet and humorous. Fat women on the other hand
compensate for the extra lipid by throwing their weight around by being
"Perhaps I should just start a new genre where I do not actually write a
blog but just describe imagined blog entries that I have not written.
Noncommittal writing, I would call it, and I would engage in it in the more
transient phases of my life, when nothing is really certain or cherished
notions are in a state of flux, when writing down thoughts would give them
more permanence than they deserve, like putting shacks up on the World
Heritage List. And there is something wonderfully Calvinoesque or Borgesian
to it all. Maybe I should just post reviews of my imagined rants, pronounce
them the work of genius, but report back inexpertly and confused, and depend
instead on the imagination of readers to construct something of proper
greatness out of them."
"What if, contrary to the popular saying, you can take
it with you?
How gutted would you be to get to the Other Side and find that even there you
were priced out of the property market and that it was only the pious fuckers
who'd sunk all their disposable income into ISAs and bonds instead of pissing
it up the wall on booze, drugs and thousands of impulse-purchases that could
afford the biggest, fluffiest, whitest clouds and the fanciest gold harps,
while you had to share a flimsy Cirrus with your mates and fight over who
used up the last of the manna?
Aetheism - you know it makes sense."
"So I've got this friend,
right, and she's going out with some guy, and she really likes him, it's been
a couple of months, and then she calls me up in a real state: he forgot to
mention he's still living with his girlfriend. What should she do? (Of
course, that should be "what should she do, girlfriend?")
Obvious to me: no-one wants to be second choice, it's bad for your
self-esteem, blah blah blah, these kinda people never change. She loves him.
I can't help wondering how much he loves her. I keep schtum."
"Cunt really, honestly, is my favourite word. I?ve been
trying to use it at least once daily ? more often in polite company ? since I
was introduced to Peter Cook and Dudley Moore?s album Come Again as a
teenager in the late 80s. I had no feminist reasoning behind it then, I
simply loved the word. I loved the reaction it got from people. I loved the
fact that this word, those four letters strung together, those four letters
that when spoken created that harsh and nasty sound, could make men and
women, young and old absolutely disgusted. A word! Wow! It was the moment I
realised the incredible power of words."
"Simple pleasures. One of the baristas at my local Starbucks calls me
"hon." She is probably fifteen years younger than me.
"Hon" is a word of minimal endearment patented by aging waitresses
in diners serving coffee from grimy carafes to truck drivers and high school
kids too stoned to go home and face their parents. "Can I take your
drink order, hon?" the barista asks me. I want to respond, "I'll
have the usual, Flo. A cuppa Joe and a generous helping of your sweet
smile." But she wouldn't get it. She's too young and she's nothing like
the TV character Flo. She would never admonish me by saying "eat my
grits." All I would get is a blank stare and my $3 latte and the
satisfaction that I remember some really weird shit from my TV watching
"So here I am surrounded by all these little girls in
frilly party frocks, all smelling of cheap bubble bath and talcum powder,
humming theme tunes to kid's TV shows and making their cheap rip-offs of
Barbie dolls dance on the table between the sausage rolls. I've got my eye on
the mouthwateringly sickly looking butterfly buns but I've been told I have
to eat some salad first.
I don't really know why I put this whole tomato in my mouth. I guess I was
just trying to be entertaining, but the other party guests look far from
entertained. There's just no pleasing some people."
"You couldn?t remember buying the suit, but there it was.
People came into your office sometimes but never asked about work, never knew
about Yees, only about the shirt(s) you were wearing, and you wondered how
long you could get away with changing shirts all day long and doing no work,
how long until you could retire and commit full-time to the search for a poet
Meanwhile the poet who rented your old bedroom downstairs got a sunburn
because your old room had so many windows. The spines of his books all faded
until the titles and authors were gone.
You rubbed aloe into his peeling back, asked if he knew the work of a poet of
Yees, but he said, No, no, I?ve never heard of this Yees. Are you sure he?s a
poet at all."
"Sat opposite a huge transvestite on the tube. Long
blonde hair, tanned and cratered face, a pummeled nose: like an Aussi
full-back on a hen night. Elbows held high, shielding eyes with a newspaper
but highlighting legs like cabin logs."
"We did a few shots of me in my massive boots unlaced,
jeans, and with my top off, all that. Fairly innocent. Then some adding a biker?s
jacket that he?d brought with him. All very Gay Icon, but I can live with
So once I was comfortable with posing in semi-nudity, he tipped out a bag of
what can only be described as Things. Some of the things, I didn?t even know
what they were!
There were wrist restraints, chains, (tweet, tweet, chirp chirp twitter) and
I put on the (twitter, chirrup tweet) and my friend helped me to fasten the
(tweet tweet tweet chirp, faint sound of an aeroplane passing over) at the
back. And to make my body glisten we (cut to outside of Big Brother house).
?Do you mind wearing this?? he asked, offering me a (cut to shots of the
hose-pipe, followed by shots of the outside of Big Brother house, and then
?Actually, I?d better just rinse it under the tap.? he said."
"Open letter to the woman I saw on the street
I'm sorry. But if you can fit the word "DANCER" across your ass,
you probably aren't one."
"I expect she'll remember for a while about an old friend from school
emailing to tell her you'd joined the fucking Police force. I expect it will
all have come flooding back to her and that, for a while, she'd be unable to
stop herself from recalling everything about that time - the pain, the
humiliation, the wretchedness, the shame and the silence. The crying and the
apologies, the promises and the blame - it'll all be as fresh as the day it
happened. And for a while, I would think she'll want to find out where you
are, who you know, who you're working for. Tell them what you did, what kind
of person you were and what you put her through. She'll remember anger and
hatred and she'll want to punish you and damage you and make you pay for what
But then she'll remember something more important.
She'll remember that she's changed."
"Remember when I made all that homemade porn a few
months back? Well, I put it all on a CD for safe keeping. Now, the CD is
missing. If you happen to come across it, I would appreciate it if you would
return it to me. Thanks."
"Google search: how
to perform an autopsy pics
This... Is really disturbing. I don't think anyone should be taking a DIY
approach to autopsies. And I had better not be seeing Autopsies for
Dummies on the book shelves anytime soon.
"Autopsy? Autopsy?! I can't WHACK off to Autopsy! Orrrr
"Margaretha married Rolf, the man she broke up with
Bengt for; they've had two children and lived in Luxembourg and Gothenburg
before settling in Stockholm. It turns out that when I called, the children
were under the impression their dad was her first love. But how many of us
know the details of our parents' pre-marital love lives? I certainly don't,
and it will stay that way unless somebody calls me with news of a long-lost
love letter addressed to my mother from somebody patently not my father.
After I called and Margaretha saw the letter online, she looked for Bengt M?
online, found him living in the area where they grew up and called him. He
remembered her without prompting."
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, all you armchair pundits and
office commentators. I don't want to hear about this bloody game any more, do
you hear? Listen to yourself, weedy, wacky guy in the Christmas jumper - like
as not, you haven't even seen a football since compulsory sports at school,
you do not have the right to comment on anything of a physical nature. And
you, braying public school bore, stick to the rugby and memories of group
buggery, and shut it! You are all so tedious it's a miracle you haven't sent
yourselves to sleep."
"Today absolutely sucked.
Then, for a sec, thanks to Chris, it didn't.
Then it sucked to a power of 10.
Then, for another second, it didn't, thanks to esch.
Then, after lunch, it began to follow a steep curve into hell."
"So, the optometrist.
He was old and grumpy; he lived in some kind of dusty-smelling dark lair. Or
so it seemed at the time.
I was a quiet child, but not a very compliant one. I was even less compliant
when scared. On that day, I was terrified. He shouted at me, grabbed me by
the arm and forced me to sit on the examination stool.
To cut short ten minutes of ordeal, in terror I peed on the stool - not out
of spite, although the idea is appealing - simply out of fear. I would like
to say at this point that I graced his stool with a copious stream of urine -
but that would be lying. It was more the pitiful letting go of the true
From an Empty Fridge
"There are people who will always answer questions while
eating, are happy to make and take calls at any time of the day, will check
their work mail during the weekend, and who often assume that this is what
you do as well. What does this say?
I am so terrified of losing my job and/or desperate for the approval of my
superiors that I will prostrate myself pathetically in this manner in front
of the Gods Of Work for any tiny, tiny advantage that it might bring, despite
the fact that 90% of the time nobody notices and 10% of the time they think
"useful idiot, give him some more to do". I would probably do
better rolling on my back and pissing all over myself, but I might get fired
for staining the carpet.
I have become so blinded by my own concept of the work ethic that selling
widgets to morons is more than a job to me. It's more than a career. It's a
calling, it's an intrinsic duty. A contract of employment is an oath of
fealty stronger than anything any samurai ever swore. Making money for other
people matters more than anything else in the world, and I can't believe it
doesn't to you too.
N.B. When my job is outsourced I will likely shoot the entire office and then
myself, so you might wish to invest in some sort of ballistic protection.
I'm a self-important arsehole who enjoys feeling superior, and "hours
worked" is a scoring system that lets me rate myself higher than you.
or maybe just
I hate the rest of my life.
or any combination of the above."
"My last few days (hopefully on the bus):
A small jotting of thanks to those on the 428, my 'friends' as this week
should be the breaking of our Fellowship.
1) BonJovi Boy: Thanks for playing your Bon Jovi CD every day for the past 3
and a half years. It seems like it was the same CD, although I feel that it
would be far too sad if it were.
2) DrPepper Girl: Always reading the Sun and sitting in front of me, so I get
the chance to read it too. It's the swigging of Dr Pepper at 7.40am that gets
me. I'll miss your obvious need of a cigarette.
3) Kid-who-falls-asleep: This lad's gone through so much change, it's like
we've grown up together (I say grown up - it's been 3 and a half years, yet
he's about 2 inches taller)."
"...bullshit, that was a great pour." She just
laughed at me. Whatever, she was just jealous. "So we're going to
another bar, it's ladies wrestling night." Well, you know me. Anything
involving alcohol and girls wrestling and I'm there. So we finished the last
of our beers and headed over. It was only a 30 second drive and...
...the hell not, I asked myself. Jager's always a fun choice, so I told her,
"Sure, jager shots, let's go." She poured and we all took a shot
together. Good times. It's a very bonding experience, drinking with someone.
You don't ask people if they wanna go and grab a water, or go and grab a
soda, but you can always ask someone if they wanna go and....
...off my chest." Kinda awkward, seeing as how her husband was right
there. But who am I to argue? She laid on the bar, smashed her fakies
together, and I sucked the Jager shot down. She stood up. "You missed
some." And she then lowered her shirt more. So of course, I had to lick
...had no idea where the girl in the luchador wrestling mask came from, but
there she was, imitating oral sex on the other female bartender. Then she
screamed. Seems the luchadora chick bit her thigh. Seeing a girl put ice down
her pants is pretty funny, especially in a ghetto bar after drinking a
...the dude's birthday, I had to buy him a drink. I also had to yell at his
girlfriend to set me up with one of her sisters or hot aunts or something. I
mean, if they looked anything like her, I'd be happy. So we both cheered
ourselves, and we took a shot of Jager. "Happy Birthday my man."
"Well thank you, it was really nice of...
...timate cheeseburger, sourdough jack, and 2 tacos, thanks." Me and B
were going to eat like kings on our way home "Shit man, do you have any
money?" He grabs his pockets. "You know, I don't think..."
"It does piss me off a bit that no-one seems to write as
a truly disaffected parent. There's these wanky Guardian columns from Reluctant
Dad, where Nicolas Lezard pretends to be pissed off with his children,
but when you actually read it it's basically the same sort of mystifying
mumsy conversation that I hear constantly from girlf and her pals.
"Oooh, I'm so tired", "Oooh, he really wound me up the other
day", "Oooh, they've been horrible today." I really have to
bite my lip to say "Well, it was you that fucking wanted them - you deal
with them. Have you never thought of attempting to overcome your biology and
this fatal womanly flaw of wanting children with the same right-on man who
loves you, which, you know, is a bit optimistic in this day and age?"
"jude, you'll never
guess where I am
yeah, well they have a sign on the door - have you seen it
it says "admittance will be denied to anyone improperly dressed"
yeah, well I've just realised I'm not wearing any knickers - wouldn't it be
funny if I got thrown out"
"But what's the point in regretting things?
Where does it get you?
I've written WorkshopLeader an email.
And I sent it yesterday.
And it was harsh but less offensive and accusatory than it could have been.
And now I have to face the consequences.
So I should storm into the front room and turn on all the lights and plug the
phones back in and prepare for the inevitable onslaught.
Face it like a hero, right?
So why am I still sitting here?
(You really need to see Rubbish Gays' BB themed pictures to get full impact...)
"Hi, I'm Jason from the Big Brother house. I'm not gay.
That's me in the first picture bending over for a gay housemate (I'm not
gay). There I am in the second, mounted on top of the same housemate. He's
gay, but I'm not. Did I say that already? The last picture, just a bit of
fun, nothing remotely poofy going on there. Did I mention I'm training to be
an air steward? One more thing, I'm not gay."
"Fuelled by alcohol once again, just when I should be
exercising the restraint I?d shown in the cold sober light of day, I?m doing
the exact opposite: I?m obtaining ?cashback? on my credit card to pay for a
private dance in the ?Penthouse suite?.
Sitting in a ?de luxe? vibrating leather chair watching a young Brazilian
divorcee undress in front of a fake, illuminated city skyline, I suddenly
realise I?m literally sitting in one of those ?dark corners? I reserve for
soul-searching questions. Even at the end of a surreal, escapist, ostentatious
day, I?m sober enough to realise this is excessive, not moderate, behaviour.
Why am I here? I wouldn?t normally do this kind of thing. Haven?t I got a
good, healthy social life already? Do I really need this? (Of course, I stay.
It?d be rude to walk out)."
"Ah yes, there is really
nothing sweeter than coming into the office after a long weekend. If by
sweeter you mean sucktastic, of course. I've never understood the logic of
making your employees work the day after a long weekend. You should never
have to work the day after you have more than one consecutive day off. Think
about that for just a second and you'll see the brillance of my plan."
"One of the main ways listeners propelled artists was through the art of
the mixtape. According to George, mixtapes were huge, and shared extensively
(don't forget CD's and the internet was kinda rare and still quasi-cutting
edge back then). George then argued that today?s music climate was now in a
position to take on the same exciting diverse traits of the early 90's. He
the presented a challenge to the viewer to not just get back into making
mixtapes, but getting selfless about it. He challenged everyone watching to
regularly make mixtapes and mix CD's, featuring the bands which they
personally felt were vital and interesting, regardless of if they were
obscure indie groups or glossy major label types. Most importantly, George
challenged us to share and give away the mixtapes *to strangers*, as a way to
spread the word. You know, just leave them lying around in a classroom or
wherever, and see who picks them up, and see how they get passed on. Kinda
like a pay it forward kinda thing, but the currency is sonic.
[ ... ]
I challenge other bloggers to publish a mixtape. Do it up, you've got an
audience, spread the word (or whatever). Get in touch with me and let me know
when you step up and publish a mixtape. I'll cherish your mix and link your
ass, like whoa."
"Quietly, softly, it finds its way in
To play down your virtue and highlight your sin.
The weights are all hung and the tunnel's in place,
We'll help wipe away that fat smirk from your face.
How long can one spend intending to fly
If two in the hand is worth one in the eye?
Come in from the outside, come in from the cold.
What use is your pride if you're not bought and sold?"
"Only a few minutes later, my math utopia was
compromised to reality. You know the kid who no one really wants to sit by,
but one unfortunate soul has to because they straggled into the room too late
to choose their choice seat? Well, this was me and my friend ?Big Popa?, as
he likes to be called I guess. The lad is about 6? something-or-other, and
he?s about 180 pounds of pure wigger. He had it all: the velvet jumpsuit, the
sideways baby blue baseball cap, and more ice than the Atlantic ocean. About
five minutes into class, we had to create our own name tags for our
designated area of the tables. I spent about two minutes on mine, merely
writing ?Ty? at first, in big, smeared, black mechanical pencil-y letters. I
guessed that at a point, someone may inquire as to what my last name was,
chiefly the teacher, so I promptly wrote another line of sketchy letters a
few spaces away from the freshly created disaster to the left after much
deliberation. ?THURSBY?, all in caps. Now they?d know I meant business. My
wigger friend decided however to take the high road by writing ?(Big Popa)?
above his real name, which based off his funny glasses and towering white kid
frame was no doubt Arthur or Clark. We?ll just have to assume because I never
actually saw. The only words of conversation this kid would provide was
cursing everything under his breath. Any excessive direction from the
teacher, any assignment given by the teacher, any stupid joke made by the
teacher. Essentially, just anything the teacher did prompted a good, ?What
the fuck?, ?Shut the fuck up?, ?Fuck this?. This kid is clearly oozing with
substance and I can?t wait to see him everyday now."
Light From an Empty
"As I said, nothing happened today.
Nothing significant, anyway. Nothing that, when it comes to adding up lives
at the end of the universe, will even produce a pause of the pencil. ?Alive,
alive, alive, yes yes, same again"? flick through the pages? ?ah! he
fell over a bollard in August! That?s plus one funny points. Another four
hundred and ninety and he gets a toaster".
I wouldn?t mind a toaster."
Welsh, You Know
"I have a recurring anxiety dream in which I get the
opportunity to work for Radio 1 legend John Peel. I suspect the pay would be
miserable, but I would drop everything for the opportunity. However, in this
dream, John eagerly asks me to book for Maida Vale my "mate from the
pub" who sings an amazing rendition of the gospel tune "Salvation
"That is such a beautiful song. I really look forward to hearing your
friend's rendition of it," John says excitedly in his gravel voice.
"Oh fuck," I immediately think to myself.
That's just a song my mother used to sing to me when I was a kid. I've never
heard anyone sing a particularly stunning version of it. Then I wonder if
perhaps I had at some point drunkenly bragged to John about having a friend
who does a sterling version of the song. Because I would do something stupid
like that -- tell an all-out lie just to garner the attention of John
Much and Too Little
"I think I've been to a church twice in my life, thanks to the prompting
of James, who promised that they could be "fun", and indeed they
were, compared to getting a root canal without anasthestic as performed by a
coked-up dentist having an epileptic fit. In other words it was so painful I
could have sworn - but couldn't, because God doesn't like people to use
naughty words like AHHH FUCK ME LET ME OUT OF HERE OH SHUTTHEFUCKUP WHO ASKED
YOU ANYWAY - A BORING BASTARD IS YOU while in His house.
I was in Sunday School when I was in kindergarten and it was a horrible
experience, involving many picture books of white people in heaven mingling
with tigers and bunnies and stuff. It was part of my mom's nefarious plan to
make sure I would never be religious and it worked."
"I'm only linking to
this because the guy lived.
Crapweasel of the day: Kenneth
Smith, author of An Open Letter to My Deep Fear That My Girlfriend Will
Be Really Fat Later in Life. Kenneth, I hope you go bald, slowly, in an awkward,
non-pattern baldness kind of way. And I hope your girlfriend makes partner in
her law firm and leaves your skinny ass for a younger, more attractive
gentleman with a smokin' bod. And that they have lots of gorgeous children,
while you grow old all alone and have to move in with your mother and start
wearing shorts with black dress socks that offset your pale, skinny, hairy
legs. And I hope Kenneth Smith isn't your real name, because eventually your
girlfriend will google you and find this public declaration of love."
"The "pub" nearest to me (I say pub, but it's
really a community centre and venue with a bar attached), is somewhere I
never normally go, partly because it looks like the set for a pisstake TV
sitcom about yoghurt knitters. It has a strange attraction for 50-year-old
weirdy beardy men, and people who suffer from imaginary illnesses like ME, (a
strangely class-specific virus which somehow affects university lecturers and
psychotherapists more than it does catering assistants and people working in
care homes). They also have a rule of not serving alcohol before 4pm,
although you wouldn't want to be in there at that time anyway, unless you
want to hear Proud Mum noisily cooing things like "Ooh, seven today!
What a clever boy! Yes, Leo, we're going to go and paint our ant faces
"Will it really have power to sway the voting habits of
What is startling for me is how little Moore has changed the way he presents
the story. Although I missed the original release of Roger and Me (I was
reading about robots in disguise at the time), for some reason I caught all
of TV Nation when it turned up on BBC Two and that took me into my university
years. Considering the controversy, it's interesting to note how close the
new film is to the short ten minutes stories which appeared on television and
his previous work.
Throughout, there is still the mix of old tv footage, stunts and illustrative
contemporary interviews. The proportions of each have been reduced and
increased depending upon the story being told but it is very much Moore's
style and just as distinctive as latter day Woody Allen."
"I saw the film at a Saturday 3:45 showing and it was full. Many
journalists and writer who have been to see the film with the public to see
their reaction have talked about the heckling and the applause. At my showing
the only time anything happened was when a clip of Britney Spears appeared in
which she was asked about the Iraq war From out of the darkness deep male
voice shouted: "Whore!" He was utterly silent through everything
"If you accept the premise that cinema provides us with vicarious
experiences through which we can live out our dreams, then it would seem
reasonable to suppose that you can work backwards from the movies to figure
out what our innermost desires might be.
Movies tell us that love conquers all and bad guys always get their
comeuppance, but what about darker, more fringe beliefs? After all, isn't the
collective subconscious less Disneyland, more Arkham Asylum? What do movies
tell us about half-thoughts so disturbing they have to be manacled in a
"There's a lot of things
I've been meaning to tell you, but I lost my notebook and now I can't
remember how to spell any of those things. If you're in the Chicago area, be
on the lookout for a small black notebook. Then start your own website where
you just keep posting the things I've written down in my notebook. Then give
me the address. Seriously, it'll save me alot of time."
"I have this idea for a soft porn novel. You know the kind of book
people leave behind at bus stations and train terminals, the ones with the
covers torn off, the ones that catch your eye because of the provocative
language, starting on page one, with very creative parts of speech for very
intimate parts of the body. You?ll look down from your seat at the train
station at the abandoned book on the seat next to you and the words ?swollen
hamlet of love? will jump right up at you and you will think, ?well, this
isn?t Tom Clancy.? "
of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo
"Every time I venture out I always seem to
stumble upon someone who recognises me from school. Of course that means they
must grab me, pull me in all directions in some faux 'I love you' kinda of
way and tell me how good it it is to see me as I'm left scrambling for air
and a name. I finally remember who they are (4 years older, 6 years younger)
and also remember never having exchanged a single word with them, ever. Yet
here they are despereate to tell me bout there fabulous new boyfriend, their
children and how they work in an office and shag the boss. Touched as I am to
have these complete strangers reveal their lives to me, why choose me?
Because I have a friendly, inviting face? I'm quite sure not, so what is it?
Because they think in all their skinny and tannedness they are better than
me? Maybe. But most likely it's because I will sit there and listen to their
crap, take it all in, gasp and guffaw at appropriate intervals and even
stroke their pregnant guts when instructed."
"1. Are Spiderman?s superpowers a metaphor for his
penis? Is it one of those ?I am going to fight crime with my enormous cock?
2. I completely believe that it is possible to bitten by a radioactive spider
and get turned into a Spiderman, but this Dr. Oct thing seems completely
improbable. Why were the arms needed? What do the 4 extra arms have to do
with creating fusion? Am I the only person who is bothered by the
implausibility of this? And isn?t there a flaw in your thinking about
creating a new power source that needs electricity to maintain itself?
Spiderman pulls the plug out of the wall and everything stops?"
"Another shit day.
old am I?
can tie my own shoelaces.
I can tell the time (just).
I can pick my nose and eat it (and I still do).
And yet I am still unable to wipe my own arse
after a night on the slosh without dragging streaks half way up my back.
Why IS that?"