It's Like They All Say, If You Censor Something Too Much, It'll Become Nothing/A Perfume Advert

Okay, I’ve been deceived, I’ll admit. When I started college, I knew I would do biology and maths, but was hard pushed for another subject, and seeing as I hate every subject ever invented it was a mere case of the lesser evil. So some smart-arse teacher came up to me and said ‘Hey why don’t you try out communications, it’s this great new subject that fuses things like sociology, media, and psychology into one super awesome subject!’ … I will never again say to someone ‘That sounds like a good idea’.

When the rare occasion arises that I actually listen in the lesson and NOT want to slit my throat, it strikes me more than ever of how censored everything is. An advert containing a black man will be labeled ‘racist’, because it’s just so stereotypical for a black man to have black skin, the filthy conformist (the adjective of ‘filth’ was not intended to be a pun on the colour). You can’t make an advert with a muslim because they’re ALL re-incarnations of Muhammad therefore cannot be shown, ever. Heck, you can’t even rip it out of the smurfs these days. Not only that, but it’s not just racial awareness they’re picking on, apparently, according to the censoring office, or whatever office that’s filled with control-freaking fuckwits, we actually listen to every advert and care about it so much we have to do whatever it says WITHOUT ANY EXCEPTION. WHAT’S THAT? I HAVE TO GO BUY A TAMPON? EVEN THOUGH I’M PROBABLY A MAN? I’LL BUY 10 JUST IN CASE.

Now we all probably remember Tony the Tiger, the over enthusiastic tiger that loves watching children swim and has somehow replaced his crack cravings with Frosties. You know, the one who always says Frosties are great? Well, USED to say, apparently that’s too ‘influential’ and ‘simply wrong’, so now he likes to proclaim Frosties are GREEEEEAAAAAT. Somehow, they’re two very different things, and fuckwit office think it’s a brilliant change and is no longer influential. Because, you know, kids don’t understand what words mean if you make them longer. Thusly why the whole ‘ Force-feed yourself SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT’ campaign never got anywhere.

Now that’s just the part of me that’s sympathetic to adverts, as you can tell where this is going, I’ll just go ahead and say it. Perfume adverts. Although a simple ‘what the fuck is happening’ could cover it, I should probably go further. I’ve always wondered how women picked their perfume, if all they had to go by was the adverts, the logical part of my brain would probably explode. How do you look at a girl with a seriously bad case of OCD chasing a balloon because it's the same colour as her clothing, and have ANY idea what the perfume smells like? Is there some kind of scratch and smell thing built in to the TV that I’ve never been informed about, so each time the advert comes on, women have to rapidly scramble towards the TV and scratch it like a crack addict trying to get a fix from a huge wall of salt? They could at least say in the advert about what it vaguely smells like, so long as they don’t go all Bold on my arse.

The only advert in my life I actually remember making me angry enough to throw the remote through TV was one by Bold. It started off fine, describing the washing machine crap to whoever was interested. It then said how the fluid stuff they were selling made your clothes smell like white diamond.
White.
Fucking.
Diamond.
For those who aren’t familiar, white diamond is a rock. Rocks don’t smell of anything.

Crack For Christmas... Woo

Damn, I am SUCH a pro with this Paint stuff...

Yeah, so our own EnglishCarBomb started us off a while ago deconstructing the ironically godless money-fest of Christmas, thought I'd add my input by talking about these chocolate prisons, these... Advent calendars. 

Advent calendars are another one of these things we've convinced ourselves are a fundamental part of Christmas despite being just another way to fuel our insatiable need for stuffing our faces with confectionary at one part of the year. The thing is, I genuinely feel bad for those who do have them. Look at it this way: chocolate is good, right? Everyone likes chocolate, apart from the morons who seem to think if they consume a morsel of the stuff they instantly become bigger than Dawn French. We also know that because of all the sugar in it, ya want one bit, ya want some more. How much do you get every day? Unless you buy two for some reason or have an American-size one, you get ONE PIECE. Ya know how painful it is to not have any more than one tiny square? It's like waking up a crackhead every winter morning and giving him three grains of precious cocaine and while he weeps and wails for a little more, you shout back at him 'NUH UH, IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE NOW, I'LL KILL ANOTHER DEALER'. And that's the thing, if you want more, you're sacrificing tomorrow's supply. 

Another flaw that chocolate has to your morning is that because it's overpoweringly awesome-tasting, Shredded Wheat is gonna taste plain as hell, and sweet stuff like Crunchy Nut or toast and jam is just gonna taste bloody weird. Oh sure, have Coco Pops. Thus defeating the idea of having an advent calendar in the first place, you've already got your damn chocolate.

Don't lie to me that you bought it to keep track of the date, you filthy liar. 

Conspiracy Is The Greatest Conspiracy Of Them All. Excluding Crop Circles.

Seriously, what isn’t a conspiracy? 9/11 was caused by jealous flying towers, J.F.Kennedy was actually killed by a homicidal clown on a unicycle, and Hitler was a re-incarnation of the only bad person anyone can remember in the history of forever…HIMSELF. People seem to have this crazy need to believe in some kind of ridiculous alternate reality, because obviously, the government, the media, and everyone around them is lying their stupid faces off (although I don’t blame them, seeing how real life is so immensely boring). Personally, I don’t believe in almost ANY conspiracies, and even if some of them were right, would I actually care? (The answer is no).

Now to those who know me, they might be familiar with me saying “gays are a conspiracy made by the government, who are a conspiracy made by aliens, who are a conspiracy made by gays.” I would like to make it clear before you point out my hypocritical ways, I have very serious evidence to support this. So much evidence, that you may as well label it fact right here and now (there’s probably some secret society somewhere that does that).

‘Gays’, are merely people paid by the government to go to parties, raves, etc, to dress as vibrantly and as feminine as possible, and to talk like they have man-vegetables shoved in their nose. Now you’re probably wondering why on earth the government would pay people to do this? Well it’s simple. To prove to people they’ll tolerate whatever bullshit is thrown at them, BECAUSE THAT’S ALL WE WANT IN A GOVERNMENT REALLY, ISN’T IT? Even in the face of an impossibly abstract and degrading concept (by which I mean gays), they still show how they let them go around shoving their man-breadsticks in other men’s man-buns (I’ll stop referring to sexual organs as food now).You ever wondered why there’s no gays in Russia? They simply don’t give a shit about tolerance. So our government, entirely to get the public on their side, pays thousands of people to essentially ruin their lives. This gives me an idea…

But wait, there’s more. The very government that pays the gays to exist, doesn’t even exist themselves. Gordon Brown? No that’s just CGI. Barack Obama? Simply a doll. With very long strings. That go all the way into space. To ALIENS no less. The aliens sit there, wondering how to manipulate mankind next, laughing their arses off they pour taxes into a large furnace, and watch with pity as we comply with their absurd rules. The little green things simply can’t get enough of us clawing at each other’s eyes because they told us to. Heck, why do you think all politicians sound so boring? Aliens just make all their voices through a Microsoft Sam-esque program (recently it had to be upgraded to add a button on the side that says – ‘BLACKENISE’).

Now them aliens, not quite all they seem to be. In actual fact, they themselves are made up by gays. Gays are evidently fed up with the constant stream of attention from the media, popular culture, and brain-dead 14 year-olds, and so invented the myth that is: ALIENS. The idea of government controlling aliens obviously excites them, in many ways, and it draws attention away from themselves, which they obviously don’t want. So the whole theory of aliens has appeased the homosexuals, and bamboozled the nation. Way to go homosexuals, you’ve truly earned this victory.

(The above statements are 100% fact and anyone that attempts to say otherwise is a filthy conspirator…bellend)

Tyrants Arn't Usually This Dissapointing

So which one of you rambling cum-sodden freaks HASN’T thought of what it would be like to rule the world? None of you? Good. Because even if you had said you hadn’t, I can’t hear you, thusly making you a moron for not understanding the concept of rhetorical questions and distance. I know I’ve certainly thought about ruling the world on the odd occasion, and then got scared, confused, and mildly homicidal. As one often does. While it comforts some ego-tastic people who enjoy the good delusional power-trip, I’d rather gouge out my eyes with a fucking ladle than control the whole world. That is, unless, tyranny was an available option.

Assuming we go the typical Futurama way and say that if I ruled the world, it wouldn’t be me playing god and making everything into chocolate, but rather me being the sole heir to everything (on Futurama the world simply has one president, who, luckily, gets reduced to dust by aliens in one episode. There, you’ve finally learnt something from reading this shit. Now fuck off). But if I WAS the president, and thusly meaning a government will have been formed, I would have to please the people. And by ‘the people’ I mean every last walking shit-sack on earth. Frankly, I couldn’t care less if they exploded in a hellish firestorm, which is bound to happen sooner or later. Caring to their needs would be the last thing on my agenda, but still, mankind is capable of looking after itself (kind of), which is exactly why I need tyranny to ensure it becomes disabled…in the face. So this is how I would make it work.

My communist society, where everyone is equal other than myself, will be set in one small, incredibly cramped city. London will do well; fitting 6 billion people in there has got to be uncomfortable, if not making blisters an official pandemic. But everyone will be equally uncomfortable at least. The rest of the world will be turned into one colossal farm entirely ‘manned’ by machinery and robots with straw hats. In fact, so will the police force (minus the straw hats), the fire department, hospitals, and pretty much every community based job that isn’t behind a desk. Every human, once born, will be chained to a desk and forced to do impossible and mind-numbing tasks until they’re 80, then they’re freed and allowed to walk around society as they please (it’s a simple social experiment. By my guess they’ll either stay at the desk, go outside then realize its shit and come back, or merely explode. Basically, they’ll become me). Seeing as everyone’s tied to desks for their whole lives, the law is simple. No toilet breaks, and no talking. Social interaction and shitting are a no-go for a healthy society. Now you may be wondering what I do in this society. Well it’s pretty obvious, I’ll be doing the same as everyone else. Having turned everyone into computer-staring, desk-sitting-at, anti-social people, I’ve merely made a society of…well…me. A whole 6 billion people that do exactly what I do. For the rest of our desk-bound lives. Hoo-fucking-ra.

If I ever go into election for prime minister, don’t vote for me. You know it’s going to end badly.

HAHAHA MAN GO BOOM.

Some bastard stole my soul. Just like that. One day I’m incredibly excited about finally being able to play Operation Flashpoint: Dragon Rising, the next I’m sitting on my sofa, in an almost pitch black room at 4 pm, staring at my Xbox with an odd mixture of regret, fury, and emptiness. Now obviously there could be a million reasons for this, but this time it’s NOT real life, it’s gaming’s insane attempt at real life. For those who don’t know, Flashpoint is a tactical shooter, a game in which you control your squad, go around a ridiculously huge map, solving objectives. And also if you take one bullet you die. And your squad members belong in a special home. And the enemy soldiers have more health than you, BECAUSE IN REAL LIFE, ENEMY SOLDIERS ALL HAVE MORE HEALTH. Now I’d hate to turn this into a game review and all, so I’m basically going to point out how I spent ALL of today playing the same part of the same mission, over and over again. Also not only was I on the easiest difficulty, but I also was only on mission 3…out of 11.

It was like as if someone had punished me for all my game-related sins and forced me to play it. If hell does exist, I can imagine it’s being restricted to sitting on a sofa made of really itchy fabric, and having little demons laugh and jeer at you as you desperately try to complete that one level, and if you get even vaguely close, the controller blows up, so they hand you a new one, which you have to control using your feet, considering your recent lack of hands. But seeing as I’m wrong (a usual thing), I would genuinely rather be in hell then play that bit of the level again. It was bad enough for me to actually contemplate suicide, and when it comes to thinking of suicide, I usually have much bigger fish to fry than a video game (It’s a metaphor, there aren’t actually fish called Video Game). Main problem with this is, for me to kill myself, I’d have to actually have balls, or be incredibly stupid. So I’d need someone else to kill me. Of course no one would agree, while the majority of people hate me, people usually aren’t too keen on the whole prison thing, so I’d just get beaten up a lot, which is the last thing on my agenda, next to playing Modern Warfare 2. Therefore, I’d need for it to be ‘an accident’. Getting someone to accidentally kill you is easy really, jump in a road, wear camouflage and lay down in somebody’s garden while they mow the lawn, or simply slip on a wet floor down concrete stairs (caretakers are used to taking the blame). But to be honest, I wouldn’t really want to go out like any of the above. I would want to go out taking one the nation’s worst ‘holiday days’ with them. I’m talking, of course, about Bonfire night.

Now fireworks, they’re a mere contraption entirely to amaze retards, strain your neck, and make you stand in the cold for torture’s sake, (I’ll probably end up writing something about bonfire night someday, so I won’t go too far into it),but they also happen to be a deathtrap in the disguise of a colourful geometric broccoli. The perfect tool for accidental euthanasia. I would do it simply like this; while the crowd of easily amused people gathers around to indulge in their pyromania, I sneak past them like the subtle man I am, and make my way to the fireworks. Once there, I blutak the biggest firework available to my back, and lay in the grass (stealthily, of course). After a short while, my unsuspecting victim will light the firework, and lean back in horror as I start screaming because I forgot that the fuse went on fire before the firework took off. Then, it shoots off, and to my dismay it goes without me. I curse at the sky about blutak’s incompetence, and sheepishly walk off back home to play Operation Flashpoint. The same level. Again. And again. And again.

Water... Falling From The Sky? Surely This Is The End...

We Brits take the weather damn seriously. We complain about it, finally get SOME good weather, then complain it's not good enough, then we complain again when it's gone. If the grass is always greener on the other side, there are at least 80,000 other sides.

So what do we enjoy? Two things. One: sun. And we want loads of it. The moment a ray peeks out between the clouds we instantly strip down to near-nothing, put on sunglasses and lie down in the garden, only to return with hanging head in two minutes realising that just because the sun is out doesn't mean it's not 10 degrees (it's BRITAIN for goodness' sake). When we get a  decent amount of exposure to that big old star, our pale, living room-bleached skin gets roasted when finally seeing the sun after years of being a plump potato, eating custard creams and watching the X Factor. Two: snow. Yes, we rejoice in the entire country's infrastructure gets completely buggered, cars' engines freeze up and break, and people crash and die in road accidents. OH, ISN'T IT A JOLLY TIME FOR ALL. We also go out dressed in enough layers to give a polar bear a heat rash. Do you want to experience winter or not?

The ironic thing about this weather we rarely get yet adore, is that both of them actually kill us faster than the feared concept of... dare we mention it, RAIN. Sun is basically cancer smiling beautifully down at us from the sky and we benignly lap it up as if to say 'yes, PLEASE DESTROY MY SKIN CELLS.' Snow gives us frostbite and messes up our beloved gas-guzzlers, but what is it about rain that scares us so much? 

The human race as a whole lives off water, people in Africa are dying from a lack of the stuff and as soon as it falls out the sky we hide away under our little umbrellas and complain that the sun isn't out, which we'd be unsatisfied with anyway. You might as well have two pound coins falling from the clouds, and we'd be complaining about the bruises on our heads while our currency becomes worthless and our economy dies. We drink, swim in, wash in and piss the stuff, but Cowell help us if our clothes get a bit of it on them.

So maybe in a way the human race, as another of its stupid attributes, hates what it lives off, though as with all hateful trends, it's mainly the people of Britannia. Britannia rules the waves, however much she bloody hates them when they spray on her mighty clothing.

The Less You See It, The More Horrifyingly Dangerous It Is

Forget terrorists, bad drivers and ‘THE MAN’, its official (according to me), germs are now the biggest homicidal maniacs EVER. Just one germ, as far as the media is concerned, has the ability to wipe out whole cities, by merely existing. So now just imagine it, the billions, trillions, maybe even KAGILLIONS of germs that float around us day by day, each one begging to kill you without remorse. To put it simply, imagine walking down the street, and seeing literally MILLIONS of homicidal maniacs walking around, crowding the streets. They’re buying discount carrots at Tesco, they’re pushing prams with other little homicidal darlings in, and the rest of them are flying. YES, FLYING. Just like germs, the microscopic bastards.

The whole nation, and possibly other ones, live day-in, day-out, in a state of constant subconscious horror from the possibility of the menace known as germs. No I will not take a bite out of that sandwich that you’ve already bit into. No I won’t sit on that toilet seat in case of getting bum germs. No I won’t plunge my face into that rotting cesspit of shit, heroin needles and Call Of Duty fans, etc, etc. While I really wouldn’t mind doing those things, with a possible exception for the latter, it seems everyone has a problem with EVERYTHING, SO LONG AS GERMS ARE INVOLVED.

I recently saw an advert on a train on my way to college saying ‘If you could see germs, you would be able to see how quickly flu spread’, accompanied by a picture of a woman sneezing, with a cone of green jutting from her mouth. Now I don’t mean to be pedantic (although I really do), but if you could see germs, you wouldn’t be able to see your own hands, even if you shoved them IN your eyes. Germs are about as common as atoms (though if you can see individual atoms, we have a serious problem). Even if we perform the unholy rite known as NOT WASHING OUR HANS AFTER GOING TO THE TOILET, we will immediately inflict plague, disease, and imminent death upon anyone and everyone by simply staring at them from a distance, and while I so wish I could do that, It’s the thing that will essentially doom this era. This age won’t be known as ‘The Awesome Post-Industrial Age’ or ‘The Age Of Slightly Better Technology’, but will be known as ‘The Age That Was Horrified By Mild Disease’ (after ‘The Age Of Brain-Dead TV Huggers').

But yeah, maybe I’m being a bit ignorant. This really only applies to England here. After all, the deadliest disease we can catch over here is TV (Televerculosis). In Brazil, you so much as touch another person; you get Ebola and constipation, so end up trying to shit your organs for 2 days. Really, it sounds far too much like a typical weekend…

The Most Boring Apocalypse Ever

*I would firstly like to point out, this is NOT about Amesoeurs, it's simply the first picture that came into my head when I thought of wastelands. So shutup. Also, if this fails to be funny in the slightest, I apologize, I wrote the whole thing while listening to Requiem For A Tower*

I’ve completed Borderlands twice now, and am getting ever increasingly aware of gaming’s new obsession with post-apocalyptic wastelands, despite them all looking the same (you’ll be aware of this if you’ve played both Fallout 3 and Borderlands, the latter simply having more rocks and less city). So I’ve decided that tonight, I shall make my own wasteland. Prepare, for the underwhelming power of my…IMAGINATION.

In the late 2010’s, every single television set in the world, explodes. Not nuclear bomb explosion of course, just plain old grenade-sized ones. Roughly 750 million people were killed from this event, leaving another 500 million severely (hopefully) injured. A few days pass, and mankind are suffering extreme withdrawal symptoms. The streets are bare, excluding the occasional man or woman scratching illegible signs into shop windows, brick walls, lamp posts, etc. Every now and again a buck-naked man jumps off a building while masturbating, yelling ‘WHY DO YOU CURSE THEE, O SWEET SIMON COWELL’ as his body becomes nothing more than broken fragments on the unforgiving concrete pavement below. Inside their homes, mankind remain in the corners, rocking gently in the fetal position, both sobbing and crying at the same time, determined to recall the last edition of Big Brother they saw, their memories of it falling away through the sieve they claim to be a mind. ‘Did that adorable cunt Marcus win? I don’t know…I hope he did…I don’t remember…I DON’T REMEMBER, I DON’T REMEMBER’, the chorus is heard throughout the homes of the last of humankind. Gun-shot wounds and slit wrists are all that plague their minds as they helplessly claw at the memory of Marcus’ sideburns, which slowly become less and less manly by the day. There’s not a human left on earth that isn’t riddled with psychosis and delirium. Each day the body count doubles, triples, kagillioniples, until there are roughly 5 million ‘people’ left on the earth.

At this point, cities have been leveled; all forms of civilization have been lost, from social hierarchy to public decency. Towns have become the new base of operations for human decision making, and within weeks form a corrupt monarchy. Several tribes are formed around the UK, many of them performing self-cannibalistic rituals, while hop-scotching. Gravity suddenly reverses itself and the sky becomes painted by the blood/semen of a billion fallen/horny men, before it goes back to normal at which point it does, indeed, rain blood…and sperm. Years of torture, pain and chaos ensue, and TV is, eventually, forgotten. Although many religions are now formed on old TV show hosts as being their gods (with Jeremy Kyle being the devil in the majority of them), to which tribesmen or townsmen weekly offer sacrifices (mostly children). After a great war is waged between the townsmen and tribesmen, which was caused by a clash of beliefs/they got bored, a golden age occurs (basically all children are now dead).

And then global warming happens. The End.

The Only Definite Good In The Business... So Far

 

About time we got something music-related here. I'll try to make this interesting.

This is a question I've been grappling with for years, and I guess a lot of others have. What the hell is 'good music'? More so, what is 'real music'? Endlessly we get morons shoving their music down your throat, telling you to go listen to 'reel m00sic innit', but when you give them a perfectly legit reason why you'd rather live off the pork pie remains in Infinity Ward's rubbish bins, they shout back at you 'WELL THAT'S ONLY YOUR OPINION... INNIT'. Fuck you! Since when were you given the divine right to see musical ingenuity, and the right to be such a hypocritical bellend?  

And through the years I've gone through ignorance (mine is just better) to talent being the answer (the band with the most technical skill is best) to plain relativist (it's just opinion) to complete apathy. I pretty much give up. Whatever happens, everyone's gonna end up listening to what appeals to them personally.

The whole apathy thing is because I've gone back on what I used to say, in that not only do I now also listen to things that aren't particularly skillful, but also because 'metal' isn't just what I like. I used to say it and lie, but now I genuinely mean it; I listen to a bit of everything. So now I just want to find out what 'good' is, though I'm almost completely sure I'll never find it. You can get the feeling of badass and power at the end of Lamb of God's 'Sacrament' album, enlightened at the end of Iron Maiden's 'A Matter of Life and Death' or be weeping hopelessly at the beauty of some things at the end of Emancipator's incredible fusion/progressive/easy listening album 'Soon It Will Be Cold Enough To Build Fires'. Whatever happens, you've got a personal response from the music, and so far this is good. But it doesn't apply to everyone, so is it really GOOD? I know loads of people who'd want to amputate their ears at the end of ONE Lamb of God song.

Whenever I say music is 'shit', I 99% of the time don't mean it. I'm just saying I don't like it, but in a pointlessly harsh way, and I hate myself a little more whenever I do. Music is only 'bad', I believe, when it is done as a complete joke. Fallout Boy, for example, are actually a good band. Their music is aimed at young teenagers (WE ALL KNOW IT'S GIRLS IT'S AIMED AT), and guess what? Teenage (girls) like Fallout Boy. They enjoy listening to their music. I can't knock that, I can't say my knowledge of perfection of sound waves is more advanced than Fallout Boy's listeners, even if they are younger than me. Dizzee Rascal has no singing talent, but people like listening to his music and he expresses his feelings through his tunes, so what's the problem? There are far too many genres for one 'good' to cover it all. 

Talent, much to my dismay, doesn't really push any music above other music. It has the ability to impress, and indeed I respect anyone with talent, because they can express themselves through it, and they can master their instrument in a way other's can't.  But while an aptness with a guitar could make the music appeal to a wider range of people, it still won't make everyone like it. In contrast, listen to the band Behold the Arctopus. Those two guys could play Canon Rock, left handed, asleep, whilst swallowing a goat, but if you listen to their songs, most would agree it sounds somewhat similar to what tectonic plate movement would sound like if the plates were made of rusty iron. 

But as much as I can enjoy different types of music because I appreciate it in different ways, there is one exception I have found. One thing musically which I have found different to all music, and doubt I will see in any other genre. Metal. Live. Feeling truly alive isn't something we all experience a lot, and if we do I don't doubt that we experience it in different ways. But having seen Iron Maiden twice and Lamb of God three times (amongst many other bands) I cannot describe the feeling. The rush, the constant rush, of blood, adrenaline and purified awesome running in your veins, the feeling of complete control and surprisingly peace amongst the battering of human flesh around you is like nothing else. The band gives you everything and you give it back, and the room has its own rapture. 

Other bands may have great shows. Muse have incredible stage acts, and even Lady Gaga has a huge range of effects and choreography which won't be forgotten in a hurry. Yet I feel that it still can't match it, and it focuses too much on the visual, not quite on the same level as metal. I dread to say it, but metal seems to have something more... spiritual.

So yeah, that's my two cents. I have reached no conclusion, as expected, apart from good music doesn't REALLY exist and that I like metal shows. But I hope if anything this opens a few people's minds. Sorry for the length.

At Least It Saves Chimney Sweeps One Hell Of A Job

So if you haven’t noticed, Christmas is now being celebrated earlier and earlier as the years go on. I’m pretty sure I saw Tesco advertising it in August this year. But what I’d like to know is, WHY. Why do people insist on celebrated this infernal holiday? I can understand why Christians celebrate it, what with it being big J’s birthday (sort of), but as atheists decided to make it their own, they also made it lose all purpose, as they often do. You can claim it to be a holiday of ‘giving’ all you want, but let’s face it, it’s more a holiday of ‘forcefully giving to other’s so they don’t feel bad, and hope you receive a much bigger thing from them’. The whole feel of Christmas is enough to make me want to play Call Of Duty 4 (yes, Christmas is THAT bad). Fake, pretentious joy everywhere you go and constant unnecessary lights, often in the shape of a fat gluttonous pervert who climbs down chimneys for fun, and manages to go down every last chimney in the world in the space of one night, even into the houses that don’t have chimneys. On a magical fucking sledge. With flying fucking reindeer. One of them has a fucking light bulb for a nose.

Everyone you go past feels a sense of euphoria while they say ‘wow everything’s so amazing, because I’m such a good person, and I’m totally enjoying the whole fakeness of Christmas right now’. While really what the person is thinking is ‘PRESENTS, PRESENTS, PRESENTS, PRESENTS, PRESENTS’. In fact the whole nation is so ridiculously over excited about a holiday they shouldn’t even be celebrating, that they actually buy themselves, or others, calendars leading up to Christmas day. Oh and did I mention they were filled with tiny, impossibly disappointing chocolates that taste a bit like plastic cheese? (The calendars I mean, not the people who buy them).

Personally I feel with every present I receive my soul dies a little, if them being highly disappointing wasn’t bad enough, you have to smile and pretend you ABSOLUTLY ADORE THIS PILE OF SHIT THROWN AT YOU. If one of my 2 friends came up to me and punched me in the face on Christmas and declared it to be my present, I would officially, according to the big book of Christmas rules, have to pat them on the back and thank them any way I can while in an extreme state of contained rage. And I don’t know about you, but I am NOT good at displaying gratitude.

Of course, the night before Christmas is never a fun one either. As a child it would take me hours before I could sleep on Christmas eve, and somehow, SOMEHOW, this still plagues me. Before it was some impossible sense of excitement that a strange obese man would walk into our house eat our mince pies (especially with mince pies being the best thing about Christmas), then deliver strange presents underneath a tree…an indoor tree. But now, it’s some sort of blind rage and dread that keeps me awake at that night, staring at my ceiling, wishing all my god forsaken presents were next to me, and the whole thing would never have to happen.

Fuck you Father Christmas, I hope you rot in hell for plaguing me with this abysmal holiday. If you touch my mince pies one more time, I will go round you’re Lapland-esque house and slit your throat.

Well…next stop, Easter. This world just keeps getting worse and worse.

Like Taking a Dump of Jelly

I get the feeling that this is somehow a really extreme product review of something barely anyone buys, but something that REALLY pissed me off recently is Hartley's Squeezy Jam. I won't call it by the official 'Smooth' name, partly because calling it 'smooth' makes as much sense as calling a brick 'obnoxious', and also because it is general so god-awful that it does not deserve its real name.

The only reason I had to use the cursed confiture was because we were out of ordinary jam, which by sod's law I SERIOUSLY felt like having, and so I saw this bottle-shaped thing hiding at the back of the fridge glaring disgustingly back at me, and reluctantly I took it. Usually my instinct would be to leave this for a few months and let another member of my family to be poisoned by it but due to my insatiable desire for jam I thought I'd try it out.

Probably the biggest food-related mistake I've had since eating pickled onions out of a jar. Firstly, the jam thought it would be utterly hilarious to piss industrially-flavoured 'raspberry' juice all over my bread which was apparently the liquid solution left at the bottom of the bottle, which instantly made my bread soaking wet , and didn't even stay on top but seeped through onto the plate. Refusing to believe it was impossible to have a simple jam sandwich, I continued and realised that the actual jam, as in thick sticky stuff with what I hope was raspberry in it, was pretty determined to stay in its plastic hellhole. After 5 minutes of extreme shaking/throwing at wall/tantrums, it began to budge out of the gaping orifice of the bottle. It defiantly shat out of a lump of dark red stodgy mess, sound effects and all, as if the bottle was taking a dump of jelly. Month-old jelly made of intestines.

After which I'm sure you can guess, it tasted like a rotting cadaver. The bread now red and soggy had a pile of what appeared to be blood-soaked fat on top, spread unevenly around and I haven't tasted something quite so bad in years. So in the end, I didn't even get my jam sandwich. It was torture to have it under my nose, let alone in my mouth. Squeezy jam wasn't squeezy, I'm pretty sure it wasn't raspberry, and looking back on it I doubt it was even jam.

Vloggers, /b/ And Some Meaningless Words In-between

Now there’s only one thing I hate more than blogs, and that’s one million things including ‘vlogs’. Vlogs (otherwise known as video blogs) are simply that, someone recording themselves on a camera talking about their feelings on something or even worse *shudders* about HOW THEIR DAY WAS. I don’t care how even my closest of friend’s day was, I don’t even care how MY day was, so why in the name of iGod©, would I care about how some spotty, American, ignorant, Call Of Duty playing 14 year old’s day was. The only way I would care is if they went to a funeral full of mourning bears that were kept alive by drugs and holding clipboards and then the said vlogger went around on the side of the motorway wearing a sandwich board that proclaimed ‘Help me I need money for bear drugs…and clipboards’. THEN I might care. YouTube has become a cesspit for these impossibly frequent and nauseating videos, you might as well call it You(‘re a twat)tube…(it seemed funny at the time). Yet somehow, people enjoy them, such as our very own Failboatskipper , who has spammed me with this shit countless times. All I have to do is simply see the preview picture for the video and it causes me to stare out my window, either wondering where the world went wrong or contemplating leaping out of it (which sadly I can’t do now anyway because some smart-arsed builders who were fixing the gutter fixed it a bit too well so now I cant open my window enough to get an arm out. Suppose I could just open it and hope fresh air comes in, I don’t think my immune system would be able to take that).

But wait, no, if you haven’t thrown up in disgust by how awful these vloggers are/ my ignorance/my pathetic attempt at changing YouTube’s name, then you’ll possibly be slightly delighted to know that it does indeed get worse. All of a sudden…BOOM. /b/ flies through the window (not mine obviously) and screams at all the vloggers how they’re anonymous, legion, and surprisingly alike to vloggers in their age group and maturity levels. After giving vloggers a fresh kick in the face with a foot riddled with rotten memes and dead skin (that can be lack of originality if you REALLY want to complete the semi-metaphor), the vloggers felt they have the god-given right to pass it onto the world, one abysmal video after the next. I honestly don’t care if you have the capability to say ‘nigger’ every other 3 words, I don’t give the tiniest shit if you like mudkips, and frankly, if you believe you belong to ‘the super secret club that we only know about and are part of known as /b/’, then you’re simply 14. Nothing more to it. (14 counts as a child. AND YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT CHILDREN).

Well as I sit here sighing, trying to convince myself I’m the only sane man on the planet (give me a few days, I’ll believe it eventually), I’m left with very few comforts, such as how I’ll be playing the new Batman game tomorrow (yes that counts as a comfort…), or how it’s almost half-term, during which I will be doing shit all, or maybe even how although the internet is plagued with vloggers, at least it isn’t being filled with Halo 3 and Call Of Duty montages, right?


…Oh shit.

Sorry My Mistake, Children DON’T Make Funny Jokes, On A Related Note : Terrorists

The thought’s always occurred to me how terrorists aren’t actually very good at well…causing terror, but it really made me think the other day, as my college was evacuated due to a power cut and we were all ‘reluctantly’ forced out of our lessons onto a large patch of grass outside. My college isn’t exactly a big place, so the power cut affected everyone, meaning we were ALL on the patch of grass together. Now me, being the paranoid, and slightly somewhat sadistic person I am (I just don’t like people okay?), I figured that really, a terrorist could easily have planted a bomb a few feet underground, cut the power the next day, hid in a bush ‘till all the children came out onto the grass, and BOOM everyone’s dead, Mohammed is pleased with him for being a complete dick, and the media get lots of lovely coverage of splattered children and mourning relatives. Now okay, terrorism’s been going on for hundreds of years, from the KKK to the IRA, to the Al Quaeda, and heck, it happens ALL the time, just go on Wikipedia and look up terrorist attacks in 2009, there’s pages and pages of stuff. But seriously, why can’t terrorists make more INTERESTING attacks in England? These days terrorists sit around brainstorming going “Alright, alright, what if we say…put a bomb…in our shoe…then got on a plane? And blew ourselves up?” And after their previous failure being pointed out, “Oh…well we could put the bomb…in our luggage?” Seriously I could swear the Al Quaeda have a fetish for planes. Sure when they first started blowing up planes, it was a pretty good idea, and they sure got us good, but they’re like a child who made a funny joke and keeps making it because they think everyone’s going to keep laughing at it if they keep repeating it…FOREVER. Seriously, bomb a shopping centre. Bomb a school, or maybe don’t even use bombs, just get a bag full of faeces and throw it at a douche called David Blaine sitting in a glass box. That’ll show him for defying the laws of nature…bastard.

Sorry did I mention children? Yeah this is now no longer about terrorists. Though in a way, I guess it is, after all, are children not noise terrorists, if anything? The grumpy old man inside of me simply wants to maim and mutilate every 3 foot something smiling energetic cunt that comes my way. Happy dwarves simply don’t stand a chance. As a child I was never really…well…a child. Strangely mature yet immature at the same time. And maybe that’s why I hate children. Because really, I’m Miss Trunchbull, never was a child somehow, and can throw little girls over fences by their hair if they piss me off a bit...shame it’s not legal to put children in iron maidens any more.

It’s too much of a given thing for me to complain about children CRYING (laughing is equally as painful obviously), so I’ll have to say something quite contradictory. I went to Italy this summer, and as I was queuing for the toilets there was this small Italian boy in front of me. As expected, he started to cry; I rolled my eyes while the word ‘shit’ echoed through my mind. But somehow, it wasn’t infuriating. It didn’t make me want to rip my ears off and shove them down his throat. When the child cried it was like a more entertaining version of opera. It was basically like Mario had his testicles surgically lowered and farted in Bowser’s face while Luigi fed him muffins (Italian ones), ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Actually hang on maybe the kid was having a seizure...Oh Italian people do crack me up with their abysmal heart conditions that they probably don’t have.

Well, Eeeeverybody Becomes A Paranoid Schizophrenic…Sometimes….

Let’s face it. Everyone’s crazy. Everyone goes around pretending that they’re the happiest thing alive, to not convey their inner securities. So yes, your best friend is most likely a serial killer bent on killing pandas covered in humus, your mother secretly wants to be able to play the didgeridoo through her ears, and you’re just simply a cold-hearted bastard. But one thing that simply intrigues me, is paranoia. I don’t see why paranoia is a valid mental ‘disease’, heck, who ISN’T paranoid? I can’t walk down a street without thinking everyone that passes me by is a mugger, and then when they don’t mug me, they laugh at me behind my back. Prams don’t have babies in them, they’re loaded with bombs (Curse you Fallout 3). Cars are full of mobsters intent on blowing me sky high as they drive past. Not even the people in toll booths are safe from my suspicious ways (I was sure they were going to kill me BEFORE I saw that bit from The Godfather, I’m original alright?). I don’t know, maybe it’s the media telling us breathing gives us cancer, maybe it’s the constant threat of terrorism, maybe it’s the fact that all youths are twats, or maybe it’s just simply how I refuse to stop making lists, but everyone seems to be incredibly scared of everything, after all, everything now has the potential to kill us, from the humble toaster, to the not-so-humble axe-wielding maniac, however funny they are.

And of course what goes well with paranoia? Nothing more than good ol’ crippling depression. When the day comes that you become depressed, if that day hasn’t come already, I can tell you that you my friend, have hit a big-ass goldmine. Because you remember all that awful paranoia you had before, that caused you to be threatened by death every day? Well, it’s going to be a perfect partner for your depression, as you won’t wake up any more thinking ‘FUCK, IF I GET OUT OF BED, I’M GOING TO EXPLODE’, instead you think ‘Oh goody, if I get out of bed, I’m going to explode!’. You practically skip to work/school/whatever the fuck you do for a living, in the vain hope you achieve arthritis, or that a toaster might come hurtling downward from the heavens onto your head, or that Westboro Church mistakes you for a fag and burns you alive on the holy alter of ignorance.

Still, mental diseases really aren’t something to be ashamed of, merely something to be hidden and suppressed until the day you snap, end up killing a third of your colleagues, get put in a mental home, and laugh hysterically in a white padded cell accompanied by a straight jacket pinning you together, all the while psychiatrists tut their faces off at you behind a one way mirror. My future looks bleak in comparison.

Still, I will leave you with a quote that I see as relevant, from the one and only Marcus Fenix “THAT’S FIVE MOTHERFUCKERS”

Derren Brown The Not-So-White

These days I simply can’t go a whole day without some raving lunatic ranting to me about how Mr. Brown is the most incredible man alive. Even as I stay indoors and evade my family, the curse of the internet furthers my pain by screaming at me that Mr. Brown is a genius who deserves everyone’s love, a blowjob from Gordon Brown and a shit-load of money. So why DOESN’T he have that then? After all, for what feels to me like a few weeks ago, (I don’t know, maybe it was last year, I don’t have very good time perception), he ‘successfully predicted the lottery’. Of course he did. There’s no other logical explanation. He’s the glorious reincarnation of Hades, Lucifer and Shiva, all rolled into one. He’s the new not-so-Jesus deity that’s going to kind of save us all. With magic. If he can predict what underwear you’re wearing, then the lottery would be a breeze. So how come he’s never genuinely won the lottery. Why doesn’t he go out, buy a lottery ticket, and win like the smart-arsed, gay voiced bastard he is. ‘OH BECAUSE HE’S SUCH A NICE MAN AND DOESN’T WANT OTHER PEOPLE TO SUFFER DUE TO HIS GENIUS’, you may hear other people saying. So he wouldn’t even go out and win…not even one teeny weeny time?

Let’s not forget the week after that where he froze THE WHOLE GODDAMN COUNTRY WITH DISORIENTATING LINES. Let me elaborate my theory to you on that. It’s no doubt, what with the countless people saying ‘OMG I GOT STUCK TO MY CHAIR OMG IT FELT SO WEIRD LOLOLOLOL’, that some people did indeed, become ‘stuck’. Far as I’m concerned, there were no cynical bastards out there who sat there thinking ‘This isn’t going to work, this isn’t going to work, THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK’ that suddenly got stuck and realized what fools there were for being so arrogant for not believing in sticky magic. While the more gullible of us gawped at the box while telling ourselves that yes, Mr. Brown can do anything, and so we WILL be frozen to our seats, whether we like it or not.

Well personally I damn hope I’m correct, otherwise give it a year or two, and Mr. Brown will be showing a new trick in which he possesses half the nation and commands them to brutally murder the other half, all the while England smiles and congratulates Mr. Brown for being such a smart man while they smash each other’s teeth out, preferably with sledgehammers. I guess it’s up to me and my like, the cynical bastards, to form a small resistance against the Evil overlord Mr. Brown, which should roughly last 3 minutes before he yells at us the colour of our underwear while we go cry in a small corner. Still, he’d probably be busy answering the shitloads of letters and e-mails he’s received asking him to predict the lottery for them.