Fuck Your Adverts; Xmas Edition

It's that time of the year in which I can justify being the recluse shut in I am, by pointing out it's bloody cold outside. And while there are numerous activities I could do in the flat; clean it for example or at least do some Christmas shopping on Amazon or something, I instead watch TV and get irate with the advertisements in between reruns of Four in a Bed and Come Dine with Me.

Now you don't have to reach my daily allocated TV time of sixteen hours to know that adverts on the whole are shit, it's a well documented fact of life. Yet around this merry season brands and shops go all out on their advertising campaigns in hope of parting you with your hard earned cash but my beef isn't with those that take a well known war story football match to flog it's customers tins of beans or a servilely brain damaged child that thinks his stuffed penguin is real. Instead my beef is centred around those companies aiming at selling goods for the Christmas experience.

This year I've noticed an incline of adverts aimed towards the 'home Christmas party/gathering'. It's that; “Oh, you've got friends and family over for Christmas, you need this, this and that” type of advertising.

First on the oak chopping block is; Oak Furniture Land. Now, this duo of some young little gob-shite and his elder sales assistant [that should be heavily criticising his own life decisions as he looks almost 60 and he's in the same role as a recent school drop out] have been steadily annoying TV viewers for the last year or so. “It's like selling gold for the price of silver”... No, no, no, muh'fuckahz, it's like selling fucking WOOD for the price of PLATINUM, you fuckwits.

But they've ramped it up for the festive season, wanting you to buy a complete oak dining set for near on a grand... but what's the imaginative unique selling point they've mustered up to make you think about parting with that much cash around the most expensive time of year... “Oh, you'll need a seat for Gran!” Firstly, fuck Gran! No offence, she's a lovely lady, but I'm not throwing a whole fucking wage packet at a table and some chairs so she's got somewhere to sit. Just get the chair from the PC desk, throw a towel over it to cover the dried up, crusty cum stains and have her sit on that. Her dementia's at a point that she's not 100% what's going on anyway, give her another Sherry and she'll go asleep in 20 minutes. The only oak worth buying for elder family members is boxed shaped and even that's a waste of cash because you end up dropping it in a six foot deep hole in the ground.

What else we got? Oh yeah, the supermarkets pushing booze down our throats like a rapey uncle. “Prices cut on spirits, get all of these [different kinds] for cheap because you don't know what your guests will like!” Firstly, fuck my guests! No offence, I'm sure they're cool, but if for one second they even think they can have any of MY BOOZE they're sadly mistaken. Even if the spirits got me into the Christmas spirit and I for one millisecond offered a guest an alcoholic beverage, do you think they get a choice in the matter? Nope, they get what I'm willing to part with, not what they want, and they'll enjoy the dregs of that can of Carling.

Lastly, but not least-expensively we have electronic stores misinforming you that you'll need a brand new TV over the festive season to watch festive films and football. Because after shelling out all that cash on Frozen goodies for ankle biters, you really should treat yourself by getting into debt, hey your new year's resolution can be to get out of it again, but only until December next year when you'll need a new TV.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret, the majority of the Xmas movies that air each year are quite old, you don't need a HD or 3D TV to enjoy them, in fact if you're anything like me you don't need to watch them to enjoy them. You've seen them so many times you can simply have them on as background noise, while your mind fills in the gaps as you do something more productive like assembling that oak dining table pissed out your face.

Haven't got an ending for this as it was practice for writing again, so fuck off and have the best Christmas you can.

Amsterdamned; The Feature Length Blog

So I did it, I went to Amsterdam.

“What for five fucking months? Did you get locked up – what did you do THIS TIME Benjamin?” is probably what you're billowing out of your mouth right now, with specks of saliva gathering on the screen [which by the way; does not class as cleaning it].

No, everything flight wise went to plan and I returned home after the weekend away.

“But where's the follow up been, you cunt? I've been sat here five fucking months constantly refreshing this webpage, waiting to find out what's happened!” is now what you're more than likely spouting, as the collection of spit heavily grows on your monitor and begins to trickle down, collecting at the bottom, then dripping onto that napkin from Costa on your desk that you were saving for 'personal time'.

But let's move away from that shit and get into what you came for;

Amster-FUCKING-dam!

Let's get the most important stuff out of the way first, fuck the whores and weed, let's talk burgers!

Amsterdam may be globally known for the place to go for the world's best prostitutes and/or marijuana strains, but it doesn't pain me slightly - as the whore-mongering stoner to say; it's burger's surpass both of them, easily. Because I went to Amsterdam thinking there's a possibility I'd have an orgasm in someone's mouth, but instead I had one in mine [no homo] at Burger Zaken!

If we move away from the puerile factor for two seconds [sorry readers, I know you love your filth] Amsterdam is famed for it's architecture too. All the buildings have an extremely narrow width, but stretch back to make space. This is true in Burger Zaken too; so the chefs are right in front of you the whole time, totally surrounded by customers. So you get to see your burger made to your specifications while getting to hear all those snarky work comments. The guy on the salad was a fucking gem, I was inches away from him bitching about the way the lettuce had been cut. But that's more of the reasons I love the place, they actually gave a shit.

We visited Burger Zaken twice that weekend. The first was kinda by accident, we needed to eat and it was a burger shop, so we went in and basked in it's glory. Then Saturday, after going out for steak at 10pm, then hitting the pubs/coffee shops, we returned to Burger Zaken around midnight for a goodbye burger. I'd like to say the greatest thing was the fact that the guys remembered us and asked how we were doing – not a surprise you may think for a customers that were only in a day before, but this was Easter weekend, Amsterdam was full of tourists and their footfall always seemed maxed out on the many times we walked passed [while lost/trying to find our bearings]. But for me the greatest thing was waiting for my burger and basking in the banter of one the employees and a foreign female customer;
“So how do you like Amsterdam?”
“It's great, it's soooo free here!”
“What do you mean free? You still have to pay for things... Oh, you mean 'free' because of the weed and the sex. Do you not have sex in Norway?”
“No.”
“Then how are you here?”

I'd stagger to Amsterdam for another one of those burgers. Honestly, I'd even empower the myths of Jesus to walk across water, while kicking sharks in the face, barefoot, for one more bite of their super succulent burgers.

So if/when you go to Amsterdam please visit Burger Zaken, tell them Ben Broughton sent you, they have no fucking clue who I am, but if enough of you do it maybe I'll get a free burger next time I go!

But let's forget burgers for a the meanwhile cos you and I know you're only here for the sordid details.

Prostitutes! After my first visit, which totally shocked me and left me all bashful like the proper English gentleman I was [and still am], my second visit to the Red Light District was mild. I knew what to expect. I obviously had no need to take advantage of the products [women] on offer because for a male of my handsome attributes it'd be a crime against natural selections for me to pay for sex, but it's fine for me to look!

Seeing as it was Easter weekend and the streets were flooded with tourists, the farmers had brought out their best cattle out [that was a metaphor by the way, sadly there was no cattle market]. Honestly some of these ladies were so beautiful it made your dick tingle, until you think about the abuse they must have suffered to get to this point - then your penis shrivels back in on itself [told you I was an English gentleman].

But what I found fascinating what all the time I spent in the RLD [it was right by our apartment, we had to walk down it to get anywhere, especially when we wanted to see boobies] I only ever saw one person go to 'use the facilities on offer' even then he was being egged on by his mates so it seemed like a dare. Which to be fair is the best dare ever; “So is no-one in our group going to fuck a prostitute? If you dare me, I'll do it … but as a reward for the dare you guys have got to pay for it!” Oh, when I said 'use the facilities on offer' I meant 'fuck a whore', I didn't mean he shat/pissed on her... but maybe he did, it is Amsterdam after all.

Weed! And the decade long love affair with Mary Jane that's ruined countless relationships, soured my aspirations and nulled my social skills … but fuck it, as I was in her home town I had to indulge in my mistress's temptations.

Off the bat, I've got to say; whomever decided to have the marijuana capital of the world in a city with so many canals, deserves every joint smoked in Amsterdam's history, past and future, put out on his face for eternity. Because it's a fucking death trap.

On our first night we came up with a plan; coffee shop then bar, then repeat. Which is a bloody fantastic plan due it's simplicity, yet the roadblocks were thrown in our faces by the bulging populous of Amsterdam at the time; everywhere was packed!

We still stuck to our plan, but speaking for myself; I soon turned into a meandering zombie; lurching from place to place in hopes of cannabis or alcohol. At one point, in one of our seemingly never ending treks I was so high I think I reached what Buddhist's call enlightenment. I was in a dream state, still walking, yet at one with everyone and everything around me. I was floating above humanity, I was a higher-being, I was untouchable... that all came crashing down when another tourist slightly brushed passed me and almost sent me toppling into a filthy canal.

Now a drawback to being a bunch of proper English gentlemen, is the fact that each coffee shop we entered we thought it was fitting to buy some more weed, despite the groom-to-be telling us to we didn't have to. But what kind of person turns up to an establishment and uses a competitors product? A bastard that's who and English gentleman aren't bastards! This eventually left us with numerous bags of weed at the end of our last night and despite our best efforts to get our monies worth and smoke the lot, we failed.

Now here's the predicament... in that super-stoned mindset you start to think; “I could easily get this back to England... somehow! I bet everyone does it!” You begin to conger up plans... the best being just putting it in your pocket... yeah it sounds fucking ridiculous now, but in my mindset at the time it was genius, plus you haven't seen my “Oh... I forgot that was in there” face!

Eventually you sober up slightly and realise it's probably not worth the risk. Then at the airport, after they check your passport, you stupidly slide it back into your pocket and walk through the metal detector, setting it off. Now some G4S dude starts to frisk you. “I think it was the chip in my passport” you tell him, hoping it stops the borderline sexual assault taking place, sadly it doesn't. “Ha, you have some coins in your pocket too”, he says, with you half expecting to follow up with correct amount; “... three Euros, fifty-two cents”, seeing as his hands wonder all over your body like he's a teenage virgin and you're some passed-out slag at a party. He eventually gives you the all clear. Then you realise it's definitely not worth the risk.

… or is that just me?

Plus they had a fucking sniffer dog when we landed back in the UK!

Bastards!

Advice to Aspiring Battle Rappers

So you've seen some of favourite battle rappers spitting their bars on one of the popular YouTube channels, now you think you've got what it takes to step up!

Hold a second though, bruv!

You sure you're ready?

So [in your own mind] you crushed an impromptu freestyle battle at a random party with your secretly penned pre-writtens, now you think you have what it takes? Go at it then, I'm not going to hold you back, I'll just inform you of what's to come.

Now, for a brief second, I'm going to assume you aren't some deluded twat that thinks he [or she] can simply send in a 30 second snippet of you rapping a cypher verse captured on a shaky smart-phone in order to get yourself a try-out in a 'big league'. And that, in fact, you're some kind of purist that wants to cut his [or her] teeth and sharper his [or her] wits in a 'lower league' before taking the plunge.

If you are one of those deluded twats, please stop reading now, good luck at your try-out that'll never see the light of day. [Damn should have wrote; “good luck at your try-out that'll never see Daylyt”, that'd have been almost amusing for the two people that read this].

But how do you go about getting a battle?

You've gotta get on social media or message boards or YouTube to start finding lower level leagues that take some battle rap obsessed nerd and match him [or her] with another battle rap obsessed nerd so they can duel it out with words and multis and schemes and shit! This should be easy enough because battle rap leagues are sprouting up left, right and centre, they're like Drum & Bass nights five years ago. So you swear to the promoter you'll turn up and you'll be amazing. Then you get an opponent, you learn his rap name, his real name, his girlfriend's favourite ice cream flavour, his shoe size, his GCSE grades and the name of second-cousin-twice-removed's pet and anything else you can.

So you gather information, say he's mad 'cos his work his shit, you twist it and make it tantalising for the public... like a tabloid journalist [punchlines for days!] But wait, you're a purist, you want no filler, all killer, plus fuck the cheap angles; mum jokes, girlfriend bars... pfff … that's amateur shit, you're going to put in a fucking classic performance battle rap historians will document in years to come. But just in case you're battling some fucking cunt that thinks it's cool to openly mention your mother's or your girlfriend's full name in battle, you've got those killer flips tucked away that multi his mother/girlfriend's [or father/boyfriend's – damn, this gender correction is getting ridiculous, so I'm giving up] name to oblivion! But let's hope it doesn't come to that.

But hey, you tow the line with a couple of name flips and maybe a jokes about where he is from. Also you've got a couple of ideas brewing, you've learned some of your rival's personal traits and you're going to manipulate them into a scheme. For example, you discover your rival is ginger, so you pen something like;

“You were born with a negative aura like a pessimist’s daughter,
Yes; it is slaughter, when I break down this Ginger without a pestle and mortar

For crossing the Throne of Caesar; I'm orchestrating this ginger bitch's closing features

It'll be like when Boudica stepped to the wrong Roman leader ”

… or maybe your opponent has another man's name on his neck for some reason, so you write;

“I don't wanna get sordid about the name on your neck you've had painted and etched
Maybe, I guess, it could be a mate that has left after you've laid him to rest,
Or there once was a lady you pressed and that's the name of the baby she kept
But at the tattooist's ... did you not engage your brain for a sec or debate in your head;

And think of a better way of paying respects without maiming your flesh?
I mean; due to me evening mentioning [NAME] you're acting restrained and oppressed
Cos that's a relationship that's become blatantly stressed and must be tainted at best;
- now you symbolically class [NAME] as a massive pain in your neck ”

… or perhaps you saw his last battle in which he got an over-zealous crowd response due to a high percentage of his friends turning up and you want to highlight that, by saying*;

“From your 2 on 2s, I cynically doubt your passion
for bringing around a faction of squinting & pouting badman
that were singing it loud and brapping while you delivered your rounds of rapping

I still can't figure it out, it's baffling

they wouldn't have been less menacing if they were skipping about and prancing
But you're in Derby now; the City I proudly stand in,
so expect limited crowd reaction
from the lyrics your pronouncing at Ben in that primitive sounding accent,”

I'm sure in your heart of hearts you think those angles are innovative, original and pack a punch that would leave any rival beaten [ - they probably would to be fair].

You prep; you go back and forth with your friends. They read you a line, you say the next one. They play their roles as friends and step up to the mark, while secretly hoping on you make a fool of yourself so things can go back to normal. Every night you go to sleep reciting your rounds, you wake up, you recite them, you take a shit, you recite them. You've got them locked down! Your ego starts to boost a bit, you're mentioning it to people at work. You give them the whole “nowadays to 8 Mile” speech. They ask when it is, acting very intrigued, you tell them. They ask you to rap a line. You freeze... then you stutter... then you come up with some bullshit excuse about saying them in public before the battle. Then you worry.

But you're fucked. The day is upon you and despite all those stellar performances you put on in front of the bathroom mirror, you start to doubt if the slightly drunken people in attendance will get each one of your obscure references that seem perfectly normal to you [everyone has a large understanding of Park Chan-wook films and Johnny Cash's early work, right? RIGHT?]

You enter the venue; knees weak, arms are heavy, as if it's some kind of cliché. The host greets you, you talk for a little bit, then he's needed somewhere else. You get a pint then you retreat to corner. You clock watch, getting more anxious as each minute passes. Battles were supposed to start at 6.00pm, it's now 7.49pm, what's going on? Then it hits you; there's more names on the flyer than there is people in the venue. You rapidly scan the crowd looking for the face that matches that Facebook profile pic you've been infatuated with putting all your inner frustrations on for the last seven weeks. You can't spot it.

You don't even notice the host approaching you, as your pupils dart back and forth like some type of medically documented eye spasm [punchlines for weeks!], finally his presence grabs your full attention. You see the look on his face and you know the deal, but you have to hear it anyway;

“Sorry dude, your opponent has no-showed due to; family problem/health issue/transport troubles/being a pussy!”

But now you know the most important aspect of becoming an aspiring battle rapper; battle rappers are flakier than a Cadbury's Flake in the pocket of a snowboarder involved in an avalanche! [Punchlines for weeks!]

You'll never admit it out loud but there's a slight relief you don't have to battle anymore. Plus technically you turned up, so you've won... you try and convince yourself. You try and enjoy the night. You spit your bars to a few of the other battlers and get some supportive reactions, maybe they feel sorry for you, maybe they actually liked it, either way you feel comfortable enough to at least give this another go! Although nobody got the; “Find a job and start that soon, cos you've made more money off J.S.A. than Park Chan-Wook” bar or your 'Johnny Cash Scheme'.

“Maybe you can reuse some of those bars in the future.” Someone kindly points out. You believe them, due to the fact the contents of your rounds means nothing to you anymore, it's just a collections of words placed into a routine that you've embedded into your memory. Then you recall the angles you took; ginger, name tattooed on neck, over-zealous crowd response... yeah I'm sure you'll be able to work those bars into any upcoming battle! So much for being a purist... bet those generic mum jokes and girlfriend bars are looking much, much better now.

End of Part 1. 

* also in this analogy your name's Ben, and you live in Derby.

 

Draft C.V.

Ben Broughton
@BenJonBroughton
www.benbroughton.blogspot.co.uk

Profile
I'm a pessimistic, borderline alcoholic with underlining issues with rage and delusions of grandeur. I attended the University of Derby in which I developed numerous skills that I am unable to translate to the 'real world'. I have the ability to complete tasks on my own [if you keep your nose out my business for long enough] and I can begrudgingly work in a team of idiots [as long as one team member promises to be the fall guy when the task is incomplete].

Qualifications

A glorified GCSE in Media Studies from the University of Derby.

• Emphasis on ducking lectures and coming up with elaborate lies to cover my back.
• Being a general nuisance and interrupting other student's education.
• Piss off if you want a third thing!

Work Experience

[Company Name Removed, due to embarrassment] 

[Nov 2010 – Present]

My role in the company is to come up with innovative strategies to maximise sales of cheap shit to idiotic consumers before they either realise the possession won't fill the void in their empty lives or they die. This role has also helped me develop numerous skills such as being able to put on a sympathetic face to someone while really not caring if they live or die. I've also learned to contain my discontent that I'm vastly underpaid for the title and job I have, while being able to mask my frustration that those in roles above me, pass off my ideas as their own, to aid their careers. I have excellent customer service for the first 3-8 minutes of each shift. I'm able to lead an average team into getting great results and also able to berate a below-average team into suicide.

[Major Supermarket, last time I checked]

[Oct 2002 – Nov 2010]

My role in this company primed my distaste for the entire human population that I'd later expand on in my next job. This job taught me I'd never achieve anything as my blond hair wasn't long enough, I didn't have massive tits and my sexual organs were on the outside of my body.

Interests

I like following OAPs around in a hoody to make them suspicious about me. I like to belittle other races in a non-racist way. My biggest passion is obviously writing … my friend's phone numbers in public toilets, offering free gay sex. I have an extremely expansive collection of toenail clippings that I hope one day will make me tens of pounds.

Achievements

Never been imprisoned for drug offences, fraud or murder. Haven't wet myself in well over a week.

Amsterdamned; The Prelude

After almost a decade I'm returning to what 'my people' claim as our 'Mecca'; Amsterdam.

By 'my people' I'm obviously referring to stoners and not sexually-deprived-perverts [haven't fallen into that category for ages – there's a smug look on my face as I write this]. I'm less Red Light District more Red Eyed District.

It's less than a week now and the excitement is starting to kick in as I haven't had what I'd class as a holiday since my first trip to 'Dam at the tender age of 18. It's hard to get away when you're caught up in a cycle of bills, shitty wage and crippling alcoholism, but luckily [as with most big events in my life, it's been planned out for me].

As a rapidly advance towards middle-age prematurely, I find less and less things I want to leave my home for [work, food, medium-large house fires], let alone my city [family weddings/funerals] and in turn; let alone my country [rape charge/pregnant girlfriend]. But it's a fucking stag-do in Amsterdam! That's harder to turn down than a... fucking stag-do in Amsterdam [sorry nothing else compares]!

I've only ever been on one stag-do before due to my antisocial attributes and obvious fact that the majority of my friends resemble Sloth from The Goonies [no offence guys, we flock together after all]. On that stag-do I was slightly out of step with the gentlemen present due to my selfish attributes of not visiting my home town and childhood friends. It's hard to re-carve out that same wise-cracking character you spent all those adolescent years building in the space of a weekend, especially with a whole new bunch of faces that have already implanted their place into your former group in your six year absence.

But this time it'll be different as we're rolling with just a four man team; me, [my BFAM;] French, [the Stag;] Chilli and [the random;] Chilli's brother-in-law [aka the guy we accidentally leave behind due to running up a large tab at a coffee shop]. Four [/eventually three] is workable amount of people, less opinions and easier to come to a decision, especially because I know how to manipulate them.

I understand that the Red Light District is a stag-do hotspot, but I think we'll be giving it a miss. AS WE'RE ALL IN VERY LOVING, STABLE RELATIONSHIPS [hopefully that sentence excuses me from buying a round for the boys]. Plus I entered the Right Light District on my last visit; it was surreal, scummy and rife with STI's – it's kind of the embodiment of me if I was an area in Amsterdam. And nothing quite prepares you for seeing scantly clad women dancing in windows. I found it quite fearful, as if some manikins had suddenly come alive and wanted to repopulate the Earth with their half-human bastard offspring. Although that could stem from a childhood fear due to a shop-window model toppling over onto me in a provocative manner. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but prostitution should stick to the classic methods; cards in public telephone boxes, names and numbers penned in public toilets and not-so-sly adverts on craigslist.

But if we're not going to bang Eastern European whores and them get forced out of more money by their pimps, what are we going to do?

… get high... obviously!

But I don't want to be one of those guys that only goes to Amsterdam to just smoke weed because the fact is you could shop around at home and spend the weekend in your house getting high on different strains for half the price of a trip to 'Dam. We need to at least do something cultural while we're stoned.

I haven't run these ideas pass the boys yet but I think I'm on to some winners;

Play 'Hide & Seek' in the Anne Frank museum.

Go to the Sex Museum and erect my own monument [get it; erect my own monument].

OK, so I didn't as many ideas as I initially thought. I was tempted by a visit to the Torture Museum, but I already deal with the public on the day to day basis and there's no rack or body manipulating device more torturous than that, so I'd probably get bored.

Be sure to check back for the following Blog in which I desperately try to piece together half-remember memories from my trip and write them into a mediocre post.

Ben vs. God's Spokesperson #54012254

If you've been reading this tripe as long as I've been throwing it out, you'll know [if you're still yet to kill off the majority of your braincells with drink and drugs like I'm constantly suggesting] that I'm not all that favourable of religion. This isn't quite the case [I'm breaking the fourth wall here folks... if blogs have walls that is]. I put forth the militant Atheist vibe because a) it's funny to do and b) I'm fucking good at it, but in reality I'm more of an Atheist with Agnostic tendencies; I believe/know there's no deity out there, yet I really couldn't give a fuck about it. I'm passed it. You guys can squabble about it to the cows [that you may or may not worship] come home.

That being said/written, I had an encounter today on my way to work, in which I was stopped by a lady that handed me a leaflet about God. I'm used to this, it happens a lot, I think believers must see me with a large neon light above my head spelling out; “heathen”.

Yet this time was different. It wasn't a simple; “Here's a cheaply made leaflet with more spelling errors that a thousand page novel about a quantum physicist written by a dyslexic toddler”, NO! This time God's Spokesperson #54012254 wanted a chat with me and she hijacked my walk to work! Which I thought was pretty shitty, but in context it's better than Allah Spokesperson #54012254 hijacking my flight.

You see, I'm not that much different than religion fundamentalists; as I'm not going to change my stance or beliefs, no matter what. Whatever they say will wash over me like the water from John the Baptist's hands washed over Jesus' head.* If I woke up tomorrow with stigmata and God appearing at my bedside... I'd brush it off and call up work to tell them I can't come in due to an accident with my hands and I'm having fucked up hallucinations, to which they'd respond; “Put the bong down, sober up and get to work!”

Now back to the God Squad member [*penis joke censored in proofread*], seeing as I was missing out on listening to the latest episode of Bill Burr's Monday Morning Podcast, I thought I'd at least have some fun with this lady to keep myself amused [*rape joke censored in proofread*]. Now, I don't want to belittle anyone's religion to their face [because I have a blog for that], so I kept it decent and bit my tongue at certain points.

The following is some dialogue between us both, you're smart enough to figure out whose talking, [dialogue in square brackets is my tongue biting bits].

“Do you see yourself as a good person?”
“[If you don't count the my 'somewhat' illegal hobbies;] Yes.”
“OK, so have you ever taken something that didn't belong to you?”
“[Not counting the virginities that were wilfully offered to me;] No. [In fact, what the fuck are you talking about? Aren't you taking something right now that doesn't belong to you; MY TIME!]”
“Have you ever lied?”
“[Yes, who hasn't? C'mon you stupid bitch, you're believing in a God that doesn't exist; you're lying to yourself and yet have the nerve to ask me if I've ever lied!] Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Have you ever looked at a women and had sexual thoughts?”
“[What? That question should be; 'Do you have a dick and an imagination?', Clearly you didn't go through puberty as a boy!] Yes”
“Have you ever taken the Lord's name in vain?”
“[Erm... Jesus Christ... I've really got to think about this question... um... Oh my God, I probably have.] *Chuckle* Hell yes, I have.”

Taking my answers on board she informed me that I wouldn't get into heaven and I'd be banished to hell – it was like the shittest game show ever! Then began a debate over whether or not heaven and hell existed at all. One of us [rightly] thought it didn't, while the other [wrongly] thought it did.

I tried to bypass the fact my 'sins' wouldn't get me into Heaven by telling her I'd use my charm to sweet talk Saint Peter. She told me that wouldn't work although I am very charming ['whose having sexual thoughts now?' I thought to myself - before realising it was still me].

I was then informed that by accepting God, my 'sins' [or 'lifestyle' as I call it], would be forgiven. At this point I wanted to test the waters, as lying, blasphemy and having a dick and an imagination could be forgiven, what else could I get away with? So I proposed a hypothetical situation in which; a) I stay as myself [the lying, blaspheming, penis owner] and I die in two days time or b) I [the lying, blaspheming, penis owner] murdered someone tonight but except God into my life tomorrow, yet still die in two days time.

Which one would get into Heaven?

It turns out the due to fact the murderous Ben accepted 'The Big Guy in the Sky' into his life; he gets a 'Get Out of Hell, Free' card. While run of the mill Ben, that never murdered anyone has to perish in fire and brimstone for entirety, just because he didn't follow the herd.

After hearing this news, it quickly dawned on me that it doesn't matter how immoral, evil, sadistic, pain-inflicting you've been you can still get into Heaven if you've accepted God. So if Hitler had accepted God in that bunker before his suicide; he'd have got into Heaven [although, killing all those Jews would have given him a free-pass into Christian Heaven anyway], if Jimmy Savile was a believer, he'd be in there too trying to pin-down little cherubs and arse-fuck them! Plus all those inmates on death row over the years that find God after all the pain and suffering they've inflicted on innocent individuals and a trillion more scumbags that have done deeds that are unbearable to think about are all begging forgiveness... and due to the fact they've turned to the 'one true God' their slate is wiped clean!

… “Well, if murders can get in for free upon admitting their sins to God, I don't think I want to go to Heaven” I told the lady.

But with my points made, if you start to think a little more deeply on the matter, Heaven isn't just filled with priests, good-doers and nice guys, it's also filled with the scum of the Earth, that just so happened to cut a metaphorical deal with God before they bit the dust. On this basis, Heaven probably has more murders and rapists than hell. And whose in hell; a bunch of people that didn't believe in God. OK, cool, I'll take hell please. I'd love to have a chat with Charles Darwin, thanks. Plus the devil is a fallen angel that went against God, so he's in charge of all the non-believers? How exactly does that pan out?

Devil: “Hey, you didn't believe in that guy I have an eternal grudge with and I'm supposed to punish you for it... and for all the actions you did that he doesn't agree with... which I'm now against, as I'm the complete opposite of him... so fuck it! Let's get some illegal downloads on the go, roll a couple of joints and a burn a Bible or nine!”

[Dragging you back to the story:] God's Spokesperson #54012254 then began to get into a confusing metaphor about a parachute. I think it started out as God being the parachute and life being the skydive and having to rely on 'God/parachute' to survive. I can't confirm this because I was already thinking of my next sentence and this lady was still rambling on even though she'd lost the metaphor two minutes prior.

When she finally took a breath, I hopped on the chance to hijack her parachute metaphor with; “Minds are like parachutes, they only function when they're open [a beautiful quote from Sir James Dewar - that I once saw on Facebook]... so shouldn't me and you question whether or not Christianity is the one, true religion?“

This 'making someone question their own religion' question went down like a 'making someone question their own religion' question [sorry, there's no funny metaphor for that analogy]. She went on to quote; “Jesus stated he his the prophet of the one true God” [or words to the effect]. To which, I said; “I'm sure Mohammed would have said the same in the Quran.” Which to be fair, I'm not 100% on, but I'm just going on my knowledge of the bullshit religions churn out.

She then began to interrogate me on other religious texts, to which I have little experience outside of Buddhism [but that's not technically a 'religion' and wasn't an '-ism' until white folks turned up – that's not a diss on Buddhists, by the way]. To which I countered; “I obviously can't state that as fact, due to growing up in a [somewhat] Christian country I wasn't granted all the in depth learning of each religious texts when compared to the Bible.”

But that's simply the truth. Religion is usually deemed by your region [of the world], no wonder those words are so similar. To me, religions are just like supermarkets, it doesn't really matter which one has the best stuff on offer you just go to the one that closest or you align with the one your parents took you to.

[Dragging you back to the story, again:] I continued to walk towards my harrowing destination of work as God's Spokesperson #54012254 forced her religion on me. I'll skip ahead to the ending as all of that riveting back-n-forth dialogue quickly evolved [although she'd deny that] into benign banter.

We said how goodbyes and she committed that she hopes she sees me in Heaven, which was spooky, and sounded like some murder, suicide plan she'd hatched for me.

And that's it.

*Wait, that was a terrible metaphor as that NEVER HAPPENED!

From He's Smoking to E-Smoking; One Man's Journey

I'm a walking, talking oxymoron; in equal parts I'm an immature child; from temper tantrums to a diet of Haribo, and an old, out-dated curmudgeon; not prone to new fads. For this very reason I don't like any major changes in my life, so nobody was more surprised than myself when I successfully gave up smoking.

Before this point, I'd attempted to give up smoking maybe once or twice, but both times were an extremely half-hearted affairs. They were in that late hours of the night, those times you sit up in bed with every possible fear, worry or life problem announcing itself into to the forefront of your mind, clouding your inability to sleep.

“I'll quit tomorrow... for good... cold turkey. I'll be healthier and have more money in my pocket!” I'd unwittingly try to convince myself. Eventually those fears, worries and life problems would retreat to where they belong; the back of my head, not to be thought of again until the next time I can't sleep. Then I'd drift off, wake up, forget about the previous late night promise I'd made to myself... and smoke to my lungs content.

I had less will power than a paralysed Fresh Prince. Smoking wasn't just some addiction or habit, it was a part of me, deeply integrated into the soul of my being, the fabric weaved into the tapestry of Ben Broughton. It was a friend, a confidant, a support system and one of very few things that produced a sense of coolness or an air of mystery about me. Why would I want to give that up?

So why did I give up?

I'm not entirely sure. I never minded the stench of stale smoke that constantly clung to every piece of clothing I owned, it gave me character. I was a smoker after all, my senses were easily dulled so that I'd never really notice them too much. I never truly worried about my health too much, like 95% of tobacco inhalers I'd deem myself indestructible and simply think any disease or ailment caused by smoking would only happen to some other poor schmuck. One aspect that did play a factor was that of financial costs. I knew I'd be better off if I quit due to the amount of cash I was shelling out to wake up each morning with a dry, hacking cough that made me heave.

The one major factor that even bought about the contemplation to quit was my BFAM*/Spiritual Advisor/Constant Alibi Provider; Frenchie. He had managed to throw off the shackles of suckling on the tobacco teat and that was all the inspiration I needed. Some may see this as 'monkey see, monkey do', but as we are both Richard Dawkins praising Atheists and great believers in Darwin's theory of evolution, our retort is simply; “aren't we all a bunch of overachieving intelligent monkeys?” Frenchie acted as a trailblazer for me. I've seen acquaintances and previous girlfriends quit smoking before, but I'd never seen someone I respect do it. So I put the wheels in motion and bought myself an E-Cig.

After spending a pretty penny and more importantly two purple slips of credit on my 'start-up kit', I realised I'd have to stick at this for at least two weeks to cover the costs of the thing. To my surprise, it worked much better than I expected. You see, I tend to lean towards being constantly pessimistic so when something good does happen, it's quadruples the impact. And since starting on my vapour E-Cig thing [I'm not entirely sure what you call them] I haven't touched a cigarette since [please hold your standing ovation until the end].

I'm reaching the four month mark now, so substituting tobacco for a different array of fruity vapours does actually work. But do I miss real, proper, Cowboy smoking? Do I still yearn for that orange-tipped white stick of death?

YES; more than an amputee misses a limb.

You see, the vapour contraption is good, but it'll always fall short of the original. It's like comparing a light snooze to a deep slumber, a cold, crisp fresh pint of larger to the warm dregs in a stranger's glass, a hand-job from Abu Hamza to the best sexual experience of your life, weapons-grade weed to a bushy bag of sticks, stems and seeds, a beautiful Shakespearian sonnet to a drunk karaoke rendition of “My Heart Will Go On”, iPhone 5 to a Nokia 3210 … you get the picture. But what keeps me sticking to it? Let's just say the Fresh Prince has made a miraculous recovery and is Boom Shake-Shake-Shaking the [muh'fuckin'] room.

There are some other drawbacks, despite the blatant one. The second biggest flaw is a personal one. It may seem a little strange but making the switch has made me question my morals. As a smoker, I saw myself as some sort of Black Lung Ambassador; fighting for smokers' rights. Now, I've jumped ship and left it on cruse control directly towards an iceberg... in shark infested waters... and the sharks have guns... with heat-seeking missiles. I feel as if I've put the 'Ben' in 'Benedict Arnold' [no homo].

Not only that but I'm put into situation in which I have to defend myself against the very people I used to represent. “I wouldn't smoke one of them, you don't know what you're inhaling or what's in it!” They wheeze at me, in between spouts of coughing fits and chest convolutions. Which is true to a certain to degree, I don't know what's in it. But please examine the “Smoking clogs arteries and causes heart attacks and strokes” warning and picture of some guys second tumorous chin on your cigarette soapbox before you start preaching to me. Because despite the research into what you're smoking and the negative effects they carry, you continue on. [That's the 95% I was talking about.] At least I'm brave enough to take a gamble. Then sometimes they wave their yellow, tar-stained finger at you and you get the old; “Only quitters' quit!” [as if it was half as funny as when I used to say it]. “Only quitters' quit... only quitters' quit” … I wonder if people say that to reformed paedophiles too?

Then there's the practical drawbacks. I'm a forgetful type of person, it takes me around 10-15 minutes for me to leave my house because I have to repeatedly do an inventory check to make sure I have everything. Yet, I still forget things [the system isn't yet flawless]. One time I forgot my E-Cig, not a problem when I was a real, actual, man's man smoker [no homo] and I forgot my cigarettes because fags are easy to come across [no homo – Jesus, the gay sounding comments are coming thick and fast], but now I have to power through.

Despite popular belief most places don't welcome the E-Cig to be smoked inside, so we're still cast out into the cold with the clan members we desperately tried to separate ourselves from. And they only serve as a harsh reminder to the good ol' days that we eagerly try to forget. We're treated like some half-breeds, shunned by our former comrades and not yet accepted by the 'clean-lunged'.

There's also some shitty attributes to using the actual device. One being having to remember to keep the fucking thing charged. The battery life is brilliant on mine, but it's so good it's lured me into a false sense of security and when it does die I'm usually without my charger. Plus there's the risk you run when choosing a vapour to smoke. With more flavours in front of you then an overturned truck carrying every single kind of Haribo, it can be difficult on what to chose first. I regrettably ran the risk of trying a Dr. Pepper flavoured vapour, called Mr. Pepper [see what they did there?] and it was vile. It was more of a white powdered pepper taste than that of the popular soft drink and that's people why doctors are better than misters. I still smoked the thing, just as a punishment to myself for taking a risk.

But enough about the negative aspects, there's got to be something good about it; do I feel any healthier? Does food taste better? Has my sense of smell improved?

No, not really, maybe it has and I'm too idiotic to realise, although I'm quite self-obsessed so that'd be hard to sneak passed myself. I did manage a three minute jog to my local shop the other day without having one of those vivid hallucinations bought on by lack of oxygen, so perhaps my health is improving, although I did like those hallucinations.

But hands down the greatest aspect of making the switch is that for four months I haven't had some scum-bag interrupt me as I walk around begging me for a cigarette. Nobody has barged into a conversation I'm having as I walk by with; “Giz a fag, mate!” No longer do I have to pull my earphones out to listen to the pitiful, needy plea of some bottom-feeding reprobate craving for the devilish kiss of nicotine. So if I can put up with this shitty substitute and all the drawbacks that accompany it to save myself 10 seconds of unwanted dialogue with someone that doesn't deserve to be breathing fresh air let alone someone else's cigarette smoke, it's well worth it.

[Proceed with standing ovation I halted before.]

*BFAM; Brother From Another Mother

Poorly Timed Xmas Blog

Blogs are like buses, you wait ages for one then two come at once plus they're both filled with misery. 

This is something I was writing before Christmas, but never got around to finishing due to it being Christmas...

Christmas shopping ... it’s a burden we all share [like Chlamydia], but if you’re yet to run the yearly gauntlet of frenzied, consumer driven zombies clambering over each other to buy material possessions that are meant to define your love/respect/admiration for a person you share your miserable life with; “I feel bad for you, son, I got 99 problems but ‘buying-shit-for-people-I’m-supposed-to-care-about-for-Xmas’ ain’t one!”*

“Hit me!”*

I’m not much of a man’s man; my unintentionally hairless chest and my physique; similar to that of a 15 year old… hermaphrodite… would prove that! But I easily earn some hairs on my balls for extreme levels of hatred I have towards shopping. Shopping is like eating out an arse; I don’t like it, I can’t do it right and the thought of doing it again makes me sick. But this year I actually made an effort. [Add sentence here to prepare reader for long-winded and unnecessary back-story].

As I live away from my [shitty] hometown, my two younger sisters used to take on the duty of buying gifts for family members and adding my name to cards/presents, then they’d hit me up for the cash I owed them later down the line. They don’t do this anymore, probably because they have their own lives and enough money to buy things separately… or maybe they’re just cunts. On top of that; I’m a terrible gift-giver, I don’t know what people like, but those are my short comings of being so self involved and if my family love me, they’ll learn to get over it.

This year was different. My mum had scheduled to visit me [with less than a week’s notice] to drop off my Christmas presents. This basically set off a fuse of the time period in which I’d see a family member before Christmas – without doing it off my own back! So in the few days before she arrived I spent what seemed like two lifetimes going in and out of shops trying to find my family [mother, her husband, two younger sisters and younger brother] gifts – I think it actually turned out to be three hours and I went to a restaurant in that time too.

I also had to buy something for my mother as I hadn’t got her anything for her birthday [yes I’m a terrible son… doomed with two terrible sisters that don’t seem to give a fuck about adding my name to a card anymore]. Worst of all; I had to buy something for my brother. Now you may be reading this thinking that should be easy enough, brotherly love and all that… but that’s bollocks. As much as I love that uber-computer-game-playing son-of-a-bitch, we’re very different people; I’m the handsome, wise-cracking, ladies man, toast of the town, intoxicant binging reprobate, everyone’s favourite yet to mature man-child, he’s the… weird brother of ‘that dude’. So Jack, if you’re reading this; it’s going to be Game vouchers again, mate, sorry. [Note: Still haven’t actually bought them]

Obviously I have a life outside the family I only see a handful of times a year, the main part of which is the lovely lady I trapped into a relationship and she stuck around [Stockholm syndrome, bitches!]. Now this is slightly easier, as I see this wonderful woman daily, so buying for her doesn’t present such a task. What she likes, her hobbies/interests should be embedded in my brain. But if I chose wrong, the repercussions are much greater, it’s not as if I get a wrong present for a family member they’ll stop sleeping with me – they can’t, we’re from Sutton, they make you do it!

I was struggling on a ‘big present’, I’d got a couple of bits and pieces [cheap, random shit] but luckily she knows me too well so she pointed me in the right direction by suggesting a film camera. A film camera is not a video recorder by the way, I recently learned that, about a sentence after she proposed it [Yes, I’m that stupid]. I know what you’re thinking; “but digital cameras are so much better, no film, no paying for having your photos developed… blah blah blah.” But let’s please not dwell on my younger girlfriend’s attraction towards the out-dated relics. I’d like to add I’m such an idiot that the pure suggestion was not enough to for me to go about finding one myself, I had to be aided with a direct link online to the one she wanted. Yet I still bought another one out of spite.

There are some gifts I haven’t purchased yet, the main ones being for my two comrades in smoking, drinking, joking, thinking and intense games on Worms; whom I constitute as my family away from family [although we don’t sleep with each other]. I’m almost sure on what I’m getting one of them. The other one’s a Sikh, so he has no right celebrating Christmas really [said the devout Atheist] and I know what to get him, but a punching bag with the prophet [censored]’s face on it, is hard to find seeing as the EDL doesn’t have an eBay account.

All this Christmas shopping has rekindled a little obsession I had last year with Amazon [website, not rainforest]. I know buying stuff online isn’t a big deal to most people, but as an out-dated relic I’ve never really done it. The main reason is due to my vast amount of [what some would call; illegal] downloading by PC’s have constantly been hit with viruses or malware, this has always made me cautious towards online shopping in case some computer nerd [Jack!] steals my bank account details. But now I just do it on my phone, like most ‘look-at-me-I’m-tech-savvy’ mindless drones inhabiting each others’ lives. I fucking love Amazon it’s like window shopping form the comfort of your own toilet seat, plus you can get anything on there, I recently bought a novelty toilet seat [it’s strange how my mind works].

[This Blog stops here because I didn't finish it]

*that was an adaptation and reference to Jay-Z; 99 Problems from The Black Album [Roc-a-Fella / Def Jam]. 2004.

Breaking Bad Book Store Etiquette

So, I was recently in a branch of the UK's most popular book store, and to save them getting any free publicity let's just call it 'H2O-pebbles' when I unintentionally overheard a conversation between a couple, that got me slightly irked.

Now, I understand that H2O-pebbles is not a library, although enough people treat it like one. But there's that unwritten rule that you should keep your voice a few decibels below your usual inside voice, yet this couple didn't seem to follow that rule. That fact alone made it easier to hear what these two fuckwits were talking about.

At first I attempted to block it out as I rooted around for belated Christmas presents [yeah, don't you wish you were in my inner-circle], but they kept congregating around my general vicinity, like flies to shit [could have picked a better metaphor that didn't label me as shit]. It didn't take me too long to clock on that these two were either on the cusp of getting into a romantic relationship or had just began one.

The biggest tell tale signs was their inability to stand in silence. Because when you've been together for a while there's no need for you to open your pie-hole and let a random barrage of words waterfall from the back of your throat. I do understand that in new relationships silence is deadly, it needs to be filled with inane chatter … “Have you read this book...”, “I heard they made it into a film...”, “Hey, that moody looking geezer looks irked that we're talking TOO FUCKING LOUDLY...”.

That's fine. Do what you gotta do, love birds, just do it quieter and away from me, please.

But the metaphorical straw that broke the metaphorical back of the metaphorical camel was when the female said; “Will you explain Breaking Bad to me, I was texting you when I was watching it so I kinda lost track.”

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, instead of giving the correct response; “No, you silly bitch, go back and watch those episodes again, in fact, what the bloody fuck are we doing in H2O-pebbles if you haven't watched those episodes of Breaking Bad I suggested?” [I myself would have thrown a couple of C-words in there too, to be fair] and breaking her fingers to stop her texting in future, the guy actually starts to catalogue what happens like a spineless, pussy-whipped C-word!

Deep down, I know this shouldn't frustrate me to the levels it does, but I can't help it. Honestly, this really fucking frustrates me.

Breaking Bad is a masterpiece of television and deserves to be treated as such.

You wouldn't describe a Picasso; “Well it's all like square bits and the faces are all mixed up and weird.”, you'd simply show it to a person. Just as you wouldn't half-heartedly hum a Beethovan symphony, instead you have the person listen to it. Breaking Bad is the same, you have the person watch it, for Heisenberg's [read as Christ's] sake!

I sincerely hope they went home and he [A] Clockwork Orange'd her [Ludovico technique scene, not the "Singin' in the Rain/Rape" scene]. If he didn't I hope they have a truly unhappy life together and they spawn stupid children that struggle to tie their shoelaces and get bullied everyday by my kids; Walt, Jesse and Saul.