This is an Owl, but it has cutlery instead of wings... I may have had a few drinks.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Drawings 'n' that 5
This is a picture of me pointing a gun at Ed's head. Ed is on his knees begging for his life.
Jolly Blog 10 - Tales from across the pond
Hello, all. So I just checked, and it's been more than six months since the last Jolly Blog. I'd fill you in on what you've missed, but in the last half-year few of you have bothered to ask, so I see no reason why I should tell.
Today I was thinking about my recent holiday to America, 'bout some of the amusing stuff what happened, and I decided I should write it down, lest I forget. I'm gonna have to leave out a lot of stuff, but I'll make sure that every detail is included in my memoirs.
The trip began at the end of December in LA with my chum, Chris. We were only in LA for a day, and other than having to pull my hair back to convince two border officials that I was who I said I was, not much happened. We did see an old guy get roughed up by the LAPD during their inordinately heavy-handed traffic stop, but I should think that happens all the time.
First stop was San Diego to stay with Chris's friend's boyfriend. Spent a few days there just bumming around, not doing much. New Year's Eve was spent in some random bar where the only free table was next to the band. Literally next to the band; we were so close we were high-fiving them at points. Then some little Turkish gay chap came over and started making some shapes. The 'shapes' in question were arrhythmically bobbing up and down and occasionally lifting up his knee. He was thoroughly unspectacular, but a joy to watch and more than a little interested in Chris. Chris spent most of the evening slowly unbuttoning my shirt for no reason; then two days later on our flight to Vegas he complained that I was being gay because I wanted to hold hands across the isle. We did. People saw. Chris pulled out first. I won... Or lost. And my hands are NOT clammy!
Vegas was a right laugh. Saw Deadmau5 at some club. Calling them 'Deadmau-five' stayed funny a lot longer than it deserved to. I met a guy there who also looked like Jesus and I took a photo with him. Then I made out with a girl from Israel who gasped with delight when I told her that I thought Palestine were dicks; it really was that easy. On the way back to our hotel we met this girl who was really up for having some fun with us. She seemed very nice, lovely skin, seemed genuinely interested in me. Just a pity that she was a whore.
From Vegas I went to San Francisco and stayed with Christy in her amazing place. Met up with Christine and Rich and spent a few days wandering around San Fran and ignoring every word that fell out of Christine's mouth.
Got the train from SF to LA, where I stayed with me mate, Becca, and then with me mates Mason and Katie. I saw the obnoxiously large, blue headquarters of Scientology and fulfilled a long-held ambition to see the Goodyear blimp. Of all the things I saw, thems was the best. Went to an art event on Friday 13th organised and hosted by Becca, and went for a '4 courses for $15' at Red Lobster with Katie and Mason. Plus all-you-can-eat cheese biscuits! I did find it difficult to call them 'biscuits', as I was clearly eating scones, but so long as I'm not paying for them they can call them whatever they like.
Amusing anecdote #1. So while in LA, I was wandering around Venice beach and decided to go into this hat shop. It was a little too trendy for me - fedoras and the like - but I thought I'd check it out anyway. I should have gone with my first instinct. The obviously-working-for-commission guy started following me around giving me hats to try on, to the point where he was actually throwing them across the shop at me. This man actually threw hats at me. He decided I needed to be shown how I should wear the beanie I came in with, and demonstrated this to me by yanking on the back of it. The back of it is where I keep my obnoxiously long hair. He threw hats at me, then he pulled my hair. Then he decided that I should definitely 'invest' in a trilby. I did not. His attempt to persuade me failed miserably. FYI, if any of you want me to buy a hat in the future, you're not going to achieve it by telling me that 'it totally goes with your lovely red hair'.
From LA I went back to my favourite city on Earth, San Diego, and checked in to my favourite Hostel, Banana Bungalow. Right on the beach and a stone's throw away from dozens of bars (and an inexplicably large number of tattoo parlours). One of the reasons I like SD so much came to me in an astute observation from Chris, who pointed out that no-one living there was less than a seven. And by 'a seven' I mean 'out of ten' on a standard hotness scale. Some outstandingly good looking people live in San Diego. That facet was underscored by the fact that I had come on holiday to a relatively warm part of the world, whereas back home it was winter. I could see ankles. Sometimes I got the odd glimpse of a shoulder.
While staying at the Banana Bungalow, a few amusing things happened. Went out, got smashed, passed out at fourish, you know the story. The Australian guy in the bunk above me came back shortly after and passed out. That would have been fine if he hadn't thrown up on my legs before he did so. The worst of it was, I got blamed. I was woken up by a guy who works there, who had to strip my bed and mop the floor, while I stood there and yelled 'the Queen shall hear of this!"
There was this Chilean guy called Matias who arrived on the same day as me; we were talking to this ABK (American Born Korean) guy called Mike (I think). It was about 8:00, Matias was hammered, turned to Mike and said, "I bet you're from China, aren't you."
Mike: 'No, I'm not' (in a very apparent American accent)
Matias: 'Japan?!'
Mike: 'No'
Matias: 'Thailand? Philippines? Mongolia?'
Mike: 'No. No. No. I'm from LA.'
Matias: [rolls his eyes and sighs] 'No, I mean like "where are you from".'
Wow. Just, wow! I didn't think conversations like that really happened. Only in America. Home of the free, land of the incredibly racist.
On a separate night, I met this proper red-neck, hill-billy, idiot, fatso (he was very nice otherwise), and while we were talking it came up that he didn't believe that the moon landings actually happened. The two particle physicists who were sharing our table and I spent an hour trying to convince him otherwise, to the point where if he said 'but the flag is waving' one more time I was going to slap him. In what could have been a very foolish move, I told him that I didn't actually believe people could be so stupid, and that it really irritates me when people call in to question achievements, which in their wildest dream couldn't do themselves. He was much bigger than me, and I was being a smug, know-all, English tit. In retrospect he probably should have punched me, but I think too much of his brainpower was being taken up with conversation for him to be able to clench a fist. It upsets me that he's been allowed to procreate.
So drove to Phoenix for a bit to see the BFF, and decided to go read my book in a park. I read my book, making sure I picked a bench that did not directly face the little girls playing volleyball or the little boys playing football. After choosing my bench, it occurred to me that I spend a lot of time and energy making absolutely sure that people don't think I'm a pedophile: making sure I never look at babies, that kind of thing. Anyways, after my read, I suddenly felt rather sleepy. It was warm, the bench was cleanish so I decided to take a nap. I was awoken half an hour later by a Mexican couple shaking a bag of nuts in my face, because they thought it would be nice to share their snack with the homeless man asleep on the bench. Annoyingly, every item of clothing I had on was designer, and I genuinely thought I was looking pretty sharp. Apparently, even at my best, I still look homeless.
I've held a few stories back to give me something to talk about when I next see some of you, but those were the highlights.
T'ra, douches.
Today I was thinking about my recent holiday to America, 'bout some of the amusing stuff what happened, and I decided I should write it down, lest I forget. I'm gonna have to leave out a lot of stuff, but I'll make sure that every detail is included in my memoirs.
The trip began at the end of December in LA with my chum, Chris. We were only in LA for a day, and other than having to pull my hair back to convince two border officials that I was who I said I was, not much happened. We did see an old guy get roughed up by the LAPD during their inordinately heavy-handed traffic stop, but I should think that happens all the time.
First stop was San Diego to stay with Chris's friend's boyfriend. Spent a few days there just bumming around, not doing much. New Year's Eve was spent in some random bar where the only free table was next to the band. Literally next to the band; we were so close we were high-fiving them at points. Then some little Turkish gay chap came over and started making some shapes. The 'shapes' in question were arrhythmically bobbing up and down and occasionally lifting up his knee. He was thoroughly unspectacular, but a joy to watch and more than a little interested in Chris. Chris spent most of the evening slowly unbuttoning my shirt for no reason; then two days later on our flight to Vegas he complained that I was being gay because I wanted to hold hands across the isle. We did. People saw. Chris pulled out first. I won... Or lost. And my hands are NOT clammy!
Vegas was a right laugh. Saw Deadmau5 at some club. Calling them 'Deadmau-five' stayed funny a lot longer than it deserved to. I met a guy there who also looked like Jesus and I took a photo with him. Then I made out with a girl from Israel who gasped with delight when I told her that I thought Palestine were dicks; it really was that easy. On the way back to our hotel we met this girl who was really up for having some fun with us. She seemed very nice, lovely skin, seemed genuinely interested in me. Just a pity that she was a whore.
From Vegas I went to San Francisco and stayed with Christy in her amazing place. Met up with Christine and Rich and spent a few days wandering around San Fran and ignoring every word that fell out of Christine's mouth.
Got the train from SF to LA, where I stayed with me mate, Becca, and then with me mates Mason and Katie. I saw the obnoxiously large, blue headquarters of Scientology and fulfilled a long-held ambition to see the Goodyear blimp. Of all the things I saw, thems was the best. Went to an art event on Friday 13th organised and hosted by Becca, and went for a '4 courses for $15' at Red Lobster with Katie and Mason. Plus all-you-can-eat cheese biscuits! I did find it difficult to call them 'biscuits', as I was clearly eating scones, but so long as I'm not paying for them they can call them whatever they like.
Amusing anecdote #1. So while in LA, I was wandering around Venice beach and decided to go into this hat shop. It was a little too trendy for me - fedoras and the like - but I thought I'd check it out anyway. I should have gone with my first instinct. The obviously-working-for-commission guy started following me around giving me hats to try on, to the point where he was actually throwing them across the shop at me. This man actually threw hats at me. He decided I needed to be shown how I should wear the beanie I came in with, and demonstrated this to me by yanking on the back of it. The back of it is where I keep my obnoxiously long hair. He threw hats at me, then he pulled my hair. Then he decided that I should definitely 'invest' in a trilby. I did not. His attempt to persuade me failed miserably. FYI, if any of you want me to buy a hat in the future, you're not going to achieve it by telling me that 'it totally goes with your lovely red hair'.
From LA I went back to my favourite city on Earth, San Diego, and checked in to my favourite Hostel, Banana Bungalow. Right on the beach and a stone's throw away from dozens of bars (and an inexplicably large number of tattoo parlours). One of the reasons I like SD so much came to me in an astute observation from Chris, who pointed out that no-one living there was less than a seven. And by 'a seven' I mean 'out of ten' on a standard hotness scale. Some outstandingly good looking people live in San Diego. That facet was underscored by the fact that I had come on holiday to a relatively warm part of the world, whereas back home it was winter. I could see ankles. Sometimes I got the odd glimpse of a shoulder.
While staying at the Banana Bungalow, a few amusing things happened. Went out, got smashed, passed out at fourish, you know the story. The Australian guy in the bunk above me came back shortly after and passed out. That would have been fine if he hadn't thrown up on my legs before he did so. The worst of it was, I got blamed. I was woken up by a guy who works there, who had to strip my bed and mop the floor, while I stood there and yelled 'the Queen shall hear of this!"
There was this Chilean guy called Matias who arrived on the same day as me; we were talking to this ABK (American Born Korean) guy called Mike (I think). It was about 8:00, Matias was hammered, turned to Mike and said, "I bet you're from China, aren't you."
Mike: 'No, I'm not' (in a very apparent American accent)
Matias: 'Japan?!'
Mike: 'No'
Matias: 'Thailand? Philippines? Mongolia?'
Mike: 'No. No. No. I'm from LA.'
Matias: [rolls his eyes and sighs] 'No, I mean like "where are you from".'
Wow. Just, wow! I didn't think conversations like that really happened. Only in America. Home of the free, land of the incredibly racist.
On a separate night, I met this proper red-neck, hill-billy, idiot, fatso (he was very nice otherwise), and while we were talking it came up that he didn't believe that the moon landings actually happened. The two particle physicists who were sharing our table and I spent an hour trying to convince him otherwise, to the point where if he said 'but the flag is waving' one more time I was going to slap him. In what could have been a very foolish move, I told him that I didn't actually believe people could be so stupid, and that it really irritates me when people call in to question achievements, which in their wildest dream couldn't do themselves. He was much bigger than me, and I was being a smug, know-all, English tit. In retrospect he probably should have punched me, but I think too much of his brainpower was being taken up with conversation for him to be able to clench a fist. It upsets me that he's been allowed to procreate.
So drove to Phoenix for a bit to see the BFF, and decided to go read my book in a park. I read my book, making sure I picked a bench that did not directly face the little girls playing volleyball or the little boys playing football. After choosing my bench, it occurred to me that I spend a lot of time and energy making absolutely sure that people don't think I'm a pedophile: making sure I never look at babies, that kind of thing. Anyways, after my read, I suddenly felt rather sleepy. It was warm, the bench was cleanish so I decided to take a nap. I was awoken half an hour later by a Mexican couple shaking a bag of nuts in my face, because they thought it would be nice to share their snack with the homeless man asleep on the bench. Annoyingly, every item of clothing I had on was designer, and I genuinely thought I was looking pretty sharp. Apparently, even at my best, I still look homeless.
I've held a few stories back to give me something to talk about when I next see some of you, but those were the highlights.
T'ra, douches.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Our father, who art in Kentucky
If you're well into religion and that, stop reading now. You're not going to like any of this.
So I was chatting with a friend a couple of months ago - the previously mentioned, Scott - and somehow the exchange headed in this direction.
At their core, almost the entire gamut of religious writing are works of pure fiction. The Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon: just a collection of stories. I'm not calling them lies. 'Lies' implies that their intent is to deceive. I actually believe that there was a man call 'Jesus' and a man called 'Mohammed' and that they were genuinely pleasant people. I also believe that the books which serialise them are based on real events, but I don't believe that they hold any more significance other than figuratively.
People read these books as if they were naught but fact and live their lives according to what they teach. I don't personally believe that these books are inherently wrong, or backwards. Quite the opposite. They have a lot of good stuff to say. It does however, seem ludicrous to base your ethics, your morals, your entire system of beliefs on an anachronistic work of fiction, about events which happened thousands of years ago. It's this blind belief in religious texts which leads people to maintain ridiculous convictions like the Earth is 6,000 years old. But trying to convince people not to take the Bible literally and derisively poking holes in these flimsy works of fiction is not the raison d'être of this article. I believe that battle has already been won. What's more fun is to take the ethos of living your life by a story and to pick another work of fiction to lead your life by.
This phenomena is by no means confined to old books. Modern history has seen just as many examples of people coming up with works of the most incredible nonsense to define the parameters of their lifestyle. Hitler did it with Mein Kampf. Marx and Engels did it with the Communist Manifesto. Unwittingly, L. Ron Hubbard did it with Dianetics. I'm am merely the most recent in this very long line of idiots.
Unfortunately I have neither the time nor the inclination to write a whole book. But the Gods of post-stucturalism are full-square behind my mission to find a book which I can redefine to mean whatever the hell I deem it to.
I'll cut to the chase. The book I have chosen is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I picked it because it's well known, it's popular, it has a lot of messages, and even if you haven't read it you've probably seen Jonny Depp's appauling portrayal of Willy Wonka in Tim Burton's terrible remake of a film which wasn't very good the first time round. What follows is an air-tight system of beliefs which I drew from my thorough analysis of its content.
Charlie Bucket and his parents live in a some horrible little tumble-down house, with four elderly relatives. The primary wage earner is Mr. Bucket, whose job consists of putting tops on toothpaste bottles. His meagre earnings means that they all live in extreme poverty. Poverty which, perhaps, could be overcome if Mr and Mrs Bucket's parents would hurry up and die already. This is a clear allusion to the overpopulation of the planet. People are living longer and becoming an ever increasing drain on resources. I have inferred from this that population control is essential, and from this we can glean that stuff like AIDS, morbid rampant obesity and starvation are all part of His plan to push back the shore of ever increasing seas of people.
The children who go to visit Mr. Wonka are analogous to the new 5 deadly sins;
Augustus Gloop: Gluttony
Mike Teavee: Laziness
Veruca Salt: Being bratty
Violet Beauregarde: Overly-ambitious
Charlie: Poor
The first four children all met their ends because of the sins that they represent. By the end of the book, Charlie had overcome his dismal existence by shedding himself of his awful, refugee-like lifestyle. He stopped being poor, and started being happy. Ergo, greed is good.
Willy Wonka is the deity at the centre of the book. Much like the Gods of every other religion, Willy Wonka is imaginary and entirely fictional. My new life will be entirely reasonable and rational. In the character of Willy Wonka, Roald Dahl is clearly alluding to some actual person who is my new God; the person I look to for strength in times of need. Willy Wonka is enigmatic, elusive, a bit paedofiley, and his cholesterol is probably through the roof. I can think of only one person that this could possibly be. From this day forward, I will devote myself to the KFC guy.
Now onto the Oompa-Loompas. The Loompas were led away from their native home to the promised land which was, of course, his chocolate factory. On this pilgrimage it seems as if Willy Wonka in His infinite goodness, has saved the Loompas from a very real hell. Or has He? What are their opportunities for promotion? When was their last pay increase? Have they been told they can't unionise? They are living lives of complete subjugation under a glass ceiling they can't even perceive. But. They're small. They're orange. They're different. The implication is that this is something they deserve. Colonel Sanders is obviously in favour of slavery.
Now, how should I behave to my fellow man? Willy Wonka did an incredibly generous thing by opening His factory to a group of children and offering His chocolate empire to the most deserving. What have we learned from this? That it's nice to be nice to other people? That kindness is its own reward? No. None of these. Those wretched children were guests and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage to a state of the art factory. What did Willy Wonka get from the whole endeavour? An astronomical repair bill, and custody of a malnourished child, a man with no ambition, a woman with zero culinary skills, and four pensioners all one cold winter away from death. Do you know how expensive a funeral is, let alone four?! The lesson here is to look out for number one. Willy Wonka did everything in his power to ensure the survival of his business, so that the people of the world could continue to eat His, apparently quite good, chocolate, and now look at the mess He's in.
So if I have to sum up my new lifestyle in eight sentences, here they are. Slavery is OK. Small people are creepy. KFC is heavenly. Johnny Depp sucks. Old people are a burden. Children are good for nothing. You are the only important thing in your life. Being nice gets you nowhere.
Now I've got all that straightened out, I'll get on with overhauling my life. Forget Christians, Muslims, Seeks and all that other made-up trash. Cut me open and I bleed chocolate. Until the sweet release of death, I pledge spend the rest of my life trying to be the world's biggest Wonker.
So I was chatting with a friend a couple of months ago - the previously mentioned, Scott - and somehow the exchange headed in this direction.
At their core, almost the entire gamut of religious writing are works of pure fiction. The Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon: just a collection of stories. I'm not calling them lies. 'Lies' implies that their intent is to deceive. I actually believe that there was a man call 'Jesus' and a man called 'Mohammed' and that they were genuinely pleasant people. I also believe that the books which serialise them are based on real events, but I don't believe that they hold any more significance other than figuratively.
People read these books as if they were naught but fact and live their lives according to what they teach. I don't personally believe that these books are inherently wrong, or backwards. Quite the opposite. They have a lot of good stuff to say. It does however, seem ludicrous to base your ethics, your morals, your entire system of beliefs on an anachronistic work of fiction, about events which happened thousands of years ago. It's this blind belief in religious texts which leads people to maintain ridiculous convictions like the Earth is 6,000 years old. But trying to convince people not to take the Bible literally and derisively poking holes in these flimsy works of fiction is not the raison d'être of this article. I believe that battle has already been won. What's more fun is to take the ethos of living your life by a story and to pick another work of fiction to lead your life by.
This phenomena is by no means confined to old books. Modern history has seen just as many examples of people coming up with works of the most incredible nonsense to define the parameters of their lifestyle. Hitler did it with Mein Kampf. Marx and Engels did it with the Communist Manifesto. Unwittingly, L. Ron Hubbard did it with Dianetics. I'm am merely the most recent in this very long line of idiots.
Unfortunately I have neither the time nor the inclination to write a whole book. But the Gods of post-stucturalism are full-square behind my mission to find a book which I can redefine to mean whatever the hell I deem it to.
I'll cut to the chase. The book I have chosen is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I picked it because it's well known, it's popular, it has a lot of messages, and even if you haven't read it you've probably seen Jonny Depp's appauling portrayal of Willy Wonka in Tim Burton's terrible remake of a film which wasn't very good the first time round. What follows is an air-tight system of beliefs which I drew from my thorough analysis of its content.
Charlie Bucket and his parents live in a some horrible little tumble-down house, with four elderly relatives. The primary wage earner is Mr. Bucket, whose job consists of putting tops on toothpaste bottles. His meagre earnings means that they all live in extreme poverty. Poverty which, perhaps, could be overcome if Mr and Mrs Bucket's parents would hurry up and die already. This is a clear allusion to the overpopulation of the planet. People are living longer and becoming an ever increasing drain on resources. I have inferred from this that population control is essential, and from this we can glean that stuff like AIDS, morbid rampant obesity and starvation are all part of His plan to push back the shore of ever increasing seas of people.
The children who go to visit Mr. Wonka are analogous to the new 5 deadly sins;
Augustus Gloop: Gluttony
Mike Teavee: Laziness
Veruca Salt: Being bratty
Violet Beauregarde: Overly-ambitious
Charlie: Poor
The first four children all met their ends because of the sins that they represent. By the end of the book, Charlie had overcome his dismal existence by shedding himself of his awful, refugee-like lifestyle. He stopped being poor, and started being happy. Ergo, greed is good.
Willy Wonka is the deity at the centre of the book. Much like the Gods of every other religion, Willy Wonka is imaginary and entirely fictional. My new life will be entirely reasonable and rational. In the character of Willy Wonka, Roald Dahl is clearly alluding to some actual person who is my new God; the person I look to for strength in times of need. Willy Wonka is enigmatic, elusive, a bit paedofiley, and his cholesterol is probably through the roof. I can think of only one person that this could possibly be. From this day forward, I will devote myself to the KFC guy.
Now onto the Oompa-Loompas. The Loompas were led away from their native home to the promised land which was, of course, his chocolate factory. On this pilgrimage it seems as if Willy Wonka in His infinite goodness, has saved the Loompas from a very real hell. Or has He? What are their opportunities for promotion? When was their last pay increase? Have they been told they can't unionise? They are living lives of complete subjugation under a glass ceiling they can't even perceive. But. They're small. They're orange. They're different. The implication is that this is something they deserve. Colonel Sanders is obviously in favour of slavery.
Now, how should I behave to my fellow man? Willy Wonka did an incredibly generous thing by opening His factory to a group of children and offering His chocolate empire to the most deserving. What have we learned from this? That it's nice to be nice to other people? That kindness is its own reward? No. None of these. Those wretched children were guests and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage to a state of the art factory. What did Willy Wonka get from the whole endeavour? An astronomical repair bill, and custody of a malnourished child, a man with no ambition, a woman with zero culinary skills, and four pensioners all one cold winter away from death. Do you know how expensive a funeral is, let alone four?! The lesson here is to look out for number one. Willy Wonka did everything in his power to ensure the survival of his business, so that the people of the world could continue to eat His, apparently quite good, chocolate, and now look at the mess He's in.
So if I have to sum up my new lifestyle in eight sentences, here they are. Slavery is OK. Small people are creepy. KFC is heavenly. Johnny Depp sucks. Old people are a burden. Children are good for nothing. You are the only important thing in your life. Being nice gets you nowhere.
Now I've got all that straightened out, I'll get on with overhauling my life. Forget Christians, Muslims, Seeks and all that other made-up trash. Cut me open and I bleed chocolate. Until the sweet release of death, I pledge spend the rest of my life trying to be the world's biggest Wonker.
Saturday, 19 November 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
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.
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.
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