The remote Italian village of Filettino which is located south east of Rome have declared their independence from Italy and formed their own (albeit unrecognised) principality.
The village have even started printing their own banknotes for their new currency: ‘The Fiorito’ which bears the face of the town Mayor Luca Sellari although this does seem a slightly egotistical touch though if you ask me, he doesn’t even have a beard! We all know you need a beard to look good on money (sorry Elizabeth Fry). It’s also worth noting that this currency should it become legalised tender will be worth roughly 0.72 Euros… Good effort! Sellari has even invited a descendent of the Italian royal family: Emanuele Filiberto to become the monarch of the newly defected principality.
Is that ‘Why?!’ I hear you cry in (definitely not bored) astonished unison?
Silvio Berlusconi’s coalition recently moved to abolish local councils of towns holding less than one thousand people in their population and bunga bunga them together with larger towns…* This was an attempt to trim the bloated Italian bureaucracy and cut government debt without opening the political Pandora’s Box of pension reform. Basically they still managed to piss a load of people off because in Italy they love their local traditions. It seems Silvio may have been a bit too frisky.
This may just be the best reaction to government austerity packages yet! Although there are more conventional protests planned - I think that this is pure genius.
When everyone else protests they march along as they always do, waving placards, chanting, yelling and inevitably getting hijacked by ‘anarchist’ nutters who want to rob up a few tellies from Curry’s Digital.
Not in Filettino. There they said ‘Sod you’ (in Italian) and are now standing astride their local mountains, balls out in the face of the rest of Europe whilst flicking the V to the gangrenous debt crisis that seems to claim another lovely holiday destination every other week. They made their own (as of yet unrecognised) country. Think about how epic that decision is for a moment.
Even Euroskeptics predicting the eventual breakdown of the European Union back into it’s separate state structure could not predict the state of affairs should this trend catch on. Imagine a regression to renaissance Europe with countries flaking apart faster than my year nine food tech projects. Actually forget Europe, imagine it here in Britain.
Towns splitting apart and forming their own principalities to protect their lollypop ladies and (inevitably corrupt) councils. (Ok - I know I’m pushing the boundaries of imagination to suggest that we would care enough…) but still! Imagine the tribal situation that could develop with Fleet/Farnborough/Guildford/Basingstoke/London having to raise militias from the population in order to fend of attack from neighbouring Southampton/Farnham/Winchfield/Reading. I could go on to speculate on the possibilities of local economy and how this would all affect the global debt crisis… But I fear I may have lost anyone reading back at robbing up tellies from Curry’s digital…
Plus all this town v.s town militia stuff is sounding a little bit Age of Empires II…
Good luck to those ballsy Filettians - just take your face off the money Luca or grow a beard.
I am a staunch Filettino Nationalist.
*Apologies for this awful pun - I had to fit it in somewhere.
Perhaps David Icke was right about world leaders and the reptilians…
You’re probably wondering what the hell I mean about world leaders and reptilians. Who is this David Icke? Icke pioneers the theory that the worlds leaders and influential figures are actually all bodies possessed by giant lizard people who have their own ‘Reptilian Agenda’. This is a conspiracy with a growing number of followers.
Yes you did read that correctly. Giant. Lizard. People.
I love a good conspiracy theory - it’s healthy for us to challenge the world around us (and entertaining) but when people start plucking their theories directly from the script of Dr Who then I have to take a more sceptical view of them. (To be fair, Dr Who wrote the Lizard people episode after this was dreamt up, but I think it works both ways right?)
The header of Icke’s webpage claims that he is ‘exposing the dreamworld we believe to be real’ - no seriously take a look for yourself: http://www.davidicke.com/. This header in itself makes very little sense when you actually run the meanings of the words over in your mind, it’s like me setting up a conspiracy website headed with the statement ‘Jack Winter: Uncovering the Truths of an Imaginary World’ or perhaps: ‘Jack Winter: Spouting increasingly fantastical anti-establishment nonsense and seeing how far cretins will buy it’… I could go on.
Like yourselves I didn’t buy this Lizard reptilordvoldermort people theory for a long time. Until the Libyan revolution drew my attention to Colonel Gaddafi that is. The man has been losing power faster than a Gameboy Colour using Asda own brand batteries. What is interesting is that as this has happened his Reptilia max 5000 cloaking device began to fail and reveal the lizard hiding within his skin. Take a look for yourself, the man may as well be wearing a ‘My Uncle was Godzilla, and all I got was this dumb Arab Despot’ T-shirt.
Aside from this for one moment - is the hand in the picture Gaddafi’s hand? Or is he about to have his face groped?
I suppose when you look around at some world leaders with the context of ‘would they look reasonably convincing as a lizard?’ it’s easy to start thinking that most of the world leaders are in fact scaly moguls controlling us through their human hosts…
But then again, unlike Mr Icke I think I need a little bit more evidence than ‘shit! That guy looks like a lizard! Must be a reptilian from the Alpha Draconis system!’ (That is apparently the system they’re from. Where else I ask? Where else…)
Perhaps the reason that the Rebels are struggling to find the fallen dictator, after losing all power he has devolved back into his Reptilian form and is now sulking under a rock somewhere in the Sahara.
I am a reptilian lizard man from the Alpha Draconis system.
They were right all along.
Yes indeed, right now there are Libyans watching their TV sets saying ‘ooft bloody hell Dave, I wouldn’t like to be there right now…’ as England performs a social manoeuvre akin to shitting in it’s own pants. There has been a huge outpouring of rage from just about everyone from Daily Mail readers to sensible ‘youths’ or ‘yoofs’ right through to all the other people behaving like Daily Mail readers.
I can see that perhaps a few people were rioting at the start for a cause, although the justification is about as strong as an nineteenth century shoeshine boy with ricketts fending off a horny gorilla. Most people are just having a giant anarchist wank on the back of the uncomfortably packed bandwagon. What they don’t seem to realise however is that they are ejaculating all over the face of a generation of ‘yoofs’ who are on the whole not as bad as the Daily Fail would have us believe.
All of this of course is watched by our parents and their parents as they sit and they tut and they grumble in their chairs, sitting in front of the telly saying we should be harder on teenagers. If I’m honest I don’t blame them, but as with everything our view is blurred by the news and people will begin to blame ALL teenagers. That’s before they get on the ‘it’s all because of facebook’ rant.
‘It’s done terrible things to our society’
Oh, that’s odd. When it was facilitating riots and revolution throughout the North African world it was an amazing tool of democracy, but once it’s doing the same in your own country that takes the biscuit does it?
After all we are a civilised and developed country… Anyone can see that?
What the government needs to do is to freak the looters out. Scare them. Great - use your rubber bullets and your tear gasses, but I think dressing police as storm troopers might do the trick. I think the frankly eyewatering prospect of Vader’s fist (boom boom) would scare anyone.
Alternatively we could call up the child catcher who’s tastes must have matured slightly by now to pick them all up. Now there’s a shopkeeper nobody wants to rob.
The Kaiser Chiefs are behind it all. After all their second album is called ‘Yours truely, Angry Mob’ and on the album they actually profess themselves to be said mob. I’d like to think I’m retaining my rational thinking as everyone else loses theirs.
I am an armchair vigilante.
It is with great regret that I can confirm that job hunting does not involve the use of any type of firearm.
Although if I am to be completely honest I certainly would not have minded walking into a miscellaneous shop today and taking a pot-shot at a smarmy staff member and then mounting him/her on the nearest wall. I think that would be satisfying in any of the typical high street ‘you could be anywhere in the country’ retail stores I visited today in the no doubt vain hope of securing a job.
Last night I realised upon checking my student bank balance that I may as well have exchanged half of my loan for magic beans. So followed the partially drunken thought process of:
“Shit! I’ve had my card stolen!” Closely followed by the realisation of:
“Those sneaky bars and estate agents have stolen my money!” (a formidable criminal duo, at least they don’t make you put a deposit down on a pint… yet.)
Sadly it then dawned on me (accompanied by full dramatic string section in my mind) that I was going to have to find myself a job. Yes. I was going to have to return to the unsympathetic and mind-numbing world of part time retail manager arse-licking. Treating them like they had just saved my first born son from certain death, all to maintain a meagre hourly wage in a job I would rather not have.
I lack the Mandelorian Battle armour to become a respectable bounty hunter. I possess too much of a conscience to take up thieving. I can’t score bicycle kicks like Wayne Rooney, and I’m not brave enough to sell my body to the night. It was therefore inevitable that I was going to have to trudge around West Quay shopping centre attempting a more socially acceptable form of selling myself, no doubt to the same result as the less socially acceptable version.
But hey! At least things can only get better after working for a notoriously disrespected fast food outlet? At first glance. In actual fact I will just remain in a faceless string of stores that can be found anywhere in the country sucking our money from us like oversized stationary parasites. This is of course assuming I get so much as an interview. On the bright side I won’t be working in a fast food store - whatever the outcome.
I am now considering submitting my CV to the Somalian Pirate association. This way I can blast as many false shop assistants as I want to, sail the seven seas AND not have to wear a degrading name tag that nobody gives a polished dog shite about anyway.
If the worst comes to the worst and the pirates have a personality test that I need to fill out, fail and be told I’m too creative - prostitution wouldn’t be so bad. I think I’d be at least a 4.5 out of 10 in stockings and some lippy…
At least I could be creative.
I am a cynic.
Nothing welcomes you back to university like the smell of rotting food.
I learnt this in the most stomach-curdling way possible. Upon arriving back in Southampton (nursing a mild headache), I opened the door to my house to be hit by a smell that can best be described as a cross between a corpse of a rotting skunk and the combined excrement of 5 men who have eaten a phall curry. The impulse to projectile vomit everywhere and get back in the car and go home was unbelievably strong, yet for some stupid reason I opted to remain here and not have another week at home (in civilisation).
I’m not going to point the finger (although I am tempted to point a gun/flamethrower/Josef Fritzl) at whichever retard switched the freezer off, it was probably an accident. Which makes it ok. Obviously… …So ten minutes into the new semester I found myself sporting a gas mask made of a scarf (so effectively just a scarf) and dragging the freezer to the front of the house with a housemate to empty the contents into the dustbin. This revealed the juice at the bottom. This Juice made any dirty pint I’ve had to down over the past few months look like church lead by Barney the Dinosaur. An orange mix of rotting meat juices, melted ice lollies and chunks of mouldy bread plus God only knows what else. Delightful.
Fortunately by closing the lid of the freezer you can more or less trap the smell inside as it eventually disappears from the air outside after a couple of hours. Unfortunately it is because of this that the freezer now squats in our hallway like a malicious Pandora’s Box of smell. It has no eyes, but I swear it watches me walk past…
You may or may not be surprised/amused to find out that this isn’t actually the worst thing about being back at university. For the first time in years I have caught the flu. Gone are the days when being ill came hand in hand with the novelty of complaining and being looked after by Mum before taking the day off and playing computer games until you pass out. Now it just means that you lie in bed slipping in and out of conciousness worrying about the essay due in for Thursday and the fact that your lecturer won’t give a flying monkey’s toss about whether you’re well enough to swim the channel or in the process of contracting Ebola.
So after two nights of what feels like no sleep I’ve found myself lying in bed unable to shift the headache that feels as though I’ve been kidnapped by Somalians who have attempted to behead me, failed, and swung an axe halfway into my head. Through the sweaty feverish delirium I found myself thinking about how frail the human body is. Now I’m sure people will disagree, but how many lions elephants great white sharks or grizzly bears do you know who would lie down for a few days and moan about a headache?
Finally, I’m sorry I didn’t write anything over Christmas, I was enjoying myself far too much and therefore had nothing to moan about. If I wrote about happy positive things and didn’t complain - this blog would start to resemble some sort of literary Teletubbieland. Fuck that.
I’ll try and write again at some point if I don’t succeed in clawing my brain out of my head to stop the ache.
I am a whiney, wingey, moany cynic.
Britain has come to a standstill.
“Ooh yay! It’s snowing outside!”
“Aww it’s so pretty!”
Ok, I’ll admit, snow is pretty fun. For about half an hour. After that you need to check every few seconds to make sure your fingers haven’t dropped off, because of this lack of feeling you can’t check that your nose is still attached. Oh how wonderful. To quote the film ‘In Bruges’: “It’s like a fuckin’ fairy tale”. Not to mention the fact that British transport infrastructure seems to be so incapable that at the fall of the first snow flake it decides to retreat into some sort of defensive ball like a small threatened child. Fortunately, here in the fridge (my house in Southampton) I’m used to sitting in my room having to keep check of body parts to make sure they haven’t frozen and fallen off. So the wintery onslaught serves no novelty other than the five foot snow penis some friends and I built in the middle of the road at 02:00 this morning.
Snow is fine by itself, just about bearable. I can more or less get over the lack of transport and also the fact that pavements become death-traps. But due to the events of this afternoon I can only conclude (perfectly rationally), that this is all the fault of the Russians. To reiterate, this is a perfectly rational conclusion and will be completely explained later with concrete evidence.
Little did I know that the snow would be one of the less annoying things to occur during today. So Fifa, that ever credible, unbiased and un-financially-motivated institution of world football and integrity vote that it’s appropriate for Russia to host the world cup. As I’m feeling in a repetitive mood: Russia are hosting the world cup. Who next?! Qatar?! … oh wait.
If a country with mostly artificial pitches and average temperatures that would be beyond the extremes of England can feasibly host the world cup, followed by a country with NO GRASS AT ALL, why don’t we just host the Winter Olympics in chilly Sudan? How about the Cricket world cup in the ‘Democratic’ Republic of Congo? You have to wonder why England bothers to do anything these days. Britain in general is still just about involved with issues occasionally jutting in with a suggestion that gets well and truly ignored. Rather like a formerly intelligent and respectable great granddad, Britain sits withered and dying in it’s rocking chair in the corner of the world stage, waiting to eventually fade away. Grim. But true.
So my theory is that Russian stealth bombers have been flying overhead dropping substantial payloads of snow on Britain, assisted by invisible stealth boats with MASSIVE fans on them around the shores of the country. This is all a meticulous plan purely to add insult to injury.
It would seem today that we are all forced to swallow the endless virtues of Russian culture.
Now where did I put the rest of that vodka…?
I am a cynic.
Such as ‘missing text’ and of course - Virgin Media’s sterling internet provision…
I’m assuming that if you’re reading this then you have access to Facebook, or alternatively a TV. Therefore you’ll probably have been bombarded by adverts for Smirnoff’s unique and ‘unforgettable’ nightlife experiences. Now like most people, when I heard the phrase ‘Paint Party’ I thought ‘What the fuck? That actually sounds pretty cool!’ especially as on the advert it says something about paint falling from the sky. So me and my house-mates went along and I had to once again enter Oceana - something I try my very best to avoid due to the fact that it seems to kill a little piece of me each and every time I visit. Not to mention the unhealthy dent it leaves in my student loan…
‘But hey! It’s the ‘Paint Party’ right? It’s going to be crazy!’ So we get out of the taxi, buy our tickets and start climbing up the steps, each of us anticipating the mental idea of a club soaked in paint and vodka, and in my case- hoping to see a few people absolutely nail themselves on the paint Looneytunes-style. I was left feeling rather more disappointed. There was no psychopathic club employee operating a giant paint cannon, there was no paint falling from the sky and there was no reason to (as the advert suggested) say ‘I was there’ unless you’re going to precede or follow the phrase with ‘sadly’. The so called ‘paint party’ turned out to be a perspex box at the side of the room filled with about 6 people in boiler suits dancing badly. It looked like somebody had spiked drinks at huntingdon life sciences and put ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ by The Prodigy over the P.A. Unfortunately this wasn’t even the case, the music was nowhere near as good as that.
Scanning the sparsely populated club (it was still early) I could see that the only thing that set this night aside from any other was the numerous and unnecessary Smirnoff signs and people with stupid neon paint on their faces. Additionally there was a que leading to the box so long that it made the whole affair look like some sort of post-apocalyptic governement quarantine and cleansing event. Sure enough, after a few drinks my face was painted with stupid neon paint, and I was standing in the que signing a disclaimer so that Smirnoff could do whatever they wanted with me. It’s also worth noting that the bimbo who was distributing the forms looked at me as if I was some sort of discarded scab when I asked for a minute to actually read what I was signing. Bitch. Anyway, I was now wondering why I couldn’t see anyone coming out and began to think that perhaps Smirnoff had been employed by the government to gas idiots in clubs and therefore somehow reduce the budget deficit. Somehow I wouldn’t put it past old Gideon Osbourne and his shiny faced chums.
I found the box itself to be more of a let down than the news that Thatcher hasn’t died yet. I found myself with a few of my housemates drunkenly waving my arms staring into clear goggles coated in oily red paint that meant I couldn’t see anything at all. I left alive (thankfully Gideon spared this set of clubbers) with so much red paint around my mouth that I looked as if I’d gotten peckish and decided to eat somebody with my hands tied behind my back. Pissed but disappointed I returned to the dance floor looking like an extra from 28 Days Later to dance like a possessed chimpanzee some more. Rather like having an arm amputated, alcohol made the whole thing more bearable.
Whilst I’m here I may as well voice my disbelief that somewhere in the world at some point in human history some cretinous simpleton invented ‘missing text’ (or ‘incomplete message’). Oh yes. Well done you. I mean the fact that I can’t read half of the text message I’ve been sent is really quite convenient. Is the second half of this message going to be useful to me in two weeks when it finally gets delivered to my phone? It would have been quicker to post it. From Kenya. Or (strangely) to make a call? Thankfully I haven’t any messages from a housemate saying: ‘JACK, THERE’S A BEAR *missing text*’. Only to have the rest of the message flash up on my lifeless corpse two hours later, completing the message with: ‘…IN THE HOUSE COMING UP THE STAIRS. CLIMB OUT THROUGH THE WINDOW.’ Honestly. Just use smoke signals instead? Unless of course you’re being attacked by a bear and find this difficult. Last bear reference. I promise.
Before I finish I’d like to issue a final warning to James Mooney of Virgin Media: if you think that employing spider monkeys and five year olds to maintain the connection of our internet, I may have to release a large bear into your house whilst you and your family sleep. You’re trying my patience. You have been warned.
I am a cyn*missing text*
James Mooney is the Chairman of Virgin Media (all will become clear later), and my kitchen is filthier than Ron Jeremy in a brothel.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve taken to the keyboard with the intent of writing one of these, which probably indicates that since arriving in Southampton I’ve actually found myself a constructive way of filling my days. The amount of things I want to squeeze into this without making it comparable in length to The Lord of the Rings is genuinely ridiculous. I actually thought that instead of just throwing myself into these blogs like some sort of wild axeman hacking mindlessly and with little planning at ideas - generally making a bloody mess of things, I ought to sit and plan it out. But then I thought “Fuck that.” So don’t expect a logical order, structure or coherency as my brain reverts to being a small child linking everything with ‘and then’.
(I can’t help but think of the fast food bit in ‘Dude Where’s My Car?’ right now)
So I’m living in my own house with five other people, AND they haven’t killed me yet. I consider this to be a bonus. The house is nice - old Victorian terraced style on Shakespeare Avenue. I have a reasonably sized room and a double bed, the only downside is that as the weeks are progressing I’m rapidly coming to the realisation that I’m living in a giant late nineteenth century fidge freezer. This is mainly due to the single glazing which seems to act as if it doesn’t exist and that we just have framed holes in our walls. What’s more - the downstairs is so drafty that if you leave any more than one door open the whole floor turns into a fucking wind tunnel. BUT on the whole I’m settling in and it’s not too bad.
That is, it would be better if Virgin Media pulled their fingers out of their collective arse and connected our internet. Yes James Mooney. If this doesn’t happen soon, I cannot be held responsible when we kidnap you and force you to clean our Kitchen and Bathrooms (which look and smell like a yeti’s arse hole) before leaving you tied naked to the chimney of our house with a sign saying “They’ll let me down in ten working days” around your neck. That way I won’t have to keep buying drinks in pubs in order to use their internet and subsequently not fail my course. There’s clearly a reason Sky are doing better than you guys.
On the bright side I think I have found one of the worlds finest pubs. “The Hobbit” is a 5 minute walk (or a 2 and a half minute run if you’re desperate) from my house. The drinks are all named after characters, they play good music and they host gigs (including the gloriously named ‘Tom Bombadil’s open mic night’). I have found my sanctuary. Although I think they may be growing tired of me asking what size the pint cocktails come in and then after receiving a response over-enthusiastically bellowing “They come in pints?! I’m getting one.” But to be fair, I bet nobody ever says that…
On the first week I managed to break my personal best of consecutive nights out from a meagre and embarrassing three, to an acceptable eight. I’m learning rather quickly that Vodka has many of the characteristics of a rapist. It mixes in inconspicuously with other drinks; you may only realise the true nature of it after twenty minutes; it fucks you hard and mercilessly and it will leave you to come round in hospital, a back alley or an unknown bath shivering and whimpering in your own shame and/or excrement. Alternatively it may give you a truly surreal night if you drink enough. For example, the other night I drank far more rapist than I should have, I ended up calling my parents for a chat (no details disclosed), getting kicked out of Oceana (which is probably them doing me a favour) with my girlfriend, ending up in a sleazy-as-fuck strip club with the Missus (she’ll kill me for calling her that) and some friends before waking up in Portsmouth and discovering somebody had replaced the contents of my head with overcooked rice.
In other news: I have finished writing chapter one of that story that back in summer I said I’d start writing. I have also played my first solo gig and might be starting a new band very soon. I’ll keep you posted.
I’d best wrap this up before I spend more time than is healthy writing this and my stomach decides to take me to a tribunal for not feeding it.
Virgin Media are good.
I am a cynic.
With this I’d like to think that my lack of routine and organisation will be banished from my life to be replaced by a disciplined, healthy and studious lifestyle in which I balance study, exercise and drinking proportionately.
However, in reality this is about as likely to happen as the next Sunday News of the World headline reading: ‘Jack Winter exposed as ringleader of Asian sub-continental spot-betting syndicate’. I toyed with the idea of that or that being as unlikely as a Pakistani bowler bowling 15 no balls in a game… oh wait.
Yes, over the summer I’ve let my routine slide into: Eat, sleep, xbox, facebook, possible sex, repeat. With slight variations thrown in at random intervals such as complain and drink another lager. The bi-product of this is that the final month of my summer has sort of flickered by in a simultaneously slow-mo fast-forward fashion, weekends have blended into weekdays and lost their ‘pearly gates of heaven are approaching’ feeling. This could also be due to the various weekday student nights spattered throughout the week like little money sucking parasites determined to make me spend my emergency cash fund I’ve saved for uni.
Still, regardless of this strange and no doubt short lived lusting for routine, I know that I will arrive at my house on Shakespeare avenue and continue my life of being a slob. I’ll have to enter into negotiations with my motivation department and try and reach some kind of compensatory deal in which I spend an hour or so at the gym each day, but also at least the same on my xbox. The gym hour can interchange with study, the rest can be spent in bed sleeping… etc.
Hopefully with the rickety scaffold of university timetable in place, weekends will start to have some significance again and time won’t sneak past me like some sort of 1970’s Russian spy. Still this promise of structure to my life lies behind the sort of solid steel wall of apprehension I’m facing as it’s all finally here, although I’m sure once the 25th arrives I’ll realise there’s a ladder up and over the wall to where uni life is.
Time will tell!
I am trying not to be as much of a cynic and remain optimistic.
“Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off. ”
There is absolutely no reason for me to post that, but as a speech - phenominal. It generally reflects the way that a lot of people and I seem to feel when we all take a step back and allow ourselves to think for a second instead of thinking at 100mph about whatever the nearest screen flashes at us.
Anyone who has stumbled into reading any of my previous posts will know I despise nightclubs, however, as much as I’d love to join a fight club - I am in reality small and weak and not the Tyler Durden I wish I was! I think most men have a bit of Tyler locked away somewhere in their mind - which is probably the idea of the film/book.
Good work Palahniuk. You’ve re-inspired me to start writing again.
I am a cynic
And a few other little moans.
Hello everyone. For the sake of being conventionally polite I’m going to apologise for the lack of blogs in the past few weeks/months/x amount of time, however, it lacks any sincerity as I doubt anyone gives a toss and to be absolutely frank (and trust me I wish I was Frank… but we’ll come to that later) I don’t give one either, therefore - sorry for not providing all you insomniacs with a low priority boredom-buster.
Now I would love to write an absolutely scathing critique of clubbing, and let’s face it, that isn’t a hard thing to do as clubbing is a complete load of overrated bollocks, but fortunately one of my heroes - Charlie Brooker has destroyed it in an article already to a much higher standard of demolition than I could ever hope to achieve. The link to this is at the end of this… Reading that will suffice to encompass my general opinion on the issue.
I spent the past weekend at Reading Festival. Surprisingly for this blog I’m going to start on a positive - the music was absolutely mind blowing this year, especially Blink 182, Frank Turner, Limp Bizkit and Queens of the Stone Age. There were loads of bands but those really stood out as epic for me but they really impressed me. Now unfortunately this was somewhat marred by the fact that British weather seems to regard the words ‘bank holiday’ as a direct translation of ‘Shit it down on anything vaguely reliant on good weather’. As a result of this, most of Thursday (and I’m sure Wednesday) felt less like a festival and more like an extended shift on a North Sea fishing trawler… With what is effectively an over-sized raincoat with poles to keep you dry rather than a metal cabin with glass windows and a bed.
I’d like to give a special mention to the sign put up at the end of our horrifically muddy, waterlogged and boggy campsite that said ‘Welcome to the Somme. Abandon all hope here.’ I wish I wrote that sign so badly. To be honest, the camp site didn’t look far from a scene from Belgium in 1916, that mud forced me to develop WW1-esque trench foot as a result of living in my chaffy and uncomfortable wellies. I’m fairly sure when the Duke of Wellington invented them he didn’t envisage thousands of teenagers wandering around drunkenly in a muddy field and huddling in little canvas monstrosities to keep warm between liver destruction sessions.
Now. Poker. What the fuck is up with gambling - full stop. I’m sure if I won money I’d feel more inclined to endorse it as a pass time, but when you just lose money and see your friends turn from jovial and relaxed people to uptight and overly serious tycoons in a matter of minutes it becomes all too questionable. This is fairly fresh in my mind as tonight I saw a relaxed BBQ turn into an intense and inappropriately serious poker match in the course of about 10 minutes. Honestly- I’d rather sit and wax my balls. With hot wax. Nah, but in all seriousness, why waste money in the small chance of winning some, when you could play a genuinely entertaining game like buckaroo or tumbling monkeys and incorporate shots of a spirit into both?
Finally and perhaps most importantly - University. What was all to recently a set of beautiful pearly gates has now become the edge of the world (I’m thinking in the style of Pirates of the Carribean…) and instead of charging the gates on Shadowfax the horse lord, I’m trying desperately to bail water out of my decrepit rowing boat and row backwards simultaneously. In short - I bollocksed up my halls application and now have to get my own place. Never have Blink 182’s closing number ‘Dammit’s lyrics seemed more relevant:
“Well I guess this is growing up.”
Indeed it is Mark. Indeed it is.
I am a Cynic.