I live everyday with in a constant paranoid state caused by the most irrational aspects of life. Before doing meaningless tasks I have to shake myself awake and force my mind into quickly doing an itinerary check of all the belongings on my person. For example, this happens most often when I leave the house. I stand at the front door and frisk myself like an under-sexed, perverted policeman to make sure I have everything I need; keys, phone, wallet, money, iPod and so on. I then proceed out of the door, only to check myself again once outside, before shutting the door behind me.
This effortless task is thousands times more panic-provoking if I’m getting off a bus or out a taxi, as I search every area of which I’ve been seated to discover if I’ve dropped or possibly left something behind. I’m just worried that if I leave something behind, that’s it, it’s gone, forever. I’m not sure if this is down to me viewing my belongings as all being sentimental, or if it’s just the fact that I’m fully aware I’m too poor to replace anything I loose.
But it doesn’t stop their, I have this internal fear that while walking over grates in the floor that one of my possessions will attempt to liberate itself from my pocket and make it’s way to a new life living in the sewer system of Derbyshire. To ensure this doesn’t happen I often put my hands in my pockets and grip my property. I used to take things out of my pocket and grasp them tightly when approaching grates, until I realised that I’m more likely to drop them, therefore rendering the whole ‘this’ll keep ‘em safe’ ideology useless and I felt a slight depression as I discovered that I’m not always right.
Alas, irrational paranoia still creeps into my life after these tasks. Such actions as walking through an automatic door make me slightly paranoid. ‘Will it open for me?’ Have you ever walked up to an automatic door and when it hasn’t opened for you, you begin to question your existence? That happens to me around four times a week. Stood at one of these doors, will thoughts running through my head such as; ‘Am I simply a figment of someone else’s imagination?’ or ‘Am I a ghost, no don’t be silly, ghost’s don’t exist … or do they? Have I convinced myself that ghosts aren’t real to inevitably fool myself out of realising I am in fact a ghost?’ Yea, it sounds like some South Korean Psychological Thriller film, but it could happen. Usually, this automatic door problem is solved when someone points out I have to press a button for the door to open. By that point the embarrassment of being such a massive idiot is drowned out by the delightful feeling of realising I am a real human.
Lifts pose yet more trouble for me. It’s not only the feeling of impending doom from the cables snapping and the lift itself becoming a metal casket for me and anyone else too lazy to take the stairs, but the simple task of getting on the lift is a terror. I never trust those doors, I think they may have a motive and they’re out to get me; closing as soon as I’m mid-way into the lift and bumping into me. It doesn’t hurt physically, but my pride takes a knock. Why is it me that these doors lash out on? There is also the fear of getting trapped in the lift, suspended in a metal cage like a human-sized pet budgie. In Hollywood films I’ve seen action heroes climb through panels in the top of lifts, or elevators as they would call them, then climb up the cables or whatever, but in the lifts I use I never seen any kind of panel to remove to make an escape. This fact deepens my fears.
I don’t know what causes these fears. Maybe reading the Daily Mail everyday for my 23 years on this earth has installed a fear in me so great, I no longer just fear anyone that’s a different colour, religion or creed, I actually fear everything. Or maybe I have finally smoked myself into a retarded state of constant paranoia … either way, I’m off to read my Daily Mail and smoke a phat blunt.
I would like to point out that I used no vulgar language or obscene words in this Blog, go me!
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
The Cure for R-S-AIDs (DJ RSA Diss)
This goes out to RSA aka the faggot Richie Rich
better known as Daddy’s little bitch
The Drum & Bass DJ that’s always throwing hissy fits
This is it; The Cure for R-S-AIDs
He runs with arsey bre’s and mardy gays,
Turnin up and tryin to get on the decks at any Derby rave
Either that or he’s making tunes, that can’t get played,
But the truth is he has HIV and he can’t be saved
Let me clear my throat and murk this fuck
You should be spinning records in Curzon’s Club
Or swallowing a gay guy’s herpes nut
You’re just like gay sex; a worthless fuck
So wave ya rainbow flag, you gaybo fag,
Come out the closet, ya mate’s won’t laugh
Apart from the ones that have yet to taste yo’ ass
I hope you get raped so bad, that ya A-hole collapse
You’ve got no job, you make no cash,
Don’t pay no bills, don’t pay no tax
You’re 24 and your dad pays that
And yet you still moan, you ungrateful twat
So bare witness, as this spoilt little brat,
Get’s his just desserts, as I destroy him with a rap
I wanna see less of Seymour, Fill his mouth with C4,
and ask him; “What the fuck are talking to me for?”
He’d probably sell his Gran out for half an O’ of reefer,
Drug addict, I’ll secretly trade his blow for ether
You’re an old ginger bitch, I’ll call you Boudica
Drum & Bass’ all-time low achiever
Spinning records online, and not getting much respect
I’m probably better than you and I’ve never touched a deck
Even jealous of his own girlfriend ‘cos she’s a better DJ
But she’s jealous of him ‘cos he gives a better BJ
Fuck what you heard, this is not gunna end,
Stalk you in London, ‘til you get lost from your friends,
Give you concrete boots, you get dropped in the Thames
Then I return to Derby to stick my cock into ***
Face it, in a fight you’d get smacked ging’
You look like Bradley from Eastenders, after a 3 month crack binge
In fact that’s a compliment, so fuck that
You look more like Chuckie Finster, from the Rugrats
I burn you up like 5 minutes in direct sunlight
You’re the bum-type, swallowing cum-type
But they say I’m too harsh with the facts,
He broke a fingernail and put his whole arm in a cast
I’ll get some lads from Sutton to slice this fool
You’re xenophobic; cos there were no ‘coloureds’ at your private school,
I can’t have a freak like this around me,
With his ginger hair, pale skin and brown teeth
You’re attitude has got me pissed at you,
You fake snake, look at your name mate, you bit Bobby Digital
I’ll break down the acronym to prove that he’s so queer
a Rich Spoilt Arsehole, Regrets Sacking (the) Au pair,
Reclusive, Southern Aristocrat,
Rob Sucks Ass, Rob Shafts Anus,
Rubbin’ Sphincters Always
Revolting, Soap Avoider, Rummages Several Ashtrays,
Reefer, Skunk Addict,
Rob’s Sanity’s Absent,
Rob Swallows Airon’s Reproductive Seed All-the-time,
Rudimentary, Simpleton, Asinine
Raspy Stupid Accent, Really Should Apologise
Racist, Shunning Africans, Really Supporting Apartheids
Face facts, R-S-AIDs has been slaughtered,
Cos he’s a seed, that his parent’s “Really Should’ve Aborted”
Happy 2nd Birthday!
Today marks the second anniversary of The Misadventures of Ben Broughton. Kudos to me for being arsed to carry this shit on. For something different, I’m going to post a Video (Ohhh!) of me (Wow!) … rapping (Ohhh!).
I asked my Housemate/Friend if I could make a ‘diss’ song about him and he agreed, he’s yet to see it though. He said as long as I don’t mention his family name or say anything about his mother, it was fine, this actually pissed me off because after the ‘no mum’ rule I had to remove the whole second and third verses. The video’s not great, as it took my ages to get the verse right. Oh yea, I wigger-ed up too. Enjoy.
Big thanks to all those people that come back to read my shitty rants and so on.
I asked my Housemate/Friend if I could make a ‘diss’ song about him and he agreed, he’s yet to see it though. He said as long as I don’t mention his family name or say anything about his mother, it was fine, this actually pissed me off because after the ‘no mum’ rule I had to remove the whole second and third verses. The video’s not great, as it took my ages to get the verse right. Oh yea, I wigger-ed up too. Enjoy.
Big thanks to all those people that come back to read my shitty rants and so on.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Kiss, Tell, Proceed to Hell
Celebrities’ cheating on their wives was happening before the Big Bang, yet the public’s interest in them is still alive today somehow, just like the Queen. John Terry, Ashley Cole and Tiger Woods have all been slated in the newspapers recently for shagging females of the species that they didn’t buy an expensive ring for. This of course is a massive injustice. These gentlemen have worked extremely hard to make it to the top of their respective sports, while their wives have just got a free ride all the way.
Cheryl Cole, of course did have some-type of pop career before wedding Ashley. But cast your mind back to when she was a racist alcoholic. You can barely remember that because marrying Ashley altered that perspective of her, so while the tabloids poison your mind to hate Ashley now, if it wasn’t for him, there would have never been Cheryl on X-Factor, she’d still be beating up toilet assistants in an alcoholic rage while spouting racial slurs that would make Nick Griffin blush.
It’s not fair to blame these men for their actions because at the end of the day they are simply men. What’s the difference between men and women? Men have penises, which play heavily on the decisions they make. It’s that simple. These men have no control over what they did, the blames lays on the fact they have penises! You can’t blame them for the way they were born, that’s sexist, and I’m against sexism. I can reveal who the blame lays with in all of these cases; their wives and the women they fucked.
Firstly the wives of these men are all attractive, as these men have lots of money, the more money you have, the better looking your wife is, it’s that simple. Yet, clearly these women weren’t satisfying their husbands’ needs, so they have to go elsewhere for attention. These women get everything they need in life and all they have to do is suck a dick or sit on a face, to keep their man happy, yet they can’t do that! But if these pampered-up, spoilt bitches not do it someone else will …
Secondly the blame lays with these women that the sports stars sleep with, for the purpose of this we’ll call them ‘whores’. These whores know full well that these gentlemen have families at home, yet they still go ahead and sleep with them, well aware that they are ruining a marriage. My beef with these kiss and tell girls is that they never come under fire from the press. Jaimee Grubbs (Woods), Vicki Gough (Cole) or Vanessa Perroncel (Terry) didn’t get blamed for being home-wreckers.
It’s infuriating that these women do this; sleep with someone famous and go and sell the story. Oxford English (Mini) Dictionary reads;
Which is what these women are, yet the payment doesn’t come from the men directly, instead it comes from tabloids, each willing to throw money at these colossal skanks in an attempt to shift a couple more papers. Look at Vanessa Perroncel; she went directly to Max Clifford, who pimped her out like the whore she is for the highest price.
I thought women were meant to look out for each other, instead of stabbing each other in the back … although in these cases it more to do with letting another woman’s husband stab you in the front. Would it be that difficult for them to say; “No, I won’t have sex with you! You have a family!”? I mean, some of these girls act as if they had nothing to do with the whole thing, like it just so happened that a penis fell into them and it’s all the fault of the penis-owner, because it’s not like their legs were open, it’s not like they have any control of what choices they make. They’re not men, they don’t think with their dicks, they think with their brains, and what’s the thought; “I could probably get some money for swallowing this. Glug, glug, glug!” That’s Prostitution 101, a whore’s ideology.
The pure existence of these conniving wenches makes the possibility of affairs hard on the rich, under-sexed sport star. Knowing that you can’t just pick up some girl at a bar and shag her, because the story penetrates the headlines faster than you penetrated her the night before could lead numerous sports stars to not even bother with cheating on their wives. Because of this I have come up with a technique that sports stars can use in order to assure that they can go about their affairs without a trouble in the world;
What you want to do is get your girl (easy enough, you’re rich and famous – they flock to you like flies to shit). Take her to your room. Set up a video camera (wait, although this confirms evidence of what happened it won’t incriminate you). Do your business. But make sure you capture on film the girl knelt in front of you, while you over her masturbating, as you look down on her get her to spout anti-Semitic bile as you proceed to slap her with your cock, calling her a “bad girl”, repeatedly. You then take the tape and lock it away in a safety deposit box and threaten the girl that if a single word is ever uttered about that night you spent together, that tape will makes its way to her parent’s house. Yet if she still goes to the newspapers you produce the videotape and explain that you have been conducting an experiment in which you are attempting to discover if your penis can cure racism.
It’s that simple.
In a world where everyone should be treated equal, isn’t it time that we labelled these ‘kiss and tell girls’ what they really are; prostitutes. Isn’t prostitution illegal in this country? Shouldn’t these women be held up in court? At the end of the day, they are having sex for money. Yet, the sport stars aren’t the one paying the bill, it’s the tabloids. Should we question the tabloids hold over these women? This celebrity driven society, in which newspapers are able to put forward an ideology in which it’s acceptable for females to sleep with married men, as a way to sell a story to further line the pockets of newspaper owners, no matter how many lives are ruined in the aftermath. For us readers it’s something to look at and gossip about for a couple of minutes, for the ones involved it never ends, but next week we’re reading about the next footballer that’s been fucking around, literally. Yet, what about last weeks headliner? That’s old news to us now, fuck him and his failed marriage, bring on the next two-timing cunt and hoe-bag that’d lick a homeless man’s nuts for a couple of copper coins, parade them on the front page and let us ogle at their disgraceful actions, then fuck them off and bring us someone else. Our shitty relationships seem imperial to theirs and they’re rich. Hooray for us.
Cheryl Cole, of course did have some-type of pop career before wedding Ashley. But cast your mind back to when she was a racist alcoholic. You can barely remember that because marrying Ashley altered that perspective of her, so while the tabloids poison your mind to hate Ashley now, if it wasn’t for him, there would have never been Cheryl on X-Factor, she’d still be beating up toilet assistants in an alcoholic rage while spouting racial slurs that would make Nick Griffin blush.
It’s not fair to blame these men for their actions because at the end of the day they are simply men. What’s the difference between men and women? Men have penises, which play heavily on the decisions they make. It’s that simple. These men have no control over what they did, the blames lays on the fact they have penises! You can’t blame them for the way they were born, that’s sexist, and I’m against sexism. I can reveal who the blame lays with in all of these cases; their wives and the women they fucked.
Firstly the wives of these men are all attractive, as these men have lots of money, the more money you have, the better looking your wife is, it’s that simple. Yet, clearly these women weren’t satisfying their husbands’ needs, so they have to go elsewhere for attention. These women get everything they need in life and all they have to do is suck a dick or sit on a face, to keep their man happy, yet they can’t do that! But if these pampered-up, spoilt bitches not do it someone else will …
Secondly the blame lays with these women that the sports stars sleep with, for the purpose of this we’ll call them ‘whores’. These whores know full well that these gentlemen have families at home, yet they still go ahead and sleep with them, well aware that they are ruining a marriage. My beef with these kiss and tell girls is that they never come under fire from the press. Jaimee Grubbs (Woods), Vicki Gough (Cole) or Vanessa Perroncel (Terry) didn’t get blamed for being home-wreckers.
It’s infuriating that these women do this; sleep with someone famous and go and sell the story. Oxford English (Mini) Dictionary reads;
Prostitute n. a person who has sex for payment.
Which is what these women are, yet the payment doesn’t come from the men directly, instead it comes from tabloids, each willing to throw money at these colossal skanks in an attempt to shift a couple more papers. Look at Vanessa Perroncel; she went directly to Max Clifford, who pimped her out like the whore she is for the highest price.
I thought women were meant to look out for each other, instead of stabbing each other in the back … although in these cases it more to do with letting another woman’s husband stab you in the front. Would it be that difficult for them to say; “No, I won’t have sex with you! You have a family!”? I mean, some of these girls act as if they had nothing to do with the whole thing, like it just so happened that a penis fell into them and it’s all the fault of the penis-owner, because it’s not like their legs were open, it’s not like they have any control of what choices they make. They’re not men, they don’t think with their dicks, they think with their brains, and what’s the thought; “I could probably get some money for swallowing this. Glug, glug, glug!” That’s Prostitution 101, a whore’s ideology.
The pure existence of these conniving wenches makes the possibility of affairs hard on the rich, under-sexed sport star. Knowing that you can’t just pick up some girl at a bar and shag her, because the story penetrates the headlines faster than you penetrated her the night before could lead numerous sports stars to not even bother with cheating on their wives. Because of this I have come up with a technique that sports stars can use in order to assure that they can go about their affairs without a trouble in the world;
What you want to do is get your girl (easy enough, you’re rich and famous – they flock to you like flies to shit). Take her to your room. Set up a video camera (wait, although this confirms evidence of what happened it won’t incriminate you). Do your business. But make sure you capture on film the girl knelt in front of you, while you over her masturbating, as you look down on her get her to spout anti-Semitic bile as you proceed to slap her with your cock, calling her a “bad girl”, repeatedly. You then take the tape and lock it away in a safety deposit box and threaten the girl that if a single word is ever uttered about that night you spent together, that tape will makes its way to her parent’s house. Yet if she still goes to the newspapers you produce the videotape and explain that you have been conducting an experiment in which you are attempting to discover if your penis can cure racism.
It’s that simple.
In a world where everyone should be treated equal, isn’t it time that we labelled these ‘kiss and tell girls’ what they really are; prostitutes. Isn’t prostitution illegal in this country? Shouldn’t these women be held up in court? At the end of the day, they are having sex for money. Yet, the sport stars aren’t the one paying the bill, it’s the tabloids. Should we question the tabloids hold over these women? This celebrity driven society, in which newspapers are able to put forward an ideology in which it’s acceptable for females to sleep with married men, as a way to sell a story to further line the pockets of newspaper owners, no matter how many lives are ruined in the aftermath. For us readers it’s something to look at and gossip about for a couple of minutes, for the ones involved it never ends, but next week we’re reading about the next footballer that’s been fucking around, literally. Yet, what about last weeks headliner? That’s old news to us now, fuck him and his failed marriage, bring on the next two-timing cunt and hoe-bag that’d lick a homeless man’s nuts for a couple of copper coins, parade them on the front page and let us ogle at their disgraceful actions, then fuck them off and bring us someone else. Our shitty relationships seem imperial to theirs and they’re rich. Hooray for us.
Friday, 16 April 2010
The Most Wasted I Ever Got #4 Misadventures in Liverpool
It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to add an other chapter to my “The Most Wasted I Ever Got” series seeing as my tolerance for alcohol has sky-rocketed since I fell in love with Southern Comfort, but this following story is without a shadow of a doubt one (if not the) most wasted I ever got.
The story begins in Derby, were me and my heavily bearded companion Frenchie were picked up by Dave, Joe and Dave’s girlfriend Becky to make the long drive to Liverpool. This drive should have acted as a type of indignation of what the night was going to hold. As I sat cramped up in the middle of the back seat, my body twisted and contorted as if I was the victim of some new terrible torture technique I noticed the closer we got to Liverpool the heavier the rain became. It wasn’t looking good to start with.
Upon arriving at Liverpool, we emptied the car and made our way up the flight of stairs to Dave’s flat to drop of our belongings and then we went to the local Bargain Booze to get a couple of drinks before ending down town. Now I’ve never entered an off-licence in which all of the alcohol is locked behind a wall of glass before, it’s quite strange. You are unable to browse properly, instead you press your noise up against the glass squinting at the price of beer to see which is the best bargain then you make your way to the counter, ask the gentleman (situated at the counter) to fetch your order then you pay. Not the simplest ways of doing things, but this is Liverpool and I suppose crime is rife, especially when intoxicants are involved. Once me and Frenchie received our beer we waited outside and bumped into a friendly local. Now, I’m not saying this guy was on crack, he could have easily been on smack, meth or phet’ too. This charming man gave us a little advice; if you don’t want to get hit in the face with a firework put your hood up! Which isn’t as crazy as it sounds, it was around Bonfire night, so there were fireworks going off, yet at the same time, I highly doubt simply putting your hood up make you impervious to low explosive pyrotechnics towards the face. We retreated to Dave’s to drink a few beers and get ready.
After a couple of semi-warm beers, we made our way into town. Now, we’re not the most decisive collection of people in the world so plenty of time was spent standing in the street deciding which way to go. Finally we left it up to flipping a coin, always a good idea. As the night went on the booze began to flow.
One of my last memories was around midnight when I went to the cash machine, as I got paid just after midnight. I took out £100 and headed back to the bar, buying a round of shots. This is where, at least for me, the night gets a little fuzzy, to say the least. As I sit here trying to grapple with the actions that took place, it’s as if it never really happened, a dream that I half remember, anyway I’ll stop dicking around and get to the points I can remember.
I remember a lot of walking around the city with my jeans around my ankles. I remember plenty of being propped up against a wall, a cigarette forced in my mouth and being told; “Act sober, until we get in.” That single phrase has been uttered to me more times than any other. I assume as the undertaker is stuffing my corpse into the casket, he’ll lean over and whisper; “Just act sober, until I get you in”. I also remember redesigning Liverpudlian pavements with larger, SoCo, Pepsi and bile.
One thing of the night I definitely remember is falling over in a pub square-thingy, for some reason the name of the bar escapes me, I think it was Joe’s or something along those lines. Anyway, I went down like a sack of shit, in front of bouncers and taking a couple of drinks from the table next to me with me along the way to the floor. As my long-time friends pointed and laughed, I was aided up by a random Scouser. Of course my initial reaction wash to pat my pockets and make sure my wallet and BlackBerry were still there, which they were, clearly this friendly stranger was a rare breed of Scouser, either that or there’s not as many criminals in Liverpool as I suspect, guess we’ll never truly know. That’s my last clear memory of the night.
Although, I found this out later, on the way home we passed a garage. I in my drunken state decided to begin throwing my shoe at the massive sign in an attempt to hit the Tyre mascot on top of the sign. Joe managed to capture this on his camera phone (along with videos of me throwing up and walking around with my jeans around my ankles). The video’s quite good; it simply ends with me saying; “Fuck this shit, let’s go home!” or something to that effect.
When we got back to Dave’s we began drinking the rest of the beer we’d purchased earlier and played on the Wii. I attempted to put all my concentration into Wii Bowling, but alas I wasn’t good enough to win, yet at this point in time standing was becoming a bit of a task.
I woke up the next morning to Becky returning from Uni asking why there was blood on the door leading to their flat and blood along the walls. I looked at my hand and discovered a huge gash on it; I hadn’t had a gash that big on my hand since I fisted that prostitute. I had also broken my watch. Plus I had a fucking terrible hangover. Me and Frenchie later on made our way to the train station to make our way home, on the ride we decided to go out again that night; “2 nights, 2 cities” we thought, proof that you can’t keep a good alcoholic down.
The story begins in Derby, were me and my heavily bearded companion Frenchie were picked up by Dave, Joe and Dave’s girlfriend Becky to make the long drive to Liverpool. This drive should have acted as a type of indignation of what the night was going to hold. As I sat cramped up in the middle of the back seat, my body twisted and contorted as if I was the victim of some new terrible torture technique I noticed the closer we got to Liverpool the heavier the rain became. It wasn’t looking good to start with.
Upon arriving at Liverpool, we emptied the car and made our way up the flight of stairs to Dave’s flat to drop of our belongings and then we went to the local Bargain Booze to get a couple of drinks before ending down town. Now I’ve never entered an off-licence in which all of the alcohol is locked behind a wall of glass before, it’s quite strange. You are unable to browse properly, instead you press your noise up against the glass squinting at the price of beer to see which is the best bargain then you make your way to the counter, ask the gentleman (situated at the counter) to fetch your order then you pay. Not the simplest ways of doing things, but this is Liverpool and I suppose crime is rife, especially when intoxicants are involved. Once me and Frenchie received our beer we waited outside and bumped into a friendly local. Now, I’m not saying this guy was on crack, he could have easily been on smack, meth or phet’ too. This charming man gave us a little advice; if you don’t want to get hit in the face with a firework put your hood up! Which isn’t as crazy as it sounds, it was around Bonfire night, so there were fireworks going off, yet at the same time, I highly doubt simply putting your hood up make you impervious to low explosive pyrotechnics towards the face. We retreated to Dave’s to drink a few beers and get ready.
After a couple of semi-warm beers, we made our way into town. Now, we’re not the most decisive collection of people in the world so plenty of time was spent standing in the street deciding which way to go. Finally we left it up to flipping a coin, always a good idea. As the night went on the booze began to flow.
One of my last memories was around midnight when I went to the cash machine, as I got paid just after midnight. I took out £100 and headed back to the bar, buying a round of shots. This is where, at least for me, the night gets a little fuzzy, to say the least. As I sit here trying to grapple with the actions that took place, it’s as if it never really happened, a dream that I half remember, anyway I’ll stop dicking around and get to the points I can remember.
I remember a lot of walking around the city with my jeans around my ankles. I remember plenty of being propped up against a wall, a cigarette forced in my mouth and being told; “Act sober, until we get in.” That single phrase has been uttered to me more times than any other. I assume as the undertaker is stuffing my corpse into the casket, he’ll lean over and whisper; “Just act sober, until I get you in”. I also remember redesigning Liverpudlian pavements with larger, SoCo, Pepsi and bile.
One thing of the night I definitely remember is falling over in a pub square-thingy, for some reason the name of the bar escapes me, I think it was Joe’s or something along those lines. Anyway, I went down like a sack of shit, in front of bouncers and taking a couple of drinks from the table next to me with me along the way to the floor. As my long-time friends pointed and laughed, I was aided up by a random Scouser. Of course my initial reaction wash to pat my pockets and make sure my wallet and BlackBerry were still there, which they were, clearly this friendly stranger was a rare breed of Scouser, either that or there’s not as many criminals in Liverpool as I suspect, guess we’ll never truly know. That’s my last clear memory of the night.
Although, I found this out later, on the way home we passed a garage. I in my drunken state decided to begin throwing my shoe at the massive sign in an attempt to hit the Tyre mascot on top of the sign. Joe managed to capture this on his camera phone (along with videos of me throwing up and walking around with my jeans around my ankles). The video’s quite good; it simply ends with me saying; “Fuck this shit, let’s go home!” or something to that effect.
When we got back to Dave’s we began drinking the rest of the beer we’d purchased earlier and played on the Wii. I attempted to put all my concentration into Wii Bowling, but alas I wasn’t good enough to win, yet at this point in time standing was becoming a bit of a task.
I woke up the next morning to Becky returning from Uni asking why there was blood on the door leading to their flat and blood along the walls. I looked at my hand and discovered a huge gash on it; I hadn’t had a gash that big on my hand since I fisted that prostitute. I had also broken my watch. Plus I had a fucking terrible hangover. Me and Frenchie later on made our way to the train station to make our way home, on the ride we decided to go out again that night; “2 nights, 2 cities” we thought, proof that you can’t keep a good alcoholic down.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Reefer Sadness
Let me start out by saying I like marijuana, after a long, hard day there’s nothing better than getting home rolling yourself a nice joint, putting your feet up and blazing some weed. Although it’s a tricky subject, as we all know, when I do this I’m breaking the law, seeing as marijuana is illegal. I know this and I fully understand, but let’s be honest it’s one of those ‘flexible’ laws, much like speeding. Almost everyone that drives speeds. Although on the flip side, nobody’s life is put at risk when I consume marijuana. So smoking weed is much less serious than speeding. Maybe it’s more like littering, although the environment isn’t put at risk when I get high... Well smoking weed is against the law, and let’s face it, if you’re going to break a law you may as well break this one, seeing as it harms nobody else or the environment.
Basically, smoking weed is good fun. I would also like to point out I’m not a stoner. Not anymore at least. I’m passed that. Yes, there was a time in which all I would do is smoke weed, on a daily basis, but it left me unmotivated and lazy; I couldn’t be bothered to do anything like; housework, University work, overtime at work (I always turned up for my usual shifts though, seeing as weed doesn’t pay for itself) or write my brilliant Blogs. It then dawned on me that I had become a stereotypical stoner. A pot-head. So I decided to chill out with my marijuana consumption, because the true fact is that people that truly love weed hate stoners.
“How can someone that loves weed hate stoners?”
The fact is that one day everyone that smokes cannabis hopes that it will either become legal or decriminalized; stoners want that too, of course. The problem arises when we look at the people that smoke weed. The depiction of cannabis consumers never falls into the lines of what I am; a casual smoker that works, studies and has an active social life, instead we see the zombie-like stoners, glued to their X-Box 360s, surrounded by a mess of dirty clothes and dirty dishes encrusted with old food that is no longer distinguishable. It looks as if a bomb has gone off in their bedroom.
These people do nothing for the cause. Stoners are to the decriminalization/legalisation cause as what a scantily clad feminist was to the equal rights for women movement; an oxymoron. Even some of the most famous “stoners” of all times aren’t actually “stoners”, in my opinion, but people that love weed. For example, let’s look at Tommy Chong. For those without knowledge of Tommy Chong, I will explain that he is part of a comedy duo named Cheech & Chong. Now Cheech & Chong made many classic stoner films together, the first being Up In Smoke (1978). Now these were some of the first films that depicted marijuana users in a new light, they were no longer dope fiends such as the characters in early exploitation films such as Reefer Madness (1937) or Assassin of Youth (1936), no, by now weed smokers were lovable idiots and no harm to society. They no longer went mental from a couple of puffs or tried to rape innocent white middle-class women, they were just a couple of dudes that liked to get high. The fact is if Tommy Chong was a real stoner these excellent movies would have never been made, instead, Chong would’ve simply been at home talking about making them, because that’s what stoners do; talk about doing things. They rarely accomplish anything, other than maybe setting a new high score on [add recent videogame for topical effect].
So while the rest of the world gets on with their business, stoners stay at home talking about maybe “nippin’ to the corner shop later”. This is why stoners are the anchor to the boat of legalisation. If they took their fucking heads out of the self-produced cannabis clouds for two minutes, looked in a mirror and realised that they’re doing nothing of worth; in life and for the cause, things would get better.
Basically, smoking weed is good fun. I would also like to point out I’m not a stoner. Not anymore at least. I’m passed that. Yes, there was a time in which all I would do is smoke weed, on a daily basis, but it left me unmotivated and lazy; I couldn’t be bothered to do anything like; housework, University work, overtime at work (I always turned up for my usual shifts though, seeing as weed doesn’t pay for itself) or write my brilliant Blogs. It then dawned on me that I had become a stereotypical stoner. A pot-head. So I decided to chill out with my marijuana consumption, because the true fact is that people that truly love weed hate stoners.
“How can someone that loves weed hate stoners?”
The fact is that one day everyone that smokes cannabis hopes that it will either become legal or decriminalized; stoners want that too, of course. The problem arises when we look at the people that smoke weed. The depiction of cannabis consumers never falls into the lines of what I am; a casual smoker that works, studies and has an active social life, instead we see the zombie-like stoners, glued to their X-Box 360s, surrounded by a mess of dirty clothes and dirty dishes encrusted with old food that is no longer distinguishable. It looks as if a bomb has gone off in their bedroom.
These people do nothing for the cause. Stoners are to the decriminalization/legalisation cause as what a scantily clad feminist was to the equal rights for women movement; an oxymoron. Even some of the most famous “stoners” of all times aren’t actually “stoners”, in my opinion, but people that love weed. For example, let’s look at Tommy Chong. For those without knowledge of Tommy Chong, I will explain that he is part of a comedy duo named Cheech & Chong. Now Cheech & Chong made many classic stoner films together, the first being Up In Smoke (1978). Now these were some of the first films that depicted marijuana users in a new light, they were no longer dope fiends such as the characters in early exploitation films such as Reefer Madness (1937) or Assassin of Youth (1936), no, by now weed smokers were lovable idiots and no harm to society. They no longer went mental from a couple of puffs or tried to rape innocent white middle-class women, they were just a couple of dudes that liked to get high. The fact is if Tommy Chong was a real stoner these excellent movies would have never been made, instead, Chong would’ve simply been at home talking about making them, because that’s what stoners do; talk about doing things. They rarely accomplish anything, other than maybe setting a new high score on [add recent videogame for topical effect].
So while the rest of the world gets on with their business, stoners stay at home talking about maybe “nippin’ to the corner shop later”. This is why stoners are the anchor to the boat of legalisation. If they took their fucking heads out of the self-produced cannabis clouds for two minutes, looked in a mirror and realised that they’re doing nothing of worth; in life and for the cause, things would get better.
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