Promo Video

Whilst writing the next blog (to be with you soon!), I decided to take a break and make a promotional video for my blog, and here it is. Let me know what you think in the comments below!

#trashtag

Hashtags. A clever and easy way to see how many people are talking about a particular subject. Works brilliantly well on twitter, about as useful as a cock-flavoured lollipop on facebook. They don't work there! There is no point in putting hashtags on your statuses or photos, it will have the same result as attempting to chop down a tree with your penis. Until recently that is. As it turns out, I am indeed capable of felling trees using just my member...

Obviously that is a lie. I actually meant that old facey-b has now introduced a hashtag function in a not so veiled attempt to rip off twitter. As much as I don't give a flying fuck about how you just ate an apple or which disgustingly wealthy black man Kim Kardashian is currently getting boned by, hashtags were the only thing twitter had going for it. Now that has been cruelly ripped away from them like candy from an obese baby. 

However, just because there is now a point to it doesn't mean it needs to be done! One or two are acceptable at a push but #hashtagging #every #word makes you look like a dick. Use sensible ones as well, names and places etc. are fine, hashtags such as #nomnom and #imthebestttt are not.

I used to think that emoticons were almost as bad as hashtags, if not worse. Now I must admit that I use these to a massive extent. Anyone that talks to me on the internet will attest that I use the :P face ALL THE TIME. In fact, I probably use some sort of emiticon in almost every message. My excuse for this is that I am a massively sarcastic bastard and need a way to show that I am joking, not that I am being a huge nob. Although, most of you probably think there isn't much of a difference!

Another previously hated now very much used internet phenomenon is 'LOL'. As you all know, this stands for laugh out loud and is commonly used as a response to a joke or to show you are not being serious. Now, how often do you actually laugh out loud at something on the internet? Very rarely. Exactly. Most of the time you make a strange snorting noise. As such I propose a new acronym. Something along the lines of MSN (makes snort noise) or WHS (weird hnn sound). 

Despite my use of LOL, I find extensions and exaggerations ridiculous. Have you ever ROFLed or LMAOed? No, no you haven't. If you ended up rolling on the floor laughing from anything on the internet (with the exception of this blog) then you probably aught to get checked out by a doctor. If you manage to laugh your entire arse off then I would definitely recommend it. Until I see either of these scenarios happening I will continue to brand them as stupid and brainless like the people that use them. And if I do see them? Well, I'll be more than happy to gun you all down in my ROFLcopter.

The delightful delights of daytime TV

What with being on holiday and currently unemployed, I have a lot of time for day time television. And it's bollocks! I mean REALLY bad! If it wasn't for Wimbledon then I would probably have a job already. As it is, I am forced to watch such viewing delights as Saints & Scroungers, SuperScrimpers and Fantasy Homes by the Sea. I know I'm not really the target audience for these shows but still, does anyone find these genuinely engaging? I'll do a little run down of these shows for those of you who have a job/school/a life. Saints & Scroungers features an annoying bald man who talks to shmucks that have been ripped off. While it is terrible that these poor people have had all their money stolen, giving your bank details to a wealthy Nigerian businessman who would like to share his lottery winnings with you is a very stupid thing to do. As such, you almost deserve to have it taken away from you so you don't do anything else. SuperScrimpers is worse, Mrs Moneypenny (blatant infringement) attempts to reuse teabags and pick up coppers from pavements. On the other end of the scale, Fantasy Homes is a programme about people with more money than I will ever own in my life flashing that money in my face like a swollen testicle and pissing it away on horrendously expensive houses.

As we all know, the king of daytime TV, the jewel in its crown if you will, is the Jeremy Kyle show. Or in other words, a broadcasted advert for social Darwinism. I've realised that the JK show is nothing to do with the class system or anything, it is in fact just stupid people. Stupid people with no ambition or drive who spend all their time at home drinking and having sex (actually, that second bit sounds a little like me, minus the sex). Then instead of sorting out their problems like normal, civilised people they go and do it on screen. I would go as far to describe it as the modern day equivalent of gladiatorial combat performed by monkeys; chimps in nylon tracksuits flinging their own faeces at each other. I have no problem with anyone that has a desire to better themselves but that lot? Maybe the gene pool could do with a little chlorine.

Then of course, we have the adverts. If you wanted a break from all the mind-numbing shit you certainly won't get it during the advert breaks. As far as I can gather, advertisers think that anyone watching TV between the hours of 10:30 and 3 are bloated females with lady problems that require a few quid to play their bills (also the plot of a particular 'movie' I watched the other day) or over 50s looking for car insurance or a small African child (a movie which would get you arrested). I can assure you I am neither. Nor am I wishing to sue the world after being injured at work or claim PP-fucking-I on some sodding loan that I never took out.

Next week I will do something slightly more worthwhile for example get a job, or build a church, or hammer nails into my eyeballs. It will be more interesting than watching the same old shit.

Guest Writer: WingManning #1

Accept it. Clubs are dumb and so are you.

As Bon Jovi once wrote a song to those who mine for miracles, this blog also goes out to the ones in need. Those with the need to understand two things. 

1) Clubbing as a practise is inherently ridiculous 

2) Getting over that fact and probably yourself whilst your at it means I will hate you slightly less than I already do. 

Let's deconstruct what going out is as a process. As a guy you put on a shirt before putting on the music you are about to go and listen to in a sweaty pit loudly, for a few hours, on in your friend's room loudly for a few hours. 

Girls generally make more effort, not being sexist it's just true, by applying face paints designed to make you more attractive. Something of unnecessary effort since the average guy in a club has the bearing, conversational capacity and odour of a randy chimpanzee. Only a chimpanzee wouldn't be seen dead doing that stupid t-shirt with rolled up sleeves thing like a massive wanker. 

You know who you are.

You massive wanker. 

Of course part of the ludicrousness of clubbing is this pre-drinks ritual. It's a ritual because of the slightly religious elements of Ring of Fire. Implausible metaphysical laws inscribed on cards which have rules passed down from who-knows-where and can be invoked by someone with god-given unchallengeable authority. And like all good religious texts it comes with hearty punishments. They come in the forms of fingers to be drunk, drinks to be downed or most common, the divulgence of a fairly dull story accompanied by a loss of dignity. 

Of course once you've done "Never Have I Ever" more than twice the novelty wears off. Perhaps more interesting a game is "Never Would I Ever". Plus that could come with amusing benefits. 

If a young Josef Fritzl at university had drunk at "Never would I ever tie my daughter up in a basement for 24 years and rape her repeatedly until I got a secret cellar family I for some totally inexplicable reason wanted out of her" we might have seen that incident coming. 

And like religions, predrinks have a habit of pissing off almost everyone outside of your circle. If not women or gays but neighbours. 

Student house and hall walls are thin and music such as Skrillex has the penetrative capacity and melody of a powerdrill. What of course makes these audio nails even sweeter is the fact that people then try and converse over them. 

Here's a tip. Don't. Stop shouting. Stop competing with a box designed to play loud noises loudly and turn the loud noises off when you want to communicate. 

Or better still fuck off out.

Of course the reason for the existence of predrinks is essentially to anaesthetist yourselves before going to a club with cheap vodka rather than prescription medication. Alcohol inherently makes you more stupid than you otherwise would be. Often you cannot express yourself ably, you lack tact, and as a guy sometimes forget how to direct your streams of urine. So why do we drink it?

Firstly it's boring psychological stuff probably. About being more open (obnoxious) and lowering your inhibitions (standards). 

Secondly it's the fault of clubs themselves. The place where ironically most "socials" end up is a deafening sweaty hole in an old warehouse where you gyrate in silence, or bleat along to the vacuous crap produced by French DJs like David Guetta and occasionally good stuff like the Backstreet Boys. 

Within moments you're sweating more than a choirboy alone in a refectory with a Catholic Priest whilst being buffeted by various human equivalents of Shrek all wearing t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up a bit more than they were already. (I still really don't get why people do that. It really can't be ventilation. I can only assume inbreeding.)

Sobriety in such places makes Guantanamo Bay look like a luxury cruise liner. It is a case where literally having all of your senses functioning in a reasonable capacity leads to extreme physical and mental discomfort. 

You get three kinds of such people in these places: Aloof divas, rapey zombies, and fun people.

The aloof divas are the ones who take it too seriously. The ones who will not dance any more than waving a hand or two whilst doing an Orlando Bloom impression with slightly fewer expressions. As in looking into the middle distance with a blankness which is nothing short of terrifying. People for whom clubbing is clearly a big deal and they must be seen to be cool. 

A piece of advice. You look like an arsehole up your own arsehole - a form of arseholeception which only a Human Centipede remake starring George Osborne, Piers Morgan and Ed Balls could trump in arseholery. Of course seeing as it least two of them were privately educated this has probably already been achieved.

Ironically it is this sort of person who is most targeted by the rapey zombie, often a guy or a really lecherous woman  who sees orifice and targets like a heat-seeking missile. The sort of people who think groping arses is fine if a girl is wearing a short skirt. 

It's not. It's really not. 

They'll often claim drunken ignorance, hence the somewhat zombie-like qualities; the stumbling gait, unfocused eyes and the charm of a reanimated decomposing corpse. 

Then finally you get fun people. The sort who decide the rowing boat, sitting on the floor of a club, is always acceptable. Considering this normally involves sitting in an inch of what you hope is alcohol this is serious dedication. 

Or the kinds of people who flail about like a mime on acid, dance with their friends regardless of how ridiculous they may look and try not to bother other people. "The walls are closing in on me but I'm just loving the rhythm!" Is one way of describing it the movements created.

In such an environment these people have the responsibility to set an example. One such way of making things more fun is an impromptu conga line.

Conga lines combined with Dad dancing at a 1970s wedding are brilliant. 

However beware the forces of reaction. Threats such as these are official photographers (who for some reason hate blurry photobombers) or aggressive hipsters. Asking the person in question if the glasses they are wearing are actually medically necessary also does not help. Indeed although highly amusing, it raises the chances of you being abused or punched in the face. 

I posit no answers to the eternal question "Oh what's the bloody point then?" here. Indeed that's because I don't have them. 

I don't think any part of me will understand why the world one day suddenly went 'Ooh these sweaty noise pits are a great idea!' But it did. So we're stuck. 

Stuck at 2am gyrating as if being sodomised by invisible demons in alternating twilight and flashing neon as Nicki Minaj, arguably the worst human being alive right now, and her incomprehensible lyrics are pumped at your head from on high. 

The very nature of the places are daft, as is most of the conduct within them and the whole exercise around them. 

But the recurring nightmare can only continue.

My advice?

Have a drink. As God knows it's about the only way to make the entire experience anything close to bearable.

*Yes I am aware I sound like a middle-aged alcoholic. Blame the system.