Thinking about the Thoughts of a Xenophobic Man

I was at work not so long ago* and I served an older gentleman and we had a little chat. The conversation began with a little discussion about the age gap between us, I can't remember exactly how it went, I've got high since then, but basically he was saying that he had more life experience than me, although I doubt he's ever been on a two hour bus journey with the worst come down ever. It was a light-hearted discussion. I decided to ask him; “So, seeing as you have so much experience, do you have any tips for me?” to which he responded; “You need to move aboard, there's too many bloody foreigners here nowadays.”

This, of course, had me taken back. I'm all for foreigners, I love their food, their attitude and their female sexual organs. It seemed that this gentleman was so nice up until the point he uttered that xenophobic suggestion. I'd have never had taken him down for a man with a predigest against others because of their nationalities, although I suppose the fact he was buying a Daily Mail should have been a clue, he also had “NF” tattooed on his forehead and seeing as he was wearing a Derby FC shirt I'm assuming it didn't stand for Nottingham Forest or he'd be ConDem Government [; that's now shorthand for “holding two conflicting ideologies that will never possibly work together” - mmm satire] – so that should have been a bigger clue.

I kind of just stared at him as he walked away, slightly gob-smacked over what I'd just heard, but then I began to think about what it was that he had said and how it had made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I understand that some individuals do not like the fact that people from other countries move to England and there's probably nothing I can do to change their minds. But if you're not too keen on foreigners and you think they may be hindering society in Britain, why would you suggest to someone that they should move aboard. I'm no immigration expert but I would go as far as saying that 100% of immigrants that come to this country are in fact from aboard.

This man's argument for getting out of England because there's too many foreigners is only going to land me in a situation where there's more foreigners, that is so illogical and ridiculous it boggles the mind to a point in which my brain could liquidise and slowly ooze out of my ears. At which point my zombiefied shell of a body would be forced to mop up the brain goop - as I was at work, remember?

I sincerely hope that the man took his own advice. I would have loved to have been around when he get on the plane at “aboard”, when he stepped off to start his new life only to realise that he was surrounded by foreigners!

One thing that has always made me wonder about Nationalist is how do they feel about people emigrating from the country they're so Nationalist about? For example if the BNP held power in Britain [they never will, this is just one of those really, really, extremely unlikely, comedy situations] would they stop British people emigrating to the likes of Australia? Surely if you're a Nationalist you share views with other Nationalist the world over, you'd want to make sure their country was “pure”, so you wouldn't want to aid foreigners [in this case; British people] from arriving on their shores. If you are a Nationalist/Fascist/Racist could you please get back to me on this?

*Notice this is the second recent Blog about work, I have no life.

Living in the Party House

Lots of people would love to live in a house that was notorious for its exploits. Where random parties are the norm, where the door is constantly open for anyone looking for a good time to enter and there's always a sofa, mattress or a floor to sleep on. It sounds amazing and it probably is, if you're lucky enough to have money and no responsibilities. But, sadly the majority of us have jobs and other such activities that drain our time, energy and lives away.

Since I left home I've spent all my time in flats [of halls of residence] or houses that have been quite popular – with guests coming and going like I ran a fucking B&B. This has been fun, but there's only so long I can live like this, I'm rapidly ageing, my life is passing me by so fast it's as if I'm watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in rewind – but really, really fast*. Aspects of that non-stop-party life are no longer fun, they're simply a nagging nuisance that infuriate me to such an extent I'm prepared to go on a murderous rampage... or write a Blog [no points for guessing which I did].

When the majority of your life has been spent listening to music switched up to full volume, you've probably suffered irreversible damage to your hearing, unlucky! I said UNLUCKY (that joke doesn't really work, as you're reading and not actually hearing me say this – but it's staying in). My house-mate’s have spent the majority of their lives listening to music as loudly as their speakers were able to tolerate before exploding and releasing wires, noise and whatever else speakers are made from into their faces. This leaves me in an awkward position, as their music is either a) keeping me awake at night or b) waking me up in a morning. What you must understand about my house is that it's a house that never sleeps. It's like a mini New York – minus the yellow cabs, ethnic diversity and horrid New Yorkers. The problem with living with friends is that you don't want to piss them off with your moaning, because at the end of the day, they are your friends. You have to remind yourself this over and over again, while at the same time putting together a plot in which you storm into their room and turn their music system into a pile of rubble with the aid of a sledgehammer and perhaps a wild bear. Plus you think; “Well they probably wouldn't complain if it was me playing loud music.” which is likely to be true, but it just so happens that you possess an ounce of decency to NOT play your fucking music as LOUD as FUCK at ALL TIMES of the NIGHT and DAY. So you're thrown into a dilemma; pretend like all is fine, keep your friends but go without sleep for the rest of your life or piss off your mates by telling them what you think to only have them ignore you and your requests for quieter music and go without sleep for the rest of your life! What to choose?!

Another annoying aspect of a party house is party people. A large percentage of party people will come and go, but there is that small amount that stay and crash. This of course leads to your living room resembling a refugee camp. Too many times have I had to walk around and over the passed out corpses of people I don't know, like I'm in a minefield, attempting to make it to the kitchen for my morning cup of tea. To only do the same thing on the way back, this time with the added obstacle of a hot drink in my grasp. I have been tempted to 'accidentally spill' some of my drink, but why waste good tea on scum? It's as if you're a prisoner in your own home, you can't go about your business with randomers clogging up the house, attempting to make conversation or heavens forbid get some free food out of you. I'm joking of course, they don't ask for free food on most occasions they've just helped themselves. True fucking story – people I don't know or haven't invited to my house have ate my food and even drank my beer! These people in turn leave discarded takeaway packaging, used glasses and cups, that fester until someone [me, always; me] finally gives in and washes them.

When randomers aren't hoarding every nook and crevice of the household to sleep in, the people that live here are hoarding every plate, bowl, cup and piece of cutlery like fucking brain-dead pirates that never got a chance to steal anything of worth. I'm a kleptomaniac, I collect a wide range of different things. One of which is mugs/cups featuring the cast of The Simpsons, I have loads in different shapes and sizes. I haven't seen some for months. I don't know the exact number, but with the majority in front of me, I can tell which ones are missing. This worries me. This collection is not simply me wasting my time and money on something stupid, but it's also the culmination of some of my loved ones buying (and in one case; stealing) these cups for me. They hold sentimental value. For me, using my cup and keeping it locked in your room forever, is like kidnapping a mother's [favourite] child!

My diet doesn't consist of what food I have in my cupboard, but rather of what it's possible to eat my meal out of or off of. Soup is out of the question as bowls are scarce. Sometimes I sit and wonder what's more likely; a bowl in the cupboard or a drunk slut coming back to the house that doesn't shout her fucking head off at 3.00am while stood outside my bedroom door? Either would be a Godsend – to the point that if I wasn't awoken by a drunken girl one night and I had a good nights sleep, not awoken by anyone's music or the fucking brain shaking of someone's bass-levels turned up to uncomprehendingly high volumes and I woke up of my own accord, to go downstairs; where no bodies of a bunch on nobodies were scattered across my living room floor – so I was able to get straight into the kitchen, then in the kitchen I opened a cupboard to discover a [well washed and now dry] bowl that I could use for my cereal I would be forced to convert from Atheism to Christianity … as that would be PROOF of a Deity. Of course that would never happen and even if against all the odds it did, there still wouldn't be a fucking spoon to eat the cereals with.

All the fun of the Party House!


* That film is so terrible, the way I described is the only way to watch it.

Sketch: Is it not; Innit?

Hello reader, this month; February, you’ll see little to no activity on this Blog. This is because I’ll be attempting to use all my spare time in writing sketches and one-liners in an attempt to have them accepted by BBC Radio Sketch Show; Newsjack.

This sadly means that my rants and random lists will be put on hold for the time being, as everything I have yet to post is deemed “too personal” and will be likely to offend friends and loved ones.

So, here’s a sketch I wrote:

Is it not; Innit

Visit; Ben Broughton’s Sketches for more half-arsed sketches.