Counting Horses

Mother Gaia is dying, apparently. That is what I am assured is the case by reams of scientists, journalists and anyone else who wants to chip their personal monetary value into the matter. Our actions as humans have caused global temperatures to rise and because of this we are only nanoseconds away from ecological disaster on an unprecedented scale. Which sounds scary, but these things often do.

I sometimes wonder what exactly it is about the Earth we’re worried about harming though. The Earth has been kicking about, doing its thang for the last 4.5 billion years now and in that time it’s gone from being covered in noxious gases and volcanoes on every corner, through times when the land has been huddled together in one giant lump, shivered it’s way through a face covered in disfiguring ice and had random pot shots taken at it by passing meteors. So when it comes to a two degree hike in temperature I can’t help but feel that the Earth will live on to tell a bloated star and an uninterested galaxy of its exploits.

Then of course there are the things living on the Earth: plants and animals and fungi and whatnot (but no one really cares about the fungi cos they’re just a bit gross). A change in temperature of just a few degrees could see millions of these species wiped out in a few short years. But don’t start weeping for Nature lost just yet. A distinct species of plant or animal that you’ve never heard of or care about becomes extinct every twenty minutes and there have been five mass extinctions in the past which wiped a large portion of species of the face of the planet but still, life has survived and carried on in that sneaky way it so often does.

After watching the blindingly superb Life in Cold Blood I was struck by conflicting thoughts on the Animal Kingdom. There’s no doubt that the way animals work and adapt to their environment is nothing short of awe-inspiring, but as a human you can’t help feeling infinitely superior to animals that may be able to perform impressive feats of biological engineering but are still entirely vulnerable to their surroundings and couldn’t even begin to comprehend the concept of putting on a warm fur jacket, upping sticks and moving to a nicer location.

Sometimes I think people forget to take a look around them and see just how much humans have created and achieved and how superior we really are to animals. It all comes down to fighting and fucking in the end, we just do it in a much more elaborate and entertaining fashion. There are too many animals and plants for scientists to count and they have big calculators. If the average person could name more than ten species from the millions that could potentially be wiped out I’d be flabbergasted.

Which brings us coarsely on to humans. The ones who really stand to lose from the whole shebang. While it may be that animals are threatened more by our actions, what we’re really scared of with this whole global warming thing is how many humans may be perturbed. There’s the uncomfortable and ever lingering thought that the Universe has a tosspot sense of irony and would love nothing less than to see humankind die by its own hand.

In a way we’re the victims of our own success. Our ability to adapt means that we can inhabit every godforsaken square inch of the planet and the fact that we’re capable of inventing global communication means that we’re instantly aware when Nature decides to get Biblical on a part of the world It just plain doesn’t like. If the weather so much as shifts the comfortable lying position it’s etched into the world’s beanbag some poor bastard is going to have their house blown over.

Of course it’s easy to be so laissez-faire about the whole issue when you live in a country that has nothing to fear from Odin’s wrath beyond an inconvenient flood. And as superior as we may be to animals and plants, they are a lasting reminder of where we came from, how the world functions and how we are very much part of that biological system, so sitting idly by while they’re wiped out seems a tad morally reprehensible.

Therefore, if the pressing of my foot against the accelerator has an effect akin to 16,904 butterflies angrily flapping their wings in Tokyo’s general direction then we, as a species, should probably find a solution. And that is why, after literally hours of distracted concentration, I have come up with a solution.

It’s a solution to do with inner city congestion, a factor that no doubt raises those pesky whatevers through the roof that do bad things to the O2 layer. It utilises a tool that humans have had since we were beating rocks together over 6,000 years ago. It has played a major role in mechanisation, war and communication. I refer of course to the humble Equus caballus. The horse.

That’s right, horses. Ban everyone from driving cars in cities and instead make them ride horses. The advantages should be obvious. First off your emission levels are reduced in a snap. The harmful effects from horseshit are negligible compared to petrol, therefore making your Bigfoot emission close to zero. But more importantly than that, there’s the cool factor.

What could be better than sauntering into town on the back of your glistening steed, tipping your hat at people as you pass, and making your way to the local inn where you tie up your mount and swagger in for a shot of firewater? If the image sounds vaguely reminiscent of Wild West films then that’s because they were fucking cool. No one looks bad sitting on top of a horse and there’s no comparison like there is with Porsches and Skodas because to the layman all horses look alike and a knackered one can always be used for meat and glue.

Speed of travel wouldn’t be affected either since from my experience it’s impossible to travel above 10mph in any city area anyway. A horse is more flexible and a better companion on the road than a cold dead box of steel any day. There’s no situation where speeding through twisting streets, parking, or leaping from the window of an illicit lover isn’t made instantly more fun and convenient than with a horse.

Are there problems with the idea? Sure. There are more cows than horses for one, but cows are rubbish and would look crap cruising up the high street. Also it’s difficult to get a million horses to stand in one place over night. But these are minor sacrifices compared to raping the Earth and murdering millions of human beings, which is why I propose horses. Not for my future, but for the children’s.

EUSA - Edinburgh University Society of Apathy

It has probably been noted by someone once that behind every successful election candidate there is a deluge of anonymous volunteers who work hard spreading the message of the candidate, handing out flyers, putting up posters and doing the general dogsbody work that keeps the election machine ticking over. These people get involved because they feel passionately about the causes they are fighting for and last night I became a small cog in the bloated machine that is the EUSA elections.

It all happened because I’d been round to visit a friend who happens to live in the same house (it is a house, not a flat) as a EUSA Presidential candidate and so the living room was full of campaign material including posters that needed to be pasted on to cardboard. And so, because it seemed rude not to help, I got my hands sticky helping my friend paste some posters for the candidate’s campaign.

I didn’t feel entirely at ease doing it though. For starters I felt guilty being one of those despicable people who contribute to the mass graffiti of election posters that adorn every available bit of space in and around University buildings at this time of year and have all the aesthetic pleasure of a breezeblock in Milton Keynes. But more than that I didn’t feel comfortable being part of a self-important, inflated and egotistical process that myself and the vast majority of students genuinely care less about than the choice between smoked or unsmoked bacon.

Last year 21% of students voted on who they wanted to be the EUSA President. Figures like that don’t suggest apathy so much as a passive/aggressive protest against the whole malarkey in the first place. That’s certainly the view of Felix Trench, a student who hilariously attempted to sell his EUSA vote on eBay so that he could “promote an 'active apathy' movement to protest against the whole thing and try to drill in some sort of common sense.” The housemate who was putting the posters together also felt that there were much more important things to worry about in the world than these elections but at least it was something for him to do of an evening.

The problem most people have isn’t an anti-EUSA thing though. I don’t know exactly what EUSA does do for me but the Unions are still standing, accommodation exists and societies get their funding. I’ve never felt the need to get anything else from EUSA and so I’ve always assumed that things have been moving along in that tedious way that administrations tend to. And yet every year we are subjected to an avalanche of garish posters, moronic slogans and mindless minions interrupting lectures in order to tell us to vote for so-and-so because they absolutely guarantee to revolutionise what it is to be a student at Edinburgh University.

The role of the President is one that requires a lot of time and dedication, hence the year’s sabbatical and not too shabby £21,000 salary that comes with the office, and students waging these fruitless campaigns where they spend most of their time accusing each other of fondling ferrets in direct contravention of some arcane EUSA law is detrimental to the entire process and off-putting to anyone who’s not interested in adding another notch to their future political career CV.

Students have always been keen to voice their opinion. God knows why, we're in the worst possible position to make rational decisions. Students have no idea what the real world is like because we're floating around in this bubble between school and the real world. And so every year individuals decide to play at being politicians and try and wage a campaign that no one cares about because they want to try it out. Which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t such an invasion of everyone else’s time spent in and around University at this time of year.

It’s an administrative position as well, not a political one. A certain Devil once suggested to me that if you don’t pay income and council tax then you’re not entitled to a political opinion. I’ll leave it up to you how much you agree with that but there is this to be said for it: when people vote for political parties in elections they are doing so because of issues involving welfare, taxes, defence, education and health care that are fundamental to people’s lives. I don’t know or care which candidate gets voted in as President because I know that I won’t notice it affecting my life either way. I certainly haven’t noticed these past three years anything that the President has done that’s changed my life at Edinburgh University and I can’t see that changing. It’s not a bad thing, I’m quite content with the status quo.

I remember back in my first year there was a ridiculous amount of controversy surrounding Boris Johnson standing for the position of Rector. There were posters everywhere both for and against, depressingly immature smear campaigns from both sides of the fence and in the end the election happened and someone else won. Can anyone actually remember who won? Or how the Rector of Edinburgh University has caused a fundamental shift in the way of life for students? No, of course not, the whole thing just got blown out of all proportion because students love jumping on their opinionated high horses and giving their egos a good airing.

Even hinting that maybe deciding the President through elections might not be the best method is liable to a swift knee-jerk kick in the knackers from the so-called democracy brigade but just entertain this thought experiment for a moment: what if instead of narcissistic morons wasting precious carbon resources and everyone’s time in a hyped-up popularity contest that 4/5s of students don’t care about, there was a nomination process where people who may feel intimidated by running such a relentless and ultimately unnecessary process could put themselves forward, get interviewed for the job by a group of EUSA officials who understand what the job entails and then be appointed President? It’s how most administrative positions are handed out in the real world anyway and I’d feel more comfortable with that than having to put up with this shit at the same time every gorram year.

I'm Right, You're Left, She's Gone...

I’ve been watching the West Wing a lot recently. By a lot I mean every hour that I’m not sleeping or boozing. When it first came out I was at school and I didn’t have anything like the free time to watch an episode at the same time every week but now, thanks to my casual approach to voluntary lectures, I’ve been able to watch two seasons of West Wing (totalling just shy of a day and a half solid viewing time) in two days and I’ve emerged on the other side slightly confused.

For starters it’s a great show. The writing is so fast that you wonder whether the writers were sitting in a room with burnsen burners placed directly under their arses which were turned to full power if they didn’t produce another hilarious, historical and relevant fact about Truman for the script. Actually, it’s not writers but writer. Creator and all round nutjob Aaron Sorkin wrote pretty much every screenplay for the first four seasons which isn’t that impressive until you watch a few episodes and realise that this man must have a brain that’s more greased and wired than a cyborg Lance Armstrong bike-thing.

You do end up feeling slightly sorry for the Republicans though. The wonderfully partisan nature of American politics means that all the apparently free-thinking, liberal types in Hollywood have to be democratic. The number of contributions to the Democrat Party from Hollywood stars is endless, while the only Republican celebrities I can think of are Kelsey Grammar and Chuck Norris, a disparate group at best, most likely to decapitate you with a roundhouse kick whilst making witty comments comparing the colour of your blood to a fine Italian Merlot.

This means that the politics of the West Wing is so far to the left it’s gone completely full-circle and obliterated any semblance of sound right-wing policies. All the characters are portrayed as heroic, virtuous types who spunk out world-saving ideas on a weekly basis and rarely put a foot wrong. Even when they’re assassinating ambassadors from friendly nations who are suspected terrorists or lying to the public about the President having a serious illness, the moral weight of the script is behind the main characters so you end up supporting them through whatever pickle they’ve got themselves into.

Meanwhile the Republicans are portrayed as absolute bastards who get kicks out of handing guns to children and spitting on poor people. The Republican/Democrat divide is shown to be on the one hand people that care and just want to give peace a chance, while on the other full of crazy Christian rednecks who wouldn’t understand liberalism if it sauntered up and kissed them upside the cranium with an aluminium baseball bat.

But hang on, wait a minute. I’m no expert on American politics mainly because I don’t live there and can’t vote (and yet suffer as a direct result of America’s foreign policy decisions) but I’ve seen pictures of Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton and John McCain and I’ve subconsciously absorbed a lot of the technical jargon that flies around on the West Wing and something worries me slightly. In fact it’s not just a thing with American politics but given the climate I’ll talk about it in that context.

There must be an answer to this but I’m too lazy to work it out so can someone please explain why ideas like free-market economies and the rights of the individual have to be hijacked by bastards who also believe the Earth is five thousand years old and that freedom to express yourself sexually is the Devil’s Work, while those who want to legislate and tax people back to the stone age tend to be much more free-thinking and open-minded when it comes to society?

I’m not saying it’s true in every case, you get moderate Republicans and conservative Democrats, but in terms of perception of right and left wing politics it seems to be true. It puts me in a nightmare position because whenever I tell people that I believe in right-wing politics they tend to look at me like I’m about to don a swastika and start beating up anyone who doesn’t look like me, although for some reason when people tell me that they’re on the left I don’t presume they’re about to slaughter millions of their own people and send the rest to the gulags.

Anyway, the point is that I believe in the right of the individual and free-market economics meaning that the government is there on a minimal level purely to protect individual rights through the law and levy the occasional moderate tax in order to protect those who can’t protect themselves. Beyond that, the state is a bloated, bureaucratic, statistic driven, poll mad mess that hinders more than it helps.

However, and I can’t stress this enough, this does not mean that I’m sexist, homophobic, racist, religious or just wish that everything was the same as it was 1000 years ago before all those damn immigrants arrived. Why is it that the right-wing is loaded up with these self-righteous pricks when surely the ideas of individual liberty and minimal state intervention would lead one down the jaunty liberal path of an individual being entitled to do whatever the hell they want as long as they don’t harm anyone else?

I don’t know, I guess I’d vote Democrat if I had a choice because I’d rather be a weak leftie liberal than a racist hardcore conservative but either way I’d be unhappy. It’s the danger of media politics and the problem that I’m suffering from right now. If there were more of an actual, practical interest in politics and the way governments shape our lives then perhaps the unnecessary stigmas of the left and right could be forgotten. But as it is, when bombarded with soundbytes and stereotypical views of hippies on one side and rednecks on the other it becomes more of an intuitive decision than a well thought out declaration of political views.

I wonder if it’s possible to vote for the Democrats but insist that they take on the Republican economic plans? Or vote Republican but only on the condition that they stop going on about this abortion and God horseshit? I neither know nor care, it’s just that politics seems to be so bloody central in the UK nowadays that I have to start worrying about it in other countries. Here’s an example of how rubbish our politics is: the US gets the West Wing, we get the Thick Of It.

Mobile Circus

When it comes to technology I am what marketing types refer to as ‘The Cash’. Not in a real and practical sense given my pitiful inflow of mahulah*, but certainly in a theoretical sense. Being the godless heathen that I am, I have to dedicate my entire purpose and meaning in life to science and the gifts that it bestows on us mortals through commercial technology. This generally involves me sitting like a starving dog outside a restaurant, wolfing down whatever random scraps happen to get thrown out.

It means my purchasing choices can be a bit askew. The reason I got my MacBook wasn’t because I scoffed at Windows and thought Microsoft was for suckers who liked their computers to act like an arthritic cat with chunks of missing fur and a tendency to blindly plunge headfirst off high surfaces. No, I got the MacBook because it is shiny. It has things that go ‘vrooom’ and ‘weee’ and ‘whoosh’ in a visual sense. It makes my brain uncomprehendingly coo and gurgle which no doubt is a nice thing but I’m not sure if that’s sufficient justification for pledging my undying allegiance to Macs*.

It’s the same for things like HD-TVs which apparently we all need and I desperately want even though the only thing I could use my £1,000 investment for at the moment would be making the Big Daddy savagely beating me to death in Bioshock that little bit sharper to the eye*. They could release a new piece of technology that did nothing but follow you around all day, occasionally reading over your shoulder and making random bleeping noises and I’d be cutting through hordes of other technology bitches to get my hands on the Uncomfortable iPresence ver.1.0.

There’s some kind of progress going on here at least. Computers continue to boost themselves up with exponentially aggressive steroids every year which makes me feel a bit guilty for using them for nothing more than writing, t’interweb and the occasional snuff film, things they’ve been able to handle for years; while HD-TV means that stuff is more real or something. I don’t actually know how these things work. The fact that my iPod is a little box with music somehow contained within it still baffles me*.

But surely there must come a point where we say in one collective voice, ‘Enough is enough. We can only push the boundaries of science so far. Once something has been perfected we must leave it and move on to save on resources and stuff’. I’m still waiting for this to happen with mobile phones.

As far as I can tell a mobile phone has two purposes: to make and receive calls and ditto for texts. As an auxiliary function they should also try their little cotton socks off at not breaking. Now in my opinion these feats were accomplished with the Nokia 3310 and every phone since has been nothing but a pointless replica of the same thing. Let’s compare some of the features found in the Nokia 3310 and the latest piece of brain-melting hardware, the Sony Ericsson W910i*.

Both phones are off to a strong start as a couple of calls to a bemused Dominos phone person prove that they are equally capable of fulfilling one of two essential phone functions. It’s a strong and confident outing from both when it comes to sending texts as well, my hands feel more comfortable around the clear and distinct plastic of the 3310 but that’s just preference. Both phones can perform the tasks that they’re employed for 98929%* of the time.

Now for the ‘other’ stuff. The new phone has polyphonic ringtones, multimedia games and a camera. But none of those matter because only a spiritually lacking cretin gets pleasure in their hilarious A-Team ringtone sounding off yet again. Multimedia games include the likes of Sonic the Hedgehog 1 which came out 53 years ago and serves only to remind us all how far computer games have come since then. Besides, Snake II on the Nokia 3310 was the best mobile game ever made because of its simplicity and addictiveness and if you like gaming on the go you’ll already have a DS. As for cameras, I’ve yet to see a cameraphone that can take photos which aren’t simply a smear of large grainy chunks of colour*. For the same money I’d have to spend getting a new phone I could just get a decent shiny camera.

I did upgrade once. I got a fancy flipper-me-open Samsung thing and it kept me happy for a while, even if it was less intuitive than the 3310 at least it could store more than 10 fucking messages*. Then it came in contact with a slither of moisture and completely gave up the ghost. In contrast my 3310 has been in three different seas, a variety of swimming pools and myself. The most it has needed after is a brief dry with a hairdryer and then it’s back, ready for more. What more could I ask for from technology?

Arseburgers. Just as I finished this* my 3310 keeled over for no reason. It seems my phone has decided to switch off at random intervals, specifically when I’m trying to call or text someone, therefore rendering this whole thing pointless. Still, if it’s any consolation it was a bigger waste of my time.

Joan of Arc

I woke up this morning and realised I’d turned 22. There were no trumpets, no Tom Waits serenading me as I awoke, no new legal avenues of vice available to me, just an overwhelming sense of meh. This sensation was caused by the fact that 22 is my first genuine nothing birthday. Every previous birthday has been better than this one. Not in terms of enjoyment, merely the fact that in the past each successive year has brought something new to my life.

Everything up to 13 was freaking brilliant cos I was young and birthdays were amazing moments where I became a whole year older and closer to being a real person. 14 and 15 were curious because I was a teenager going through the biggest physical and mental changes of my life, and they were the first parties where alcohol was tentatively introduced. 16 I could buy cigarettes. 17 I could drive. 18 I could vote, drink and become an adult. 19 and 20 marked an important transition period from teenager to adult. 21 was the daddy; I became a man, had not one but two fuck-off parties and got loadsa presents.

22 marks the end of all that. There is nothing good about turning 22. It’s an entirely insignificant age and just the first of many. The next significant birthday is 30, which according to gender stereotypes is the most depressing moment of any woman’s life. So that’s a bullet missed at least. Then it’s 40, where I guess the real mid-life crisis sets in. Joy. Then 50, which is an achievement but bloody ages away, and after that you have to go through the whole lot again until reaching 100 which is a mixed bag cos you get a nice card from the monarch but are probably too batshit crazy to realise that you’ve finally made it to an interesting age again. All the other birthdays in between serve only to remind you that you’re getting older, you’ve achieved less than you meant to and that for one day a year you are no longer special.

What is it to be 22 anyway? The only relevant thing I can think of about the number is that it’s a famous bingo call. Not famous enough for me to be able to remember it though… two dead ducks? I forget. And it’s a palindrome too, but that’s not exactly sexy. No one sexy is 22.

I’ve certainly missed the prodigy boat. Prodigious talents make themselves known by 21 at the latest. Whenever you hear about someone young breaking out into the world of success they’re always 21 or younger. After that you have to wait til 33 at the earliest before you can breakthrough again. I’m getting to an age where I see musicians who have released seminal albums, sportstars who have achieved immense physical feats and millionaire entrepreneurs, all of which are younger than me. For no logical reason I’m filled with a vitriolic bile towards these smug bastards. Is it jealousy or fear? I think it might be fear. Fear that time is slipping away from me. I’m oooooooold.

Of course I realise that anyone over the age of 22 who is reading this will probably be entertaining thoughts of finding me and beating me savagely round the side of the head with a sledgehammer. I think 22 is depressing and old? Ha! It’s positively pre-pubescent mate. You just wait til your belly starts sliding away beyond your control, your limbs stiffen up and your hair goes grey!

Alright, fair enough. That stage is a lot more depressing than the point in my life I’m currently residing in. I don’t really feel old, I just no longer feel young. I can no longer use that excuse to myself of, ‘I’m young! I’ve got years left to mature and worry about the real world!’ I can’t do that anymore. It’s scary. It ain’t right I tells ya. Between now and 30 I can see myself in a state of limbo. Age-confused. Yearning for immaturity lost.

I think a lot of the reason for my minor early 20s crisis may be the presents I received from my family. Everything I got was clothes. Everything. Clothes all the way. I’m not complaining. I like clothes but rarely buy them and my siblings have better fashion tastes than I do anyway, so getting a big pile of clothes was great. But it’s also a pretty clear indication that you have reached an insignificant age. There are no more obvious birthday presents, or even presents at all. From now on it’s clothes, DVDs and CDs all the way. But that’s all I spend money on anyway, so net gain!

Perhaps it’s a good thing, a sign of my need to mature and move on. Birthdays are no longer just about me, jelly and ice cream. They are instead a chance to pause, to think, to get together with friends and get wasted. Yes, that’s it. Boldly should I step forward, out of the cave and into the light. Time to shake off that mentality I’ve had towards birthdays since I first popped into this world 22 years ago and demanded a party hat and a cigar.

Or I could just lie and claim to be 21 for the rest of my life. People do that. I’ve seen it in films.

Itchy Feet

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Ode to Betsie

Betrayal. A cynic would say that it's the inevitable moment that arrives at a distinct point in every close relationship, as unavoidable as a rather large and above all hefty iceberg is to a ship with a hull full of hubris. Now I try to avoid cynicism. Honestly, I do. I think it's an extremely unhealthy way to live, constantly believing that no one is really caring, true or honest. But when your cynical thoughts and expectations start gaining an unnerving level of accuracy, on a spooky-psychic level on par with 'Creepy Old Gypsy Woman', then it's hard not to come to the conclusion that everyone's a back stabbing bastard.

You see, I was betrayed tonight by someone I've loved for almost five years. She was my first. My sole. My everything. I've never been inside anyone else. She made me what I am today, taught me everything I know, and has decided now, at the start of a new year full of hopes and dreams for our relationship, to go and hurt me in such a deep way that I can never be with her ever again. I don't know what went wrong. Admittedly I couldn't spend as much time with her since starting at University. And I've been sharing her with my brother these last couple of years. And I did smack her up quite severely a couple of times. But she knew that was what she was getting from the start. I thought we had a bond. Something that would last at least until I decided to go for a better looking model. Not end with a betrayal as crippling as a drop-kick to the elbow joint. May she burn to death in a scrapyard, the bitch.

Her name was Betsie 'Silver Toy Bullet' Micra and she's dead to me.

Yes, she is 'just a fucking car', so what? I loved that car. It is what psychiatrists call cathexis. The emotional investment of oneself into another person, object or idea. So my absolute devotion and love for an inanimate, pretty shitty, beat-up little Nissan Micra was completely normal and mentally healthy. According to Freud. And if you disagree with Freud then you're clearly insane or in denial. Sad.

From a young age I'd wanted to be a driver. Papa would often take me riding in his automobiles and I remember being picked up from kindergarten by him one day as a special birthday present. Papa ran over an old man at a pedestrian crossing and he laughed about it all the way home. The endless supply of cars added a hint of glamour and mystique to my father who was so often away in foreign countries selling crack to the black man. Until one tragic day when he was found, dead, in the garage. He had suffocated on the fumes after attempting to make love to his new Dodge Viper. How? That secret dies with him. Mother always strongly disapproved of the cars until after papa's death. Then she liked them. At the funeral I distinctly remember seeing her washing the hearse wearing nothing but a pair of pink marigolds. She kept saying it was a 'filthy, filthy car'. But it looked quite clean from over the top of papa's coffin.

So when I turned 17 and could finally have a car all of my very own I was of course extremely emotionally vulnerable. I didn't know what to expect. My driving instructor's car was an evil Honda that had begun to represent the instructor, as these things do. He was an ancient and cantankerous RAF pilot who smoked rollies at a rate that made me think he was having some kind of race against the Honda's rev counter. He used to go on about these memory reading causes which enabled people to read a page in a second and remember it, but he always forgot that he'd told me the exact same thing the week before. One day I was driving in town and he drove up alongside me and started rubbing his car against mine. I tried to drive on and he started nudging my bumper from behind. He was a knackered old man, so was the Honda. I began to worry that my foray into the car world would be one of loathing, revulsion and deep, deep repression.

And then she three-point turned her way deftly into the parking space of my heart. The Honda was angry, bitter, resentful. But Betsie was gentle, with her sleek silver body and license plate that cheekily spelt 'TOY' at the end, in that suggestive way so synonymous with Betsie's style. She showed me what it was to drive. Through her care I learnt the art of shifting gears, the warm embrace of the steering wheel, the inexplicable joy of accelerating smoothly round a long corner on an open mountain road. My love affair with her began in earnest as soon as I gained my license and could finally leave my traumatising memories behind at Boris Johnson's Private Driving School for Young Men. I would take Betsie out on what I liked to call 'thrashings'. It was youthful exuberance, pushing her, seeing how far I could go, how reckless I could be... ar, those first flame-filled months...

That ended soon of course. One day Betsie told me quite plainly it might be a little bit unfair to expect her to go entirely round a corner, or even turn at all, if it's really wet rain and you're going at speeds normally associated with dry, hot summers on neverending race tracks.

That bust-up was the best thing that ever happened to me and Betsie. We soon got back together and she taught me to leave behind my reckless days and move on emotionally. Soon we could be found out gallavanting through country roads. Me with a cigarette and winding road ahead of me, Betsie purring away beneath, the two of us exploring the road together. Sure, she wasn't the best car out there. Her 0-60 was in the double digits, she wasn't exactly pretty and everyone else was intent on mocking her but she was always good to me. Her 1.3L engine and light weight meant that she had an edge over other small cars, and it was immensely satisfying knowing that we were pushing each other to our limits. Not like these poxy Ferrari or Porsche owners who have all this power that they're never able to use. We had a special relationship, and I, fool that I am, thought it would last forever. But tonight, tonight...

The problems were apparent from the start, if only I'd looked harder. I would take Betsie on long trips, we would go to Cornwall, Edinburgh, Scarborough, anywhere our hearts took us. But at the end of nearly every trip, Betsie would feel poorly. It was her heart, that was the thing. After a long trip, her battery would barely even register. She'd need to be defibrillated with a couple of jump leads. I always put it down to exhaustion putting strain on the ol' ticker and never worried too much about it.

Then the squeaking started. At low revs, Betsie would make a high pitched squealing noise like she was in pain. The only way of soothing her was with a few revs which normally perked her up. We were told by doctors that it was her fan belt playing up, but we never worried too much. Betsie always seemed happy enough living with her condition. Then this Christmas my brother remarked that he thought the alternator was making the noise. Suddenly the reasons for Betsie's heart conditions became clear, if there was a problem with the alternator then no wonder she sometimes had little heart upsets.

I decided that I wanted to make one last trip up to Edinburgh with Betsie. I didn't say this of course, but I knew that Betsie was feeling worse than she ever had before. But I had faith in the ol' girl, she'd never let me down before and I knew that she had what it took to last the while. I told her we were going for Hogmany and her excitement melted me inside. The drive up north was a dream. Bestie served me well, and we had a joyful time, larking about on the motorways and gliding round corners. I felt entirely at peace. For New Year's we drove around Edinburgh, partying until dawn and mocking the poor one-way system infrastructure.

Then came the drive back home. Everything was going smoothly until we hit Liverpool. Betsie's battery warning light flashed on. This was the mechanical equivalent of someone noticing their left arm has gone a bit numb and there seems to be a dull aching pain coming from their heart. I tried to sooth Betsie, whispered words of encouragement to her and vowed to do whatever it took to keep her alive. I started revving as high as possible in order to try and charge her battery. But that meant using up more fuel. And as the fuel level got lower and lower and Betsie's battery refused to charge it dawned on me that at some point we were going to have to stop. This wasn't going to be good for Betsie's battery. I cried out, I implored the ghosts of Henry Ford, Ayrton Senna and Colin McRae to come to me in my hour of need.

It was no good. She went for another 100 miles before she started coughing and spluttering. Her whole chassis went into spasms, she refused to accelerate, the lights died and I had to pull over by the side of the motorway. This was it. Betsie had had a full blown cardiac arrest and broken down. She had failed me, and left me stranded on the side of the motorway in the freezing bollock cold, waiting for a repairman to arrive. He confirmed it, the alternator was broken. There was nothing to be done here. She was unceremoniously hauled off the motorway and I felt nothing but hatred and betrayal in my heart. How could she do this to me? She never let me down. That was her promise to me.

But now I realise that my feelings of betrayal and anger were just my way of coping with the grief. Due to circumstances I was going to have to get rid of Betsie soon anyway. I thought it would be a loving parting of ways, where we could look back on a clean sheet of fun and frolics. Instead this last incident has soured our relationship, ended it in the worst of ways. Am I partly to blame? Of course. But in this time of resolution and desires to change ourselves for the better I urge you to learn from my mistakes. Always listen and care for those you love more than you think is humanly possible. Because when they're gone from your life, you're never the same again.

What More Can I Say?

But man has given a false importance to death
Any animal plant or man who dies
adds to Nature's compost heap
becomes the manure without which
nothing could grow nothing could be created
Death is simply part of the process
Every death even the cruellest death
drowns in the total indifference of Nature
Nature herself would watch unmoved
if we destroyed the entire human race
I hate Nature
this passionless spectator this unbreakable
iceberg-face
that can bear everything
this goads us to greater and greater acts
But even though I hate this goddess I see
the greatest acts in history
have followed her laws
Nature tells man to fight for his own happi-
ness and if he must kill to gain it
why then the murder is natural
We must reproduce we must destroy
The balance must be kept
Haven't we always beaten down those weaker
than ourselves
Haven't we torn at their throats
with continuous villainy and lust
Haven't we experimented in our laboratories
before applying the final solution
Man is a destroyer
but if he kills and takes no pleasure in it
he is a machine
He should destroy with passion
like a man
Let me remind you of the execution of Damiens
after his unsuccessful attempt to assassinate
Louis the Fifteenth (now deceased)
Remember how Damiens died
How gentle the guillotine is
compared with his torture
It lasted four hours while the crowd goggled
and Casanova at an upper window
felt under the skirts of the ladies watching
His chest arms thighs and calves were slit open
Molten lead was poured into each slit
boiling oil they poured over burning tar
wax sulphur
They burnt off his hands
tied ropes to his arms and legs
harnessed four horses to him and geed them up
They pulled at him for an hour but they'd
never done it before
and he wouldn't come apart
until they sawed through through his shoulders and hips
So he lost the first arm then the second
and he watched what they did to him and then
turned to us
and shouted so everyone could understand
And when they tore off the first leg and then the
second leg
he still lived though his voice was getting weak
and at the end he hung there a bloody torso
with a nodding head
just groaning and staring at the crucifix
which the father confessor was holding up to
him
That
was a festival with which
today's festivals can't compete
Even our inquisition has no meaning
nowadays
Although we've only just started
there's no passion in our post-revolutionary
murders
Now they are all official
We condemn to death without emotion
and there's no singular personal death to be had
only an anonymous cheapened death
which we could dole out to entire nations
on a mathematical basis
until the time comes
for all life
to be extinguished.

Assassin's Creed Review

In Assassin’s Creed you play as Altair, an assassin during the Third Crusade who is assigned nine key figures in the Crusades who have to be killed in order to end the war. Actually you’re not playing as Altair, you’re playing as Derek, a barman in the 21st Century who’s been kidnapped by some shady organisation who force Derek to access his assassin ancestor’s memories using a machine called the Animus. So you’re playing as someone who’s playing as someone who… whatever, eventually the plot makes sense as it unfolds in that tragically inevitable ‘here comes the twist and betrayal kind’ of way.

As Altair you’re pretty much an unstoppable one many army. Your time is divvied up between three cities: Jerusalem, Acre and Damascus with a vast countryside separating them that you travel through on horseback. The cities are, without exception, beautiful. Dashing through crowded streets, climbing up walls, leaping across rooftops, jumping through market stalls, it’s all an experience that leaves you panting. The detail and work that’s gone into every surface and making the cities real, breathing places with jostling crowds and loud markets is a triumph. It acts as one big playground for Altair to lark about in and bring death from above. And when it comes to killing Altair is the best.

There are a variety of ways to take out your targets. You can sneak up on them in the middle of a ground and silently plunge a dagger into their neck before slipping away unnoticed. You can charge up, leap on their back in full view and then leg it away as quickly as possible. Or, once you’ve mastered combat (which doesn’t take too long), you can stride in, slaughter all the guards and take your time beating your poor victim to a bloody pulp.

Unfortunately if you’ve done it once, you’ve done it a million times. The sense of freedom, of being a white-cloaked angel of death, takes a massive kick to the teeth when you’re forced, every mission, to do exactly the same thing over and over and over again. Here’s how every mission works: go into one of the three districts of the city. Pickpocket a couple of people to get information. Beat someone up to get information. Eavesdrop on a conversation to get information. Kill your target when you have enough information. There’s two problems here: 1) the information you get is largely redundant because it’s simply a case of getting close to your target and killing him. It doesn’t matter how obvious you are about it. 2) Once you’ve done the first mission, every single other one follows the exact same structure. There’s a criminal lack of thought and attention that’s gone into creating some variety. There just is none. Ubisoft have worked so hard at creating awe-inspiring graphics and an innovative free-running system that they’ve forgotten that the gameplay itself has to be next-gen as well. It’s the most bizarre mish-mash of genius and laziness in any game I’ve seen.

Inevitably the ending makes it hideously obvious that there are going to be sequels, which is a good thing. Assassin’s Creed was a demo, a chance for them to build the engine that lets the whole thing run. Now that they’ve got that down, they can maybe work on making the missions interesting in the sequels and truly create a revolutionary game. As it is Assassin’s Creeds many virtues are undermined entirely by the most unforgivable of gaming sins: repetition.

Oh, Get A Sense Of Humour This Christmas

It’s actually quite rare for people to have no sense of humour. Often the phrase ‘get a sense of humour’ is used by someone who has unexpectedly and rather fantastically sawed their foot off and stuffed it down their mouth by making some joke or comment that has resulted in him or her being called an evil and offensive bastard/bitch. As ‘get out of trouble’ phrases go it’s pretty weak. Most people have some kind of sense of humour. Osama Bin Laden is renowned for his dry wit. Hitler was a great fan of Chaplain. Even Mary Whitehouse, I’m sure, laughed at some things. Probably black minstrels being set alight by Wombles in Klan robes because deep down I have no doubt that she was a weird twisted bigot, but there was still something in that dark coal mine of her soul that tickled her fancy.

That’s a comment that may offend supporters of Mary Whitehouse. Although I’m probably safe on this one because it must be quite hard nowadays to find anyone who still believes in her radical views of what is and isn’t offensive. She thought that Tom and Jerry cartoons should be banned for fuck’s sake… But still, there’s the potential that some Mary Whitehouse groupie reading this may be offended. Which is the annoying thing about humour (yeah, that’s what this is…): it’s bound to offend someone. And the quality of the humour also has no relation whatsoever to the level of offence caused. Jim Davidson is statistically half as funny as cancer and obscenely offensive, while Derek & Clive recordings are some of the most obscene comedic tapes available and also some of the most hilarious. That’s what I think, but each person’s definition of what is and isn’t offensive can vary massively. The same person who is tickled pink by an anecdote about Jesus getting buggered by a crucifix will actively try to eviscerate you for laughing at homeless folk. Saying ‘get a sense of humour’ to someone who’s offended by what you say is pointless, they already have what they term a sense of humour and if what you’ve said doesn’t fit into that definition then it probably never will.

There are some people though who come pretty close to having no sense of humour. I know a couple of people who hate watching comedy. They take no pleasure in it, they never laugh at what the entertainers have to say, they just sit there getting angry and pissed off because what’s being said is clearly not funny and why is everyone else being so stupid and laughing along like the idiot sheep that they are? It sounds like quite a depressing condition, but the people I know who feel like this are themselves charming, lovely people who just have very high standards of what they think is funny.

The real freaks do exist though. People who actually have no sense of humour. Those who have no knowledge of what it means to be funny, what funny is, or how to react to something that is funny. I know only one person who suffers from this condition. Don’t worry, it’s no one you know. I’d be very surprised if she is reading this as she has the technical competence of a medieval maggot. It’s a crippling disease that harms all around her.

I recently finished watching the second series of Dexter. For those who don’t know, Dexter is an excellent show about a serial killer who only murders other killers. It’s a brilliant, dark and comic piece of television. Dexter, like all sociopaths, has no feelings or emotions. He is entirely blank inside, hence the reason he can kill so easily. But in order to fit in to the world around him he has to pretend he has emotions, to put on a mask of humanity so that people don’t suss that he is a psycho killer.

Watching Dexter, it suddenly became clear to me what this person (let’s call her Naamah because that’s a reference so obscure I’ll be amazed if anyone gets it) is. A humour sociopath. A humiopath if you will. Or don’t. It’s not an official medical term or anything. She has no idea what ‘being funny’ means. She observes it but does not understand it. She knows that laughing and joking are an essential part of human interaction, but she has no means of comprehending the ways to achieve this. The place in her brain where humour is processed is a complete blackspot, more devoid of activity than the Moon on a particularly slow day. So she attempts to fake it, to put it on. The results are nothing short of hideous.

She feels most comfortable attempting to be humorous when the rest of the room is laughing and joking along at that nice regular pace that banter (apologies if you hate that word) is sustainable at. Then, just as a topic is reaching its peak, in she will leap with a patently obvious banality that acts like a machete to the Achilles tendon of conversation. *slit* goes the knife, *smack* goes the conversation’s chin into the floor, spurting proverbial teeth and blood all over the shop. People try hard to muster a laugh or a chuckle, cos gorram that kind of silence must be embarrassing for her.

No, apparently not. Given that she doesn’t know what is and isn’t funny she has no way of knowing that her joke has fallen way short of its target. So she ploughs on with another ruthlessly bad observation. And another. And another. She’ll just keep filling the silence with crap observations and much-repeated anecdotes. Maybe this one will include some kind of stereotypical view, as she has half-observed that some people find stereotypes funny. And just to top it all off and make it clear that what’s been said is meant to be jovial and lighthearted, she’ll finish with a high-pitched laugh which tapers off into the phrase guaranteed to bring blood to the tear ducts, ‘oh dear…’, pronounced in as drawn out a way as possible, with an optional shake of the head and in the tone of voice that implies such phrases as ‘it’s just too funny for words’ or ‘life eh? Tch!’ but in my head is filled in with the haunting cries of ‘Despair. Despair. Despair.’

It really is remarkable how off suit her sense of humour is. I mean, the vast majority of people aren’t hilarious comedians, but almost everyone I know has amused me or made me laugh at some point. Not Naamah. I simply have to conclude that she doesn’t have a sense of humour. She is entirely clueless. Her comments and attempts at jokes cause the opposite physical reaction in me to laughter. My brain feels like it’s trying to implode in on itself, my muscles tighten, everything goes red and for a brief moment I want to take the nearest sharp object and plunge it into my bladder in some desperate attempt to make the pain stop. It’s extraordinary. Every single aspect of her sense of humour is wrong. The timing is, metre for metre, precisely off. Her intonation emphasises words in exactly the wrong way, making you cringe before the gag has even started. Her material is meticulously misjudged in its offensiveness, relevance and wit. It’s like someone’s taken a mirror to the souls of all the great comedians that have ever existed and shone their reflections on to this person, creating in the process a Devourer of comedy. A vacuum acting on all that is funny and rib-tickling.

It’s not her fault though. It must be difficult, seeing something that brings such joy to others but never being able to touch it yourself. So this Christmas, when people are sharing festive joy, japes and larks, spare a thought for those who can’t do the same. And also for those who are forced to spend time in their presence.

Pope Will Eat Himself

Here's the last and final note from back in July which ties in nicely with the inexplicable bile that can be found below relating to another person's musical taste...

And in other news, the Spice Girls have announced that they’re re-uniting for another tour. Even Geri’s coming along!

Yes, I know this piece of groundbreaking news was announced literally aeons ago, but it’s taken that long for my brain to digest this information and try to create some kind of coherent thoughts on the matter*. The problem is that I like to see myself as someone close to music. Not in a practical, real sense; I’m completely tone deaf, sing with a voice reminiscent of a banshee being skinned alive and, worst of all, I am a failed bassist.

Yet there is still an undeniable hold that music has over me. In my opinion it’s the most basic, primal and beautiful medium humans have for expression and enjoyment*. Whenever the aliens or any kind of Higher Power decides to make itself known, it’s through music we’ll communicate. And you can quote me on that when it happens*. And the fact that I don’t understand the intricate substance behind music, along with most of the rest of the world, doesn’t matter because there’s something powerful and inexplicable that just makes you feel like you.

It’s difficult to be objective for sure. Especially with the variety and the lifestyle that is associated with each and every kind of music. The fashion, above all else. I’m going to say this straight off because I like to be honest*, I wanted, nay, demanded the Spice Girls album for Christmas back in 1997. And why should I feel guilty about that? Surely music is meant to be personal, unique to yourself? It doesn’t matter what you like, the important thing is that you like it, that it says something to you. It’s inconsequential whether you like something everyone else likes or not, it’s purely subjective, there is no definitive answer.

Yeah… I get that, but I just can’t shake the feeling that the majority of pop music* can rationally be shown to be totally pope, viz culturally dead, suffering from delusions of grandeur, deceptive, responsible for the mass mind rape of the Western World* and often found in silly hats. As far as I can tell (which is about the distance from your eyes to the computer screen) music that is good is genuine. What do I mean by genuine? Whatever you want it to mean, I’m not a fucking dictionary. There’s a lot of music I dislike because of personal preferences but I can still appreciate that it’s doing something artistically. I can’t do that with pop music, not without inducing spasms.

I thought I’d worked out why this was: because the people singing the songs aren’t the ones who write them. It’s used as a badge of merit and authenticity if a pop star is able to muster the talent to write their own songs, mainly because so many pop stars appear pretty vacant anyway and assuming any initiative on their part is just too much. If you and the rest of your band just sing and do whatever’s written on a piece of paper then you’re not a musician, you’re a performer, a face to a product. A corporate whore if you will. Why are these faces and bodies the things that get the attention and adoration, when all the talent comes from someone else? I thought this was completely unfair, where was the due recognition/hammer in the face for the people who actually create this music?

Then it was pointed out to me that these people who write the music don’t want recognition. These foetus munchers behind the music churn out whatever’s in fashion, appeal to the world through marketing and the cult of celebdom, and generally sit about on a big pile of money laughing manically as they perform vivisections on puppies*. A machine that adjusts the pitch and sound of someone’s voice so they can be made to sing well. When their only job should be to sing. Is that not a sign of an industry slightly ka-fucked? I’m not saying they shouldn’t be allowed to do it, I just don’t think their products should be stored in the ‘Music’ sections of shops.

I feel a lot of the blame lies with MTV. I still can’t quite get my head around the concept of watching music. Listening to music, yes, that makes sense. As far as you can apply sense to watching something that you can’t watch in the first place anyway. There is nothing to be gained from watching a song on television. Apart from money, lots and lots of money. I’ve nothing against money, on the contrary I’m an avid supporter of obtaining it, but not when it’s to nobody’s real advantage. You might as well make CD cases covered with spikes and coming in different flavours, give all five senses a thrill instead of just the one. People shouldn’t care what a musicians looks like, it’s completely superfluous to their music.

I saw an age old video of the Mamas and the Papas doing the seminal California Dreaming the other day. They were a bunch of fugly fuckers. Seriously, I thought they were all self-harmers who had regularly taken scouring pads to their faces. A Wikipedia test proved negative on this. Nowadays the song would have to be fronted by some buxom beauties, generally stripping or implying raunchy sex at all times but it wouldn’t make any difference to the song. Musicians are envied and adored because of their music, the music isn’t adored because of the imagery and packaging that comes with it.

Ha! Who’s being a moron now? It’s all about the image, what the music you listen to says to other people. It’s a way of feeling superior, to bond, to share, to be arrogant and 'right', whatever. And that’s all to do with the images surrounding the music as opposed to the music itself. Everyone does it, it’s one of the inescapable thing about music. If pop wasn’t labelled ‘pop’ and was sold instead as ‘Nice, heavy, groovy tunes’ I’d no doubt be hailing it as the greatest thing ever. It’s kinda sad that the Spice Girls need more money that badly, but people will go to see them, enjoy it and be happy as a result. I shouldn’t care, it’s not important, each to their own.

I just can’t shake that damn feeling of pope…

We Don't Take Too Kindly To Your Kind Around Here

Adam Guettel; Norah Jones; Stephen Schwartz; Andrew Lloyd Webber; Shania Twain; Travis; Stephen Sondheim; Gerald Finzi; Claude Debussy; John Williams; Justin Timberlake; David Yazbek; Alan Menken; The Corrs; John Kander & Fred Ebb; Paula Cole; Delta Goodrem; Thomas Tallis; Wolfgang Mozart; Cy Coleman; William Finn; Dido; Jean Sibelius; Jennifer Paige; Savage Garden; Texas; John Legend; Gustavo Santaolalla; William Byrd; Jason Robert Brown; Scissor Sisters; Laura-Michelle Kelly; Frank Sinatra; Jennifer Hudson; Elaine Paige; Marc Shaiman; Mika; anything sung by Anna McAlpine.

Could there be a greater list of music that is insulting to general taste and decency? I’d be hard pushed to find it. Music is a purely personal thing and people can listen to whatever they want, but when I find a list of favourite music that is so chocker-block full of reeking excrement something in me riles up. I found this list by randomly clicking on a friend (I say friend, as far as I’m aware I’ve never met the man before, he added me as a friend of a friend) on Facebook’s profile and it just begs ridicule. I can’t believe one person would list quite so much drivel as their favourite music of all time. Let’s start at the top and work our way down this shambolic midden, shall we?

Adam Guettel: never heard of him and given the list of heartless fucks that follows, frankly, I don’t want to know. Yes, I know that you shouldn’t condemn that which you don’t know but in this example I cite the case of ‘ignorance is bliss’. Shall we move on?

Norah Jones: She can sing. Apparently this is something of a miracle in today’s talent starved pop public. Criticism should be reserved for her band who write her bland songs but given that I can name not one of them I’ll just say her voice could be used to induce comas and move on.

Stephen Schwartz: No idea who he is but he has a name like a cheap watch. No doubt his music is well in sync but sans soul. Next!

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Arhahahahaha… *cough* *cough* *splutter* sorry, I just half-ingested a cigarette whilst laughing at they very concept of giving Andrew Lloyd Webber musical credit. The man who did nothing but cheapen and whore out the entire notion of musical theatre and, alongside co-conspirator Tim Rice, create work that is schmaltzy feel good family shit that never should, and please God never will, be considered part of the great musical canon.

Shania Twain: She had big tits and a voice like a cat being strangled by Gary Glitter. I’m trying hard to remember one of her songs to mock but everytime I try my brain has a prolapse and I pass out for a few minutes.

Travis: These tosspots actually had the balls to sing ‘Why Does It Always Rain On Me?’ at LiveAid while videos of starving, suffering, drought ridden African children played in the background. Dreary fuckwits.

Stephen Sondheim; Gerald Finzi; Claude Debussy: I’ve clumped this lot together because I have no idea who they are. The name Debussy definitely rings a bell and ordinarily I’d go on Wikipedia to remind myself who he is, but given the standard of musical quality so far I think I’ll give it a miss. I’d rather not risk the chance of vomiting blood for a second time in one evening.

John Williams: Alright, here’s one composer with a semblance of talent. He did write one good score. But which score do I mean? Star Wars? Indiana Jones? Superman? Well here’s the trick… whistle any John Williams score and you can pretty much instantaneously switch to another mid-stream and no one will notice. All his scores sound exactly the same because he’s a one-trick-fucking-pony and should have been an extra in Schindler’s List, case closed.

Justin Timberlake: there’s nothing I can say here that Charlie Brooker hasn’t said with infinitely superior style and flair. Check out Brooker’s new book Dawn of the Dumb for evidence of this fact.

David Yazbek; Alan Menken: Fuck it, in one valiant show of ignorance I’ll just list all the cunts about whom I know nothing of and rest safe in the knowledge that their musical heritage will die alongside all those fucktards who think they’re talented: Paula Cole, Thomas Tallis, Cy Coleman, William Finn, Sibelius, Jennifer Paige, John Legend, Gustavo Santaolalla, William Byrd, Jason Robert Brown, Laura-Michelle Kelly, Jennifer Hudson, Marc Shaiman.

And bam! in one swift movement they all condemned to the annals of musical mediocrity. If you have a problem with my judgment then you're not alone.

The Corrs: Instantly fuckable. As long as they don’t insist on playing their music during lovemaking. If Jim did that I’d be forced to pop his eye out of its socket with my penis. Same goes for the girls.

Delta Goodrem: Oh come on, seriously? Seriously?! She was one of the birds off Neighbours who looked kinda hot and thought she might do a classic break out of soap operas and into the much more lucrative pop world. No! Bad Delta! It worked for Kylie but that’s the limit, the rest just end up as sad druggies mourning the days when they were at least getting paid for being worthless. This town ain’t big enough for two hopeless soap pop bitches…

Wolfgang Mozart: Oh yah. Yah. I just farking love classical music, you know? All the classic composers like, Mozart and… err… yah… yah… classical music is just so deep, yah? The violin is just like, a window into the soul, y’know? Yah. Yah. So shall we have awkward Soho sex now? Such talk = cunt.

Dido: Have you heard the bitch talk? Amy Winehouse can get away with it cos she’s got a voice on her but when the two reasons you become famous are cos your brother is a member of Faithless and you were sampled in a Eminem track about an obsessive fan who kills his wife it’s probably best to die a musical death asap. Oh wait, she already did. Huzzah!

Savage Garden: They were big for two seconds in the late 90s. Then they broke up cos their gay marriage didn’t work out. I didn’t know people still listened to their hormonally charged horseshit. It’s kind of cute in an oh-my-god-pass-the-pills-i-want-to-end-it-all-in-as-painful-a-way-as-possible kind of way.

Texas: They were the support act for David Brent’s band. Whether that’s true or not, there’s not a lot more that needs to be said about them. Oh alright then, if you insist, they were voted in the top ten of things that Scots find embarrassing about Scotland. Now that’s shit.

Scissor Sisters: OK, I’ll admit, I quite like the Scissor Sisters. Their songs do have a certain boogie nature to them that’s hard to resist. But what they did to Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb irrevocably condemns them to musical hell where their flesh shall be shaved away everyday for all eternity.

Frank Sinatra: Now ol’ Blue Eyes had mafia connections and I’ve been watching the Sopranos a lot recently so I’ll be careful what I say here... He was a crooning, repetitive, schmaltzy, boring, ‘my penis is bigger than yours’, atonal arsehole who’s musical shall forever be burned on the pyre of the soulless. That’s kind of unfair I guess but fukkit, I’m on a roll and I ain’t stopping now.

Elaine Page: I vaguely remember hearing her name crop up somewhere. I think it may have been on the colour supplement page I used to wipe my arse with a few months back after a particularly nasty attack of the beer skwitz. I can’t be entirely sure though, the memory does tend to play tricks after a while…

And finally… Mika: he’s metrosexual. Oooh…. That seems to be about all people can say with regards to this rake of shit. His music sounds like the Darkness’ dirty pop leftovers. Go figure.

So there we go. Without doubt the worst possible list of favourite music ever composed. All that’s missing is a bit of Chris de Burgh and Barry Manilow in order to set this soul off on a particularly nasty one-way trip to musical Heaven where they have Smooth FM on constant play and all those with half a notion of musical taste opt to rock out in Hell. At least they have some musical testes down there…

Walk Like a Woman, Talk Like a Man

There are two physical marks of hitting puberty, surviving and on the other side becoming either a fully-fledged man or woman: Breasts and beards. Most of the time men get the beards and women get the breasts, but Nature can be a cheeky fucker and does enjoy flipping these two around for an unfortunate yet hilarious few. There are other physical changes that occur during puberty as well, but they tend to involve excessive and regular bleeding, sacks dropping and spots erupting, none of which are particularly attractive or appealing.

Breasts and beards on the other hand are wondrous things. I have what could only be described as an entirely natural obsession with both. With breasts the reasons why are pretty obvious: I miss sucking milk out of my mother’s tits. Or something. That was a psychological reason I heard a while ago which for some dark deep down reason I never questioned but hey, to be honest I don’t care what the reason is, those jubbly, bountiful parcels will never cease to entertain me no matter how sick the reasons why are.

But surprisingly enough it’s not breasts that I wish to discuss in this here thesis (it’s not a thesis) but rather beards. Y’see, breasts are easy for women cos every woman gets them. Alright, some are bigger than others, a few look like someone’s thrown highly concentrated acid on to a baby’s face and having a particularly buxom pair can condemn you to a life sans eye contact with any male, but dammit, at least they are a guarantee.

Beards are much more trixy buggers. There can be no doubt that beards are a sign of greatness and maturity, just look at some examples: Santa Claus, Gandalf and God. What do all these people have in common? They’re all made up figures of respect and authority. This is entirely because they have beards. Without them they’d be nothing, simply laughable, pre-pubescent figures with no appeal whatsoever. Can you imagine anyone being scared of a God with a bare chin? Or believing that Gandalf could perform magic in any way shape or form if he didn’t have a beard that a hobbit could get lost in? Ha! The very thought of any of these figures not sporting a full chin-tickler is laughable.

It works in real life too. I remember as a 14 year-old trying to sneak into a pub and being constantly in awe of my peers who already had massive fuck-off sideburns and were shaving thrice a day. They would confidently breeze in to any public house where people would assume they were 50, 60, 100 years old at least. From that moment on I knew that a beard was something I had to procure immediately and without delay.

And yet… and yet… beards are still treated with ridicule and contempt by some. I had a mate who over the summer had to grow a massive beard for a role he was playing. It was a mighty beard, the kind that put one in mind of biblical characters on top of mountains ranting at the world. And was this man hailed as a bastion of awesome beardiness? No. He had to put up with daily ridicule and embarrassment. He had nothing but resentment for his beard because of the social stigma that came with it. I can’t help but wonder what kind of a society we live in when these things aren’t given the veneration and respect they deserve.

Which leads me to wonder why beards are no longer associated with things that are hip and groovy. On a base level it’s fair enough cos after all, what are beards? They’re pubes growing out of your face. Doesn’t sound too pleasant and it shouldn’t. Everyday pubic hair attempts to thrust itself out in little tufts through your face. But if you look at it like that then I refer you back to the reason for breast obession. There must be something more to it than that.

I think a lot of my obsession with beards is due to the fact that I can’t grow a beard of my own. When I try I just get something around about my chin area that vaguely resembles a scrotum that’s starting to get its first fledging pubes. On a testes it’s a beautiful sign of Nature at work (but not one other people want to see). On my chin it’s a fucking travesty. Not only that, I also suffer from bald spots. Where hair should grow in order to give the impression of a mature, readyforsex male, it instead gives the impression of someone undergoing severe cancer treatment. I’m not alone in this either, one of my brothers is also a sufferer of random and apparently inexplicable baldbeardspots. My other brother can grow a beard like nobodies business but fukkit, that’s genetics for you. And I know more than a fair few 'I'll shag anything that moves cos I'm a bloke, wah-hey’ males who are sadly lacking in the beard department.

And this, I believe (obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be typing this), is the fundamental reason why beards are so universally hated for no reason. The world is not full of bearded, happy and content with their lives individuals. It is full of males with too much emotion and not enough testosterone, jealous and bitter at those bastards who appear more manly than them because they can grow pubic hair from their face. Those spotty faced, red-cheeked individuals who have to rely on everything but their appearance to attract a member of the opposite sex. These fuckers are ruining it for the fair few that are blessed with facial pubes; what once was a mark of dignity and maturity has been undermined by those too young and immature who think it’s fair enough to take out their insecurities on those who can’t help their wholesome gifts from genetics. I'll bet you anything you like that George W. Bush couldn't grow a beard if his life depended on it and is subsequently taking it out on the more ably bushed Middle-East.

Well fuck them, fuck him and fuck those who discriminate against big breasted women in any way. They say you can’t help the way that you were born. And yet those who are born with more intelligent faculties are blessed. Those born with athletic abilities are praised. I say it’s time that those with impressive facial hair and buxom boobies were also venerated. Sure there’s no real reason to do so, but dammit, big beards and big breasts, deep down, impress everyone.

"great big sharp nasty teeth. look at the bones!"

when i read this article i felt like jesus was on his knee's blowing me with that special technique only the holy son of god can get his mouth around. let's strip this rent-a-christ down and see what goodness lurks beneath the loin cloth:

Word spread among the [Basra] populace that UK troops had introduced strange man-eating, bear-like beasts into the area to sow panic.

jesus christ! that's fucking terrifying! what the hell do this government and army think they're doing? they've created evil genetic freaks driven relentlessly on by the taste of human flesh. they will not stop until the last scrap of human flesh is devoured. flee! run for the ocean, the freak monster's natural enemy!

But several of the creatures, caught and killed by local farmers, have been identified by experts as honey badgers.

oh thank fuck for that.

UK military spokesman Major Mike Shearer said: "We can categorically state that we have not released man-eating badgers into the area."

call me cynical, but nowadays i find it hard to trust anything the supposed uk military tells me. they're all norwegians dressed up as british troops. you'll see.

The director of Basra's veterinary hospital, Mushtaq Abdul-Mahdi, has inspected several of the animals' corpses. He told the AFP news agency: "These appeared before the fall of the regime in 1986. They are known locally as Al-Girta.*"

ok, that's more reassuring. the guy lives there and he has no reason to lie about it really, unless he wants to spread anti-british propaganda. which leads me onto the finest part of the article and the one that actually merits discussion...

But the assurances did little to convince some members of the public. One housewife, Suad Hassan, 30, claimed she had been attacked by one of the badgers as she slept. "My husband hurried to shoot it but it was as swift as a deer," she said. "It is the size of a dog but his head is like a monkey," she told AFP.

brilliant. absolutely superb. i mean there's just nothing you can add to that to make it more fantabidosedly perfect on so many levels. there are three reasons for this supposed eye-witness account coming about.

1. she actually believed it happened.*


2. she made it up as piece of anti-british propaganda*


3. she's a very unpopular person in desperate need of attention*

don't get me wrong here, i'm not trying to ridicule just idiot iraqis here. no, i believe that it's for these three reasons that all myths start, be it werewolves, vampires, witches, whatever bullshit monsters you want to talk about*.

i live in a country where the greatest source of revenue (oh yeah, there is a number 4: making wad loads of cash) is the belief that there's a fucking immortal dinosaur camped out in a freezing scottish lake. hmm... unlikely. if it is there it sure knows how to hide from the best technology that these scientists can throw at it. but what does science know, right? it can hardly compare to these actual real people who have actually stood there and have actually seen a large blurry shape in rippling water. take that science. you joy-killer*.

the idea that she'd make up the story to spread anti-british propaganda sounds slightly paranoid to me and assumes quite a lot of stupidity on her part. but it's not unheard of for these kinds of stories to come about for political reasons. from what i know of the salem witch trials* most of those who were burnt as witches were killed for political reasons. i feel mrs. hassan was being slightly naive if she thought that spreading such a story nowadays would have a similar result. i suppose it does show the amount people there hate the british troops if that's the length they're prepared to go to in order to discredit them. but meh.

as for the third reason... well have you ever seen these scientists and geeks who study these myths and claim to have seen bigfoot or nessie? much like the creatures they seek for they are solitary beasts, rarely noticed or seen by any humans. in actual fact i think reasons 1 and 3 are actually one in the same thing, and making money is quite an important factor so the list should read:

1. she actually believed it happened because she’s a very unpopular person in desperate need of attention


2. she made it up as piece of anti-british propaganda


3. there was an opportunity to make shed loads of cash

but you know, i'm flexible in my opinions like that.

on a serious note: these people are morons who are the kind that take an active interest in horoscopes. they must be educated, in as forcible and as disciplined way as necessary, in the errors of their ways. the imagination is a wonderful thing folks, but let's try and use it responsibly.

and pity those poor honey badgers who are as we speak being tortured and interrogated by both the americans and the iraqi insurgents. won't someone please think of the badgers*? take action, start a facebook group today, change the world!

Paths To Happiness and Omaha Beaches

There’s an old mantra repeated by the demented that drones, ‘Don’t feel down, there’s always someone worse off than you.’ Which is ridiculous. Happiness is entirely relative to the individual and concerning yourself with the deaths and suffering of others is rarely a bright road to joy. Besides, these same hypocritical bastards also claim that ‘money can’t buy you happiness’, an equally haemorrhaged sentiment that is rarely found outside of the batshit mad guilt-ridden middle class.

Money can buy you happiness. I’m writing this on my brand-spanking new MacBook, nicknamed ‘the Sex’, which I purchased after being the owner of a laptop with a big fuck-off crack right across the screen for a year finally drove me to tears. I couldn’t see half the screen, which made writing or viewing anything an interesting challenge for the imagination, and it had reached that point in its life when Windows was just too full of crap. Opening up a large programme was like watching a chemo patient pissing blood from the strain of moving. Hopefully this MacBook won’t freeze repeatedly at the worst possible moments and ‘fall down some stairs’ like the last laptop did. Apparently Macs are more reliable…

Anyway, I bought it with money and it’s made me bloody happy. As do most of the material things that I have purchased in my life. Just because some cheeky chappy who gets his kicks from sitting cross-legged on a barren mountaintop, chanting and brainwashing impressionable middle class teenagers says that a 52” HD-TV with full surround sound adds to nothing to his life doesn’t mean I have to agree. It just means that he’s a lonely man with no soul or appreciation for higher quality image and sound. Again, a slight hypocrisy I feel from one who claims to see things with such clarity.

One of the greatest material things for increasing happiness is television. It reminds you that there’s always someone worse than you. Not worse off or less happy, just worse as a person. It doesn’t matter who you are, turn on the TV and there’ll be someone who is more inept or incapable than you. Happiness often arises through tragedy and watching some poor bastard embarrass themselves without even realising what complete fucktards they are always makes me chirp up and say, ‘At least I’m not that’.

Take, f’r instance, this latest mass pile-up car crash of a show, Arrange Me A Marriage. In the episode I was lucky enough to get drunk in front of, 42-year old musician Trevor Stewart was being pimped out with a wife. By his mum, who was arranging the marriage according to traditional Indian methods. Now that’s pretty fucking tragic for a start. Arranged marriages in India, agree with them or not, are a long-standing part of the culture and more importantly are not used to hook up incompetent middle-aged loners with fat, barren harpies. A point BBC Two (yes, BBC Two is televising this horseshit) seems to have missed.

What really made the whole thing tragic though, and therefore curiously uplifting, was how big a cunt this Trevor was. He was one of those people who offends all the senses. Even though there was a major time/space barrier between me and him I could smell his arsehole nature through the screen. The thought of still being alone at the age of 42 with no meaningful relationship lasting more than 14 months is quite a worrying thought. But as long as you’re not as big a tool as Trevor you’ll probably be alright. He had the tact, wit, charm and social awareness of rancid foetus vomit. Dear old Trevor, four weeks after being introduced to his hopeless wife-to-be at a classically awful engagement party, had seen her twice. He blamed work commitments and ‘taking a week to recover from his stag weekend in a foreign country’ for his marked absence. Unsurprisingly she told him where to stuff it and walked off, proving that beggars can and will be choosers.

This concept of laughing at freaks on TV is now the main staple of reality television. It’s a sick Victorian freakshow but it does squeeze a chuckle from my ribs and gives these bizarre individuals a chance to be on t’tele. Not all tragic losers are funny though, as yet another nutjob proved in America when, in what will no doubt be remembered as one of the more violent comments on Christmas consumerism, he opened fire on a shopping mall, killing eight people.

Sometime these losers get it so wrong. The gunman Robert Hawkins, 19, sought fame through violence and a gun culture that is clearly designed to encourage murder. If only he had instead, like Trevor and all the other countless reality-tv losers, used his butt-end of the social ladder talents to appear on some Where Shall I Cut Myself? VOTE NOW! TXT 278373 show where millions could have laughed and basked in the joy of not being him. That way we could feel good about social awkwardness and borderline psychotics instead of feeling genuine nausea, shock and disgust with the way the world works.

Bernard Manning: From Beyond The Graaaaaaaaaaaaaave

There are plenty of weird things in life. Eyeballs that secrete milk, salmon that travel thousands of miles for a shag, women who can fire ping pong balls from where the sun does not shine. But I think having Bernard Manning who is now dead presenting his own televised obituary has got to be at least up there with hermaphrodites. Apparently Manning gained some kind of psychic insight into when his demise was going to occur and so set about making a film about his life and saying goodbye to people for Channel 4. Or he might have known his death was imminent because his kidneys were playing up due to his diabetes, the programme didn’t make that clear.

What was made clear from the first minute was that this was going to be a bizarre fucking programme if ever there was one. Watching someone look down at themselves lying dead in a coffin and taking a chair at the funeral service, chuckling along as if the speakers were making birthday speeches through the magic of blue screen is a pretty unnerving way to kick-off a programme. It’s the televisual equivalent of arriving at a large scary castle in the middle of a dark stormy night and having the door answered by a hunchbacked Igor character.

The theme continued throughout as well with Manning being filmed picking out a coffin, cracking jokes along the way. And the weirdness didn’t even stop there. Oh no. Clearly Manning wanted to raise the ante in the surreal stakes so we were treated to him sat in a spot-lit chair in the middle of a stage answering moral questions about his life from a man in a box dressed as St. Peter. All very symbolic yes, but when you’re dealing with a man who even has to turn his obituary into a slice of entertainment you know that this is a mind already slightly askew to the norm.

These moments were interspersed with clips of his best gags (not all of which I was shocked to learn were racist) and a kind of documentary trying to answer the question ‘Bernard Manning: Fat racist bigot, or Britain’s funniest comedian?’ Not really a question in my eyes, there are 127.8 British comedians funnier than Bernard Manning, but I could see the point they were trying to make, and it is an interesting problem.

Unfortunately this is where the programme hit a bit of a snag. For a documentary to be good it has to be objective. And it was in places, there were honest interviews and footage that commented on a lot of issues surrounding Bernard Manning. However, it is a bit of a challenge to stay unbiased when a man is weeping into a camera making his final farewell speech to his family. And it jars horribly when there’s a clip showing Manning singling out and mocking the one black man in the audience, followed immediately by a real heart tugging moment with Manning close to death. I found myself thinking, ‘He’s a bit of a racist cunt… but I’m so sad he’s not with us!’ Confusing to say the least. Then again, humanising an apparent racist is better than labelling him and making him a symbol. Symbols be divisive.

At other times they felt the need to play totally inappropriate wispy spiritual music over the top of his gags, as if to remind the viewer that he’s dead. Like that wasn’t made abundantly clear from the start. It’s this ridiculously saccharine way that we have to venerate the dead which meant it was difficult to make as balanced a judgment as if it had been shown when he was alive. Which would’ve undermined the concept a little.

That aside, on to the big question: was Bernard Manning just a big fat racist and is there a place for his brand of comedy in the world? Well for starters his brand of comedy was first and foremost in his ability to tell a gag. Stephen Fry was quoted as saying that Manning delivered a joke better than anyone else. And as we all know, if Stephen Fry said it, it must be true. If something is said in just the right way it triggers off some bizarre involuntary spasm in the brain that produces a physical response. It doesn’t entirely make sense but it’s one of the nicer things about being of the species homo sapiens.

Gags also require a setup and racist characters are perfect for this. They provide a character that is different or ridiculous to laugh at. All comedy is based on someone else’s tragedy, or whatever the damn quote is.

This is why I wasn’t sure if Bernard Manning was actually a racist or just a comedian with an act. The programme wasn’t sure either. It flipped back and forth between implying that he was actually a racist, due to his upbringing and the time he came from, and then implying that it was actually just an act, just a joke, harmless and all that. There was a clip from when Manning went on the Mrs Merton Show in the 90s, when it all went completely tits up for him. She asked him directly, “Are you a racist?” to which he replied, “Yes” and went on to explain how there are “some people I like and some that I don’t”. Meanwhile, Future Manning was looking back on the incident saying that it was a show that set people up and he was trying to do that to her and, in his eyes, out funnying her. Then there was the one about when Bernard told a joke about policemen beating black suspects at a police event. I couldn’t tell if it was all an act aimed at offending anyone and everyone, or if these really were deep-seated racist beliefs.

I don’t think poor old Bernard did either. The lines between comedy routine and personal life blurred long ago. Which is fucking obvious given that he took part in this headfuck of a concept for a television programme.

If it was all just an act then there is something to be said for being controversial and saying things that society doesn’t necessarily see as acceptable. I am a firm believer in the fact that anything can be funny if presented in the right way. The problem for Manning was that his style of comedy was so out of date with every other modern comedian. When he first started out, it was ‘just a joke’. Comedians told jokes, they were there to make people laugh and so to certain extent it didn’t matter what they said. Nowadays though the role of the comedian has become much more one of social commentator. Manning’s excuse that it was just a joke and you shouldn’t take jokes seriously doesn’t hold water now when it comes to a topic like racism. Modern comedy aims to attack and ridicule racism, to mock it rather than use it to get a laugh. The likes of Gervais get away with being controversial because it’s done with a sense of irony, you’re laughing because he’s playing an idiot character, you know he doesn’t really mean it. When looking at Manning I was trying to apply that same sense of playing a character to see if it would fit. Doing that was a mistake, more likely than not he was just a good old fashioned racist, as were most people then. And probably still are.

Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Comedians become big and famous because they’re saying what people want to hear. Once the crowd want to see something new, the comedians fade into the background. Manning wouldn’t have become big when he did if racist jokes weren’t acceptable and funny at that time. And if he didn’t have racist jokes he still would have succeeded because he was a funny guy, but then he would have faded out into obscurity. It’s just because everyone cares so much about racism that we’re still talking about him. Why? His views used to be the majority, he said them because he was a comedian, they’re not relevant now, let’s move on.

Manning knew he could stay in the public eye if he kept up the racist act, and everyone allowed him to do it despite changing attitudes because they wanted to stare in at him in that curious way that people have observed social freaks through the ages, be it Imperial Games, Freak Shows, or Big Brother. Everyone wants fame, Manning was no exception. The most damning part of the whole show was when Manning was trying to defend himself to a comedian and the director of a comedy school. When he got in a tight corner he started getting angry and saying that these two were nothing, he’d played the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, what the fuck had they done? As if being famous and talking to lots of people makes your view better and right. Yeah, the Nuremberg Rallies were pretty well attended too (fuck Godwin’s Law and fuck you).

It seems some people will do anything for the attention; even play up to the fact that people think you’re a racist if it keeps people talking about you just a bit longer. No one wants to fade out and be forgotten; the proudest thing about Manning’s life to him was that he would be talked about for a long time, that he’d live on past other comedians. Which said more about him and everyone else than the rest of the programme put together.

Bernard Manning’s final words to the people of the world were, “Get fucked the lot of you.” At least I can agree with him there.