If you head over to my Why I Hate ... Drum & Bass post, you'll find a funny little rant, if you head to comments section you'll find some mu'fuckahs hating on my craft, but you'll also find me hating on some mu'fuckahs.
If you're too lazy to click a link, just look below [their comments are in italics];
What’s the fucking deal with Drum & Bass heads? Do you have to have your sense of humour surgically removed to like that genre of music?
OK, I don’t like Drum & Bass, but I don’t hate it you fucking idiots, it’s all been exaggerated for comical effect!
“Wow this type of childlike complaining is whats gonna get u no where in life” … is it? And how far in life is commenting on blogs that you don’t fully understand because your miniscule intelligence can’t properly gauge what the fuck it’s about, getting you? Your childlike spelling and use of grammar isn’t going to get you any further than me, dickface … or should I say; u no use words gud, dkhed! So go and put on some Drum & Bass and drop a pill, nah, fuck that double drop … oh wait, you’re no sissy, quadruple drop … fuck that, just keep shovelling pills down your throat and dust up your nose until your convulsing cadaver twitches in time to the beat, you cunt!
“U sad sad person. Go listen to ur.classical shit lol” … Firstly, structure a fucking sentence correctly! Or maybe you can’t because all those heavy bass beats have knocked out that primary school education you had out of your head! Clearly I’m missing the mark with you and this blog, because if you’re willing to “lol” at your own; “Go listen to your classical shit” my comical rants are too advanced for a mind like yours… because if “Go listen to your classical shit” actually made you laugh out loud, I can’t compete with such wisely crafted, humorous writing like that! I love what choice of music you do think I listen to too; classical. Do you even understand how fucking ridiculous you sound? You’re basically saying; “Go and listen to that genre of music that’s withstood the test of time so well and is so brilliant people are still listening to it this day, in fact it’s so important, it’s be given the title of; classical, because it’s classic!” You fucking moron.
Fuck you both; by commenting on this blog you’ve done more damage to the genre you hold so dearly to your drug-abused-withered hearts by exposing the fact that D&B heads look like fucking imbeciles that can’t take a joke. Peace.
Sunday 30 December 2012
The Blogging Dead
Like quite a few people these days I have an overactive fixation with the dead [in a non-necrophilia way] and the inevitable zombie apocalypse. But I’m more than just some Walking Dead geek-boy, I’m actually looking forward to the day that the dead roam the streets feasting on the living.
Before we get into it, let me just clarify that when I’m speaking on zombies, I’m actively talking about the classic zombie; Dawn of the Dead/The Walking Dead type; slow moving hordes, not the 28 Days Later/I Am Legend; hordes of cannibalistic Usain Bolt’s charging at you. In my mind, the main aspect of zombies is that on paper they are slow, stupid, primitive beings, easy to escape from/kill individually, but the scary threat is eventually they will catch up with you, they’re a bit like killer bees in that aspect; easy to take out one but a whole load of them is trouble, obviously bees just sting, the undead devour on your innards [keep that in mind]. The super fast zombies are too much, it’s uncalled for! When the apocalypse begins and if it’s the sprinting undead I’m dealing with, I’d rather just kill myself than have to spend my life dodging those bastards because you don’t stand a chance.
Obviously, I’ve educated myself on telltale signs of the apocalypse, so I know when to act. [I’m not going to point out the signs; it’s up to you to teach yourself, it’s the zombie apocalypse people!! No time for humane gestures, that shit’s straight out the window, if I taught you everything I knew, there’d be less zombie bait around]. Now, I’m not one of those idiots that says shit like; “Wouldn’t it be cool if zombies did happen, I’d be right on the streets smashing skulls open with a baseball bat”, because firstly there’s no ‘ifs’, it will happen and also, trying to play the hero like that turns you from a buff buffoon into a buffet. That’s the first reason I’m looking forward to ‘the event’, it’s really going to separate those that act on emotions or ill thought out plots with those of us that take in our surroundings and formulate plans [that's plans, plural; Plan A-Z in case some shit you didn’t expect goes down].
When the inevitable shit hits the fan, things are going to be difficult for us British. In films there’s a whole heap of weapons used against zombies, of course the primary weapon is usually a firearm [that’s a gun, not a body part set alight to strike zombies in the face]. Now, guns aren’t readily available in the UK which leads to less psychopaths shooting up schools, but makes defending ourselves from the undead more problematic. So we have to be constantly vigilant as to what items around us could be used as weapons. For example, right now I’m sat at my PC desk [the usual place I sit at to write], if a zombie was to just shuffle into my bedroom this instant [which is impossible, my house is extremely secure from zombies and home invaders and bailiffs, but this is just a hypothetical situation], what do I have to use as a weapon? Nothing you may think, but you’d be wrong, have a quick look around the room and there are plenty of items that could be used for putting down a ‘walker’; chin-up bar [a bar you fix to the walls to do chin-ups/pull-ups]; it’s not set up as I have plenty of upper body strength, plus it’s heavy and long enough for me not to get too close to the being, nine empty bottles of Southern Comfort plus three empty bottles of wine [I drink too much, enough said]; handy for throwing at the zombies head and keeping my distance, I’m not the best at throwing stuff but I have twelve attempts, a massive plank of wood from my dismantled bed; again heavy and I get to keep my distance. Now, if none of those worked, I’d be in a bit of a predicament and I’d have to opt for closer combat to make sure I didn’t end up as a tasty human hors d’oeuvre. Luckily for me I have a screwdriver on my desk; perfect for lodging into a zombies brain, a wine glass [I’ve already said; enough said on this matter]; smash it, yet another item to be plunged into the face, make shift hooks for coats/jackets; easily detachable from my wardrobe door into a zombie’s skull. But if none of those worked, I’d easily escape the zombie’s grasp and run out of my room like a coward [my bedroom is spacious, I could dodge two zombies in here, don’t try to dodge a zombie in a box room, you’re just asking for trouble]. Now for a little exercise, take in your surroundings and see what’s available to you to use if you were met by a zombie right this minute.
I hope you didn’t get hypothetically eaten!
Hopefully, with the little insights I’ve shared, I’ve proven I’d last a while into the apocalypse, which is the place I want to be. After the initial break out, the confusion, the first massive wave of deaths, the fall of governments, emergency services and so forth is when it gets good. This is the world I really romanticise; the lawlessness of survival, because that’s all life becomes; survival, how beautifully Darwinian. The entire strains of society and modern day life have broken down; no religion, no job, no bills, no politics, no laws, no money, there’s practically nothing apart from you and them. Sometimes it seems like we just drift through life not really living it the way we should, be once the apocalypse begins everyday will be wonderful; “Wow, didn’t get eaten yesterday, hope today brings more of the same”. 99% of our troubles and fears would be based around one giant feature; zombies.
Wouldn’t life just seem so much easier?
Apart from the threat of being devoured alive.
Before we get into it, let me just clarify that when I’m speaking on zombies, I’m actively talking about the classic zombie; Dawn of the Dead/The Walking Dead type; slow moving hordes, not the 28 Days Later/I Am Legend; hordes of cannibalistic Usain Bolt’s charging at you. In my mind, the main aspect of zombies is that on paper they are slow, stupid, primitive beings, easy to escape from/kill individually, but the scary threat is eventually they will catch up with you, they’re a bit like killer bees in that aspect; easy to take out one but a whole load of them is trouble, obviously bees just sting, the undead devour on your innards [keep that in mind]. The super fast zombies are too much, it’s uncalled for! When the apocalypse begins and if it’s the sprinting undead I’m dealing with, I’d rather just kill myself than have to spend my life dodging those bastards because you don’t stand a chance.
Obviously, I’ve educated myself on telltale signs of the apocalypse, so I know when to act. [I’m not going to point out the signs; it’s up to you to teach yourself, it’s the zombie apocalypse people!! No time for humane gestures, that shit’s straight out the window, if I taught you everything I knew, there’d be less zombie bait around]. Now, I’m not one of those idiots that says shit like; “Wouldn’t it be cool if zombies did happen, I’d be right on the streets smashing skulls open with a baseball bat”, because firstly there’s no ‘ifs’, it will happen and also, trying to play the hero like that turns you from a buff buffoon into a buffet. That’s the first reason I’m looking forward to ‘the event’, it’s really going to separate those that act on emotions or ill thought out plots with those of us that take in our surroundings and formulate plans [that's plans, plural; Plan A-Z in case some shit you didn’t expect goes down].
When the inevitable shit hits the fan, things are going to be difficult for us British. In films there’s a whole heap of weapons used against zombies, of course the primary weapon is usually a firearm [that’s a gun, not a body part set alight to strike zombies in the face]. Now, guns aren’t readily available in the UK which leads to less psychopaths shooting up schools, but makes defending ourselves from the undead more problematic. So we have to be constantly vigilant as to what items around us could be used as weapons. For example, right now I’m sat at my PC desk [the usual place I sit at to write], if a zombie was to just shuffle into my bedroom this instant [which is impossible, my house is extremely secure from zombies and home invaders and bailiffs, but this is just a hypothetical situation], what do I have to use as a weapon? Nothing you may think, but you’d be wrong, have a quick look around the room and there are plenty of items that could be used for putting down a ‘walker’; chin-up bar [a bar you fix to the walls to do chin-ups/pull-ups]; it’s not set up as I have plenty of upper body strength, plus it’s heavy and long enough for me not to get too close to the being, nine empty bottles of Southern Comfort plus three empty bottles of wine [I drink too much, enough said]; handy for throwing at the zombies head and keeping my distance, I’m not the best at throwing stuff but I have twelve attempts, a massive plank of wood from my dismantled bed; again heavy and I get to keep my distance. Now, if none of those worked, I’d be in a bit of a predicament and I’d have to opt for closer combat to make sure I didn’t end up as a tasty human hors d’oeuvre. Luckily for me I have a screwdriver on my desk; perfect for lodging into a zombies brain, a wine glass [I’ve already said; enough said on this matter]; smash it, yet another item to be plunged into the face, make shift hooks for coats/jackets; easily detachable from my wardrobe door into a zombie’s skull. But if none of those worked, I’d easily escape the zombie’s grasp and run out of my room like a coward [my bedroom is spacious, I could dodge two zombies in here, don’t try to dodge a zombie in a box room, you’re just asking for trouble]. Now for a little exercise, take in your surroundings and see what’s available to you to use if you were met by a zombie right this minute.
I hope you didn’t get hypothetically eaten!
Hopefully, with the little insights I’ve shared, I’ve proven I’d last a while into the apocalypse, which is the place I want to be. After the initial break out, the confusion, the first massive wave of deaths, the fall of governments, emergency services and so forth is when it gets good. This is the world I really romanticise; the lawlessness of survival, because that’s all life becomes; survival, how beautifully Darwinian. The entire strains of society and modern day life have broken down; no religion, no job, no bills, no politics, no laws, no money, there’s practically nothing apart from you and them. Sometimes it seems like we just drift through life not really living it the way we should, be once the apocalypse begins everyday will be wonderful; “Wow, didn’t get eaten yesterday, hope today brings more of the same”. 99% of our troubles and fears would be based around one giant feature; zombies.
Wouldn’t life just seem so much easier?
Apart from the threat of being devoured alive.
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Ben's Battle for a Bigger Blue Bin
This following is my written submission to Derby City Council applying for a bigger blue [recycling] bin.
Hello,
I currently live in a terraced house that has been converted into two flats. I live upstairs with my flatmate while a girl/woman/female occupies the flat below. The problem is that we’re basically two different households producing too much waste to fit our bins.
You see, the major problem is down to the fact that me and my flatmate/spiritual adviser/life-partner drink large quantise of alcohol; some say it’s a stigma from our university days, I personally think we’re unwilling to accept reality and do whatever we can to avoid it. We also have girlfriends and when they come over we have to ply them with enough alcohol to find us sexually attractive. The girl downstairs also likes the occasional two-day drinking binge too, taking all this into account you can begin to paint a mental picture of how much recyclable waste we are creating!
If you can’t, I’ll tell you; it’s loads. Right this instant [Wednesday 19th Sept] our blue bin is maxed out and won’t be emptied until Tuesday [25th Sept] and I have a massive bag of bottles and cans in my kitchen. This is our catch 22, although in the eyes of most we’d simply be lazy, beer drinking weirdoes, we do quite like doing our part for the environment but when our blue bin is full where should we put our recycling? In the black bin? No, of course not, that then goes about creating a situation in which the black bin is constantly full and we have black bin bags filled with rubbish all over our flat. I understand that there are recycling centres in this wonderful city we inhabit but without a car I’m unable to reach them and while I do care for the environment I don’t want to be that guy that gets on the bus with massive bags of recycling!
The main tactic I’ve been employing recently to combat this problem is hoisting myself in the bin and stomping down tin cans and glass bottles in the hope of creating more room for the same. Yet when I attempted this last week I banged my knee on the brick wall and it really, really, really hurt. I had to come inside instantly and have a little lie down as I thought I was going to throw up.
All of this fighting a loosing battle against the amount of waste we produce and physical injuries on myself has made to turn to you for help in the matter.
Hello,
I currently live in a terraced house that has been converted into two flats. I live upstairs with my flatmate while a girl/woman/female occupies the flat below. The problem is that we’re basically two different households producing too much waste to fit our bins.
You see, the major problem is down to the fact that me and my flatmate/spiritual adviser/life-partner drink large quantise of alcohol; some say it’s a stigma from our university days, I personally think we’re unwilling to accept reality and do whatever we can to avoid it. We also have girlfriends and when they come over we have to ply them with enough alcohol to find us sexually attractive. The girl downstairs also likes the occasional two-day drinking binge too, taking all this into account you can begin to paint a mental picture of how much recyclable waste we are creating!
If you can’t, I’ll tell you; it’s loads. Right this instant [Wednesday 19th Sept] our blue bin is maxed out and won’t be emptied until Tuesday [25th Sept] and I have a massive bag of bottles and cans in my kitchen. This is our catch 22, although in the eyes of most we’d simply be lazy, beer drinking weirdoes, we do quite like doing our part for the environment but when our blue bin is full where should we put our recycling? In the black bin? No, of course not, that then goes about creating a situation in which the black bin is constantly full and we have black bin bags filled with rubbish all over our flat. I understand that there are recycling centres in this wonderful city we inhabit but without a car I’m unable to reach them and while I do care for the environment I don’t want to be that guy that gets on the bus with massive bags of recycling!
The main tactic I’ve been employing recently to combat this problem is hoisting myself in the bin and stomping down tin cans and glass bottles in the hope of creating more room for the same. Yet when I attempted this last week I banged my knee on the brick wall and it really, really, really hurt. I had to come inside instantly and have a little lie down as I thought I was going to throw up.
All of this fighting a loosing battle against the amount of waste we produce and physical injuries on myself has made to turn to you for help in the matter.
Monday 10 September 2012
The Fuck Buddy Complex
After the dust had settled on my previous relationship and my brain was again able to finally form actual real thoughts instead of replaying an endless loop of “our best bits” like a lazy sitcom episode, my initial thought was; “well that’s my sex life over with… for the time being”.
I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].
You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.
When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!”
You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!
Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.
The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.
That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.
But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.
I knew I wouldn’t be jumping straight back on the horse [probably could have picked a better metaphor for sex to be honest], but then at the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long. You may see that as being a little egotistical, but I have a tried and tested method; get into a relationship, get out of a relationship, have sex, get into a different relationship… I’m not trying to claim I invented this method, but it’s always gone this way for me. I’ve never really had a long ‘draught’ – apart from the time I lost my virginity, it took me another two years to have sex again… but I’d be practicing over those two years [you think adolescent males pick on each other for being virgins, try and be the one in the group that had sex then didn’t for two fucking years]. Since then, the flow of gash has never subsided for too long. I’m not trying to portray myself as some sort of player, when comparing figures [of women desperate enough to sleep with us] with numerous friends, I’m some where in the middle, between virgin and man-whore, which I’m more than content with [so content in fact it’s the first sentence on my covering letter I supply with my C.V.].
You see, the thing is I’ve been lucky enough to secure myself fuck buddies over the years; this is what’s kept me my figures at a medium and purchases of tissue low. I don’t know who came up with the brilliant concept of fuck buddies but I’d love to shake his hand [I presume it was a man, seems like the kind of thing WE’D do] after he’d given it a good wash first, mind you.
When you’ve been in a long-term relationship, sex almost becomes stale, it becomes the same rigmarole, you both know what to expect; nothing new, nothing exciting. Towards the end of the relationship it’s simply a loveless act, hollow of any emotion, just one of those things you do, like saying “I love you” every once in a while to break the awkward silences in between television adverts. Then you have sex with someone else, then you realise; “Oh yeah! This is why humanities obsessed with sex… because it’s fucking amazing!”
You fall back in love with sex; it’s great, a rush of endorphins to the brain and a rush of blood to your member, then a rush of sperm onto her thigh, then a rush of apologies from your mouth. It’s a rush!
Two of my close friends had been in fuck buddy relationships [they’ve asked me to point out that it wasn’t with each other] just before I re-entered the single life and once I was finally single those relationships had blossomed into … well … relationships. I was foolhardy enough to think that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. “Pfft… emotions are simply a creation of conglomerate greeting card companies to help sell their products” I’d tell myself as I sat alone in my room while my friends went out and formed meaningful connections with those they loved. I tried to convince myself I had that Barney Stinson swagger… although my boy never suits up, yet I’m still disease free.
The thing is meaningless sex is easy to have with someone that doesn’t mean much to you [I may never have meaningless sex ever again after that sentence, although most women I’ve had meaningless sex with can’t read… so I may be OK]. The ‘problem’ arises when those emotions you previously discounted begin to surface and you’re fuck buddy starts to do things that encourage those emotions to grow like turning up at your house with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Then in between all the sex you start to realise you have plenty in common, then before you know it you’re in a predicament.
That predicament is; although you both agreed this was strictly sex [Shameless Plug; watch out for my new Strictly Come Dancing spin-off; Strictly Cum Sex pilot episode ‘cumming’ to BBC in the winter], you start to think; “Wow, this girl’s pretty amazing, so much better than any other fuck buddy I’ve had before, plus we have tons in common AND I’m not ashamed to be seen out with her in public!” but is she thinking the same thing? Then you begin to catalogue your own qualities as to how they compare against hers and you fall short; an obsession with rap battles and drinking until you pass out doesn’t appeal to most women. You look at what she’s done for you; treated me great, laughed at my shitty jokes [and my Amateur Abortionist rap] and bought me that bottle of SoCo [yes, I’ve mentioned that, but Southern Comfort is a necessity] against what you’ve done for her and somehow; “well… I give her the dick” doesn’t quite measure up [short penis joke implied]. With all this in mind you try to contain those emotions, because if you let them out you’ll ruin the fuck buddy relationship and back to spraining your wrist on a daily basis.
But eventually it gets too much like the guilt you feel from murdering a younger sibling [my lawyer wishes me to point out that that was a “wacky simile and has no connection to me or any court case I’m currently involved in”]; you have to blurt it out. Then you wait for her response, those seconds feel like really long seconds, then she doesn’t respond but that’s fine because she’s asleep and this whole saga was simply a ‘practice run’ so you know how it’s going to happen when she’s conscious. Then finally, with enough Southern Comfort courage you ask her out, then she says “Yes”, then you’re happy, then she inspires you to write again, then you write a blog about it, then you hope she doesn’t kill you.
Tuesday 4 September 2012
How to Win Come Dine With Me
Like a large quantity of the British public I love to watch Channel 4’s cookery competition in which 4-5 members of the general public host a dinner party with the chance of winning £1000. But let’s face it, we aren’t tuning in for advice on recipes, we just want to see people from different walks of life let rip at each other with some verbal sparring. Yet, from the numerous hours of watching C4’s primetime show, I’ve developed a list that’s bound to make any novice host/hostess a likely victor in the competition.
Don’t Cook Prawns
I fucking love prawns but there’s always some moaning prick that doesn’t and no matter how you prepare them in the kitchen they’ll always get a grilling at the table; “Did you take out the shit sack [devein it]?” “Are they fresh?” “Why did you leave the head/tail on?” “Why didn’t you leave the head/tail on?” Serving up prawns is basically opening yourself up to the fucking Spanish Inquisition… quite fitting if they’re in a paella.
Don’t Have “Musical Entertainment” in the Living Room
Providing guests with entertainment is more often than not more difficult than serving up the food. A mistake I often see is a host parading out some musical entertainment in their bloody living room, don’t get me wrong on some rare occasions it works well but more often than not it fails. This is probably because a living room is not the natural environment for a musician to play and it leaves everyone uncomfortable. Who wants to be in a situation in which one wrong strum of a guitar could send a plectrum flying into the eye of a dinner guest?
Have a Decent Vegetarian Option
Normally I have no qualms in treating vegetarians like shit, in fact it’s one of my hobbies, yet when it come to Come Dine With Me you have to make a real effort as they could be your key to victory. I don’t know many vegetarian dishes besides beans on toast and cereal so I can’t offer much in advice in what to serve but veer away from grilled mushrooms with loads of shit in it, be inventive and don’t just get a Quorn microwave meal.
Don’t Be So Overconfident
Just don’t act like an arrogant cunt basically. You’ve seen them before constantly nitpicking at other contestants methods, recipes, homes, children, pets, carpet choice… All it does is turn everyone against you and make them expect absolute perfection at your night… which is never going to happen, so just keep your fucking mouth shut… apart from when you’re shovelling someone’s overcooked and soggy beef Wellington down your oesophagus.
Ply Them with Alcohol
You sometimes have contestants on, that for whatever reason don’t allow alcohol at their night. More often than not it has something to do with religious beliefs, but hey, if they’re willing to let some fictitious, esoteric guidelines of how to live your life dominate their actions they don’t deserve that £1000. Alcohol is not only vital to dinner parties, it’s vital to life. So when it comes to your night keep your guests’ glasses topped up, the more pissed they get the more fun they’ll have, the higher marks you’ll receive. NOTICE: Don’t ply yourself with alcohol on your own night, you need your wits about you, try to avoid a massive intake of booze the evening before yours too.
Don’t Use Shop-Bought Pastry
I have never made my own pastry, I have never even cooked with shop-bought pastry so this whole pastry debacle that constantly rears it’s ugly head on Come Dine With Me makes no real sense to me. Yet, I do know if you’re going to use shop-bought pastry someone will ask, then will mark you down. Pastry’s shit anyway unless it’s filled with meat from Gregg’s, just avoid it all together so you can avoid that moment where that “arrogant prick/bitch [of the week]” gets a chance to demean you in your house in front of your guest for not making your own pastry.
Practice Your Menu
Whenever some half-witted contestant turns to the camera in their own kitchen and mumbles; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never made this before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, I unleash an ungodly amount of expletives at my television screen for so long I miss the beginning of The Simpsons. This should be a no-brainer; but practice your menu at least three times before your night, just so everything runs a bit smoother. Imagine you’re on a hospital bed, anaesthetic gradually kicking in and as you slowly drift off, the surgeon leans over you and utters; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never performed open heart surgery before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, you won’t be filled with much confidence … or organs by the end of it.
Don’t Cook Prawns
I fucking love prawns but there’s always some moaning prick that doesn’t and no matter how you prepare them in the kitchen they’ll always get a grilling at the table; “Did you take out the shit sack [devein it]?” “Are they fresh?” “Why did you leave the head/tail on?” “Why didn’t you leave the head/tail on?” Serving up prawns is basically opening yourself up to the fucking Spanish Inquisition… quite fitting if they’re in a paella.
Don’t Have “Musical Entertainment” in the Living Room
Providing guests with entertainment is more often than not more difficult than serving up the food. A mistake I often see is a host parading out some musical entertainment in their bloody living room, don’t get me wrong on some rare occasions it works well but more often than not it fails. This is probably because a living room is not the natural environment for a musician to play and it leaves everyone uncomfortable. Who wants to be in a situation in which one wrong strum of a guitar could send a plectrum flying into the eye of a dinner guest?
Have a Decent Vegetarian Option
Normally I have no qualms in treating vegetarians like shit, in fact it’s one of my hobbies, yet when it come to Come Dine With Me you have to make a real effort as they could be your key to victory. I don’t know many vegetarian dishes besides beans on toast and cereal so I can’t offer much in advice in what to serve but veer away from grilled mushrooms with loads of shit in it, be inventive and don’t just get a Quorn microwave meal.
Don’t Be So Overconfident
Just don’t act like an arrogant cunt basically. You’ve seen them before constantly nitpicking at other contestants methods, recipes, homes, children, pets, carpet choice… All it does is turn everyone against you and make them expect absolute perfection at your night… which is never going to happen, so just keep your fucking mouth shut… apart from when you’re shovelling someone’s overcooked and soggy beef Wellington down your oesophagus.
Ply Them with Alcohol
You sometimes have contestants on, that for whatever reason don’t allow alcohol at their night. More often than not it has something to do with religious beliefs, but hey, if they’re willing to let some fictitious, esoteric guidelines of how to live your life dominate their actions they don’t deserve that £1000. Alcohol is not only vital to dinner parties, it’s vital to life. So when it comes to your night keep your guests’ glasses topped up, the more pissed they get the more fun they’ll have, the higher marks you’ll receive. NOTICE: Don’t ply yourself with alcohol on your own night, you need your wits about you, try to avoid a massive intake of booze the evening before yours too.
Don’t Use Shop-Bought Pastry
I have never made my own pastry, I have never even cooked with shop-bought pastry so this whole pastry debacle that constantly rears it’s ugly head on Come Dine With Me makes no real sense to me. Yet, I do know if you’re going to use shop-bought pastry someone will ask, then will mark you down. Pastry’s shit anyway unless it’s filled with meat from Gregg’s, just avoid it all together so you can avoid that moment where that “arrogant prick/bitch [of the week]” gets a chance to demean you in your house in front of your guest for not making your own pastry.
Practice Your Menu
Whenever some half-witted contestant turns to the camera in their own kitchen and mumbles; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never made this before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, I unleash an ungodly amount of expletives at my television screen for so long I miss the beginning of The Simpsons. This should be a no-brainer; but practice your menu at least three times before your night, just so everything runs a bit smoother. Imagine you’re on a hospital bed, anaesthetic gradually kicking in and as you slowly drift off, the surgeon leans over you and utters; “I hope this goes OK, I’ve never performed open heart surgery before… it looks tricky but I’ll give it a go”, you won’t be filled with much confidence … or organs by the end of it.
Monday 3 September 2012
A Well Overdue Wine
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote anything, so I though I’d give it a go and use some of the other letters on my keyboard other than; F, R, E, P, O, R and N. The problem is I’ve had a lack of things to write about and by ‘write about’, I obviously mean bitch about. Maybe I’m settling down in my old age? Or maybe the constant amount of day to day intoxication has dulled my senses, drive and any ambition that wasn’t already crushed out of me by society… either way, I’m back to putting metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper.
To help me make the transition from drinking to blogging, I thought I’d write a blog about drinking; it’s really amazing how my brain works. But instead of lambasting a topic, I wanted to switch it up a little and talk about how great something [besides me] is. My topic is red wine.
Now, I’ve never really drank wine before recently, I’ve been in contact with it the majority of my life as my mum puts away a bottle or five a day. The only time I remember drinking wine is a few years back when I got a free bottle from work and had no other alcohol in the house, so I downed it while watching a Cantonese gangster film [Yes, I am THAT cultured]. It was ok, but it never really appealed to me that much. Yet now, I’m turning into a bit of a wino [I mean that in both wine-liking and hobo terms]. I’d just like to clarify that I only drink red wine. White and Rosé still taste like elephant piss to me and if you want to argue it out, I’d be more than willing to bottle you with a fruity yet robust Australian Shiraz [check the terminology bitches!].
You see, while red wine is nice, it’s not the flavour that attracts me to it so much, it’s a real alcoholics drink. What makes it so great is the fact that it’s served at room temperature, no need to make space in the fridge for those three bottles I’ve just got from the shop. Plus it’s a tipple you can drink at your own pace; it doesn’t go flat, get warm and if you pass out late at night with half a glass left it’s still there in the morning for you to finish off before you set off to work [you may need to scoop out any dead moths first, mind you].
Of course, as with anything, there are some minor problems. As I’ve just started out drinking wine, I’m a little uneducated in the different types although my taste buds are sincerely fucked from years of smoking so the country of origin or grapes used means nothing to me and I highly doubt I’ll ever learn how to differentiate between them. Plus the names are fucking fucked! Whoever came up with Merlot, well done on making a decent wine, but at least fucking proofread the name, it should end in a ‘w’ not a fucking ‘t’ you stupid wtaw*!! As for fucking Cabernet Sauvignon … what the fuck is that? That may as well be written in pissing Arabic, I think I’d have more chance at pronouncing it correctly. But aside from the stupid names, red wine’s got a lot going for it, so why not have a bottle tonight and forget about your troubles/bills/children/responsibilities.
And that’s it. Not great, but trying to get in the habit of writing again, next one will be better I promise, it’s entitled; The Fuck Buddy Complex… that just sounds good, so come back for that when I’ve finally get around to finishing it. Peace.
*That got added as I proofread the piece, best fucking joke in there.
Monday 14 May 2012
Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless [Part II]
Previously in Houseless,
Homeless, Hopeless; our two protagonists search for a home after
discovering they can no longer live in a glorified shed, time is against them,
so far they’ve viewed one possible home and it wasn’t good…
With the date to which I had to evacuate my current living situation looming over me like guilt from a half-remember childhood memory and what seemed like no sight of a place to call home on the horizon, I decided that I may need a back up plan. For example, Mr. French had arranged a place to crash if the worse happened and we didn’t find a home, so I thought I’d do the same. Yet when it came down to me trying to figure out where I’d go or who I’d stay with I draw a blank. While I may not be the most popular man in my postcode, I like to think I’ve touched enough lives to warrant myself as a likable individual that others would help out in a time of need. Yet, as I mentally scrolled through the list of people I knew, I couldn’t help but scratch off name after name due to substantial reasons; too far from town, he lives with his missus/family, we recently broke up, he sacrifices virgins to Satan … eventually I came to Mike and Ginger Rob, which to be perfectly honest should have been my immediate response as they have a big house, they like me [or at least they can stand my company] and their ‘lifestyle’ is perfectly in sync with mine, if you trade drum and bass for the far superior music genre of Hip Hop.
With the fact that I wouldn’t be pleading Facebook friends with updates such as; “… OMG going to be homeless, has anyone bought a new washing machine lately, I’d happily take the cardboard box off your hands …” I could once again focus all my energy, thoughts and sexual frustration towards finding a home. [As I mentioned before] we had a complied a list of ten places we were interested in, rated from one to ten, one being the home we liked most, ten being the home we liked least … we’ve made lists before and we fucking rule at it! Fuck Schindler! But many of these listed properties were falling short; missing important features or weren’t available until long after we needed them. This would have had me worried if it wasn’t for a constant supply of intoxicants to delude me from reality [here’s my only tip for moving house; when trying to find a place under pressure, it’s best to spend as little time as possible sober].
Somehow, around our busy work schedules and erratic sleeping patterns we managed to line up another viewing for a first floor flat. The flat was quite nice, it had all the stuff you’d usually find in a home; walls, doors, a ceiling … you’ve all seen homes so you get the general idea. It was certainly one for us to ponder.
With that in our minds we got to pondering as time got to ticking.
Our options were running thin, like me when I jog, so with only seven days until ‘Eviction Day’, we decided on the first floor flat we’d seen [the one with the walls, doors, ceiling etc.]. Then came the process of filling out forms, an enjoyable experience for every individual. There’s nothing I like more than detailing information on previous workplaces and properties I’ve occupied, especially when drink, drugs and repeatedly banging my head on walls has secured all that information in my knowledge box [brain]. Finally once all the correct information was filled out, we gave a call to the letting agent and she ‘informed’ us to deliver the forms to her office. Her office was in Mickleover, the only thing I know about Mickleover is the most popular bus into/out of Mickleover is advertised as a “Posh Bus”, this instantly makes me assume everyone that lives in Mickleover is posh and judging from the houses, they are… although when you’re on my run of the social ladder everyone’s posh apart from Big Issue vendors and pregnant twelve year olds.
We arrived at the letting agents, clutching our forms and most recent payslips to prove we were actually employed [to be far, that’s not evident upon looking at us; you call it scruffy, we call it “hobo chic”], feeling excited about the prospect of securing a place to live. That feeling lasted about 30 seconds, right up until the point the letting agent said; “Oh, the flat you’re interested in has already gone…” I think in this instance, if I’d have murdered this woman in her office, beating her bloody corpse with my tenants form until the police turned up, then gone to trial and explained; “I am guilty of killing this letting agent, but let me first clarify that this victim, as you wrongly refer to her as, was well aware that myself and Mr. French were on our way to her office with the sole intention of renting a property we’d previously discussed, even though the ‘victim’ knew this flat was no longer available, so I may be guilty of murder, but isn’t she guilty of being a letting agent”. I’d surely be found innocent under the circumstances. Luckily, I didn’t flip out in a murderous rage, instead I held off and let her finish her sentence; “… but the first floor flat is now available.” Now, we’d seen the first floor flat online, but couldn’t sort out a viewing [prior to this] because tenants were staying in it until after ‘Eviction Day’. Now we found ourselves in a predicament, our original choice has gone, but we have an exclusive offer to take a place that’s come on the market earlier than expected. We sat and gave it 20 seconds of thought, I channelled my inner Phil Spencer [I’d been watching a lot of Location, Location, Location recently in a hope I’d become more savvy at finding a property to live]. It was a bit of a dilemma; time’s running short and only complete fucking idiots agree to rent a place that they haven’t even viewed… that being said we are complete fucking idiots, so that’s exactly what we did.
What will Ben and Frenchie’s new home be like?
How will the move go?
How much longer can I stretch out this one topic over numerous blogs?
Will David Batchelor give up reading after part 2 or will he come back for part 3?
Find out in the next slightly-less-thrilling instalment of Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless…
With the date to which I had to evacuate my current living situation looming over me like guilt from a half-remember childhood memory and what seemed like no sight of a place to call home on the horizon, I decided that I may need a back up plan. For example, Mr. French had arranged a place to crash if the worse happened and we didn’t find a home, so I thought I’d do the same. Yet when it came down to me trying to figure out where I’d go or who I’d stay with I draw a blank. While I may not be the most popular man in my postcode, I like to think I’ve touched enough lives to warrant myself as a likable individual that others would help out in a time of need. Yet, as I mentally scrolled through the list of people I knew, I couldn’t help but scratch off name after name due to substantial reasons; too far from town, he lives with his missus/family, we recently broke up, he sacrifices virgins to Satan … eventually I came to Mike and Ginger Rob, which to be perfectly honest should have been my immediate response as they have a big house, they like me [or at least they can stand my company] and their ‘lifestyle’ is perfectly in sync with mine, if you trade drum and bass for the far superior music genre of Hip Hop.
With the fact that I wouldn’t be pleading Facebook friends with updates such as; “… OMG going to be homeless, has anyone bought a new washing machine lately, I’d happily take the cardboard box off your hands …” I could once again focus all my energy, thoughts and sexual frustration towards finding a home. [As I mentioned before] we had a complied a list of ten places we were interested in, rated from one to ten, one being the home we liked most, ten being the home we liked least … we’ve made lists before and we fucking rule at it! Fuck Schindler! But many of these listed properties were falling short; missing important features or weren’t available until long after we needed them. This would have had me worried if it wasn’t for a constant supply of intoxicants to delude me from reality [here’s my only tip for moving house; when trying to find a place under pressure, it’s best to spend as little time as possible sober].
Somehow, around our busy work schedules and erratic sleeping patterns we managed to line up another viewing for a first floor flat. The flat was quite nice, it had all the stuff you’d usually find in a home; walls, doors, a ceiling … you’ve all seen homes so you get the general idea. It was certainly one for us to ponder.
With that in our minds we got to pondering as time got to ticking.
Our options were running thin, like me when I jog, so with only seven days until ‘Eviction Day’, we decided on the first floor flat we’d seen [the one with the walls, doors, ceiling etc.]. Then came the process of filling out forms, an enjoyable experience for every individual. There’s nothing I like more than detailing information on previous workplaces and properties I’ve occupied, especially when drink, drugs and repeatedly banging my head on walls has secured all that information in my knowledge box [brain]. Finally once all the correct information was filled out, we gave a call to the letting agent and she ‘informed’ us to deliver the forms to her office. Her office was in Mickleover, the only thing I know about Mickleover is the most popular bus into/out of Mickleover is advertised as a “Posh Bus”, this instantly makes me assume everyone that lives in Mickleover is posh and judging from the houses, they are… although when you’re on my run of the social ladder everyone’s posh apart from Big Issue vendors and pregnant twelve year olds.
We arrived at the letting agents, clutching our forms and most recent payslips to prove we were actually employed [to be far, that’s not evident upon looking at us; you call it scruffy, we call it “hobo chic”], feeling excited about the prospect of securing a place to live. That feeling lasted about 30 seconds, right up until the point the letting agent said; “Oh, the flat you’re interested in has already gone…” I think in this instance, if I’d have murdered this woman in her office, beating her bloody corpse with my tenants form until the police turned up, then gone to trial and explained; “I am guilty of killing this letting agent, but let me first clarify that this victim, as you wrongly refer to her as, was well aware that myself and Mr. French were on our way to her office with the sole intention of renting a property we’d previously discussed, even though the ‘victim’ knew this flat was no longer available, so I may be guilty of murder, but isn’t she guilty of being a letting agent”. I’d surely be found innocent under the circumstances. Luckily, I didn’t flip out in a murderous rage, instead I held off and let her finish her sentence; “… but the first floor flat is now available.” Now, we’d seen the first floor flat online, but couldn’t sort out a viewing [prior to this] because tenants were staying in it until after ‘Eviction Day’. Now we found ourselves in a predicament, our original choice has gone, but we have an exclusive offer to take a place that’s come on the market earlier than expected. We sat and gave it 20 seconds of thought, I channelled my inner Phil Spencer [I’d been watching a lot of Location, Location, Location recently in a hope I’d become more savvy at finding a property to live]. It was a bit of a dilemma; time’s running short and only complete fucking idiots agree to rent a place that they haven’t even viewed… that being said we are complete fucking idiots, so that’s exactly what we did.
What will Ben and Frenchie’s new home be like?
How will the move go?
How much longer can I stretch out this one topic over numerous blogs?
Will David Batchelor give up reading after part 2 or will he come back for part 3?
Find out in the next slightly-less-thrilling instalment of Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless…
Sunday 6 May 2012
Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless [Part I]
I’ve heard that moving house
is one of the most stressful things a person can do, but to be perfectly honest
I’ve done it plenty of times so the stress of the whole debacle washes over me.
You see, I’ve moved home a lot in my time. Growing up, my mum seemed to want to
constantly move house, we moved around more than gypsies and it’s not like we
moved up and down the country [apart from that short time we lived in Plymouth
a.k.a. The Arsehole of England], we predominately stayed in the same shitty
little town. Obviously when I moved out to come to University, I’ve continued
to bounce around form overpriced student house to even more overpriced student
house, continuing the trend set by my mother. To be perfectly honest I’ve lost
count of the amount of homes I’ve had and to top if off I’ve just recently
added a new home to my never ending list.
Towards the end of January me and my housemates discovered that we were to be thrown out of our house as it had been sold. This news carried me into February, which as it stands was possibly the worst month of my life as the clock began to tick on one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever devolved, I am of course talking of the news that House MD was defiantly going to end, me and the girlfriend also decided to part ways. My future was looking bleak; girlfriendless, Houseless and soon to be homeless.
But as they say; “you can’t keep a good man down”, and while I’m far from a good man the thought of living out of a cardboard box inspired me somewhat to find a new place to live.
But before we get down to my house hunting, let’s speak on where I was getting kicked out of. My old house was a lot like Anne Robinson; cold, heartless and although there’s been attempts to make it look slightly better you know it’s old, decrepit and rotting away on the inside … it was also really draughty [a super injunction prohibits me from informing you of Anne Robinson’s draughty vagina – but hopefully you were clever enough to figure out the route that joke was taking]. Due to these factors, our bills were expensive; to be honest the amount of money we’ve spent on gas/electric could have easily armed a small Middle Eastern country with AK-47s and enough ammo to [over]kill the entire Chinese population. But at the end of the day I’m a pacifist so genocide is not on my “To Do List” … but half of the Chinese population is [ahh… in-jokes]. The house was situated on what estate agents may refer to as “vibrant”, which translates as “a place filled with scum”; chavs, rude boys, smackheads, pissheads, Eastern European drug dealers that scream at each other in the street gone midnight, that guy that waits on the corner, asking you what time it is, hoping you pull out your phone so he can snatch it and run. You know those kinds of vibrant characters. Although none of that bothered me, I got to watch a smackhead OD on the street once from the comfort of my own home [he survived if you wondered/cared]. Towards the end of our stay things were beginning to break anyway; downstairs toilet had been broken for time, sparks were happening inside the microwave when you turned it on and the freezer door was being kept closed with a brick [I'm known to embellish stories, but this is all true].
You see, we just ignorantly lived this way, not realising that we were in a first world country living in a third world house [now I’m embellishing]. So getting thrown out was the motivation we really needed because nothing drives your incentive like the thought of being homeless, yet judging by my last house it wouldn’t be a massive step down.
So we began trawling the internet for possible new homes. Myself and Mr. French [my Brother from another Mother/spiritual advisor] compiled a list of ten houses/flats we were interested in. Luckily we don’t have high standards [in homes… or women], so our criteria were limited, as long as it had white goods and double glazing we were happy.
The first place we viewed was just around the corner from our current house. It was above a solicitor’s office. Alarm bells starting to ring when we were taken through the office, up two flights of stairs to a door that leads to the flat. The thought of there being a single door between my home and the business ran by the landlord was a scary thought, especially when you take into consideration what I do in my recreation. The flat wasn’t that bad, although the bedrooms weren’t too great, the smaller one of the two simply had a double bed in it with about a foot of room either side upon realising that there would be no room for a PC desk and no PC in my room is really going to ruin my sex life [yes, that's a masturbation joke... although not as funny when you point them out], we soon opted out of that place.
Will Ben and Frenchie find a home?
Find out in the next slightly-thrilling instalment of [*insert blog title here, when you can be arsed to come up with one you lazy prick*]
Towards the end of January me and my housemates discovered that we were to be thrown out of our house as it had been sold. This news carried me into February, which as it stands was possibly the worst month of my life as the clock began to tick on one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever devolved, I am of course talking of the news that House MD was defiantly going to end, me and the girlfriend also decided to part ways. My future was looking bleak; girlfriendless, Houseless and soon to be homeless.
But as they say; “you can’t keep a good man down”, and while I’m far from a good man the thought of living out of a cardboard box inspired me somewhat to find a new place to live.
But before we get down to my house hunting, let’s speak on where I was getting kicked out of. My old house was a lot like Anne Robinson; cold, heartless and although there’s been attempts to make it look slightly better you know it’s old, decrepit and rotting away on the inside … it was also really draughty [a super injunction prohibits me from informing you of Anne Robinson’s draughty vagina – but hopefully you were clever enough to figure out the route that joke was taking]. Due to these factors, our bills were expensive; to be honest the amount of money we’ve spent on gas/electric could have easily armed a small Middle Eastern country with AK-47s and enough ammo to [over]kill the entire Chinese population. But at the end of the day I’m a pacifist so genocide is not on my “To Do List” … but half of the Chinese population is [ahh… in-jokes]. The house was situated on what estate agents may refer to as “vibrant”, which translates as “a place filled with scum”; chavs, rude boys, smackheads, pissheads, Eastern European drug dealers that scream at each other in the street gone midnight, that guy that waits on the corner, asking you what time it is, hoping you pull out your phone so he can snatch it and run. You know those kinds of vibrant characters. Although none of that bothered me, I got to watch a smackhead OD on the street once from the comfort of my own home [he survived if you wondered/cared]. Towards the end of our stay things were beginning to break anyway; downstairs toilet had been broken for time, sparks were happening inside the microwave when you turned it on and the freezer door was being kept closed with a brick [I'm known to embellish stories, but this is all true].
You see, we just ignorantly lived this way, not realising that we were in a first world country living in a third world house [now I’m embellishing]. So getting thrown out was the motivation we really needed because nothing drives your incentive like the thought of being homeless, yet judging by my last house it wouldn’t be a massive step down.
So we began trawling the internet for possible new homes. Myself and Mr. French [my Brother from another Mother/spiritual advisor] compiled a list of ten houses/flats we were interested in. Luckily we don’t have high standards [in homes… or women], so our criteria were limited, as long as it had white goods and double glazing we were happy.
The first place we viewed was just around the corner from our current house. It was above a solicitor’s office. Alarm bells starting to ring when we were taken through the office, up two flights of stairs to a door that leads to the flat. The thought of there being a single door between my home and the business ran by the landlord was a scary thought, especially when you take into consideration what I do in my recreation. The flat wasn’t that bad, although the bedrooms weren’t too great, the smaller one of the two simply had a double bed in it with about a foot of room either side upon realising that there would be no room for a PC desk and no PC in my room is really going to ruin my sex life [yes, that's a masturbation joke... although not as funny when you point them out], we soon opted out of that place.
Will Ben and Frenchie find a home?
Find out in the next slightly-thrilling instalment of [*insert blog title here, when you can be arsed to come up with one you lazy prick*]
Rantin’ on Reactions to Robberies
I’ve never witnessed anyone getting mugged in my time, but I’ve seen plenty of robberies in battle rap. Although, I’ve attained enough knowledge to know that; much like the muggings that happen up and down the country on a daily basis, there’s nothing I can do about a robbery in a battle, I’ve accepted this and it’s time some more Don’t Flop fans do too.
The most recent ‘robbery’ that pops into my head is Mark Grist vs. Zain Azrai [from TTT10]. Now, I’m with the majority on this one, as much as I like Zain, I think Grist totally eclipsed him in the battle and the teacher should have walked away with the W, but he didn’t and life goes on. As much as I love battle rap and have done for years, I don’t get tied into the immature bullshit that takes place on the comments section of YouTube. So I’m going to use this article to stress some points to those of you [idiots] that do.
Firstly, if you don’t agree with a judge’s decision on a battle don’t hit the dislike button, you morons. The Grist/Azrai battle [at the time of writing] currently stands at 659 likes and 2773 dislikes, yet it’s hands down one of the most entertaining battles I’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect type of battle to show to non-battle fans as it breaks previous stigmas set by 8 Mile and goes against the general publics narrow minded views of the entire hip hop genre; I mean, come on, it’s a bloody teacher rapping against a Malaysian joke merchant. Yet, when someone comes to the video and sees its rating they probably won’t even give it a chance and that’s such a shame.
Secondly, don’t go posting hateful comments aimed at the winner of the battle [that you believe was a robbery] because it’s not down them. All they did was turn up and perform. I’ve seen comments on the Grist/Azrai battle, slating Zain to no end. “How irresponsible and pathetic of zain, the dirty fat chinky.” types RhysGB15. Yeah, how irresponsible and pathetic of Zain to travel across the world to partake in something he loves for the enjoyment of others. What a cunt he is!
Thirdly, those of you with half a brain will blame the judges. Congratulations on being slightly more intelligent than the previous batch of idiots, but alas you’re still fools. I’m not inside the minds of judges, but I’ve watched plenty give explanations to camera to understand that everyone is different. Judge #1 may lean towards comedic punchlines, Judge #2 may prefer intricate wordplay and so on. What you need to remember is they’re more respected in this ‘game’ than you keyboard warriors and they’re the ones making quick, on the spot decisions often in an environment much different to your silent bedroom, plus they don’t have the advantage of skipping the battle back to pick up on bars they may have missed.
Basically, in battle rap, robberies happen, yet they are few and fair between; so don’t get your panties in a bunch over something you can’t change. Instead how about you just support the artists, the league and the movement or fuck off.
The most recent ‘robbery’ that pops into my head is Mark Grist vs. Zain Azrai [from TTT10]. Now, I’m with the majority on this one, as much as I like Zain, I think Grist totally eclipsed him in the battle and the teacher should have walked away with the W, but he didn’t and life goes on. As much as I love battle rap and have done for years, I don’t get tied into the immature bullshit that takes place on the comments section of YouTube. So I’m going to use this article to stress some points to those of you [idiots] that do.
Firstly, if you don’t agree with a judge’s decision on a battle don’t hit the dislike button, you morons. The Grist/Azrai battle [at the time of writing] currently stands at 659 likes and 2773 dislikes, yet it’s hands down one of the most entertaining battles I’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect type of battle to show to non-battle fans as it breaks previous stigmas set by 8 Mile and goes against the general publics narrow minded views of the entire hip hop genre; I mean, come on, it’s a bloody teacher rapping against a Malaysian joke merchant. Yet, when someone comes to the video and sees its rating they probably won’t even give it a chance and that’s such a shame.
Secondly, don’t go posting hateful comments aimed at the winner of the battle [that you believe was a robbery] because it’s not down them. All they did was turn up and perform. I’ve seen comments on the Grist/Azrai battle, slating Zain to no end. “How irresponsible and pathetic of zain, the dirty fat chinky.” types RhysGB15. Yeah, how irresponsible and pathetic of Zain to travel across the world to partake in something he loves for the enjoyment of others. What a cunt he is!
Thirdly, those of you with half a brain will blame the judges. Congratulations on being slightly more intelligent than the previous batch of idiots, but alas you’re still fools. I’m not inside the minds of judges, but I’ve watched plenty give explanations to camera to understand that everyone is different. Judge #1 may lean towards comedic punchlines, Judge #2 may prefer intricate wordplay and so on. What you need to remember is they’re more respected in this ‘game’ than you keyboard warriors and they’re the ones making quick, on the spot decisions often in an environment much different to your silent bedroom, plus they don’t have the advantage of skipping the battle back to pick up on bars they may have missed.
Basically, in battle rap, robberies happen, yet they are few and fair between; so don’t get your panties in a bunch over something you can’t change. Instead how about you just support the artists, the league and the movement or fuck off.
Sunday 1 April 2012
Breaking Up & Broken Down
To say that break-ups are hard would be a fucking understatement.
Break ups are devastating and no matter how many you’ve had in the past they still pack a punch hard enough to leave you crying on the other side of your face.
I recently broke up with my long-term missus, it was an amicable break up, something new to me, so I falsely led myself to believe it would be different this time around, how wrong I was. An amicable break-up does have its benefits, you feel like an actual adult for once; you’ve made a realistic decision that the relationship is no longer working and you should terminate it. It’s a damn sight better than belongings being thrown from a window while you trade expletives at the top of your lungs in front on the curtain twitching neighbours. But to be fair no matter which route you take; amicable or trading blows on the street until the police turn up, you still end up in the same emotional state; lonely and heartbroken.
Obviously the old saying goes; “time heals all wounds”, not strictly true, but from my experience it certainly aids with heartache [as in sorrow, if your heart actually physically aches, go and see a doctor imminently, time may not heal that problem]. The problem is what do you do in that time because you’re whole life has altered drastically. The person that you’ve spent the majority of your time with other the last two years is no longer around and just to top things off, you’re two housemates that haven’t been in relationships for ages finally get girlfriends, that really highlights your loneliness. People ask if you’re ok, you lie and say; “Yes”, hoping that they pick up on the fact you aren’t, but they don’t, they’re idiots, they take your response at face value. This then only serves as a reminder that the one person that knows you best and can see through your lies has left. You feel isolated. You cry into your pillow. You think about all the good times you had together. You cry into your pillow some more. You get that overwhelming feeling that you’ve made a mistake. You cry into your pillow again. You can’t sleep at night because the double bed feels empty, plus your pillow is damp and uncomfortable.
Soon you come to terms with the loss. You begin to accept that you’ll never get a chance to relive that wonderful day you spent together in Skegness [in all honesty that was a terrific day]. And while it’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that you will no longer make memories like that, you begin to realise that you no longer have to have the same stagnant, long-winded conversation about what the fuck we’re going to eat tonight. You can actually make plans with the few reminding friends you have left without checking in with your other half as to what her/our plans are over the coming days/weeks/months. You can engage in sexual activities with other people [theoretically, as it’s been a while since you approached a female]. You can watch rap battles on YouTube without that moaning sound in the background, grumbling over the best punchlines. Yes that double bed still seems empty, but now you get the comfortable side, all the duvet and to top if off the pillows have dried.
Eventually normality prevails, until you begin the very same cycle with the next person to come along.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Capitalising on my Delusions of Grandeur
I’m currently trying to make money and I’m going to offer you, my dear reader, a chance to get closer to me, the one and only Ben Broughton (apart from Joe’s brother and that gay dude on Twitter. I Google myself too much).
Let’s face it people, we all spend too much time on Facebook, posting updates, pictures, videos [you’ve been on; I don’t need to explain every single aspect of it]. But sometimes you post something that nobody responds to and you die a little inside [I imagine, it never happens to me, people Like what I do, literally]. But luckily for you I’m here [for a price] to give you the encouragement you need on Facebook [for a price, did I mention that?].
Basic Package:
Add you as a ‘Friend’ [if not one already]
5 Status Update ‘Likes’
3 Funny Status Update ‘Comments’
2 ‘Picture Comments’ [Funny/Flattering; your choice]
Price: £5.00
Slightly-above-Basic Package:
Add you as a ‘Friend’ [if not one already]
10 Status Update ‘Likes’
7 Funny Status Update ‘Comments’
5 ‘Picture Comments’ [Funny/Flattering; your choice]
1 ‘Page Like’ [can be traded for an extra one of the above, if you don’t have a page]
Price: £7.17
Cool Dudes Package:
[This package is exclusively for Cool Dudes, so don’t even apply if you’re not one]
15 Status Update ‘Likes’
12 Funny Status Update ‘Comments’
10 ‘Picture Comments’ [Funny/Flattering; your choice]
5 ‘Link Comments’ [Supporting your stance on the matter, i.e. it’s shit/great]
1 ‘Page Like’ [can be traded for an extra one of the above, if you don’t have a page]
Price: Was £12.99, now only £10.02 [Exclusive Cool Dudes Discount]
Pimp Daddy Spectacular Package:
25 Status Update ‘Likes’
20 Funny Status Update ‘Comments’
15 ‘Picture Comments’ [Funny/Flattering; your choice]
10 ‘Link Comments’ [Supporting your stance on the matter, i.e. it’s shit/great]
3 ‘Page Like[s]’ [can be traded for an extra one of the above, if you don’t have a page/pages]
5 ‘Check-In Tags’ [Basically, while I’m out living my lavish lifestyle; drinking cans of Skol with supermodels and rich tycoons, I’ll ‘Check-In’ to a venue on Facebook, then tag you as being with me. PLEASE NOTE: You will not be with me, this is all a lie to make your life look cooler on Facebook].
Price: Was £14.99, now only £14.98
Terms and motherfuckin’ Conditions
The work I do is 100% my own, you have bought my skills, not me, I will not leave a Comment that you have written for me. If you are not satisfied with any of my work, I will gladly remove comments, unlike etc. but you will never get your money back.
Payment
I only take Cash. No cheques, credit/debit cards, vouchers/food stamps/coupons. Cash means English sterling, that’s English, keep those Scottish notes away and don’t even start telling me its legal tender. I must be paid in full before anything transpires on your Facebook.
Monday 6 February 2012
Wipe Power!
While returning to the squalor that is my home town for the “Festive Season” to “enjoy the company of my family” and stock up on deodorant/shower gift sets, I had some lively debates in the place where all arguments get aired out [and started]; the public house. Of course the topics were nothing trailblazing, it was the same old shit that gets spouted on a daily basis over pint pots up and down the country; racism, the class system, what a twat David Cameron is, whom amongst us has the most pitiful existence [I still think it's me, so go fuck yourselves] and what a cunt David Cameron is. Yet one debate wasn't run of the mill and got extremely heated, I'm talking two verbs and an adjective from a bottle getting smashed, a face getting sliced and a sentence getting handed down. That debate; What is the correct way to wipe your bottom.
Now this debate wasn't the most detailed, as we never got on to aspects as important as to fold the paper or scrunch it up, to be fair we didn't even touch on how many sheets [of toilet paper] is ample for cushioning the excrement to avoid the dreaded splash black. This debate raged over one simple aspect; do you stand or sit to wipe?
Take to two seconds to answer this question, although it's probably not best to vocalise it if you're in a crowded area. If you're thinking; “Well I kind of sit on the fence” … I say to you; “Why the fuck are you sitting on the fence while you take a shit, buy a toilet!”
OK, from my extended research I've found that the majority of people sit to wipe, so if you also sit to wipe; congratulations, you're one of the many! So if you stand to wipe that inevitably means you are one of the few but congratulations to you because you're right.
While this wasn't the first time I've had this conversation, this was the first time it was done on a large scale, leading to my previous results [before hand it was a 50/50 split] being totally incorrect. The first time I found out people sat to wipe, it was an eye opening experience. It had never occurred to me that this was possible or even practiced. It was a real shock to the system, as wiping one's anus is a daily task undertaken by everyone [apart from Kim Jong-il according to North Korea propaganda sources]. Finding out there was a different way to approach this task was like discovering that most people do a handstand over the toilet while they piss.
Some may feel that seeing as they are in the minority over such a detail that they are the amongst the individuals going about this act in the incorrect way, whereas I've gave this plenty of thought – probably too much thought, but then again what else do I have happening in my life?
Let's start off by saying if you sit to wipe you're a lazy fucker. You can't even be arsed to attend to your arse properly. I've tried sitting down to wipe [after hearing everyone else did it, I thought I'd give it ago to see what I was missing] and it's difficult to 'attend to the problem' [that's the nicest way I could think of writing; it's fucking hard to reach your arsehole successfully when sat on the throne]. This is what's wrong with this country; too many people too lazy to stand to wipe their bums! Get off the porcelain, wipe your shitter, wash your hands and get a fucking job.
When you stand to wipe you are the perfect position to view what you've just excreted. I firmly believe that all humans have an a massive interest in what their bodies produce. If some substance is expelled from your body you are instantly curious about it, so it's only right to have a good look at it. It's hard to get a decent view of your toilet deposit when you're sat over it.
When your stood up wiping your more ready to tackle possible intruders. Now, I've never had anyone break into my home but for the purpose of this [extremely important] blog, let's say an intruder enters my home while I'm on the bog. I have no idea he's in the house and it's time to wipe;
Scenario One: Sat.
So I'm sat on the toilet wiping my ring piece when the intruder kicks the [bathroom] door down and enters [as with most homes, we keep all our valuables in the bathroom in case you wondered why an intruder would want to enter our bathroom]. At first he's taken aback by the smell, but as I stand and struggle to get my jeans on, he's overcome the stench and stabbed me to death.
Scenario Two: Stood.
So I'm stood in the bathroom wiping, door kicked down, intruder. He's taken back by the smell and the fact that some blokes there with his cock out, this gives me twice as much time to act [compared to sitting], in one swift move I lift one leg from my jeans, run at the intruder and kick him in the face Tony Jaa style leaving him with severe brain damage.
In all honesty, it's rare that I actually write something heartfelt on my blog but I honestly think this sit/stand to wipe argument is in all seriousness one of the most important things I've ever written and I doubt I'll ever be able to channel my focus on a topic so close to my heart ever again. I hope you've had a couple of chuckles along the way, but please take this matter seriously, I don't want you to leave this webpage now and just forget about what you've read, I want you to act upon it. If you're a sitter, try standing and if you're a stander, keep standing [you're the one doing it correctly after all]. Bring up this subject at work, in the playground [if you're a student that is, if you're out of school DO NOT go into a playground asking children how they wipe their bums], at family dinners to get people sharing. Write to your local MP ask him/her their opinions on the matter and what is their political parties' stance on sitting/standing. Start a Facebook group. Get it trending on Twitter. Tattoo your allegiance to your forehead.
Happy Wiping.
Now this debate wasn't the most detailed, as we never got on to aspects as important as to fold the paper or scrunch it up, to be fair we didn't even touch on how many sheets [of toilet paper] is ample for cushioning the excrement to avoid the dreaded splash black. This debate raged over one simple aspect; do you stand or sit to wipe?
Take to two seconds to answer this question, although it's probably not best to vocalise it if you're in a crowded area. If you're thinking; “Well I kind of sit on the fence” … I say to you; “Why the fuck are you sitting on the fence while you take a shit, buy a toilet!”
OK, from my extended research I've found that the majority of people sit to wipe, so if you also sit to wipe; congratulations, you're one of the many! So if you stand to wipe that inevitably means you are one of the few but congratulations to you because you're right.
While this wasn't the first time I've had this conversation, this was the first time it was done on a large scale, leading to my previous results [before hand it was a 50/50 split] being totally incorrect. The first time I found out people sat to wipe, it was an eye opening experience. It had never occurred to me that this was possible or even practiced. It was a real shock to the system, as wiping one's anus is a daily task undertaken by everyone [apart from Kim Jong-il according to North Korea propaganda sources]. Finding out there was a different way to approach this task was like discovering that most people do a handstand over the toilet while they piss.
Some may feel that seeing as they are in the minority over such a detail that they are the amongst the individuals going about this act in the incorrect way, whereas I've gave this plenty of thought – probably too much thought, but then again what else do I have happening in my life?
Why Standing to Wipe is Better:
Let's start off by saying if you sit to wipe you're a lazy fucker. You can't even be arsed to attend to your arse properly. I've tried sitting down to wipe [after hearing everyone else did it, I thought I'd give it ago to see what I was missing] and it's difficult to 'attend to the problem' [that's the nicest way I could think of writing; it's fucking hard to reach your arsehole successfully when sat on the throne]. This is what's wrong with this country; too many people too lazy to stand to wipe their bums! Get off the porcelain, wipe your shitter, wash your hands and get a fucking job.
When you stand to wipe you are the perfect position to view what you've just excreted. I firmly believe that all humans have an a massive interest in what their bodies produce. If some substance is expelled from your body you are instantly curious about it, so it's only right to have a good look at it. It's hard to get a decent view of your toilet deposit when you're sat over it.
When your stood up wiping your more ready to tackle possible intruders. Now, I've never had anyone break into my home but for the purpose of this [extremely important] blog, let's say an intruder enters my home while I'm on the bog. I have no idea he's in the house and it's time to wipe;
Scenario One: Sat.
So I'm sat on the toilet wiping my ring piece when the intruder kicks the [bathroom] door down and enters [as with most homes, we keep all our valuables in the bathroom in case you wondered why an intruder would want to enter our bathroom]. At first he's taken aback by the smell, but as I stand and struggle to get my jeans on, he's overcome the stench and stabbed me to death.
Scenario Two: Stood.
So I'm stood in the bathroom wiping, door kicked down, intruder. He's taken back by the smell and the fact that some blokes there with his cock out, this gives me twice as much time to act [compared to sitting], in one swift move I lift one leg from my jeans, run at the intruder and kick him in the face Tony Jaa style leaving him with severe brain damage.
In all honesty, it's rare that I actually write something heartfelt on my blog but I honestly think this sit/stand to wipe argument is in all seriousness one of the most important things I've ever written and I doubt I'll ever be able to channel my focus on a topic so close to my heart ever again. I hope you've had a couple of chuckles along the way, but please take this matter seriously, I don't want you to leave this webpage now and just forget about what you've read, I want you to act upon it. If you're a sitter, try standing and if you're a stander, keep standing [you're the one doing it correctly after all]. Bring up this subject at work, in the playground [if you're a student that is, if you're out of school DO NOT go into a playground asking children how they wipe their bums], at family dinners to get people sharing. Write to your local MP ask him/her their opinions on the matter and what is their political parties' stance on sitting/standing. Start a Facebook group. Get it trending on Twitter. Tattoo your allegiance to your forehead.
Happy Wiping.
Dear Mr. Kyle
I'm an avid fewer of your television show and while some label it as 'human bear-baiting' [a term a don't believe in as surely it would just be 'human baiting', if someone is baiting a dog, it isn't called 'dog bear-baiting', is it?], I don't agree. To be fair your show is one of very few that actually lets the lower class [I'd call them working class, but 98% of them are jobless] be seen on television, yet it isn't doing them much favours as a class in the eyes of viewers, so congratulations for that, I think.
I'm writing to you, as a fan remember, to inform you on a matter than you seem to be extremely unfamiliar with; cannabis. Now you come into more contact with cannabis users than a hostel owner in Amsterdam, so I can't quite fathom why you haven't educated yourself more widely on the matter, hopefully this letter will inform you on the subject.
One of your many catchphrases is; “You know what the number one side effect of weed is don't you? Paranoia!” It's a good catchphrase, nothing amazing, not on the levels of “D'ho!” or “Legen-wait for it... -dary”, but for a man that pokes fun at idiotic pregnant slags and dole queue fillers, it's OK.
My one major gripe about it, is that it's not actually true. Wire yourself up to your trusted lie detector machine and say it over and over again, see what the results are [although I do question that too, if these devices are as accurate as you claim, why aren't they used in law enforcement?]. Form my experience with the drug, I've discovered the main side effect is a feeling of relaxation. But I'd assume you to counteract this claim with something such as; “No, you fool, that's not a side effect, that's the desired effect!! It's my name on the wall!! You should put something on it!!” To that I'd say; valid point Mr. Kyle.
So how about this; The number one side effect from weed is in fact the Munchies. The munchies, is what us stoners refer to the hunger that strikes when you are stoned. It is without a shadow of a doubt the number one side effect of smoking cannabis, so how about you put that in your pipe and don't smoke it... and GET A [PROPER] JOB while you're at it.
Basically Mr. Kyle, if I'm not at work [yes, I have a job, I pay taxes, I don't put money towards the upbringing of my children as I have none] I spend a vast majority of my time high. And you maybe shocked to discover I'm not paranoid any more than the next person and the next person is usually a close friend of mine that also smokes cannabis. You seem to be under the impression that one smoke of a joint and instantly my mind conquers up thoughts of a loved one cheating or some other similar theory that you can compress into a tag-line. This is not the case. Paranoia exists with or without cannabis use and there will be high levels of paranoia amongst your guests as usually it's their reason for being on your show and providing me with entertainment, as I sit back smoking a big spliff thankful that someone's life is much worse than mine... even if he does have his own TV show.
I'm writing to you, as a fan remember, to inform you on a matter than you seem to be extremely unfamiliar with; cannabis. Now you come into more contact with cannabis users than a hostel owner in Amsterdam, so I can't quite fathom why you haven't educated yourself more widely on the matter, hopefully this letter will inform you on the subject.
One of your many catchphrases is; “You know what the number one side effect of weed is don't you? Paranoia!” It's a good catchphrase, nothing amazing, not on the levels of “D'ho!” or “Legen-wait for it... -dary”, but for a man that pokes fun at idiotic pregnant slags and dole queue fillers, it's OK.
My one major gripe about it, is that it's not actually true. Wire yourself up to your trusted lie detector machine and say it over and over again, see what the results are [although I do question that too, if these devices are as accurate as you claim, why aren't they used in law enforcement?]. Form my experience with the drug, I've discovered the main side effect is a feeling of relaxation. But I'd assume you to counteract this claim with something such as; “No, you fool, that's not a side effect, that's the desired effect!! It's my name on the wall!! You should put something on it!!” To that I'd say; valid point Mr. Kyle.
So how about this; The number one side effect from weed is in fact the Munchies. The munchies, is what us stoners refer to the hunger that strikes when you are stoned. It is without a shadow of a doubt the number one side effect of smoking cannabis, so how about you put that in your pipe and don't smoke it... and GET A [PROPER] JOB while you're at it.
Basically Mr. Kyle, if I'm not at work [yes, I have a job, I pay taxes, I don't put money towards the upbringing of my children as I have none] I spend a vast majority of my time high. And you maybe shocked to discover I'm not paranoid any more than the next person and the next person is usually a close friend of mine that also smokes cannabis. You seem to be under the impression that one smoke of a joint and instantly my mind conquers up thoughts of a loved one cheating or some other similar theory that you can compress into a tag-line. This is not the case. Paranoia exists with or without cannabis use and there will be high levels of paranoia amongst your guests as usually it's their reason for being on your show and providing me with entertainment, as I sit back smoking a big spliff thankful that someone's life is much worse than mine... even if he does have his own TV show.
Thursday 12 January 2012
#kimjongilfacts
I'm on Twitter, I joined in a hope that it'd be useful, something I could use when making hilarious off-the-cuff comments. But usually when I utter a rib tickling one-liner amongst friends I just sit there soaking up the gratitude from those within ear shot, instead of pulling out my phone to share it with my massive legion of [24] followers. Anyway, here's a little theme I had going; Kim Jong-il Facts; 100% made up, I started this on the 18th October, then when Kim died other Tweeters jacked the hashtag and started posting true Kim facts.
Kim Jong-il’s rap name is Kim Jong-illest
Kim Jong-il’s rap aliases are Kim Jong-iller, Kim Jong-illin’ and Lil’ Kim… Jong-il
Kim Jong-illest's first track was a diss to Kim Hwang-sik, entitled; "I'll end your Korea"
Kim Jong-illest's 2nd track was also a diss to Kim Hwang-sik, entitled; "I'll leave you Seoul-less"
North Koreans refer to pulling a whitey [from too much weed] as being Kim Bong-ill
Kim Jong-il's first film role was as a giant monkey that savages South Korea in "Kim Kong-il"
Kim Jong-il is so self-obsessed that his internet homepage is http://kimjongillookingatthings.tumblr.com/
Contrary to popular belief; Kim Jong-il has never been lonely/ronery
The questions from Kim Jong-il on Ask Rhod Gilbert are actually from the Dear Leader, he also gets a writers credit & paid
#Gadaffi is dead. Kim Jong-il doesn't care and isn't worried
Coca Cola isn't sold in North Korea, instead they sell Kim Kola; made entirely from Kim Jong-il's sweat
Kim Jong-il hosts North Korea's highest rated cooking show; "Ready, Steady, Crufts"
If you flip a North Korean coin (featuring the image of Kim Jong-il) it will land on heads 100% of the time
Kim Jong-il was set to join the NK squad vs Uzbekistan, but FIFA blocked it as Kim's boots are made from solid gold
Kim Jong-il; "Dear Leader" is a mistranslation, it's actually "Deer Leader" as he is able to communicate with the animal
Kim Jong-il has won North Korea's Got Talent for 3 years running
Kim Jong-il's 1st Year on North Korea Has Talent; He disproved the existence of Democracy while juggling kittens
Kim Jong-il's 2nd Year on North Korea Has Talent; He acted out 12 Angry Man in it's entirety, playing all roles
Kim Jong-il's 3rd Year on North Korea Has Talent; He sat in a chair for five minutes
Hennessy Cognac shares have taken a nose dive after the death of Kim Jong-il
I was tweeting #kimjongilfacts, before the man died, cos I'm cool like that, anyone doing it now was simply scared of any repercussions
Kim Jong-il’s rap name is Kim Jong-illest
Kim Jong-il’s rap aliases are Kim Jong-iller, Kim Jong-illin’ and Lil’ Kim… Jong-il
Kim Jong-illest's first track was a diss to Kim Hwang-sik, entitled; "I'll end your Korea"
Kim Jong-illest's 2nd track was also a diss to Kim Hwang-sik, entitled; "I'll leave you Seoul-less"
North Koreans refer to pulling a whitey [from too much weed] as being Kim Bong-ill
Kim Jong-il's first film role was as a giant monkey that savages South Korea in "Kim Kong-il"
Kim Jong-il is so self-obsessed that his internet homepage is http://kimjongillookingatthings.tumblr.com/
Contrary to popular belief; Kim Jong-il has never been lonely/ronery
The questions from Kim Jong-il on Ask Rhod Gilbert are actually from the Dear Leader, he also gets a writers credit & paid
#Gadaffi is dead. Kim Jong-il doesn't care and isn't worried
Coca Cola isn't sold in North Korea, instead they sell Kim Kola; made entirely from Kim Jong-il's sweat
Kim Jong-il hosts North Korea's highest rated cooking show; "Ready, Steady, Crufts"
If you flip a North Korean coin (featuring the image of Kim Jong-il) it will land on heads 100% of the time
Kim Jong-il was set to join the NK squad vs Uzbekistan, but FIFA blocked it as Kim's boots are made from solid gold
Kim Jong-il; "Dear Leader" is a mistranslation, it's actually "Deer Leader" as he is able to communicate with the animal
Kim Jong-il has won North Korea's Got Talent for 3 years running
Kim Jong-il's 1st Year on North Korea Has Talent; He disproved the existence of Democracy while juggling kittens
Kim Jong-il's 2nd Year on North Korea Has Talent; He acted out 12 Angry Man in it's entirety, playing all roles
Kim Jong-il's 3rd Year on North Korea Has Talent; He sat in a chair for five minutes
Hennessy Cognac shares have taken a nose dive after the death of Kim Jong-il
I was tweeting #kimjongilfacts, before the man died, cos I'm cool like that, anyone doing it now was simply scared of any repercussions
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