OK, let me start off by apologising for my recent lack of blogging… although you probably haven’t realised, it’s not like this my blog is your home page… although it fucking should be, you cunts.
You see, I’ve been extra busy writing battle raps. I’m far too lazy to explain that now [I’m writing this at 1.00 am after a bottle of red wine, show me some mercy, please]. Anyway, I was due to battle an individual named Shaolin Dunk, but sadly he was unable to attend due to personal problems, so after all that writing and practicing I was never able to get up in front of loads of people and embarrass myself on camera by forgetting all my lines… and making a fool of myself, but luckily for you I’m posting my ‘bars’ on my blog, seeing as I spent so much time on them they deserve to be seen by some people. Seeing as the majority of my readers [all three of you, and I am including myself in that figure] have no understanding of what battle rap is and how it works, I’ve highlighted certain lines and explained why they are [supposed to be] good.
He’s recently back from Toronto, Canada [1], so welcome to Derby; the sticks
Where we call your mum Karma as her nickname and it’s starting to stick,
cos she comes around and goes around … the largest of dicks,
And that’s how I know [that] you’re an S.O.B cos Karma’s a bitch
[1] Mentioning a fact that I’ll come back to later.
[2] “Karma comes around and goes around”, “Karma’s a bitch” With referring to my opponent’s mother as having the nickname Karma I’m able to call her a bitch and suggest she is promiscuous.
Shaolin Dunk sounds like the name Nike’d give to some Yao Ming pumps [3]
Shaolin Dunk; a novice Chinese Basketball team, coached by a howling monk,
Shaolin Dunk; a kung-fu inspired way to dip biscuits in tea when you’re out for lunch
Shaolin Dunk; a gay twist on bukkake involving a bucket, in which your boyfriends leave you showered in spunk [4]
[3] Yao Ming is a famous former NBA [basketball] star of Chinese descent, therefore I’m saying my opponent’s name is something what the Nike brand would call a pair of trainers inspired by Ming.
[4] I continue to use references towards my opponent’s chosen name ‘Shaolin’ by referencing monks and kung-fu.
Shaolin Dunk… admit it; that last line left you aroused, you punk, [5]
You; dowdy runt, how the fuck are you exactly; ‘Shaolin’, Dunk?
Cos the way I see it; [Me;] Hidden Dragon, [Him;] Crouching Skunk [6]
Let’s say; I was to get loudly drunk and turn into a rowdy cunt
[5] I’m alluding to the fact he is possibly a homosexual, nothing original, but always fun to do.
[6] I twist the title of the martial arts film; “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”, so it makes me seem to be the hidden dragon and my opponent is a crouching skunk.
Would you pounce ‘n’ jump then pull some astounding stunts? [Shake Head]
Or announce some stuff so profoundly tough that the crowd erupts? [Shake Head] [7]
You’re not connecting with a “round-house thump” or those rounds you brung
And you ain’t Dhalsim, chump, just cos you stretch out a lousy punch [8]
[7] Here I describe the very possible fact of me getting intoxicated and becoming obnoxious, and question my opponent as to if he would respond physically or verbally, then quaff his ability to do either.
[8] I claim my opponent is unlike the Street Fighter character Dhalsim known for his arms that stretch as he delivers a punch. Here the word punch has a double meaning, one is the act of hitting someone with a fist, the second is short for punchline. Punchlines are used in battle rap to attack your opponent. Stretching a punch[line] is often a bad thing, basic translation is; you take too long to get to the point… a bit like this breakdown.
When I step up, I don’t have to put my Air Max on, to handle Dunk [9]
Cos he’s still on the contents page of “How to Battle Rap; Manual One”
Nobody here will ever heard a track from this random bum
If Mister Miyagi was your DJ - even he wouldn’t throw your wax on, Daniel-Son [10]
[9] Nike Air Max trainers, popular in the NBA [when I used to watch it at least], I reference my opponents name linking it to basketball/slam dunk.
[10] Karate Kid references! I twist the “wax on, wax off, Daniel-Son”, as in Hip Hop putting the wax on means a DJ playing a record.
This Pagan’s a mess, another Asian obsessed, wank guy,
That wants to change his name to Chang Kai, fly East to bang Thai’s, [… lady-boys] [11]
but I’ll save the hassle of this man’s flight, have him reincarnated in Shanghai
After killing him in Vaults, like I double crossed him on a Bank Heist [12]
[11] My opponent is very interested in martial arts and would like to visit the Far East, I over-exaggerate these facts for comical effect.
[12] The venue of the rap battle was a The Vaults, therefore I kill him [as in defeat him greatly in the battle, not literally] in Vaults, killing someone in a Vault may happen if you double cross someone on a robbery of a bank.
I have an inkling D’s thinking he’s inking schemes to injure me; ninja please
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Sunday, 30 December 2012
Dealing with Criticism Vol. 1
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.
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.
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.
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