Why I Don't Like Sharing Facebook

“... mate, look; Facebook; straight sucks ...”

OK, let me start out by pointing out that this is probably going to be highly hypocritical as the majority of the traffic to this site comes via Facebook, but I've been dining out on the hand that feeds me for twenty-eight years so far, so fuck it.

So for as long as I can remember – and remember I can't remember much – I've had a lessening interest in good old Facebook. As an antisocial bastard, I've always been slightly uneasy with the idea of site, but obviously I opted in due to peer pressure because that never pointed me in the wrong direction before [Line added while proofreading with a beer and zoot]. Over the years it's been good to me, but just recently I've distanced myself from it.

But why Ben?

At first I thought it was due to my selfishness – an attribute I've always used as my major influence in decision making times – has grown, therefore leaving me to care slightly less about the people I went to school with and their troubles and woes. But no, that's always been in the case.

In fact that was part of the attraction of Facebook; to be ever-so-slightly stalking people from your past to see how miserable their lives had become, in turn boosting your own confidence due to your life being marginally better than theirs. We all do it. That's probably due to the no-holds-barred spree of accepting friend requests when joining. We all took the role of an unpopular kid throwing a party; letting anybody that wanted to enter; into your little online social circle, despite the fact you never cared for them and vice versa.

What was great is you could basically watch a relationship blossom and then crumble from the comfort of your PC chair;

• Stacy is in a new relationship with Bob.
• A few loving updates from both, ridiculously over-using emoticons.
• Then one day; Stacy posts “grrrrrrr men!”
• An hour later, Bob posts; “bitchez b trippin”
• The stage is now fully set to watch these two idiots argue it out on good old Facebook for all of us to bask in.

It was all the fun of Jeremy Kyle without the agony of Jeremy Kyle himself. But then something happen, I'm not sure what, maybe people wizened up to sharing every intimate detail of their lives or maybe I've been cut off from those Facebook Friends in a cull. Or maybe, just maybe, users took a shift from sharing their own personal lives to simply sharing other 'content'.

Now, when I go online to check to see if Stacy and Bob ever got back together, or whether or not Bob had finally started paying the child support, I can't find anything in my news feed besides reposts of LADBible, shitty Vines and links to dubious websites filled with random lists like; “Top 10 Child Actors that Turned to Drugs”. So I'm going to take it on myself to explain; nobody cares about this shit people! I already follow LADBible on Twitter, I don't need to some cunt on Facebook reposting every-fucking-thing they post, the only Vine I watch is my own sex-tape and I couldn't give a fuck about those websites that list things in top 10s but make you click to each next page for the continued countdown.

Facebook has gone from 'connecting with friends' to sharing bullshit that's posted elsewhere online. You see, this is where the hypocrisy begins, because the likeliness is you clicked a link on Facebook to get to here, almost making the irony of my argument to ridiculous to bare. But I'll defend myself; I'm sharing my content. Me; Ben Broughton, I [poorly] wrote these words, this isn't the latest online fad that will dwindle in a few months time [this is my eighth year, I'm starting to think it'll never catch on]. But this is an extension of myself I'm sharing with you [kinky] and I'm doing it via Facebook so my friends can connect with it, because they're unlikely to check my blog everyday for updates due to my sporadic updates, I don't even think David B******** has this as his homepage anymore.

You see, I do this because I enjoy it, I share it with others so they can hopefully enjoy it too. I don't beg people to repost or comment because I'd hate for my content to become that very content I despise. Yes, I could simply perform a cull and remove the dead weight from Facebook, but I've much better things to do with my time, like write, play with Fiona or watch paint dry [I'll share the video on Facebook later, if you want to check it out], but more importantly, if I did remove these people from Facebook they may not have stumbled across this blog, and maybe, just maybe, I'm talking some sense to them.

Or maybe I'm not. So in the mean time, if someone could keep tabs on Facebook and let me know when it changes I'd be very happy.

Thanks for your time.

And remember to REPOST, SHARE and COMMENT, you fucking sheep.

Pussy Problems

Right, I've been trying to write this blog for a while now, but keep getting bogged down in ridiculous back-story explaining my past history with cats, which nobody really gives a fuck about, so here it is bullet-pointed;

• Had a dog growing up.
• Got a cat.
• Cat ran away/died.
• Always thought dogs were better.
• Met girlfriend's cat; Anita.
• Anita = awesome.
• Like cats now.

Got it? Good... as there'll be a test at the end.

So, sometime last year I was approached by a friend in need, I resisted my initial temptation to laugh in her face until she cried and instead contemplated whether or not I should help her out. You see, she was leaving red telephone boxes, cups of tea and obese council estate slags for red stripes and white stars on a blue background, Starbucks coffee and obese ghetto-trash whores. And in doing so, leaving behind her beloved cat; Fiona without anyone competent to look after her.

And after weeks of not being able to find anyone competent she resorted to me.

Now, my most recent experience with the feline kind was with Anita; a smooth, self-confident, independent cat, that much like myself has become well versed at relaxing in her later years. Foolishly, I'd started to base on experiences with Anita and translate them to all cats, so looking after Fiona would be easy.

Me and Anita; relaxing like old timers.

Wrong.

You see, Fiona, is much, much younger than Anita, plus they have different backgrounds; Anita; family cat, Fiona; rescued cat from the RSPCA. Therefore, much like people, they have developed different attributes. I was expecting a sweet old dear that I could feed Werther's Originals to, but instead got an ASBO teen with behavioural problems.

Maybe I'd bitten off more than I could chew, much like a greedy Fiona.

Me and Fiona; I'm keeping a keen on her mischievous ways.

.

Misadventures of Fiona Top 3;

3) I promised my friend one thing; upon returning Fi; she would be a cold blooded killer. Yet with the combination of Fi being a house cat and me living in a first floor flat, letting her out to 'hunt' isn't a viable option... and sadly I don't have a mouse infestation [look at me bragging]. Although there was a butterfly that had taken up residence on my hall wall for about a month, I'd hit it with a feather duster one, thinking it was dead and it simply flew to the other wall and remained there for a few weeks. Then, inexplicably, it came down and tried to make a break for it through my bedroom window. Unluckily for it, Fi was currently perched there watching the world go by. What followed was the greatest fight between a cat and a butterfly that I'd ever seen! Although my net curtain got ruined and there's still butterfly membrane pasted to my window.

2) While watching the TV with my BFAM and girlfriend, Fi was sat on the table grooming herself [this is the usual, 85% of her day is self-grooming], yet when we turned to admire her and her awesomeness we soon discovered she wasn't quite grooming herself. She was instead dipping her paw into my girlfriend's glass of Baileys and then licking the creamy alcohol drink off her paw. Wait until her Muslim mother finds out.

1) Within the first 15 minutes of us being left alone for the first time, I'd nipped out to the shop to purchase some alcoholic beverages, upon returning I couldn't find Fiona anywhere. I searched for about half an hour, to no avail, all the windows were closed, there was no way she could get out, yet she was no where to be found. A quick shake of her treats soon had her running to me from her [still unknown] place of hiding. 
 

… obviously there's more, but sharing 'those' stories would have Fi back at the RSPCA in no time and we can't have that, seeing as we've grown somewhat attached to our feline friend. Yes; whenever she answers natures call we have to quarantine that part of the flat, yes; her dog-like attributes come out everytime we eat and she stares longingly at our meals, yes; she still tips over bins due to curiosity... but curiosity never hurt a cat, yes; I'm woken every morning with a cold wet nose prodding me in the face because it's feeding time... but in all seriousness could you stay mad at this face...

Fiona; "I don't know what that smell is, the bin was already like that... and isn't it time for food?"

So yeah, cats are cool, especially Anita and Fiona, think otherwise and me and my gals will come after you and we'll find out who the real pussy is. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

Quiz

What pet did Ben have growing up?
a) A Dragon with Leukaemia.
b) A Dog.
c) A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

What happened to Ben's family's cat?

a) He never had one, it was a figment of his imagination.
b) It became a Hollywood star.
c) It ran away or died.

Ben used to think that?

a) People with darker skin weren't created equal.
b) Dogs were better than cats.
c) His biological father would return.

Anita... is whom?

a) Ben's long-suffering girlfriend's cat.
b) A metaphor for peace.
c) All of the above.

Write your answers on a postcard and post into your nearest bin. Competition closes 14/09/2024.

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.