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!

Jolly Vlog 2

Jolly Blog 1 - Ruined! It's all ruined!

Those of you who watched the first Jolly Vlog will have seen that I set myself a challenge to not speak for 48 hours.  No words were to flow from my mouth for two days.  Twenty-four hours in and all was going well.  Up till then I had only said two words, both of them "murder".  An odd choice of word you might think, but I'll contextualise them in my next video - it's not as strange as it might sound.

Anyway, I was sat doing nothing, minding my own business in my living room when one of the people I live with strolled through the door.  One of the two polish guys that I live with, both of whom are supposed to be in Poland, came home.  He's been in Poland for the best part of a month and I was under the impression he'd be there for another month.  Now I'm annoyed for two reasons.

1) I was forced to speak, thus ruining my challenge. Luckily, the bulk of our first, and so far only, conversation was him telling me that he was going away again on Saturday.  At least I made it 24 hours.

2) George Washington said, "It is better to be alone than in bad company."  It may have sounded like I was complaining when I was talking about living by myself, but it ain't half tiring to talk to the Polish guys that I live with.  Their English isn't great (about as good as my French) and you come out the end of every conversation wondering exactly what they've been trying to tell you.  But more than speaking poor English as a reason for my displeasure, I like living by myself!  The bathroom is only ever occupied when I'm occupying it.  The kitchen is alway clean except for my mess.  Today I was happily wandering around semi-nude (never, ever nude! Sometimes I think I might be in my own version of the Truman Show and it upsets me that millions could potentially be watching me parade around naked) and now I'm going to have to wear clothes like a vain idiot.

Annoyed!  So annoyed!

Jolly Vlog 1

Why I watch fat people, why I'm OK with that, and why I hate them!

It is part of the human condition that we are fascinated by the unusual, the grotesque and the bizarre. As you peer across the landscape of human history, our culture is filled with examples where the normal gaup at the abnormal, the beautiful stare at the ugly and the average are bewildered by the extreme. In modern times, however, the carnivals and the good ol' fashioned freak-show have been tossed atop the funeral pyre along with chauvinism, snuff, the days when you could leave your doors unlocked and all the other anachronistic talismans of days gone by.  The name "Freak-show" may have been lost as it was added to the nomenclature of poor taste, but thankfully the concept is alive and well.  Sat on our sofas we are free from the stigmatism of ill mannered ogling as we sensitively and graciously share in the televised dissection of the odd, the disfigured and the overweight.  I'm not here to make a value judgement about this kind of TV.  I'm not saying it's right or wrong, or good or bad: it is what it is, and what it is, is incredulous, addictive and flipping awesome!

As a deeply shallow and solipsistic gent, I find a no bigger ego-boost than to sit down on my well-proportioned behind and watch the obese, the rotund and the generally unfit roll around on national TV for my amusement. Oh, how easy it is to point and laugh at the modern day freak while they shed those pesky pounds.  It's vapid, it's superficial, and by-gum I love it!

What irritates me is the endless praise that these people get for losing this excessive weight.  It's a very simple formula.  On a long term scale, if you consume more calories than you burn off, you gain weight.  If you burn more than you consume, you'll lose weight.  It's something which all of us contend with, with varying degrees of success.  While watching my "ego-boost" shows, a lot of praise gets dished around for getting closer to an ideal mass: "You've lost 4lbs, well done!  Now you're a mere 3 tons from reaching your ideal weight, congratulations!"  Um, excuse me.  I'm already my ideal weight.  Where's my f**king ticker-tape parade?!  If I dug a 15ft deep hole, jumped in it, then had someone film me as I struggle to claw my way out, I'd be berated not celebrated.  I'd be lucky not to be committed.  "Why did you jump down there in the first place, you f**king moron?!"  It's like those kids we all went to school with who got endless glorification every time they went a week without punching another kid.  "I've gone 13 years without punching anyone.  That gold star is mine.  MINE!"

I'm obviously over-simplifying here. Nothing is ever as black and white as I've just tried to demonstrate. The overall point I want to make is that praise should be given for overcoming an adversity, for conquering a foe, or for surmounting an obstacle. Not, however, if those adversities, foes and obstacles are of your own making.

It's just unfortunate that documentaries serialising philanthropy, do-gooders and real-life heroes aren't as compelling as ones about semi-spastic human-hippos who can't live their own lives without someone holding their hand and constantly being told how super-awesome they are.