Friday, 3 August 2012

La la la, I shitting hate thinking of titles

Oh yeah, this place.

So apparently there's some kind of sports thing going on [read: the Olympics, since they're not going on any more]. I haven't really seen much of it, first of all because it's the holiday season and therefore, for peons of the hospitality industry such as myself, not the holiday season, and secondly because sport doesn't matter, but the couple of bits I did inadvertently catch left me with a thought or two. Also a desolating sense of the pathetic waste of time and opportunity that has been my life, but let's focus on the thoughts.

First, opening ceremony speeches: did anyone else think that there was an almost suspicious level of emphasis on "fair play" and "competitive spirit" every time someone started talking? I mean sure, you ought to play fair, because then I can cheat my heart out and score an easy win over all you schmucks, but it was like every single person there felt the need to reassure the world that they weren't going to leg the nearest competitor down a handy flight of stairs as soon as they were out of camera-shot. I only saw a small bit of the ceremony, but there was a French guy who spoke about how happy he was to be at the games where he hoped to see all the athletes competing IN A COMPLETELY FAIR AND RESPECTFUL WAY WITHOUT USING DRUGS AT ALL, and then one of the athletes stood up and talked about how she was looking forward to the competition where she DEFINITELY WASN'T GOING TO USE DRUGS OR BE A BAD SPORT OR TREAT ANYONE WITH DISRESPECT, and then another one stood up and told everyone that he WASN'T GOING TO MESS WITH DOPING and how he would TREAT EVERYONE WITH THE UTMOST SUGAR-SWEETNESS OH AND DID I MENTION I WOULDN'T BE A BAD SPORT BECAUSE I WONT BE A BAD SPORT BECAUSE BEING A BAD SPORT IS BAD. Why so much focus on the idea that they're going to compete completely normally? I mean, if I was going to babysit, for example, I wouldn't feel the need to explain to the parents that I'm definitely not going to punch their children through the living room window.

Apparently there's also an unusual amount of interest in the 100m sprint. According to television (that most empirical of sources) the favourite contender, Usain Bolt, is basically a god of speed born from the collective potential spawn of a million Sonic the Hedgehog / Rainbow Dash slash fictions, and the only way anyone could ever hope to beat him is if he trips over his own shoelaces at the starting line. There was a good deal of one program devoted to trying to find out why he's just so much better than everyone else, examining his childhood, training methods, personality and tonnes of other things, but for some reason they neglected to mention the obvious deciding factor, which is that his parents gave him possibly the speediest-sounding name it's possible for a child to have. You can't just grow up with a name only a syllable away from "insane bolt" and end up in hotel management. It's like that werewolf guy in Harry Potter who'd probably never have become a werewolf if his parents hadn't basically named him "Wolf McFurryface". While we're on the subject of names, by the way, Bolt's main rival is totally Gay (HAHAHA IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE HIS NAME REALLY IS TYSON GAY)

And as long as I'm grasping for the low-hanging fruit, Christophe Lemaitre, the first white man to run the 100m in less than ten seconds, is being lauded for "breaking the stereotype" that white men can't sprint. Breaking stereotypes? He's French. I would, with a cheerful smile to the bookie, bet every penny of my £23 life savings that there is not a single interviewer in all the world who spoke to Mr. Lemaitre about his achievement without having to squash a little voice in the back of their head going Frenchman good at running Frenchman good at running Frenchman good at running.

Well that was possibly the biggest pile of trite I've ever written. I'm going to bed.  

Friday, 17 February 2012

Where I'm from, shops actually board up their windows against the violence of this day

Pancake day looms, folks. Some say it came about during the run-up to the fasting of Lent, when somebody invented a flat cake in a pan to use up all the delicacies like eggs and flour and sugar. Then they gorged themselves like a fat bastard until their pancreas started to hurt from all the insulin it had to produce, and afterwards they said ''this shall be known as panc-ache day. Also I now have type II diabetes.'' The Lent tradition of spending time actually being disciplined and sensible about what you eat has long since faded into memory, of course, but Pancake day remains as a fun afternoon for the whole family, where parents can amaze their children with dexterous displays of pancake flipping, and children can gaze in wonder as sheets of sizzling hot batter spin through the air onto their upturned awestruck faces.

Anyway, in celebration of this day I'm here to share with you my favourite recipe for pancakes. But it wouldn't be worth sharing if it was just some ordinary run-of-the-mill method of pancake-making, of course. So: are you the sort of person not merely satisfied with the banal humdrum of the mere ordinary pancake? Are you willing to buy fresh, expensive ingredients and use only the highest-grade cookery equipment? Will you watch your pan like a hawk for that perfect temperature and timing? Are you, in short, the kind of person willing to pour as much love into your cooking as you would into raising your own children?


Then fuck off. This recipe's for lazy cunts. HAHA WHAT AN UNPREDICTABLE JOKE

You will need:

Egg powder
Milk powder
A two-pint bottle of milk

1) Open the bottle of milk.

2) Use it all up in some way. I dunno, lots of tea, or something. We only actually need the bottle. Or any kind of large container like that would do, really - lemonade bottle, urinal bottle, anything. Go crazy. Invent. Live your life.

3) Put flour in the bottle.

4) Put egg powder in the bottle.

5) Put milk powder in the bottle.

6) Put water in the bottle.

7) What, you want measurements? Put enough of the stuff in to make pancakes. Jesus.

8) Screw the lid on tight and shake the bottle up and down vigorously for around sixty seconds - the same general motion as if you're watching porn, but for six times longer.

9) Pour the resulting batter into the pan and fry to perfection.

10) Plate up the fruits of your labour and realize that being able to follow this recipe means you have no friends, family or significant other to shame with your appallingly low standards. Garnish with the bitter tears you weep at your lonely, lonely life.

Interesting fact: I DO pour as much love into my cooking as I would into raising my own children.

Saturday, 11 February 2012

Fucked if I know. Any suggestions?

You know that phrase, "Lefty Loosey Righty Tighty"? If you don't, there's this phrase, right, and it goes "Lefty Loosey Righty Tighty", and it's supposed to help you remember how to deal with things like screws and bottle tops if you haven't got what is technically known as a memory. Anyway, what I wanted to talk about was how that phrase really pisses me off.

Now you might expect my beef to be with the phrase's inherent smug tweeness, but I'm not actually here to complain about that. Although admittedly, that's mostly because the phrase's inherent smug tweeness really speaks for itself. It's one of those things that tossers say when they want to look clever. You know, you'll be there trying to open a bottle, and maybe the top's been screwed shut too tight or maybe you just strained your hand last night with all that porn, and for whatever reason you can't open it. And then some tosser walks into the room and sees you struggling, and even though they could easily just look to see which way you're trying to turn it, they'll go "Oh, are you turning it the right way?" as if the only explanation for your difficulties is that you're just too thick to know how to undo a bottle. And then they'll pause for a moment, and then they put a smug little chirp in their voice and go "Remember, it's 'Lefty Loosey Righty Tighty!'" and then smile and turn away and pretend to do something else while they congratulate themselves on how they just looked clever. No, you looked like a tosser, you tosser.

Anyway, no, what pisses me off about that phrase isn't the wording, it's the fact that I understand what it means. And so do you, don't you. You don't even need me to explain it means that when you want to loosen something like a screw or a bottle top, you rotate it like this:

Pictures of bottle tops are dull, so I will illustrate with tits.

And when you want to tighten something like a screw or a bottle top, you turn it like this:

Damn you, Google Image.

As soon as I heard that phrase, I knew that that's what it meant. As soon as you heard that phrase, you knew what it meant too. Everyone who hears this phrase knows what it means.

Now: why the hell do we know what it means? Because the screw isn't going 'left' or going 'right', is it? It's turning. So every part of it is going in a different direction - if you turn it to the right, then the bottom part is going to the left, the left part is going up and the right part is going down.

No, Google, still not doing it right.

So why do we arbitrarily just know that that phrase refers to only the top?

It's really annoying.

Well that was a shit ending, so here's a stupid video to make up for it.

It's because we turn it how we imagine turning ourselves. Jeez.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

The Dog's Bollocks

So my workplace, a little pub-restaurant out in the Derbyshire countryside, has been selling children's books to try to beat off the insidious claws of the recession [Not any more they aren't! They stopped over six months ago! Christ.], and a few [hundred] nights ago I found myself flicking through one. Well, if 'flicking’ is what you can do to a book with cardboard pages thicker than a sandwich, but anyway.

Now, I'd expected that this wouldn't be the most entertaining use of my time. I'd expected it would be silly and vapid and saccharine. What I hadn't expected, ladies and gentlemen, was to find SYSTEMATIC BRAINWASHING. What I hadn't expected was to find one of the many reasons why the human race is made up of more pricks than a porcupine orgy in a rosebush. [/pretentious analogy]  

I will explain.

The book I happened to pluck from the shelf that day was Usborne's "That's not my Puppy", a 'touchy-feely' book full of bits of carpet and sandpaper and other such stuff for kids to slap at and drool over. As you probably inferred from the title, the plot concerns the narrator and his hunt for his missing puppy. Each page he encounters a dog with a textured bit on some part of its body – a furry coat, say, or a squashy nose - and each time, the narrator exclaims "That's not my puppy!" and follows with an explanation of how he knows this - an explanation which is always (and this is the important bit) that his puppy’s coat / paw / tail / nose is of a different texture to the one he’s currently appraising.

Now, a quick skip to the back of the book reveals the narrator’s dog to be a spaniel. You know, one of these.

 The first dog he encounters is a pink show-groomed poodle. One of these.

"That's not my puppy!" our unseen narrator exclaims. And how does he know this? How can he tell that this bastard offspring of a rat and a candy-floss machine is not his dear English Springer? Why, because “Its tail is too fluffy!”

So I want you to imagine that you’re a wee sprat of a child in your mother’s arms, and she’s reading this thing to you in that fucking annoying voice that everyone uses when they’re talking to children – you know, that high-pitched one so full of condescension that it practically crystallizes onto the walls. I want you to imagine that she just read the first bit to you, that bit about its tail. What would your first thought be?

I don't pretend I was anything more than a perfectly average baby WHO WAS AWESOME, but I like to think my first thought would have been “Are you blind, woman? Of course it’s not my puppy, it’s bright fucking pink. I don’t need to feel its tail because I’ve got eyes.”

But of course the only communication you can make at this point in your life is to blat at the pages with your pudgy proto-hands and go “blurba lurba poooo!” so your mother doesn’t pick up on your utter contempt for her and whatever smacktard put this book together and carries on reading it to you. The next dog is a golden retriever, and apparently this one isn’t the right one either, because “Its paws are too bumpy.” It’s also four times the size of my dog and the same colour as the Sugar Puffs monster, but no, you’re right, I’m not sure, let’s have a feel of its paws first.

Now the problem I have is this. A wee sprat’s mind is a busy little thing and it learns how to act by picking up cues from the people around it. So as you get past the third dog (A Dalmatian that obviously isn’t yours since “Its collar is too shiny,” shininess apparently being a tactile sensation these days) your baby will notice how you consistently ignore the apparently obvious evidence in favour of a bunch of obscure arbitrary proofs that don't even make sense (anyone think they can identify their own pets just from the feel of their paws? Anyone at all?).

And the conclusion they're going to come to is "I don't understand at all why you'd have to feel at the dog when you could just look at it, but mummy thinks that's what you should do and mummy is the cleverest person in the world, so I guess I'm just not very clever and I should wait for other people to tell me what's true instead." (although in less erudite terms, of course, such as "WAAAAAAAAAAH [pantsload of shit]".)

And then you fast forward forty years and you end up with this:

Seriously, you can't do something like this without it occurring to you at some point that it's maybe not a good idea. I am convinced, therefore, that it did; that some little voice inside his head tapped him on his shoulder and said "Look, the door's giving way. You're going to kill yourself if you don't stop," ... and then another voice said "No, it can't be the right conclusion if you thought of it, because you haven't got the brains for these things, remember? So it must be alright! If it was really dangerous then they wouldn't have made it possible to smash through it in the first place, would they?"

And do you know something? This book isn't even the worst of them; it's got sequels. You think brainwashing your kid into meekly accepting any bullshit shoveled its way is bad enough, you should check out the next one involving the search for a missing baby that they identify by feeling its fucking clothes. Yes, now you get to convince your kid that not only are the sole protectors of his frail and helpless personage not even capable of keeping track of where he is, but that the only thing that differentiates one human being from another is what kind of clothes they wear. The pièce de résistance though is, perhaps, the ending, in which the baby you're looking for turns out to be yes, you, my dear! and the publishers facilitate this by having a mirror stuck to the final page. Except that the only kind of mirror you can really put into a book is one of those silvery-cardboard ones you get in birthday cards, and I have never seen a birthday-card mirror that doesn't make you look like you just tried to block a sledgehammer with your face. So having gone through the trauma of learning that their parents could lose them at any time and that they're just a worthless drone with no identity past their bib and shawl, they reach the final page and go "Oh, so this is what I look like JESUS JACK CHRIST I'VE GOT A MOUTH FOR A FOREHEAD." Well done there, mum. From bright happy child to abandonment-paranoid oh-god-I'm-hideous fashion-obsessive in less than ten pages.

Now, I'm the first to admit that there is no stronger proof of a cruel and unforgiving god than the existence of children, but even I'm forced to step up in their defense here. Parents, you need to stop reading these things to your kids; you're shortening their odds of succeeding in life, and frankly they're short enough as it is. Children are already whining, spoiled, self-entitled, demanding, thankless little bundles of tosspot that eat your food and spend your money and scrawl crayon all over the walls and generally waste the best years of your life, and even if they don't join the massed ranks of Retardia they'll probably turn out to be sullen ungrateful disappointments who end up wasting the rest of their own lives too. With drink, maybe, or drugs, or writing really pointless articles for a really pointless website.

Yes okay these books could also teach you not to accept an answer just because it looks obvious BUT SHUT UP

Friday, 30 December 2011

I haven't done chemistry in seven years and I won't apologize

Oh, have I a tale to tell you, my friends. A saga for the ages. A story of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds and the true spirit of courage. A narrative tapestry of such a heart-rending beauty that even this paragraph of flowery bollocks can barely do it justice.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a story about a patch of mould.

I'll give you a minute to change your underwear.

Ready? Okay.

So it came to pass yesterday a few weeks six months ago that I had a lot of free time and almost no idea what to do with it, a circumstance admittedly rare in the tumultuous intrigues of my life HAHAHAHA no it's really not. Anyway, I decided I would alleviate my boredom with large quantities of beer.

But no! I must stop you there, dear reader, for this is not what you think. For I was not planning on drinking beer, oh no. No, I was going to use this time to BREW beer.

As an aside, I highly recommend beer-brewing to any self-respecting alcoholic bum out there as a cheap and wholesome way of maintaining your inebriated stupor in this economic climate. With nothing more than a big bucket, a good sense of hygiene and a fair amount of patience - okay, you can probably get away with just the bucket - you can turn fifteen quids' worth of ingredients into forty-plus pints of delicious golden brew guaranteed to refresh your palette through summer eves and winter nights. Well, that's the theory. What you'll probably get is forty-plus pints of a substance that could only be called beer out of an act of pitiable charity, but it's alcoholic and only occasionally poisonous and that's all that usually matters.

Anyway. Unless you're planning to drink the whole bucket in one go, you'll also need bottles. As it turns out, bottles are like twenty-five quid for a box of twenty. Bollocks to that, I thought, I work at a pub. So I nicked some out of the recycling skips.

This is where the mould comes in. Well, this is where mould in general comes in. The specific bit of mould – the shining thread of this weave – isn't here just yet. But he will be. Have patience, oh readers.

Now, I'd like you to imagine the state of the bottles I pulled out of the skip that bright sunshiny afternoon. And if you envisioned a bunch of slimy, crusty lumps that could probably crawl away under their own power if you left them for more than five seconds, then you're a tit. The average pub's recycling bins are emptied every two or three days at the very least. There's no time for any sort of mould to form. Give 'em a once-over with sterilizer solution and you're golden.

Unless, of course, you happen to suffer from a chronic case of Lazy Bastard, with the condition manifesting such symptoms as shoving all your bottles in the garage the moment you get home and forgetting everything of their existence for nearly three weeks. I'm certain there are websites out there with worse stuff in them than these bottles had, but if you've ever visited them you're probably due a visit from the child protection services any day now.

So. It turns out mould is a right bastard to get rid of if all you've got to hand is Fairy Liquid and a bottle brush; even bleach doesn't seem to shift the stuff. However, remember I mentioned using sterilizing solution? Well, the particular brand I use must have been made from the pixie dust of the magical land of I Want To Kill Fucking Everything, because nothing survives contact with this stuff. I'm quite sure the only reason it didn't eat through the bottles themselves is because it's quietly plotting the destruction of the entire cosmos and didn't want to reveal its capabilities too soon.

So the process for cleaning the bottles becomes thus:

  • Fill a bucket with twenty-five litres of warm water.  
  • Dissolve into this aqueous trove a single teaspoonful of sterilizing powder. Just the one. 
  • Fill a mould-infested bottle with this apparently pathetic solution.
  • Set the bottle down on a tabletop. 
  • Watch.

And maybe ten seconds in, the mould clinging so stubbornly to the bottle just seems to... give up. It just peels away and, like a nerd trying to have a life, drifts about aimlessly for a while before slowly breaking down.

And so, gleeful that I have once again found a short-cut around honest labour, I set about on that most British of past-times, colonial genocide. Fill a bottle, wait a while, empty bottle, rinse and repeat. (Hah! That's, like, the first time I've ever seen that phrase used in a situation where you actually do rinse something before repeating! Truly, every day brings a new experience.) All is well. Then, about thirty bottles in, I notice...

Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. This is the moment. Allow me to introduce the star of this spiel. The manliness that is. Give a big hand to:

A Spot of Mould About a Half-Centimetre Wide.

Since my camera is shit, our protagonist is played here by an actor.

Now, the bottle had been standing for the requisite amount of time and the solution was murky with the sludge of vanquished mycelia... but this one spot was still there. Whatever alchemical wonders comprised the sterilizer I was using, they hadn't worked their magic on this little guy (or girl, let us not be non-inclusive). It simply sat there, apparently unaware anything had even been going on. Well, it would, wouldn't it.

Okay, no biggie. This isn't even the first one I came across: a half-dozen other bottles all had some tough specimens too. So I rinsed, re-dosed, and let it stand for another five minutes.

And... no effect. Huh. Now this, I thought, is unusual. None of the others survived two doses.

Third dose. Extra-hot water. Shake bottle vigorously. Still no effect.

I stared down the neck of the bottle and I fancied I saw it staring back. And it was jeering. Waving its middle fingers and going ''Hurrr, is that all you've got? Huh? Huh?''

Oh, this shit is on.

I fill the bottle with water again, and this time I pour an entire spoonful of powder in along with it. The same dose that, so far, has been sufficient to cleanse thirty-nine other bottles. Hah! Take that, you little bastard! Let's see you survive this one!

Now twenty-five litres is, conveniently, around forty pints, making the solution in this bottle forty times stronger than the stuff I was using before. To give some idea of what this means, here's some other examples of things being multiplied about forty times:

Getting punched in the face by some average dude.
Getting punched in the face by four world champion boxers at the same time.
Eating a ham sandwich.
Eating like it's Christmas every meal for three days running.
Lifting a person of average weight.
Lifting a car.

No, wait, hang on: I'm British, so we're talking average weight in Britain here, aren't we. Quick correction:

Lifting three hundred cars that are made of lead after turning the local gravity up a few orders of magnitude.
Lifting a person of average weight.

You know, once upon a time it used to be the Americans who were all fat cunts and we Brits would point at you and snicker. And then one day my fellow countrymen just decided to start inhaling fish and chips instead of air. Nice going, crotchspots.

So anyway, you now have some idea of just how much stronger this solution was compared to its predecessor. This thing is like the Hulk of cleaning solutions. I swirl the bottle and I watch, intrigued.

And watch.

And watch...

... and nothing happens. Nada. Zilch.

All right, what the fuck.

I empty out the bottle and get another spoonful of powder - but I don't bother with water this time. Oh no, this time I empty the dry sterilizer right on top of this cavalier mouldy rebel. Fuck solution. I watch as the powder soaks directly in. I fancy I can hear it screaming, and I smile. Oh I smile, readers, and I walk away laughing as it burns.

Now despite the direct application of powder there was still a bit of water in the bottom of that bottle, which conveniently allows us to get a ballpark strength of this fresh assault. Let's assume about 20ml of water. The previous solution was a pint, which is 568 ml. (The British pint, at least. The US pint is 473ml, because we Brits can hold our drinks better. Oh wait, no we can't, can we, because we're also the drunkest nation in the world. What the fuck happened to us? WE USED TO RULE A QUARTER OF THIS FUCKING PLANET, WHY ARE WE SUDDENLY SO SHIT?). So we round up to 600ml because I can't be arsed, and this solution comes out at 30 times more powerful than the last one. That's 1200 times more powerful than the first one (well, assuming I disregard the saturation point since not all the powder could dissolve in the BLAH DE BLAH BORED NOW). Here are some things being multiplied about 1200 times:

The length and width of a mouse.
The length and width of a football field.
The total word count of all the books in the British Library.
The total word count of all the "Arrow in the knee" comments posted on Youtube in the last five seconds.
How sad I must have to be to have written this article.
How sad you must be to have read this far.

Five minutes later, I come back. I swirl the sludge around in the bottom of the bottle. I look through the glass.

It's still there.

I fancy I hear something in the recesses of my brain go 'ping'.

I'm not too sure what happened next. I remember there was screaming. Lots of screaming. I remember gnawing at the bottle mouth as if I could chew through the glass and kill that fucking mould with my bare hands. I remember suddenly being in the kitchen with a boiling kettle; I remember pouring boiling water into the bottle until the plastic funnel buckled and melted into ruin; I remember pouring two, two spoonfuls of powder in after it. At double potency, and since apparently the rate of a reaction doubles for every ten degree rise in temperature, I estimated this solution to have a cleaning potential of like a billion times more than when we started. Here are some things being multiplied about like a billion times:

A pound.
Like a billion pounds.

I remember seizing the bottle and shaking it until my hands blistered from the heat, until the air inside the bottle heated and the pressure shot up and boiling-hot sterilizing solution sprayed from the mouth and up my arms, and I remember how I lurched to the sink and tipped out the bottle and rinsed out the bottle and peered into the bottle and the mould was




And I remember... calmness. I remember quietly setting the bottle down, and slumping to the floor. And I remember crying as I lay there. Beaten. Humiliated. Unmanned by a lion in the guise of penicillin.

Folks, I didn't think there was any organism on God's green Earth could put up with the beating I gave this little guy. (Well, except maybe Deinococcus radiodurans. Or Thermococcus gammatolerans. Or any organism bigger than the average cat, which could almost certainly shrug it off with nothing more drastic than reconstructive surgery and a few years of counselling.) It was like something out of Braveheart. I threw at him the most powerful cleaner I had, I threw it super-concentrated, I threw it undiluted and I threw it boiling, and still he found the strength to look me in the eye and scream “FREEDOOOOM!”

Like this, except instead of Mel Gibson it's an old piece of crap at the bottom of a bottle. Oh wait.

I'd like to propose that we remember this little patch, ladies and gentlemen; that we remember his pluck and his courage and his resilience that let him bear a hundred times what a hundred of his companions could not. I say raise your drinks this hour and OH GOD I NEED A LIFE

Wednesday, 28 December 2011

No, I'm not 'Goal-Oriented'. Thanks for asking.

Oh, fuck it. The updates I've been pecking away at for the last nine months obviously aren't going to materialize any time soon, so here's a random rant I threw up last month at

What's with this sudden obsession job adverts have with "enthusiastic, extroverted goal-oriented team-players with a true zest for life and a real motivation to start a career in (x)"? I mean, it's bad enough that we're in a recession and there's fuck-all jobs for anyone, but now you can't even score an interview unless the prospect of being a part-time data-entry clerk leaves jizz stains across your CV.

I don't just mean being happy to have a job. I'm chuffed with anything that lets me earn money, but that's just the problem. They don't want you to do a job to earn money. They want you to do a job because it's your 'career goal'. Because it's what you've 'always wanted to do'. As if everyone ought to dream of one day selling sofas or dealing with tax receipts.

What I want to know is where this sudden requirement for enthusiasm came from. When, in all the time society spent trying to mould you into a good little human being, has enthusiasm for what you do EVER been important? Did you go to school because you liked it? Made sure to finish your homework for the sheer orgasmic thrill of doing algebra? Did you take a part-time job because packing the shopping of some half-dead old biddy who stinks of cat piss and keeps talking about her latest bowel movement is something you dreamed of since you were three years old, or was it to get some money and make your parents shut up?

At no point does 'wanting' to do something ever enter into anything. In fact, how often do you attempt to do something you WANT to do and get slapped down because apparently it's wrong? All they drill into you that hard work is usually, you know, hard, and quite often in life you have to do unpleasant things if you want to succeed, and that everyone has to do unpleasant things, and basically it doesn't matter what your feelings are as long as you get it done. And you get to the job market and people tell you that most people hate their jobs and hating the job doesn't matter, and they tell you 'Oh, you can't just wait for your DREAM JOB to turn up, you have to go out and do ANYTHING, even if you HATE IT,' and so you apply for a bunch of stuff you hate, and then bam! You come to the interview and suddenly unless you can prove that you 'like' the job, that it's your 'dream career', you can't get shit. The interviewer just goes 'Sorry, you seem like you wouldn't like this and I'm not going to hire someone who'd hate working here.' And then everyone else - the SAME FUCKING FUCKERS who told you to go apply for things you don't like - hear that you failed and go WHY ARE YOU APPLYING FOR THINGS THAT YOU HATE THAT'S DUMB YOU'RE DUMB YOU DUMBASS.

And as long as we're on the subject, how is half the shit they ask for in job adverts even quantifiable? It's like every single advert has a list of 'essential skills' and it's never stuff like "knows how to actually use a computer / wire plugs / install plumbing", is it? It's always "must be a Team Player, must be able to Solve Problems." Who doesn't have these skills? Oh, you want me to prove I'm a team player? Okay, once upon a time I was in a team and the team leader asked me to do something, and I responded by doing it instead of stabbing him in the face. As for problem solving, well! This one time, I realised I was hungry, so I got myself something to eat. So, when can I start?

None of this stuff was ever mentioned beforehand. If it's all really so important then there ought to have been some manner of class for it: they force you to learn the scribblings of some twat playwright who's been dead 400 years, surely they could devote a class or two on how to answer retarded questions. Oh wait, that IS what school does, isn't it. Never mind then.

So anyway, fuck it. I'm just going to play videogames and get fat until I see "Help Wanted: Must be a miserable cunt."

Sunday, 13 March 2011

London was over a fortnight ago, let it drop already

So during my London stint I stayed in an awesome B&B with a huge comfortable bed, as much tea and coffee as my stomach could stomach and an en-suite sink just the right height for peeing in if one were so inclined. That's top-class luxury right there. But then I tried to go web surfing, and what do I find but no internet. Nary the whiff of wireless.

How do you have no internet these days? It's like having no air. You just can't help but have it. You'd think they'd at least try to steal the neighbour's connection for the sake of the guests. So for two weeks I had no access to the vast repository of knowledge that is the World Wide Web. And by knowledge I mean porn, of course.

I'd like you to take a moment to think about just how convenient the internet makes your perversities - how easy it is just to type something like '' into your browser and bam: the next two minutes of your evening sorted. You don't know how good you've got it until one day it's not there, then suddenly you find yourself having to go out to some seedy corner shop owned by a suspicious Russian guy with a wool cap and a beard you could hide children in, and he's watching you as you take a DVD down from the highest shelf - and they're always on the highest shelves, aren't they, so when you pick it up you're basically holding your purchase as high in the air as possible and going "Hey everyone! Look! Look at what I'm buying! Avert your eyes! Clutch your children! For I am buying PORNOGRAPHY!" - and then you've got to take it to the counter and there's a bunch of old ladies behind you and you know that they're just tut-tutting under their breath and Russian guy is staring at you grinning as you try to put it down somewhere on the counter where no-one else will see it. Actually, wait, no he's not, to him you're just another customer buying another product and he doesn't care in the slightest. But he smells funny so I'm going to call him a cunt anyway. What a cunt.

Right I'm off to bed.

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