John Terry: f**king white c**t!

I'm going to preface this article by telling you that I don't like John Terry.  The man can do some nice kicks, and just as many excellent runs, but more prevalent is the fact that he's a fucking moron, and should have been stripped of the England Captaincy a long time ago if he ever deserved it at all.  Having said that, I do believe that his recent controversy has been blown out of all proportion, has been misread, misrepresented and is a true misunderstanding of what racism actually means.  For those of you unfamiliar with the story go here, or just google "John Terry Racism."  The long and the short of it is basically that the England football captain called another player a "fucking black cunt" during a game, it was caught on camera and now he's in trouble.

The story is being followed endlessly by the news with the focus now turning to racism in the game as a whole.  I have issues with the whole saga, and it has annoyed me to the point where I need to start telling people about it.

Racism, in its truest form, is essentially the belief in superiority based on ethnicity, and the discrimination that follows from that line of reasoning.  The traditional paradigm would be, "white people are better than black people", although its scope is obviously much wider.  Terry's comment is ostensibly racist in content, but to extend that to the point where he's labeled a racist is naught more than hysterical oversimplification.  The real issue here is offensive language in general, not racist language.

Offensive language is a choice of words designed to cause harm.  If I call you a "motherfucker" am I saying that I literally think you have sex with your mother?  No.  If I call you a twat, am I sexist for referring to you by a lady's happy-bush?  No.  If I call someone a ginger, I don't literally think that I'm better than that person.  They could have any hair colour and that would be true.  What I'm actually doing is picking a feature of their's which I think will cause them harm when I treat that term as an insult.  John Terry doesn't believe in the innate inferiority of black people.  He's just a simpleton whose aptitude for hurting people's feelings got caught on camera.  Do you think there'd be all this media hype if John Terry had called this guy a bastard having known his parents weren't married.  It seems unlikely.  Difference is, race is a sensitive topic; illegitimacy is not.

In my mind, true racism is such an anachronistic concept that it's almost laughable; think of the homophobia practiced by the Westboro Baptist Church.  Their belief in the crimes of deviant sexuality is not only baffling, but hilarious to most people.  Aside from the small minority of actual rasicts, most people would say the same of racism.  Of course discrimination based on race still exists, just as it does based on gender, sexual orientation, aesthetics, etc.  People are always going to be different and those differences are always going to create problems and cause divides.  John Terry doesn't really believe that black people are inferior to him.  He just knew the words which would be the most hurtful.  Placing this huge focus on race and racism isn't going to help the problem go away; if anything, it compounds the issue.

When arguments about taste, acceptability and decency arise, I try to ignore them.  I'm more than happy for offence to be caused and for people to get upset.  Boundaries are never pushed and opinions are never changed by accepting the status quo.  But for the love of God, John Terry is not an actual bigot.  Wait until he joins the KKK, then call him a racist.  Until then, these retarded, nigger-loving faggots need to climb down from their moral high ground, wipe the sand from their vaginas and let.it.go!  I bet they're on their periods or something.

Wham, bam, diazepam!

I don't believe in luck, I don't believe in coincidence, I don't believe in jixing, the power of prayer, murphy's law, or any of that crap.  As far as I'm concerned those are all just words we've invented to try and apply meaning to things we think we should understand.  Perhaps you're hoping for a sunny day.  For whatever reason it may be incredibly important to you that the weather's nice.  So if you then verbalise this desire for sun and it does rain, have you jinxed yourself?  Is it raining because you didn't want it to?  No, of course it's not; no more than it's raining because there were some people who did want rain, but you're a liar if you claim you've never thought in those terms.  There is literally nothing within your power that can affect the weather on any day under any set of circumstances but it doesn't stop us thinking that our actions have pull over incidental circumstance.

Parenthetically, to a degree I do believe in Karma, but not in the spiritual sense.  The first way is scientific: "what goes around, comes around" is, more or less, just a poetic way of phrasing the principle in physics that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  The second reason is sociological: if you're bad, and you do bad things, you're likely going to spend your time around other bad people.  Through your bad actions you've placed yourself in a position where you're statistically more likely to have bad things happen to you.  If you hang out with thieves, eventually someone's going to rip you off.  It's Karma without all the Hocus Pocus.  But I digress.

Something happened to me today which got me thinking about all this.  I woke up this morning and went into the bathroom.  To say I was in a good mood would be a stretch; it would be more accurate to say that I wasn't in a bad mood.  I had lots of time before work, plenty of time for all the morning things (I'm assuming you've all woken up before and are aware of what stuff gets done in the morning).  So while in my bathroom I do one of those big yawn/stretches.  Like the mega-stretches you sometimes do in bed; those ones which, on occasion, gives you a leg cramp.  Anyway, while doing my vertical-mega-yawn-stretch something snapped, there was a loud cracking sound, and I was in more pain than I've ever experienced in my life.  Somehow, while doing my mega-yawn I'd managed to tear a muscle in my neck.  This week it took me less than a day to recover from a half marathon.  Five days later and I'm paralysed from a fucking yawn!  I spent the morning all lopsided, hobbling around like the hunchback of Notre Dame, and endlessly dropping things as excruciating pain shot through my body every few minutes.  I took three different pain killers to little effect and ended up going to the Doctor's.  I don't like my Doctor.  In the past decade I've been to see him three times, on each occasion he's refused to look at the mole on my back, and spent a solid ten minutes each time trying to convince me that I need therapy.  The last time he was actually dialling the number of a shrink when I just got up and left.  Ok, so I have gone to see him before with a list of the medication I'd like him to prescribe me and then told him exactly why I think people who go into the caring professions are narcissistic, disingenuous and that their desire to help people is rooted in their appetite for self-satisfaction.  In retrospect I can kinda see his point, but that doesn't make me wrong.  I'm not having some nosey psych-major poking around in me noggin.  But happily he wasn't there today, and I was seen by this nice lady who gave me Valium.  Every cloud.

It seems like these unfortunate events happen more frequently to me than they do to other people.  If you read back on previous posts this will be confirmed: living with the lazy-eyed hungarian psycho, being repeatedly stung by wasps, getting flipped-off by cripples, etc.  Does stuff like this happen to everyone?  Do I just fixate on this kind of stuff more?  Like I stated in the preamble, I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in the philosophy that I've done something to "deserve" this.  The cards of the universe are dealt arbitrarily and all I can do is play them as best I can.  So hands up if any of you have ever torn a muscle while yawning?!  No, didn't think so.

I find it hard to imagine that Einstein ever walked around for hours with food in his mustache, or Madame Curie coming out of the toilet with her skirt tucked into her underwear, and I think it's highly improbable that Stephen Hawking will be pulling a muscle any time soon.  Has Clint Eastwood ever done that thing where he thought he saw someone he knew, and then smiled and waved at them, only to see that he's actually just waved at a total stranger?  I don't know.  My theory is that these things do happen to other people, only that their self-esteems aren't totally dependent on the attention of others and they never have the urge to tell absolutely anyone who would listen every time when the world wasn't exactly as they want it!

But long story short.  Valium.  Weeeeeeeeeeee!

Jolly Jog

So I ain't posted anything of any substance in a while.  Truth is I can't be bothered.  The three people who read this are more than capable of entertaining themselves.  But in recent weeks peeps be given' me their money for damaged children and, at the very least, deserve something in return.  Here that be.

Last weekend I did this run thing.  So I, like, ran 13.1 miles in aid of, like, this children's hospice, like, no big deal.  Some people have been throwing the word "hero" around, but you can make up your own minds.

Here is just some of the things what happened on the day I made the world shine for countless children 'cross the south of England.  Seriously...  Hero.

Before the race even started I was stood in line waiting to go pee when something made me angry.  There was this man in the line behind me who was joined by his bitch and her spawn.  I was so chilled at this point that I didn't even mind that they totally weren't allowed to be there, and that MY application money was paying for these damn toilets. Then the unthinkable happened.  The child toddled up behind me and poked me in the leg.  It.poked.me.in.the.LEG!  If I was a horse, and in some ways I'm very similar, I would have been well within my rights to buck his little head in.  People know better than to spook horses.   Children should know better than to touch me.  It's just not smart.

Then we were told, approximately 30 seconds before we started, that personal stereos were strictly forbidden and that I was condemned to spend the next two hours of my life listening to nothing but the sound of my own wheezing broken up by the noise of the woman I couldn't accelerate away from complaining endlessly to me about "all these damn hills!  Why didn't they tell us about all these hills?"  I'm sorry, miss.  Were you expecting salt-flats as we ran through the Woodfod Valley.  Woodford Valley!  I'm surprise she managed to make it to the end with all that stupidity she was dragging around with her.  It's ok though.  She was kinda old and flagged at 10 miles, which led to me utterly annihilate her time.

I finished.  Nothing much else to report with the race.  Except that I didn't get a medal.  When I was nine I completed a 3 mile fun-run and I got a fucking medal.  All I have to show for running 13.1 miles was a Mars Bar, a pulled calf muscle and a flyer for a 10k race next week.  You're welcome, assholes.

That evening I was supposed to get an early night.  Instead I got hammered drunk, had to get my mother to pick me up from a place that sold fried chicken, and then I filled up her dashboard with food before telling her that she was going 12 fries an hour and for the love of God needed to slow down.   I hadn't had a drink for the last fortnight while I was training, so I think I was due some nonsense.

Thanks to all those who sponsored me and that.  After I'm done kicking St. Peter's head in, I can guarantee you all a place in heaven.

Spooning

Today I made friends out of spoons.  From left to right their names are Owen, Cledwyn and Owen.  Cledwyn is cross because he is Welsh and a ginger.  Owen doesn't like it when people confuse him with Owen, but Owen doesn't really mind when that happens.

Tomorrow I think I'll buy a guitar - because without a hobby to focus your mind you drink too much and end up making.friends.out.of.spoons!

The Virgin Poppadom

Jolly Blog 9 - Hungarian Barbarian

You may remember a few weeks ago I was whining like a child about having to share my place with some random Slovakian.  I was upset because he might use my stuff, and he might take up all the space in the fridge, etc.  He actually turned out to be an alright guy.  He bought hand-soap for the bathroom, gave me a beer this one time, and he was bald so I could be fairly certain he wasn't using my shampoo.   Well, the random Slovakian went back to Slovakia last week and some new guy has moved in.  This one is Hungarian.  I'm now sharing my flat with this living-cliche of a bad room-mate.

I'm told he's 34 years old, which I'm sure would be true if it was 1995.  If he's a day younger than 50, then I'm a foetus.  He also has a lazy-eye.  Lazy-eyes that I've come across before have never bothered me, but this guy's one is something else (think 'Sloth' from The Goonies).  I think it's the fact that he doesn't turn his head to speak to you, he just peers at you through the eye which points anywhichway but forwards.  Within hours of his arrival he made more of a mess of the bathroom than I thought possible.  I'm hardly a paradigm of clean-living, but the state this guy left the bathroom in actually made me heave.  Then he did the unthinkable.  It's one thing for me to be paranoid about people using my stuff; even if my paranoia is justified and they are using my stuff, if I never know about it I can't get properly annoyed by it.  Ignorance is bliss.  But this guy, not only used my hair-gel, but left the lid off and two grey finger gouges running through it.  I then spent the next 5 hours at work glaring at his stolen hair-do.  If you have to steal hair-gel, at least have the common decency to cover your tracks; if you do something wrong, do it right.  He's already got the lazy eye to watch his own back.  As per-usual, I won't confront the problem head on, I'll passive-aggressively convey my anger and let him know that I don't like him by behaving like a petulant child.

The ridiculous thing is, my hair is too long for hair gel.  I don't use it, and haven't for more than six months.   I would have just given it to him had he asked.

And I'm almost sure he used some of my bread.

He probably has herpes, too.

Dick!

In other news, I've finally set up the fundraising page for my half marathon: link here.  I eventually decided to support "Naomi House: hospices for children and young adults".  Personally, I would have gone with "Naomi House: helping terminally ill children stay at the brink of death for longer".  Or, "keeping sick kids above ground since 1997." (I'm working on the assumption that raising money for the charity gives me a passport to make fun of them without retribution).  You are under no obligation to give anything - just be aware that not donating will categorically make you a worse person than I.  Yes, you will be a worse person than the guy whose nemesis has Down's Syndrome.

Have an average one, cretins.

From your unerring moral-compass,

Joe

Jolly Blog 8 - Cyclops for a day

If you don't already know that I'm allergic to wasp stings, then you haven't been paying enough attention to me.  If you could pull your thumb out of your ass for three minutes and martial your powers of concentration long enough to read this to the end, I will elaborate on this condition and the recent events surrounding it.

It was Friday night last week, and I'd finished watching my rental copy of Cruising, starring Al Pacino (which, by the way, no one told me was a totally gay film for gays about gays!) and had fallen asleep.  My window was shut (due to the wasp nest outside my room).  I had also finished taping up the hole in my fireplace because the wasps were coming down the chimney like little black and yellow santas, carrying sacks full of venom to make me die.  Somehow the little bastards are still getting into my room but with less frequency now that I've taken preventative measures.

4:35am and I roll over onto a wasp which stings my arm.  Angry.  I pull the sting out of my arm and punch the offender against the wall, which by now is starting to look like a waspy Jackson Pollock.  I don't have any epinephrin, only over-the-counter stuff.  One specific antihistamine doesn't work for me and instead of writing down which one it was I decided to remember it.  I didn't.  So I just knock back four different tablets and go back to sleep.  Fifteen minutes later and I'm woken up again after a wasp lands on my face and stings me on the eye.  On the eye!  I jumped up, turned the light on, grabbed the nearest object and flip-flopped the mother-fucker out of existence.  By now, I've already taken an unhealthy dose of antihistamine; other than go back to sleep there's nothing else I can do.  I did swear and shout quite a lot, but it ended up not being as productive as it felt.

9:00am and I get up for work.  The arm is fine.  A bit itchy but nothing I can't live with.  My eye on the other hand has completely closed up and is weeping from one side (from rage, I presume).  I go to work anyway, like an actual hero.  Seriously, my mettle is phenomenal.  Apparently, working in a kitchen is more than a little dangerous once you've lost binocular vision.  Perspective and depth perception, turns out, is rather reliant on two eyes.  I managed to burn every single knuckle on my right hand.  Not at once, but on four separate occasions over two hours.  Ok, so the fourth time I was angry about the previous three burns and I threw something into a fryer and the oil splashed my remaining knuckle.  I take no responsibility - it was the Universe's fault.

Four burnt knuckles
Two wasp stings
One eye

That Saturday I have never been more livid in my life, but with nothing to focus my anger at.  It's series of events like this which cause people to go mad and do genocides and that.  I bet Mao was lactose intolerant and got locked in a cheese factory as a child.

If I ruled the world...

I sit here after the day-at-work-from-hell, having just opened my fifth beer, rocking arrhythmically back and forth to Taylor Swift, wondering exactly how am I going to trick her into marrying me.  My attention turns to Facebook; it's been approximately 45 seconds since I last checked and any number of updates may have occurred.  Perhaps Amy Winehouse has died again.   Alas, no.  That most erudite and obnoxiously well-informed chum, Scott, has - for the tenth time today - posted something which makes me feel ashamed for spending my free time trawling through youtube, eating pistachios and poking my lizard (which both is and is not a euphemism!).  This particular article pertains to writing an essay about what one would do if one ruled the world.  I write stuff.  I have a messiah complex and the megalomaniacal mind of a tyrant.  Get involved, Joseph.  Get.Involved.

Here is that essay… If I ruled the world.

With a blank slate, there are almost endless possibilities for running the world.  I spent most of my degree studying Political Philosophy and as a result feel better informed than most (i.e. you!) on this subject.  Gather 'round, dear peasants.  Forget what you know and let my words wash over you.

With regards to structure, I happen to side with Aristotle: Oligarchy, or rule by elites.  Democracy, to my mind, is a phenomenal nonsense.  People, or demos, have precisely zero qualifications or credentials to rule themselves.  Power to the people is, euphemistically, simply tyranny of the majority.  Has the greatest literature on this subject (right or wrong) been written by intellectuals and academics, or by plebeians who scratch out their thoughts on napkins while they're on a break from building monoliths for their betters?

Obviously, I see myself as part of this elite, and obviouslyer I'm at the top of this hierarchy (I do rule the world, after all).  However, having the last word, isn't the same as having the only word.  For example, I have very little interest, and even less knowledge of economics.  It's people like me, who have no idea what they're doing, who make stuff like hyper-inflation happen.  There is no rational or reasonable argument why I should be have any dealings in finance.  I wouldn't feel comfortable making those kind of decisions, and for the same reason, the general population have no business in deciding how a society is run.  On an individual basis, of course people know how they want to live their lives.  But humans are, by nature, selfish.  They know what's best for themselves, not what's best for all.

Now that's all fairly boring.  What we're looking for from this kind of text is some harsh and scathing opinions (as if the above was naught but fact).  I'm well into liberty, and freedom of thought, expression, speech, association and all that gumpf.  That's pretty much a given.  There are a few things I would be stricter on, though.

Population control.  This would be a big issue under my regime (based on the assumption that the world's makeup is by-and-large the same as the current one).  Hitler had the right idea with his eugenics program but fucked up the execution (pun unintended).  Instead of forcing people with the "right" characteristics to have children, he should have prevented people with the "wrong" characteristics from reproducing.  Under my reign, anyone and everyone is allowed to reproduce so long as they can fulfil the following requirements:

They can afford to raise it

They keep it out of sight and out of my way

No gingers.

No diseases which can be transferred in utero (AIDS, for example)

The child can be conceived naturally - essentially to stop the elderly and lame from conceiving

Two parent house holds only (male/female)

This last stipulation is going to get me in trouble, I feel.  Gay-rights is essentially my generation's civil-rights movement.  I see no fault or problem with any and all gay issues… with the exception of one: gay adoption.  Put short, I don't think it is fair to subject children to what is, essentially, a social experiment.  The paradigm of the ideal family, is man - woman - child.  I'm not speaking religiously or ethically, I'm speaking anthropologically.  In an ideal world (read *my ideal world*), only people with the ability to successfully raise and support children would be allowed to have them.  Gay parents, for me, essentially fall under the same umbrella as single parents.  The only difference between these categories is that gay parenting can be legislated against, single parenting can't.  As a child of a single parent family  I don't consider myself damaged or hard-done-by for only having one parent.  My mum is awesome and I know most gay parents would be too.  But given the choice, my dad wouldn't be some sociopathic, adulterous moron, and I would have had someone to watch sport with.  Therefore, having given me the option, I choose to only allow parents who fall under the ideal paradigm the right the bear offspring.

(Additional: corporal punishment within parenting would not only be allowed, but encouraged.  Do you think a child is going to talk back to you again, if it's pushed down the stairs after the first offence?  No.)

There would be universal healthcare, for reasons which John Rawls would be in agreement with.  If you got hit by a bus, you would want to know that you could receive medical care regardless of your financial status.  "No, no.  He's only got car, van and truck collision insurance.  Just leave him there to die."  HOWEVER.  There would be an enormous tax levy against things like fast food, cigarettes, drugs (more on this in a moment) and alcohol - destroy your body as much as you want to, but you can pick up the medical bill as you do so.

All drugs would be legalised and therefore brought under state regulation.  The immediately dangerous ones (LSD, heroin etc.) would fall under the same tax bracket as cigarettes and fast food.  Marijuana, cocaine, etc, less so, but subject to laws similar to those which regulate alcohol at the moment.  Take it as much as you like, but if your use of it negatively impacts someone else (i.e. drug-driving and knocking someone down) you can expect a heavy prison sentence.   This may sound irresponsible, and there is of course no way to prove or disprove the success of this initiative.  Alcohol is pretty much the basis for this line of reasoning.  It's intoxicating.  It's bad for your health (long term).  It's addictive.  Yet, the vast majority of us are able to enjoy it without becoming mad, toothless, old alcoholics.  Why wouldn't the same be true of other drugs?  (I am hardly the poster-boy for responsible alcohol consumption, but I think my point stands for itself)

As a personal gripe, spelling, punctuation, grammar, syntax, and all the other linguistic foibles which seem so irrelevant to most people, would fall under strict legislation.  In the same way that companies can currently be fined for using misleading advertisements, they would also be fined every time they displayed the word "DVD's".  (If you don't know why that's wrong, stop reading now.  Go away.  Go away and hang yourself).  Similarly, once people reach the age of adulthood (say, 18) they'd become culpable for the language they use.  It would fall under antisocial behaviour laws, I think.  Kick in a shop window: fine.  Thump an old woman: jail.  Pronounce the t in "often": pummelled to death with dictionaries.  For example, I'm sure I've misused a few commas or misspelled some words somewhere in this (you point them out to me and I'll stab you with a quill) but, if I was fined for every one of them, I'd learn not to do it again pretty quickly.

There would be fines for driving too slowly as well as for speeding.  Old people would have to retake their test at 50, and then again every 5 years.  If they don't pass the rigorous examination, their licence is torn up and their car impounded.  Speed limits in and around residential areas would be relaxed, and punishments for drivers who hit children outside schools would have immunity.  A child has no one to blame but themselves or their parents if they step out in front of a car.  If a child doesn't already know that a car will kill you should you step in front of one, then the driver has done the world a favour by removing such stupidity from the gene pool - buy that man a pint… then send him out on the school run!

Now for international affairs (although "international" may be a misnomer considering the only state which now exits is Joetopia).  Global issues would be administrated from my ivory tower at the centre of Joetropolis, the capital of Joetopia.  The system of trade would be capitalism.  In an ideal world, I would go for communism, but this isn't about an ideal world, it's about my world.  I've essentially been put in charge of almost 7 billion idiots.  People are competitive by nature - it's what spurs evolution - and competition in trade is a logical extension.  Like it or not, but for the most part capitalism is self sustaining, self regulating and it works.

Taylor Swift would be my second in command, and "Our Song" would be the global anthem.  My cabinet would consist of the following people:

Steven Fry (Education secretary: Hugh Laurie as an independent contractor)

Those blokes that wrote Freakonomics (Finance ministers)

Russell Brand (Media and the arts minister)

Sarah Silverman (diplomatic relations)

Some no-nonsense type matron (Healthcare)

I've been writing this for a while now and have already exceeded my 750 word limit by more than double; if I don't stop soon I fear never will.  But I think you get the gist by now.  

Any and all criticism will be read, assimilated and ignored.

Jolly Blog 7 - The Mac Daddy's Back

Hello all,

After taking an extended leave of absence from both Facebook and The Jolly Box, circumstances beyond my control dictate that I rejoin the online community.  It does, however, beg the questions why and where?  For those of you looking for a reason, I am prepared to give you one.  Well, these things happened that are totally none of your business, then I deactivated my Facebook and Blog.  How was that?

In any case, recent events have led to me wanting to write them down.

So last week I went to another pub to help out in their kitchen.  Long story short; most of their chefs quit at the same time and now they're fucked.  It was actually obnoxiously quiet, and when I wasn't arguing with the chubby imbecile from Romania who was running the kitchen I was stood around doing nothing.  I was only there for two days and one night, but it was on that night that I met Callum.

Callum was a forty-something local, who was described to me as "a paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive."  I thought the staff were just taking this piss out of some nutty regular, but no.  They were being quite literal.  Callum was, in fact, the single most insane person I've ever come into contact with.

He came up behind me while I was talking about some South Africans I knew, decided, for some reason, that I was a South African Soldier and started quizzing me about the readiness of the South African Military.

Once he was done with his questions about South Africa's ability to take on Nato, he told me a story.  When reading the transcription below, imagine Callum as a 5' 6"ish, rotund chap, with thin greying hair and a slight northern accent (Yorkshire, I think).  Every word he came out with was said with such staunch sincerity and a stern expression that it would have been unnerving if it wasn't so hysterical.  It went a little something like this...

Callum: "So I was on this planet millions of light-years away from here, that was populated by these Witches, right?  And me and my mates had this broom which we had to keep away from the Witches because they were going to use it to destroy something"

Me: "Who were your friends?"

C: "There was me, John and this other bloke.  John wanted to use the broom to destroy the Universe, but I wouldn't let him."

Me: *Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh. Don't Laugh*  "When did this happen?"

C: "Ooooh... more than eight hundred and fifty seven years ago.  It was shortly before Ray Mears took over Canada."

That's the basic jist of the story - it actually carried on for more than fifteen minutes in great detail before he decided to tell me which version of the Bible was his favourite and the best way to drain someone of their blood.  The manager then refused to serve him any more alcohol, he got angry and said he was going to get a gun and kill us all.  Ten minutes later he strolled back in with (what I hope was) a plastic machine gun.  I laughed so much it hurt.

In other news, I think I've finally decided which charity to support for my half marathon.  I think I'm gonna go for Naomi House, which provides care for children and young people with terminal illnesses.  As a general rule, I can't stand any and all children, so why would I want to support this charity?  In my experience, terminally ill children are far less irritating than the healthy ones, so I've decided to do all I can to keep them that way.  And it just so happens to be the charity that my company is supporting this year, and I may or may not get extra sponsorship because of it.

Also, my laptop of four years finally gave up the ghost on Sunday, which has left me feeling somewhat ambivalent.  Annoyed: I had to use a credit card I finally finished paying off two weeks ago to buy something which four days ago I didn't need.  Happy: I have finally joined that most noble lineage of smug pricks who use a Mac.  "Oh, what's that?  You're PC has crashed again?  Vista?  Oh dear, no.  If you've got three seconds to wait for it to boot-up, I'll look up a solution for you on my MacBook Pro.  You're so, totally welcome."

I'm not sure I can be bothered with all this social-networking crap.  As much as I enjoy looking at photos of events I've not been invited to, I can't see me putting up with it for long.  We shall see.

Later, a-holes.

Joe.

Squid Pro Roe

A few things have made me cross over the last few days. I was pondering them on my day off today, and came to the conclusion that they can all be explained away in the same way. There are two main things which have made me cross and they both fall under the umberella of 'people are idiots.'

First thing: Old people.

On Monday I went to the gym as usual. I only had a short time to go there and was in a hurry. There was, of course, a queue. One day my gym will join the rest of us in the 21^st century and get a machine which people can use to scan themselves in and out of the building. Until that day you need to hand your card to one of the two people on reception who will let you in. My lack of time and the line of people had made me more irritated than is generally healthy, but nonetheless I joined the back. I finally get to the front and continue to patiently wait. A receptionist finally becomes free and before I can take a step forward some old man (maybe 60) breezes past me and the eight people behind me and checks himself through with the women. I don't think I've ever been more angry. I stomped up behind him saying nothing, just standing there fizzing in silent rage. He sees me and says, “Oh, were you next? I thought that was a separate line for the pool...” Do I look like I'm waiting for the under 5 swimming session, you fucking moron?! What on Earth could possibly make you think that?! I said none of this, of course.  I simply said, “Yeah, OK” and thought I'd leave it there. Up until this point I'd handled the situation quite calmly. Then he gave me an indifferent shrug, sort of rolled his eyes and walked away saying nothing more. It was at the point of the shrug that the mental dam we all have, which holds back the things we know we shouldn't say, broke and a resevoire of pure rage was suddenly released, submerging the quite town of Pleasantville below, and drowning the whole population. “Twat!” He heard me. At the time, I was glad to have pointed out what a social-retard he was being, and it was nice to vent. In retrospect, swearing at someone who I see on a weekly basis is probably a bad thing.

Similarly, I was in the bank last week; another day another queue. You expect lines at the bank. I was prepared for it, I wasn't annoyed. I got to the cashier and she started fingering through the stuff I'd handed to her. To my left were an old couple who had been at that desk for as long as I'd been queuing up – say 10 minutes. They were asking endless questions about every product this bank sold; questions which could have been answered with a leaflet. But no, the bitch just went on, and on, and on. Eventually her husband turns around and sees the monstrous queue which they've caused and tells his wife they should be going because they're holding up other people. She responds by snapping, “I've had to stand in enough queues in my life, so now they can.” This is a matter of common courtesy you silly old bint. Surviving to the point where you become a social burden is not a passport to an old-age of being a sociopathic, vicious, old biddy.

This is essentially why old people get mugged all the time. It's not because they're frail, it's not because they're weak, it's not because they carry a lot of cash, it's because they're assholes.

In much the same vein as the shrugging, indifferent man at the gym, I believe the systemic problem to be this: it reminded me of something said by a girl I once worked with (if you've ever had a job dealing with the public, you will know this to be true). “Why do old people always act like you owe them something?” Having stood in a lot of lines for your life does not grant you the title of Queen of the Queue, and a carte blanche to behave like a dick. In a way I can see why they might have this attitude. They begat the generation which currently supports them. Without the old people, our parents wouldn't be here and, by extension, our generation wouldn't. Yes, without them we wouldn't be alive, but that doesn't mean we owe them our lives. They're still alive largely because of the medical advancements afforded to them by their children, but that doesn't mean that their lives then belong to their children. Quid pro quo isn't applicable in a situation where the initial deed done is for the benefit of the first party. Look Grandma, we didn't ask to be born. That was your decision. Now wind your neck in, and stop acting like a spoilt child.

(Plus they drive too slowly and it makes me want to punch them in the throat).

Second thing: stupidity.

Today has been my only day off for a while, and as always I made a list of stuff I needed to get done. Seriously, things just aren't worth doing unless they're on a list. Anyways, I'd scheduled some time to sit and watch TV at my mum's house, in between picking up my mail and playing with the cat (both of which were also on the list). Unfortunately I hadn't thought it through properly and chose a time when there was nothing worth watching. The Paralympic World Cup kept me amused for 15 minutes while I watched men with varying degrees of paralysis slide around on their asses playing Volleyball. Then I watched 10 minutes of a Top Gear episode that I'd already seen, before I fell upon 'Loose Women'.  For my North American chums 'Loose Women' is the British version of 'The View'. For everyone else, it's a show comprised mainly of menopausal women, discussing topics they have zero expertise in, punctuated with obvious and poorly delivered double-entendres every other sentence. Today's topic of conversation was plastic surgery. After much clucking, they eventually concluded that the real problem was with magazines and TV etc, ruining people's self-image, which is then cashed in on by the cosmetics industries. The debate was finished off by Carol McDrywomb saying something along the lines of, “... and these women's low self esteem is then exploited by costmetic surgeons and beauty products” to a round of rapturous applause from the 300 also-past-their-prime audience members. Not a dry seat in the house.

Of course they've been exploited you stupid female! That's the very nature of capitalism. Whether or not someone else has caused your insecurity is irrelevant. It's your insecurity. It's your body that's falling to pieces. It's your problem to deal with. Stop complaining and start taking some responsibility. To add to all this, it is always on this kind of show where they hark on about losing traditions and customs which used to be part of the national fabric. The decline in communities and community spirit, for example. The rise in yob behaviour. Always complaining about the fact that small businesses are shutting down while at the same time complaining about the extortionate price of food and fuel. You idiots can't have it both ways. (I was about to explicate that reasoning for you, but if you don't understand it already then you probably never will. And we probably shouldn't be friends any more. Now go write yourself a little note to remind yourself to keep breathing).

It makes me sad that people like that can get on TV. It should amuse me but it doesn't. It's like people who read the Daily Mail. The stuff they come out with is the most amazing rubbish, but I know people reading it and absorbing every word like it was fact. In the same way that all the people in the audience are inanely clapping away at the most appalling drivel like a well trained circus seal, there are people all over the place watching this trash, believing it to be the most profound thing they've ever heard, while they sit on their asses stealing my oxygen.

… rant over.

Ok, so I've covered the old, the menopausal and the stupid. For a sense of demographic symmetry I should probably trash a few other groups too.

Umm, yeah. Those lesbians and blacks can fuck right off too! Dickheads.

Jolly Blog 6 - Events

Lots of little things gone on over the past few weeks. There was, of course, April 20^th, or 4:20. An important day for all of us I think. I hope you all had as much fun as I did celebrating Hitler's birthday.

Then there was that wedding thing. Fortunately I was working so I missed the whole tiresome event and instead earned a shit-ton of money. I have a care-less attitude about many things, but Jesus was that thing over-hyped. My sisters actually camped overnight so that they could secure a good spot on the route they drove down. I'm so ashamed to share genetic material with people who would do that. The new South Park does a lovely job taking the piss out of it – you should definitely watch it.  Link here.

In other news, for the first time in a long time I've actually done summink! 'Citing! Some of you will know him, the rest of you should count you blessings that you don't, but me mate, Ed, came over yesterday and we had ourselves a little jolly in Salisbury.

It's been a long time since I've been that drunk and obviously I can remember very little of it – as is tradition. Started out in the local Weatherspoons. For those of you who aren't familiar, Weatherspoons is a pub chain in the UK known for being a bit scummy but, more importantly, cheap. I spent most of the time there being bullied by my company for being different *read: awesome* – although I happen to know it's actually because they're threatened by my grace and intellect and couldn't think of a better way to vent their frustration. From there we went to some random bar, the details of which are irrelevant. Here are just a few of the things that happened. At some point I was caught dribbling on the bar. I'm not sure why, but anecdotal evidence suggests it may have been a reaction to tequila. I also tried, and failed, to hook up with a girl from work – I wish I could say the dribbling happened first so I could use that as an excuse for my failure, but I don't think it did. At another stage Ed was dancing with this same girl. I saw this happening and obviously it made me angry, so like a child having a tantrum I stormed over and cut in.  You may assume I did this so I could dance with the girl.  No.  Apparently I wanted a tender moment with Edward.  A few things going on there for his absent girlfriend to be worried about. Back at my house I had set up an air-bed for Edward to sleep on. He went to the bathroom and by the time he came back I was lying on the air-bed and his sleeping bag was on my bed. Why? Apparently because, “You're a guest; you deserve maximum comfort!”

It was a very messy night, and once again I escaped serious injury, which I'm surprised about for two reasons. 1) Some of you may have noticed, but I can be a bit of a dick when I've been drinking, and I'm long overdue for a karmic injury of some kind. And 2) There's a lot of stab-happy people in my town. A guy in a wheelchair got his head kicked in the other day by some of the many lunatics I share this dump with.  Proof. It's only a matter of time until I go drinking, come accross one of these people, they mispronounce something, I helpfully point out their ignorance and wake up in hospital.  Nonetheless, I'm still here and live to drink another day.

In half-marathon news, I still haven't made a decision about which charity to support for me half marathon.  I think it's gotta be the spastics, but we'll see.  Suggestions still welcome.

Hope all's good with you all.  If not, then at least I hope things could be worse. 

Later, idiots.

Joe 

Jolly Vlog 6

Jolly Jrinking II

Jolly Blog 5 - Altruism Transmission

'Sup, Assholes.

Few things to update you on.

I've been holding off on filming Jolly Jrinking II because I've been waiting for my new web-cam to arrive. It was partly because I couldn't be bothered, but mostly it's the web-cam thing. I now have me shiny new camera so the next time I have a day off I'll make a genuine half-assed attempt to film it; this time in glorious HD.

In other news I've decided to enter the Salisbury Half Marathon and now have approximately six months to train for it. This affects you idiots in two respects. It means firstly that at some point I'll be pestering you for sponsorship money, because according to social convention I have to do something benevolent if I want to join in on some poxy run. You can all look forward to that. The second way that this affects you is I need a charity to raise money for and I can't decide which to choose. I have a couple of potential charities in mind so far. The first is Scope (The charity formerly known as 'The Spastic Society'). I tend to overuse the word 'spastic' and it's probably about time I make some kind of recompense before a hoard of disgruntled Cerebral Palsy sufferers all get together, wobble over to me and kick my head in. My second idea is to do my bit to rid the world of its infestation of children and support a 'Pro-choice' charity. Any and all suggestions are welcome.

Since I last spoke to you I have gotten a new flat-mate. This new guy is called Robert and is from Slovakia (or maybe some other rubbish country, but I think Slovakia is correct). He works on washing up, is perfectly nice, doesn't make any noise, and for some reason he thinks I'm in charge and I haven't bothered to correct him yet. Irritatingly I now have to share my bathroom with him and I am not happy. I don't think he's going to mess it up or anything – I really doubt it could get any filthier – but he somehow always manages to get in there mere seconds before I want to go in, and once he's in how can I know that he's not touching my stuff?! My toothbrush is in that room! I don't know who this man is – he could be doing anything in there and there's nothing I can do about it. No, that's not strictly true. I could start marking the level of all my bottles, and I do have the ability to set up CCTV with my new web-cam. What I meant to say is there's nothing I can do that isn't going to raise serious questions about my mental health.

That's all for now. More Drawings 'n' that on their way.

TTFN, wankers.

P.s. In response to the anonymous comment left on the last Jolly Blog, the answer is none. Greedy mother-f**kers always wanting more.

Drawings 'n' that 4

Jolly Blog 4 - Soup Apparitions

Hello all,

Once again apologies are in order for having not posted anything in a while.  I've been proper busy with work and haven't had much time off.  Although, on second thoughts, I'm not really sorry at all.  You don't pay to read this, I don't owe it to you: this is a self-imposed obligation and as a result you idiots will be happy if and when I decided to post something.

Anyways, not a whole lot to report.  I've not seen 'Downsy' in ages.  I think he might have died.  'Winky', the girl in the gym who may or may not have winked at me, is also MIA.  This is all very upsetting.

On the up side, I've switched my job role at work, and so will now be working in the Kitchen.  However, going from Assistant Manager to Chef  is technically a hefty demotion, although it is a good thing for a few reasons.  1) My boss is now the Head Chef, not the General Manager.   Head Chef = actual friend of mine.  General Manager = possibly the biggest prick on Earth.  Last week his own sister told me, very sincerely,  that she hates him so much that she really wouldn't mind if he died (incidentally, his sister is the Head Chef). 2) I'm not taking a pay cut. 3) Most importantly of all, I won't have to work with members of the public any more.

In other news, the evidence pointing to the fact that I'm actually the second coming is really piling up. On Tuesday I had soup, and was truly blessed when I looked down and looking back at me was an image of the Virgin Mary.  Judge for yourself; picture below.

Apparitions of the Virgin Mary, a genuinely flawless character, saintly disposition, looks properly good in robes... As soon as me hair is all nice and long, there will be little doubt that I'm actually the new Jesus.

Seeing as I've precious little to talk about I don't think I'll do a Jolly Vlog any time soon; by popular demand I'll carry on with 'Drawings 'n' that', and I have a couple of days off next week and I will (yes, I WILL) do Jolly Jrinking II.

Later, dickheads!

Joe

Neurotica

Everyone has their little routines. I have the same coffee every morning, I shower in exactly the same way every day (hair, then face to feet, if you're interested), my Sat-Nav goes to the left of the steering wheel for no other reason than "just 'cos it does", but none of these things could be called compulsions. I do them because there's no need for me to do them any other way. They're idiosyncrasies, nothing else.

It occurred to me recently, however, that I've managed to pick up a worrying amount of ridiculous preoccupations. There isn't a discernible pattern to this madness; the things I feel the need to do are arbitrary, disjointed and nonsensical. I use the same locker at the gym every time I go. It physically aggravates me if I have to use another. I will get annoyed if someone uses my treadmill. I don't like the treadmill. I think running is obnoxiously boring, but I will get angry if someone else is using it. Actual, almost tangible rage builds up if someone dares to run on it when I want to. I recently decided that my elbows were too dry and so have been regularly moisturising them. Nothing else; just the elbows. I will refuse to throw away anything with any personal details on. It must be shredded. Trouble is I only own a receipt shredder. The hole to put the paper in is two and a half inches wide. I have to tear anything I want shredding into strips before I can destroy it and I want pretty much everything shredding. It's not electric. It takes forever. I can't not do it. I used to own socks which had the days of the week written on them. I remember being 17 and going to college in odd shoes because they were all I could find that day. I just didn't care. Six years later and whole days are being wrecked by these damn socks. I flat-out refused to wear them if they didn't match the day it was. I would reuse dirty socks (and I did) before I would wear my Tuesday socks on a Wednesday. I had to throw them away; the novelty wasn't worth all the aggro. I got a new fridge in my little apartment above the pub. It has an egg tray large enough for twelve eggs. I had to go to two shops to buy eggs because the first one only had cartons of fifteen left. There must not be surplus eggs. I could go on with this list for a while and barf up more crazy than you'd want to endure, but I think you get the picture. What I've written above aren't even the weirdest ones. Those ain't for sharing.

The hypothesis that I'm currently clinging to is that this is all a result of spending too much time alone in this shithole town. With nothing new, and nothing challenging, I've fallen into these odd patterns because there's no one around to point out how weird it is (obliquely, what I'm saying is that this is everyone else's fault). Salisbury isn't the hub of social activity that you think it might be. This small town has a habit of breeding feckless, six-fingered twats and I'm happily falling into line. But admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery. Now that I've noticed I'm doing all this weird stuff I can take steps to reverse them. I shall no longer get annoyed if locker 195 has been used by someone else. I will stop moisturising my elbows. I will buy a cross-shredder. The socks are already gone. That treadmill is ideally located for the TVs and mirrors so I think I might continue to get annoyed about that. But the rest is headed out the window.

Oh, and in other news, there's a beehive in the roof above my room and every three hours or so one of the little bastards will fall down the chimney into my room. I'm allergic to Bee and Wasp stings. There's a fair chance that I won't wake up tomorrow because I'm sharing a building with hundreds of tiny assassins.

I have also decided to wed Taylor Swift. Bitch belongs with ME!

Jolly Vlog 5

Jolly Blog 3 - *Insert life-related displeasure*

Hello all,


Firstly, apologies are in order for not having posted anything in a while.  Over the last week or so I've been moving back into my room at the pub and getting ready to go back to work; as a result I've had precious little time on my hands.  Moreover, for the majority of last week I had no Internet connection, making posting a video an impossibility even if I had time to make one.


I genuinely thought that I'd struggle without the W.W.W. (if only by making another W that much less fun).  Truth be told I didn't really miss it at all.  It ended up being a lot like going out somewhere and forgetting to take my phone.  A lot of people would panic, but I don't need to have my phone with me to know that no one is trying to get hold of me - similarly, I don't need the Internet to know that I'm not getting e-mailed or to know that nothing is continuing to happen on Facebook.  Having said that, being cut off from the Internet left me horribly ill-informed: that Japanese Tsunami thing completely passed me by, and I was made to look like a ridiculous nancy when I didn't even know the outcomes of the week's sporting events, let alone the actual scores.


In other news, the refurbishment of my pub is going as expected.  When we closed we were told we'd be reopening in eight weeks.  I asked if the builders were British.  I was told "yes."  I responded, that if that was the case, then we won't be reopening in eight weeks.  This happened ten weeks ago: we're still not open.  Moreover, as with most of these kind of refurbishments, the plans were drawn up by people that work in an office and I now have to figure out ways to work around the endless list of problems they've created.  The guy who we hired to write all our signs has dyslexia (yes, this dyslexic's chosen career was to spend all day every day making permanent and official signage).  A load of new staff have been hired (without my input), and as a result we have employed a load of people who would struggle to win an argument with a Dolphin.  My boss (still) can't stand me and we spend most of our time having passive-aggressive arguments, he spends the rest of his time telling me that he doesn't like my hair, and to top it off, he can't stand his wife so he spends all his time at work.  His work is my work.  My work is also my house.  The prick is always here.  Safe in the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing I can do to make this situation better,  I've spent my time back here fizzing in silent rage... my money is on heart-attack, although homicidal rampage is also looking like a real contender.


I made an attempt to film Jolly Jrinking II this week.  I don't want to give too much away about its content, so I'll just tell you that I didn't manage to finish it but I will do soon enough.


Today my car's odometer rolled over to 60,000 miles.  In retrospect, to label this event as mundane would have been an exaggeration.  I, on the other hand, got so excited by the prospect of reaching 60k, that I kept a camera in my glove-box so that I could commit the whole affair to film.  I'm sure you're all eagerly awaiting the footage


Later, benders!


Joe.

Those f**kin' spastics took our jobs!

On British Television at the moment is a series called 'Beauty and the Beast: The Ugly Face of Prejudice.' Much like everything else it has annoyed me. The premise of the show is to get people with a range of facial disfigurements to spend a couple of days with a beauty obsessive. The advertised ethos is outwardly for two people at opposite ends of the beauty spectrum to spend time together: they argue, they fall out, but eventually they each learn something from the other. Much like my fat-people stories, the actual purpose of the show is to let normal people (and I use the word 'normal' very much deliberately) have a good ol' look at some more ol' fashioned freaks. I believe it does however fulfil a valuable public service. It might be 'freakshowish' but televising these sorts of people highlights not only society's unhealthy obsession with beauty, but also it broadens understanding of facial deformity. I'm sure we've all been guilty at some time of unfounded assumptions about a disfigured person's mental faculties. Channel 4 have very cleverly chosen to feature people who, on first sight, one would assume 'aren't all there', but who are in fact far more intelligent that the 'beauty' they are paired with.

This is all lovely stuff; well done channel 4, we're all very impressed. However, this show has annoyed me in two respects.

First off, all these deformed and disfigured people have been sensitively labelled by channel 4 as 'visually different people.' Political correctness annoys me a lot. I have no problem with language being updated and overhauled.  Within the gamut of the English language there are hundreds of words which have been phased out, replaced or simply abandoned for the sake of preserving people's feelings. 'Spastic', for example, in days gone by was a perfectly acceptable word. After being hijacked by kids on the school playground (by the way, if there's one thing I like about children it's their never-ending capacity to come up with ever new and imaginative words to hurt people's feelings) it was swiftly phased out by the respectable members of society without official intervention. Goodbye Spastic Society, hello Scope.

Political correctness, as I understand it, is the name the powers that be gave to their endeavour to force us all into being pleasant and inoffensive citizens. It is the establishment's attempt to second guess the terms which groups or people might take offence to. Society, however, is clever enough to recognise linguistic anachronisms when they arise and capable enough to adapt appropriately. In theory, political correctness is a fantastic idea, unfortunately it ends up being over-thought, over-analysed and as a result, they get most of it horribly wrong . That's exactly what has happened here with 'visually different.' That label tells us absolutely nothing about the people in question; it's less precise than the words it's replacing and as a result all people with any kind of facial disfigurement or deformity fall under the same generic umbrella. In reality, every person on Earth could be described as being 'visually different' from any other. It may not be a pleasant thing to point out, but disfigurements and deformities are aesthetically displeasing features, which are accidentally or incidentally acquired and (given the choice) are unwanted. Everyone is visually different; these people are disfigured, and re-branding them under a different name is not going to make their disfigurement invisible to those without them. No term or word will ever be semantically perfect – you could, for example, using my definition above describe moles or crooked noses as 'disfigurements' – but I can't see how moving away from fairly accurate terms to a generalised one is in any way helpful or progressive. A shovel isn't a differently-abled pitch-fork – for goodness sake, just call a spade a spade.

Second, there's a segment in this show presented by this guy called Adam Pearson. He has a severe facial disfigurement called Neurofibromatosis; a disorder which it's speculated that the Elephant man may have had and a word which you could only be bothered to skim-read.  In this segment he goes around and challenges society's preconceptions and discriminatory tendencies against disfigured people. He goes to places such as advertising agencies, fashion shows and casting agents and then publicly critisises their policies.

What I don't like is his aggressive finger-pointing; going around attributing blame to these institutions for not being more open and inclusive of disfigured people. He was, for example, told by numerous public service employers (restaurants, shops, etc.) that they had no job vacancies minutes after the fairly attractive control subject was told jobs were available. Obviously, that's not a pleasant thing to have happened to anyone, and it does, of course, highlight a significant degree of prejudice in these industries. I don't like it, but that's not to say that I don't agree with it. Prejudice is often used as a byword for what is actually just unfair. There comes a point where limitations have to be adhered to in spite of those limitation being unearned or undeserved. I could train all day every day for the rest of my life but I am never going to be able to become a professional jockey. I'm too tall and too heavy. I'm not going to cry 'discrimination!' when I'm turned down to be a rider in the grand national. Given the choice, I'd rather not be served by 'Elephant Man 2K' if I go out to eat somewhere, and restaurant owners know this.  It's not fair, but at the same time it's no-one's fault - there is no blame here.

I don't think I'm saying anything particularly outrageous here, although if you haven't fully understood what I've said you may think I am. I don't like inequality – if I had it my way I'd be the tallest, fastest, and generally the best at everything (and to be fair I'm not a million miles away from that) – but unless you'd prefer to live in a world where every race ends in a dead heat, everyone scores the same on every test, and every photo that you see is full of people that look just like you, then we really need to learn to accept and celebrate our differences, however unfair or unjustified, not ignore them on the fallacious pretence that they don't or shouldn't matter.

Jolly Vlog 4

Drawings 'n' that 3

Jolly Blog 2 - Working 'n' that

So for the last few days I've been doing a relief management at a pub in Fleet and thus I haven't posted anything. Nothing particularly interesting or exciting happened while I was there. I spent most of my time sat in the office looking at labour figures, budgets, forecasts and theoretical stock reductions. Oh, how I wish I didn't know what any of those words meant.

In spite of there being precious little to hold my interest, there were a few amusing people that worked there. I won't go into details about them here as I can't really convey all their idiosyncrasies and nuances in words alone. I'll do a vlog in the next couple of days and fill you in properly.

I was planning to film a vlog today as I drove home; unfortunately I was joined on my journey by one of my house-mates who was working in the same pub. He'd decided that he'd rather bogard a lift with me on Monday than pay for a train ticket on Sunday – a privilege I get to pay for in fuel as well as over an hour's worth of awkward cross-cultural silences.

With regards to this site there are a couple of things you should know:

1) I've changed the settings so that anyone can now leave comments without having to have an account etc.

2) I'm thinking about making all this stuff viewable by invitation only.  I'm not entirely comfortable knowing that anyone on the internet can view this blog.  I'll let you know what I decide.

Tonight, I think, I'll draw some more pictures.  

Drawings 'n' that 2

It's Literally Really Irritating

I've recently been making a conscious effort to try and be more positive. Everything pisses me off. I throw around the word 'hate' like it's going out of fashion and my list of nemeses is getting longer by the day (yes, I have more than one nemesis). The process of being more up-beat would be made a whole lot easier if I wasn't constantly surrounded by cretins. In an ideal world I would make everyone else around me less stupid; or I'd just get rid of them altogether. Seeing as neither of those are viable options, circumstance dictates that it is I who must make a change.  We'll see how that works out.

In the last week alone I've lost my temper over a range of things from other drivers to my microwave. The thing that's about to make my head explode today is people's use (or, more accurately, misuse) of the word 'literally'. I'm sat watching Gok's Fashion Roadshow (don't judge) and this word is being thrown around like lube at an orgy. “I literally can't believe it!”, “I'm literally just gonna put this belt on and voilà!”

Gok Wan (who, incidentally, I met once at a martial arts expo. I'm not sure why he was there to be honest) has just said some thing along the lines of “I've just made this dress at literally a fraction of a price of a designer one”. Any price would have been a fraction of the other. Any two numbers can be expressed as a fraction of one another, you moron. If they were the same price the fraction would be 1/1! I'm not angry that he has little to no understanding of practical calculus – he has no understanding of when and how to use the word 'literally'.

I remember the first time this ever annoyed me. I was watching the news and there was some guy who'd just be released from some foreign jail. The details of the story are irrelevant – it didn't happen to me and thus I care not. He was being interviewed on his arrival back in the UK and was describing his living conditions; “I was kept in a cell that was literally this big”, then held up his hands about 6 inches apart from each other. Oh, I see. Your cell was literally 6 inches wide, was it? Was it?! No. If it was you'd literally be dead and I'd literally be a lot less irritated. Twat.

Gok Wan's use (and Jamie Oliver is another classic example) of the word 'literally' is often restricted to things which aren't only plausible, but verifiable facts; “and I'm literally gonna put the basil on top.” No kidding. Tit.

Let me spell this out for you all. Literal language does not defer in any way from its meaning. Figurative language does. Hyperbole, metaphor, figures of speech, analogies, euphemisms are all non-literal devices we use to get our point across. I suppose that I could argue that the word 'literal' has simply become a figurative device, but seeing as I'm not brain-damaged I won't. In speech the word 'literal' is used specifically and almost exclusively to indicate that there are no figurative devices be employed. Using 'literal' figuratively is not only confusing, it's just plain stupid.

I could bang on about the degradation of the English language and the stupidity of youth, but that line of thinking is tired and uninteresting; no-one cares. However, with any luck I will have now ruined for you all the television that is painful for me to watch. Try and watch any non-scripted show (I'm thinking specifically of things like X-Factor) without noticing every time some simpleton “literally dies of shock” when they make it through boot-camp.  If only.

Drawings 'n' that

Goat in Gas mask

Jolly Jyms

Roughly six months ago I pretty much gave up drinking. I never wanted to go teetotal but, in spite of video evidence to the contrary, I stopped getting drunk alone. For the past five months I've also given up smoking. Unfortunately smoking and drinking were the most significant aspects of my personality. When people asked, “Do you know Joe?”, it used to be that people responded “Smokey-Joe? That guy who smokes loads?”, or “That guy who's always hammered? Yeah I know him.” Whereas now, when asked, I imagine the response usually something akin to “Who? That dickhead?”

I don't have so many layers of personality that I can start peeling them off and risk exposing the few friends I have to the creepy core that lies within. So instead I decided to add a new layer of subterfuge by becoming super-fit. The results aren't yet visible to the naked eye, but it's at least keeping me busy, although it does feel weird to be doing something that isn't ultimately self-destructive.

Gyms aren't as few and far between as they deserve to be in such a small town as Salisbury. When choosing mine I went for the happy medium. Less expensive than the swanky £50 a month one but better equipped than the scummy £20 a month one that looks like it's run by the homeless. The one I chose turned out to be one of the worst decisions ever made since giving up smoking and drinking in the first place.

There shouldn't be a gymnasium in the world where at any time I am the fittest, healthiest person in the room and yet it happens frequently in my gym (and that includes the unsettlingly out-of-shape staff). Most of the time, however, my gym is a little like exercising in Auschwitz. There are the super-fit guards, who are there every day making the detainees nervous. And then there are the sad, emaciated, prisoners who come for one day, go for a shower and are never seen again. As a tacit supporter of the exercise regime, I guess I'm kind of a collaborator in this scenario.

In any case; guards, Jews, gays, gypsies and disableds I can deal with. It's the children I can't stand. They're everywhere. As soon as it reaches 3:30 the young (and generally chubby) start filing in, apparently with the specific intention of getting in my way. These infants don't even use the same equipment as me; they generally don't use any equipment. They just stand around looking at treadmills, while their absent parents are presumably sat around with their thumbs up their asses.

Coming and going before 3:30 doesn't even solve the problem. Remember being at primary school and going for swimming lessons at the local pool? That pool is now in the same building as my gym! As soon as I find an acceptable way of saying “I'm going to back-hand the next child that touches me” I'm getting it printed on a t-shirt.  Fortunately these mini-people aren't allowed in my precious gym, although I sometimes think that's a shame.  There's a lot of heavy stuff in there and accidents will happen.

Locked in to a 12 month contract there's very little I can do about this state of affairs except complain and I plan to exercise that right until everyone else is as bitter about it as I.  If I find a way of secreting a camera 'pon my person I'll film there one day and you can partake in my misery vicariously.

Snail in Cowboy Hat

It could happen to you too

Plays best on youtube

Jolly Vlog 3

Dolphin in cap

Can Jews eat Guinea Pigs?

What started as a flippant enquiry directed at a Semitic-chum almost two years ago was again puzzling me today. I now have the answer. Are Guinea Pigs Kosher? Sometimes my own ignorance astounds me. This question reared its head after I was confronted with the quote “Whatsoever parteth the hoof, and is clovenfooted, and cheweth the cud, among the beasts, that shall ye eat” and it occurred to me that I didn't really know what it meant. So I looked it up: with regards to mammals, only things with parted (cloven) hooves AND animals which ruminate are Kosher. For the culturally enfeebled, the word “Kosher” describes the set of dietary rules outlining what's OK for Jews to eat. “Eat” means to consume nutrients.

Rumination is a biological process where food is partially digested in an animal's first stomach, then is essentially barfed back up into the mouth to be re-chewed. The stuff that goes back into the mouth is called “cud”. Who knew digestion was so fascinating?

Cloven hoofed animals include, cattle, sheep as well as pigs.

Ruminants include cattle, giraffes and llamas.

Pigs have cloven hooves, but do not ruminate and are therefore not kosher.

Guinea-pigs have neither cloven hooves nor do they ruminate – not kosher.

Yes.  This is what I actually spent my Valentine's day doing.  I hope you wankers are all having a super-fantastic day.

Duckling in Beret

Owl in Beanie

Snake in Top Hat

The first in my series of artworks entitled "Animals in Hats"

Poems aren't just for women

Poems aren't just for women - A man poem for men.

Poems aren't just for women,

They're for gays and children too,

But don't be too disheartened,

If you're carrying a cock-or-two,

There's a simple set of rules,

Learn them till you know it,

Follow them to the letter,

Then you too could be a man-poet,

Haikus are for Japs,

Odes ain't for the gent,

Limericks are for children

And sonnets are bent,

First and most importantly,

Your poem must always rhyme,

Any true man know this,

It's been true since the dawn of time,

Blank verse is too pompous,

Pretentious, twee and trite,

If your poem doesn't rhyme,

I'm telling you now, it's shite!

Pacing is important,

And by pacing I mean rhythm,

But use the concept, not the word,

'Cos nothing rhymes with rhythm,

Stick to manly topics,

Like boobs, guns and the hunt,

Never talk of lady-things,

Unless you own a dress,

Steer clear of the womanly,

Like flowers and menstruation,

Unicorns are off the list,

As are babies and gestation,

Never share your feelings,

In men they don't exist,

If you get the urge to open up,

Don't write it down; resist!

Men of the world unite,

Let's all team up and show 'em,

We've important stuff to say,

And we can do it in a poem.

Jolly Jrinking

Let me know if any of the links need fixing.  Ta!