Talking to myself

Pogonophobia

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 02:56:00 +0000

I looked at the bear and smiled. His grizzled face was all teeth and fur, but I was not afraid. I didn't run, curl up into a ball or try and spray bear mace in his stupid face. Instead I slowly raised my right hand and waited the appropriate few seconds before saying "Dude don't leave me hanging". The bear fell onto his four paws and grunted at me, before bouncing back upright and slamming his paw into my hand. There was no satisfying slapping sound as it wasn't really skin on skin, and he damn near tore my arm off, but holy crap, it must have been the greatest high five of my life. "So...." I continued, thinking this bonding moment gave me some level of camaraderie with this hairy beast "...you like gaming?". The bear dropped to all fours again and made a thoughtful rrrr sound, much like a confused dog might. He stepped forward and I resisted the mighty powerful urge to back off (the effort of which made sweat break out down my back) and then circled around. He wandered off back into his cave and I breathed out in amazement and relief. I picked up my shit and turned before I heard a roar. It was the bear berating me. He had a wiimote in his mouth.

Feel Better

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 02:56:00 +0000

Imagine a lake. You are standing on the shore barefoot, luxuriating in the dewy glorious grass on your skin and the sunshine on your face. You stare at the water and feel peace. It's cool and calm and still. It makes you shiver with it's infinite complexity and unity. The light reflects and gets you in the eye for but a moment. When you look back you see a fish swimming on its own near the surface. It is ambling back and forward, seemingly aimlessly. It darts this way and that, up and down. You don't know how but you can tell this fish is happy. It comes closer and you see a flash of green in front of it. It's a huge frog with purple spots on it's back. Its paddling in short quick bursts in front of the fish, dashing left and right. You worry for the frogs safety for a moment with the fish in pursuit and then contemplate how the fish could eat a frog that big. Does it have teeth? You feel a splash on your bare feet and the frog jumps out on the shore in front of you. He looks up at you and flicks out his giant tongue. Is he mocking you? The fish is a few feet away floating motionless, swaying with the minor current. He must be really hungry for this frog you think. Just then the frog ribbits loudly and jumps back in the water. Plop! He slaps the fish with his freaky hand and the fish swims off. Idly. The fish swims back and forth and the frog chases. They make a big loop in front of you, tumbling up and down in the water, appearing and disappearing under the blanket of liquid gold. They pause when they are in front of you and the frog ribbits again loudly while floating. His tongue flicks out once more and this time you are sure he's being cheeky. You suddenly realise with your whole being that they are playing it and they want you to join. A smile cracks your face and your soul wide open and you jump in the water. It's warm. You're happy. All is well.

The Revolution

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 02:56:00 +0000

The revolution will not be televised, because we cut the television cables and shot down the satellites. Seemed like a massive waste of time, research and military apparatus, because without television no-one knew there was a revolution going on, so no one joined in. So we didn't reach critical mass, and the people didn't rise up as one - they just started looting once they realised the police were otherwise engaged. We took over the Houses of Parliament, but there were few MPs there, so when we announced that we had taken power it seemed like a hollow and meaningless victory as no one heard us. Someone suggested using Twitter, so we executed them immediately. Of course the military soon stepped in, as once the powerful television lobby realised that the internet was becoming our main form of entertainment (even in the short run) it searched out the remaining MPs and got them to agree to martial law. So in the end we were first against the wall.

The consequences of us rising up to take the power back was that this countries civil liberties were eroded further for many years in an attempt to curb this sort of futile rebellion in future.

The next revolution will not be televised either. It will be on the internet though.

Drinker's Remorse

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 02:56:00 +0000

I'm a poison
That creeps under your skin
I'm a rot
That start's when you begin
I'm a darkness
That wells up deep inside
I'm a fear
From which you cannot hide

I'm a sickness
That's breaking you down
I'm a disease
That's making you drown
I'm a hunger
That makes you want bad
I'm a need
That destroys all you had

I need help
But more than you can give
I need hope
That someday you can forgive
I need life
To give me a fucking break
I need last night
To not be a mistake

A series of jokes written for Giants that only they would understand

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 02:56:00 +0000

An Englishman, an Irishman, a Scotsman and a Giant are all standing around talking about Quantum Physics. The Englishman says "Once Cern is working properly, everything will change". Just then a plane flies past and distracts the Giant, and when he turns back to continue the discussion, he realises he is all alone.

Two Giants walk into a pub. The first one says to the Bartender "Where've you gone then?"

A Giant goes to the doctor and says "Doctor, Doctor, I feel like I've accidentally crushed to death everyone I've ever known or loved". The Doctor says nothing.

"Knock Knock"
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH"

This years New Year's resolutions are gonna be sweet

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 02:56:00 +0000

Hot diggity, it's almost the new year. I would say that this year has flown by, but really it's this decade that's disappeared down the toilet without time to regret the flush. I remember the Millenium New Years like it was yesterday. Or last year at least. But not 10 years ago, no fucking way.

Anyway I digress and as I have an important announcement to make, I gotta stick to my point, so listen up motherfuckers. From next year until 2013, there are no consequences to your actions. No-one will remember them, no-one will talk about them, they essentially won't exist and by implication will never have happened. You know why? Because this decade was the noughties, and soon we'll be in the teens of this new millennium, but we don't have a word for 10-12 years old (and don't say tweens, as the Tweenies has blurred that definition well past being salvageable). And if you can't describe it, you can't talk about it.

So when we reminisce in years to come about life at the dawn of the third and final millennium we'll all be like "Remember the noughties! Ahh weren't they exciting times. Shame they ended in the recession, but that nationwide jumble sale at the end of '09 really sorted that out. And then the Teens! Remember the day Obama challenged Palin to a cage match and whopped her silly? Or when Ussain Bolt hit 8ft 6' and finally admitted to eating those magic beans? That shit was awesome". See no mention of 2010-2012 at all.

Get ready for some motherfucking, totally awesome complete historical anonymity. I'm sure there will be times for us all in the coming few years when you think "Maybe I shouldn't be doing this, maybe someone will remember and call me up on it later", but don't heed those times. I'm telling you, we're free from all responsibility for the foreseeable future. Start tunneling into your neighbors house and annexing rooms while they sleep. Start releasing hamsters into the sewers in massive numbers so they overtake rats as the rodent of this millennium. Get morbidly obese or anorexically skinny and blame it on organic food. Say "Hot diggity" at the beginning and end of everything you say. Wear a blind fold and walk around with your hands out feeling your way into dangerous and regrettable situations. But have no regrets! As soon enough, you won't remember when or even if you did all these things you would otherwise be ashamed of.

We're finally free, hot diggity!

I Fucking Love It

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 01:56:00 +0000

So for once the public seems outraged in the right direction. The army is telling the BNP to fuck off and stop damaging their image, the equality commission is making the BNP make membership open to anyone of any race, and Gordon Brown is saying he could take them in a fight (verbal of course). On top of that, people are jumping on the bandwagon to call the Daily Mail (or at least one of it's top bitches) homophobic because of some shite she wrote. There is even a goddamn petition that people are signing, apparently without having read the article. Hoo ra.

I don't think I can remember another time when the people being backed into a corner by the press were scum. It's always "the BBC did this" or "Labour did that". For once, for one beautiful moment (now), the BNP and the Daily Mail are taking flak. Fuck yeah. Nice one media bastards, you kick some ass.

Now all we need is for someone to come out with proof and a causal theory that says that all BNP members read the Daily Mail and we can finally shit all over them as one. And oh what a wonderful day that will be.

Bees - can't live without them, can't stop them dying. Stupid bastards

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 01:56:00 +0000

The one thing
You will never see
Is compassion in the heart
Of a bumblebee

Flying furballs
Defying science
Buzzing around
Filled wtih defiance

No better than
Bees with no bumble
But still more proud
And a lot less humble

Black-yellow-black
Stripey stupid lines
Accidental freaks of nature
So ill defined

Impossible choices

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 01:56:00 +0000

You get on a bus and go upstairs. At the front of the bus on the left there is an old man who's turned the seats into a stall selling ice-cream and lemonade for buttons and bottle tops. He has a policy that if you high-five him you get two for the price of one. At the back of the bus is a man who has brought three sheep on board with him. The one in the middle is wearing a straw hat, and the ones on either side are eating it.

Where do you sit on the bus?

I say, I say, I say

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 14:32:00 +0000

Q: Who could possibly hate Kevin Bacon?

A: Pig farmers. He distracts from the central bacon agenda.

Stumble, you might fall

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 01:56:00 +0000

Yesterday I was walking down the street when I saw a lady trip over the door frame as she exited a shop. I lurched forward as she did, and she apologised to me when she immediately got her footing back, and I carried on walking.

The thing is, I first thought that it was odd that I jumped forward in order to catch this lady from falling, as that is really not my way. Not that I'm a bastard, but jumping to action just doesn't sound like me. So I thought about it closer. I saw her take a step, I saw her catch a foot on the door frame and that foot twist half inwards, I saw her arms jerk up to catch herself and her hands go palm forward to cushion her fall. I saw all of that, as if in slow motion. So I went back and checked my internal logs for each part of my body, and see what I was doing while she was doing what she was doing. I discovered the strangest thing. When her foot twisted, I felt empathy and imagined what tripping was like. And my foot twisted. And my arms went up. And my palms were forward. I'm pretty sure I even let out a little gasp. So upon retrospection, I think I unconsciously mimicked her tripping. I think I saw her do something and instead of reacting to what she was doing, I simply remembered what it was like to do it myself and accidentally did that. Hmm.

I wonder if maybe it's just that wherever she goes, people copy her. I mean she did say sorry straight away so maybe she's used to it. Or maybe it's some weird curse she's living under. Or maybe I'm just too empathetic. Or stupid. Who knows.

Food Cocktails

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 01:56:00 +0000

Recently my intrepid girlfriend and I have discovered a short series of foods which go together in the strangest way. They merge into one in a slightly disturbing manner which makes you unsure where one ends and the other begins. I thought I would share these with you to try at your own delicious peril...

Chocolate Chip Brioche and Vanilla Ice-Cream

Chocolate Brownie and Raspberries

Camembert and Crab Terrine

Thunderstruck

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 01:56:00 +0000

A great lion roared and bit off my head
But I was not dead:
I could still see his mouth
It made an odd house

A Ducks Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 01:56:00 +0000

At 2:56pm on a rainy Sunday afternoon outside Charles De Gaulle station a man wearing a hat two sizes two big buys 2 cornetto’s for himself from an ice-cream van which was once regarded the toast of the town. He pays with change from a woman’s purse, which he had found the previous month and despite a frankly aggressive flyer posting campaign, has never found it’s owner. The ice-cream man, Jean-Claude Froit, notices the purse and assumes that that man’s mother is treating him from somewhere out of sight and gives him an accordingly judgemental stare. The man, Antoine Dechard, has a nervous disposition and assumes that the ice-cream man has judged him for his pink purse and is considering him to be some sort of rapist or serial killer who gets off on using his victims purses once the bodies have been disposed of. His over-thinking of the situation makes him fumble with the zipper on the purse and drop his two ice-creams in a most unfortunate manner. Where he is standing is to be the site of a new street sign proclaiming that ice-cream vans are not permitted on that road, but due to that particular ice-cream van’s previous prominence in the city’s history, the sign has not yet been erected. A small circular hole has however been made in the ground, and miraculously both ice creams fall into it, head to tale so they are standing up in it perfectly, with only the tip of the bottom of a cone peeking out. The man curses his luck but buys no more ice-cream that day, as he immediately sets off to find the owner of the purse and clear his name once and for all.

At 11:27am on an overcast Tuesday morning outside Charles De Gaulle station, the most famous duck in all of the EU is escorting his family to the train station for their summer vacation. General Constanz Quackismo always works hardest through summer, whilst his contemporaries do little but float, and this year would be no different despite his becoming a father for the first time. He has decided to send his family to the coast so that they will have to compete with seagulls for their floating and scavenging rights, and thereby hopefully become tough enough for a military life. Eight out of nine of his children had protested due to there being a summer camp for young birds being held in the base of the Eiffel Tower this year, and false promises of being sent there next year instead by their father didn’t quell the descent. However, the ninth duckling, Pierre Quackismo, had supported his father’s decision entirely, but requested that he alone be allowed to stay and study at his father’s side. General Constanz Quackismo loved Pierre more than all his other children for this one simple request, as never before had he met another duck who wished to study all through the summer months, but always he had dreamed that there be another out there like him. He could not however show favouritism to his children at such an early age so he had denied the request and had taken them all to the station.

At 4:16pm on a cold Monday afternoon, Jean-Claude Froit receives a terrible phone call from the authorities saying that despite his previous services to the great city of Paris, they would be going ahead with the banning of ice-cream vans outside of Charles De Gaulle station. Jean-Claude is furious and tells the authorities that he will not move without a fight and that if they want him gone they will have to send the army. Unfortunately Jean-Claude is in reality a coward, with no heat in his blood to fight anyone so on an overcast Tuesday morning at 11:30am when he spots an army procession heading towards the station, he takes flight in his ice-cream van not even pausing to turn on his trademark music maker.

Pierre Quackismo is in front of the van when this happens, and accepts his fate with remarkable repose for one so young. He pushes his sister Juliette Quackismo out of the way and utters a prayer to keep his family in crusts before the tire rolls over his tiny body. His sister at first believes the push to be a childish game, however as she sees her brother disappear before the beloved ice-cream van her heart breaks and she forgives him all his sins, and laments herself for all of hers.

General Constanz Quackismo is a hard working duck, stern in a way that no-one can explain. It is this dedicated and considered nature that led him to rise so fast in the army, however as he sees his daughter Juliette’s tears and counts his children, his composure disappears in an instant. He explodes into a feral frenzy not commonly seen in ducks and flaps and quacks terror into the hearts of all the commuters around him. A man drops his brioche out of fear, and perhaps as some sort of offering, and the Quackismo children run to gorge themselves on it, not being able to distinguish between sadness and hunger yet at this early age.

At 11:35am on an overcast Tuesday morning, the army regiment which Jean-Claude Froit had fleed from, arrives at Charles De Gaulle station to catch a train but instead find one of their most decorated generals sobbing in the streets. Inconsolable as he is, the troops rally and try to comfort the General, as this duck is more beloved than any mallard in the country. Nothing they say affects the General’s mood however, and it is several moments before they can ascertain what has happened. News of the tragedy ripples through the soldiers and the commuters as the ducklings proclaim their diminished number and tears spread throughout the area seeding the way for the rain that is coming. The Generals sobbing subsides into a brooding and seething nothing as he loses all joy and all hope. He stares blankly at his children and his men with nothing in his eyes but a desire for one of them to make it all better. His tears mix with all the others to form puddles of unlimited sadness. No-one moves, no-one speaks. Everything is grey.

At 11:40am on an overcast Tuesday morning, a miracle happens. A vet is arriving and asking to see the patient, quickly, vite vite, when an unaccounted for quacking is heard. The army regiment is quick off the mark to check the area for an extra duckling, and believing that he could be vitally injured, every man, woman and child in sight is sent to search as quickly as they can. A father, distraught and feeling alone wanders over to where his son was and quickly becomes pleased by the lack of any blood. He stops his high hopes in their tracks, as he is all too aware of the problems with counting chickens before they hatch, but waddles over to the place his son was last seen. The spot on the ground that would always hold nothing but pain for him, holds something else as well that he cannot yet know. On that spot, which is almost set for a lifetime of scorn and sadness, there is a hole covered by a flyer for a lost purse. In that hole there is a happy little duckling covered in ice-cream quacking for help. On that day there is an overcast Tuesday morning which is covered by cries of joy. The saddest puddle trickles into the whole and Pierre floats to the top perfectly into his father’s gaze. His father berates him with love and his happy faux-angry quacking soon brings back the now thousands of volunteers out searching for this fluffy little yellow fellow. The cheering from the crowd spreads like wildfire with the news of this magically missed tragedy across the continent and even a little further.

With this new joy in his heart General Quackismo becomes more famous and beloved than ever, and with the support of the people becomes President, eventually succeeded by his son Pierre.

Lazy Movie Bullshit #1

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Wed, 13 May 2009 01:56:00 +0000

Imagine the scene....our hero is running for his life. Sexy sweat pours off him, and for some reason he’s coated in a layer of grime that makes him look all the more manly. His face is panicked, scared even, but you can tell that he’s determined to live. A monster appears in the background slamming against a wall as it takes a corner hard and chases after him. It snaps its tooth filled gigantic head at our hero, but always narrowly misses due to luck or skill on this plucky young man’s part. He keeps running but his luck (and this scenes momentum) cannot hold up for long so eventually he slips or trips and falls. Oh no! Fear overtakes him so instead of getting up and trying to regain his incomprehensible lead on this beast he rolls onto his back, and he looks with horror at the teeth/tentacles/growly bastard that is slowly advancing on him. His doom is certain, and we all watch and think “shit, maybe they are going to kill him off pointlessly now. Maybe it is that sort of film”. Then suddenly from out of nowhere a larger more frightening beast slams into this massive menace and kills it within a moment. Our hero barely has time to look at this new even more terrifying killing machine and give thanks to it for saving his life, before he realises that despite it now having a very large meal in front of it, it wants to eat him too! The chase resumes, and once more our hero jammily outruns this new crunchy faced bastard despite there being no logistical sense in the comparative speeds of a human and a killing machine twenty times his size. This mega beast may have a new trick or two, but for some reason, despite having no compunction about the speed at which it killed the old cruncher, it seems to want to just chase our hero until some minor victory gives him a chance to escape.

Which is lucky for our hero, but not for us. Who cares about a monster chase scene in which there is no real peril as the monsters never act decisively when it’s time to kill the hero? Hmm? And no, a second bigger monster doesn’t make it more perilous if it’s the exact same chase scene again.

These scenes are about as surprising as not winning the lottery...”is it going to happen? Is it? Is it? No? Oh, I didn’t think so.”

I think all movie executives who want to include such a scene in a movie should have to be chased for a mile by lions first. It would give them some perspective.

Barista is an anagram of Bastard

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 05 May 2009 01:56:00 +0000

So, like you, I have long been a hater when it comes to coffee chains springing up all over the place and charging whatever they like for foamy hot water with melted hyperactive beans. The people who spend their hard earned cash frequenting these places are like so much mould on a pile of rotting marshmallows as far as I am concerned, but as I’m sure you’ll agree, none of us fought the good fight against it, so we lost the high street to these new age caffeine freaks long ago.

So yesterday when my friend invited me out for a coffee I decided to try it out and finally taste this jittery lifestyle which has long been old hat to almost everyone. To my surprise, there were several levels of interesting to such an outing that I had never thought of. Such as:

1) Drinking coffee makes you talk faster, so if you’re catching up with someone you can get through reams of information in a fraction of the time it usually takes
2) It takes longer to drink coffee than beer, so although rounds of coffee seem like much more of a rip-off than rounds of beer, your cover charge for the space you are occupying is significantly lower
3) Coffee is a good alternative to booze if you want to exchange information with someone during your conversation instead of just passing back and forth meaningless inanities filled with good vibes
4) Coffee houses are quieter and cleaner than pubs, so put you less on edge (if only you weren’t drinking coffee)
5) Coffee shops sell cakes, which are better than all pub snacks (except of course honey roast peanuts – which are basically cakes without the time wasted baking)

So Starbucks, Costa and all your crappy little friends, I would like to say I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve said about you. Well not all of them. Not nearly all of them in fact, but at least the one about you being worthless wastes of space.

Both are equally valid and scary

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 01:56:00 +0000

I don’t think; I do. I don’t tell; I state. I don’t eat; I consume. I don’t complain; I vent. I don’t like; I enjoy. I don’t stop; I pause. I don’t rest; I recover. I don’t move; I go. I don’t believe; I know. I don’t fear; I prepare. I don’t vote; I choose. I don’t live; I am alive.

I don’t do; I think. I don’t state; I tell. I don’t consume; I eat. I don’t vent; I complain. I don’t enjoy; I like. I don’t pause; I stop. I don’t recover; I rest. I don’t go; I move. I don’t know; I believe. I don’t prepare; I fear. I don’t choose; I vote. I’m not alive, but I live.

Happy Financial New Year!

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 01:56:00 +0000

I don’t know about you but I was fucking shit faced last night. Me and my accountant tore up the town financial style and it was fucking messier than my tax return. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk that many cocktails out of a shredder before, or eaten that much cake out of a ringbinder! And at midnight when we all held our calculators in the sky for 15% of a minute I never felt so united with numbers. Of course the old recession almost stole the heart out of the whole event as there were many people about trying to console their accountants over some deep fried hole-punch dots but once the bartender got out the economic cycle everything got back on track. If you’ve never done it, you’re really missing out – it’s basically an exercise bike attached to some pulleys on which you drink a shot every quarter (of what, who knows!) which keeps getting higher and higher off the ground until you "peak"' and fall off onto a crash mat. Everyone jeers with cries of "trough! trough!" when it happens and it appears to be the most self-loathing fun any accountant can have. We had a whale of time trying to balance on the giant balance sheet too and don’t even ask about the depreciation booth – some people are just into sick shit. Unfortunately Bankers turned up about 2am all yinged out of their faces, but luckily for us the FSA boys all kicked off just as they were getting in and they all got booted together. Good old FSA, always kicking ass and taking names.

All in all was a great night. Happy 09-10!

I know I won't be the first person to have said this, but...

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 01:56:00 +0000

twit

–noun Informal.
1. an insignificant or bothersome person
2. a person who uses twitter

Bounce

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 02:56:00 +0000

The bouncy ball said goodbye, to the shiny faced boy as he let it fly. They had had so much fun for more than a day, but now it was too scuffed and too dirty to play. It rolled out of sight and the boy didn’t chase it, as although he loved the ball he knew he could replace it. The ball stopped in a gutter until the wind hit a can, and that ball was kicked by the foot of a very angry man. It boinged down a hill and went very far, until it flew into the panicked glass of a passing car. It was flung into an alley were it rebounded lots at once, until it hit a fat cat’s fat fur that looked impressed by its stunts. The fat cat startled, jumped and span and then dashed and played with this little rubber man. The cat backed up and attacked again, hitting twice and twice as fast as it played with its new friend. The ball hit a bin and splashed in a puddle, the cat jumped away and got in a muddle. The ball rolled slowly to a stop with a wet line behind it, which lead neatly to the cat whose attention was undivided. The cat pounced, and jumped on the ball, and rolled on the ground, and then stood up tall. He batted the ball left, back, forward, down, up and right, he chased it a bit it and retreated with fright.

The cat bounced the ball until of course it happened, the ball splashed the puddle and the cats fun was dampened. The cat sat back and licked and shivered, disliking the wet his new friend had delivered. The ball rolled around not sure what to do, to cheer up this moggy who was now feeling a bit blue. Without knowing it though the ball had already saved the day, as the bin it had knocked down still had something to say. The cats little nose still snivelling and sad, smelt something it liked and suddenly things weren’t so bad. The cheese on the pizza that was open on the floor, would have been enough, but didn’t have to be, as there was much much more. The cat ate the food and purred as it was rich, and the ball watched the cat devour this very smelly dish.

That night the cat slept with the ball under his chin, and the purring and good times began to begin.

The G Word

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 02:56:00 +0000

So I heard, through a friend of a friend of a friend, that Gordon Ramsay is gay. Now I’m not saying it’s true as I really don’t know, and I really don’t think peoples sexuality is fair game in the news, but if it’s true it’s quite interesting as it raises larger questions about the media’s news sources.

Anyway, apparently the tabloids found out Gordon Ramsey has been visiting rent boys for years and Max Clifford stopped them from publishing the story by offering them a deal for better stories. The whole affair story was to cover it up apparently and I guess it was the beginning of the “better stories” he had offered. Apparently it’s common knowledge amongst tabloid journalists, just like Cliff Richard being gay.

If I believed that there was any motive other than financial ones not to out either of these “British icons” I’d almost be impressed by this media collusion to not print something that’s really not their business. But I don’t, so instead I’m frightened by the power of PR and threats of legal action to stop the truth from getting out.

Do businesses not have savings?

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 02:56:00 +0000

Bankers were being questioned this week, about them fucking up the whole world and that, and the big questions we asked them were mostly about pay. “How many bucks did you receive this year?” “How much extra did you give your greedy ass on top of that?” “How can you justify that when you’re a complete douche?” Shit like that.

I ask: who fucking cares? I think they are pricks for the same reasons you do, but them paying themselves shitloads of money is neither here nor there right now. The question on my lips is "How the fuck didn't you save up for this? You were making billions for craps sake, didn’t you put a little aside just in case your metaphorical momma gets sick, or your symbolic pony chokes on a gold brick? Where the hell is it all?"

Because it's not in their fucking pockets. Only Santa has pockets that big, but even then only because he's magic.

You are everything you always wanted to be

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 02:56:00 +0000

Everything was just floating there in the nothing, kinda foetal in position, all hunched up snuggling in the blankness one Nothingday afternothing. It was uniformly dense and squidging itself into the smallest lack of space imaginable, when it yawned. It was Everything’s first yawn so without realising, it went big. It stretched and groaned and cricked it’s parts, and suddenly Everything was everywhere. It was expanding uniformly to start, and it was uniform still, but even with uniformity comes change. Billions and billions of infinitesimally small pieces of Everything so close to each other started attracting each other and forming larger lumps, then colliding and repulsing and spinning as they crashed outwards. As Everything had always loved being all the same up until now, it was doing this identically across it’s ever expanding spherical surface, however within Everything’s ball like explosion there were now differences from the outer edge. Each strand of everything in the 3d sphere was identical, but they were no longer the same all the way along. And this difference within itself was the first Everything had ever felt. And it liked it.

Everything nurtured it. Within Everything differences soon began to appear wholesale. Everything twisted and turned in every direction all at once, luxuriating in this new variety being sewn into the fabric of itself. Everything went everywhere in every way you can imagine. It made skies of every colour and wrote it’s name in every language across them. It went wild making identical changes across every strand of its existence, and with that it created our existence.

Everything changed and thrived, pushing farther and farther out into the void. It made the same difference to every strand so every strand stayed the same. Every here and every now, repeated and repeated within insane diversity and sameness as Everything went on repeating and changing forever. To Everything, our here and now is like a dot on a piece of hair on a very furry ball. And of course with the incalculable length of the hairs and the size of the dot, the likelihood of any of the identical dots actually seeing each other is less than successfully finding an m&m in a barrel of smarties.

And what, pray tell, does this mean for us? Just what you think. All the things we are going through are being gone through by others. Lots of others. Every tear, every fear, every smile, laugh and sigh is not yours alone. We share everything with more strangers than we’ve met, and although we may never know them, we should never forget it. Everything doesn’t. Everything loves it. Everything loves you.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 02:56:00 +0000

So on this auspicious day I feel like I should say something. Firstly, I don’t really know what auspicious means. Secondly

Have you ever noticed that no one judges politicians in (England at least) by how well they take care of wherever they are currently in charge of? Do you ever hear people saying “You should vote for David Cameron – he’s in charge of Witney and it’s well fucking tasty there!” No? Then why do I know that his wife is in PR and his house has a propeller on it, if I don’t know what Witney’s like, or even where it is?

Anyway, Gobama, and think about it hey. I mean, was Sedgefield a nice place to go for a picnic before Tony Blair left? Don’t you think it’s important?

What a way to make a livin'

noreply@blogger.com (Justin) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 02:56:00 +0000

Work tomorrow

Home today

When am I ever going to be able to nothing but play?