2 3 / 1 1 / 0 7:
's o m n i l o q u y a n d c u p c a k e s'

 

"my mouth tastes like a weasel's foreskin."

- from 'after haggerty' (play) by david mercer

a taxi driver i recently encountered, on the prospect of a general election: "like lambs to the slaughter. meanwhile our civil liberties are being eroded. dya know who i think is the only lot who would stand up for our rights?" and i was sitting there thinking, he's going to say the bnp, he's going to say the bnp, he's going to say the bnp. he didn't. he said "the royals. they're only only ones who would stand up for us." and then, when i thought he'd said the stupidest thing i'd heard in years, he said the stupidest thing i may have heard, e v e r: "the royal family are the closest thing we've got to democracy in this country". i was sorey tempted to ask him if he knew what the word democracy actually meant. i was frankly speechless. he changed the subject.

alright, a l l f u c k i n g r i g h t , i've had enough of these idiots wheeling around their tiny suitcases in busy tube stations. little bigger than a modest sized wallet balanced on a matchbox car, they're clearly not heavy. and dragged along in a crowd, they take up the space of at least three people. pick them up you fucking weeds.

and i hate those people who refuse to push when in a revolving door, making everyone else do the work for them. lazy fuckers.

someone i worked with a while ago told me that at times i sounded exactly like chris langham, who she'd also worked with. i'm not sure what she was getting at...

so, there i am, getting the photo done for my student oystercard, the utterly humourless cow positioning and re-positioning the webcam, as a reason for her readjustments, pipes up with: "i don't want your face to be ugly" um, i think that ship has sailed dear.

if you've ever fancied it, you are now able to obtain something called 'muppet love', following a brief online financial transaction. they even deliver it to your door. otherwise you'll just have to improvise. . .
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


"who's yer froggy?"

while i accept and understand that philosophically speaking 'truth' is a relative term of shifting value, and that differing outlooks and cultural conditioning affects different people's viewpoints, the result of which being that no truth is exclusively valid or predominant over another, i will say that the person who designed the tesco basmati rice bags is pure evil and anyone who says they're not is a fucking liar.

ladies and gentlemen, i give you, the human race (nsfw). and they wonder why i hate people.

if you look up tragedy in the dictionary, it should have a picture of this woman. jeeesus.

apparently i recently said in my sleep: "fuck off, fuck off, f u c k o f f !"

dear internet,
no, i would not like a replica watch. nor do i much fancy a replica pen. what kind of imbecile buys these things? i have a replica gun that doesn't fire bullets, does this mean that by implication the replica watch won't tell the time and the replica pen won't write?
yours in the vain hope that i'll be left alone,
me

give yourself over to the phenomena that is girls and corpses. you know you want to.

the shit they sell on qvc... jesus. hostess elisabeth's 'go to' channel when surfing is qvc. o the things you see. like these. staggering. the imebciles selling the things kept going on about the detail "ooh we're so proud of the detail on these" and then they show the fucking detail and it's just embarrassingly awful. "they're all hand painted" yeah, it fucking looks like it, it all looks like it's been hand painted by colour-blind epileptics... with crab claws for hands. the best selling points they came up with were, "this has a classic musicbox sound, you can wind them up, let it play any day of the year!", which, if i'm not much mistaken, is true of any music box made or sold ever; and my particular favourite: "you can look at this from any angle" o can i? how nice of you. so many of my other pointless, ugly ornaments forbid me to look at them askance. the scary thing is that they then said "there are queues on the phone". apparently they've sold 31,500 in the past, if you can believe that. which sadly i fucking can.

the label to 'puccino's flat still water':

get yer peepers round this. click and interact! (preferably while inebriated)

mr. roast and myself went to see mr. gira live at the water rats. sorry, 'the monto water rats', whatever that means. mr. gira sauntered on stage and chirped "hello, my name is michael gira and i think i'm happy to be here". he plugged in his guitar and after a few practice strums frowned. "why is it phasing?" he asked, "is it just me or does this guitar sound... gay?" nice, if unexpected, useage of the term in its pejorative non-sexualized form, i thought. the guitar problem unsolved, he rolled his eyes, "ok, guess i'm just gay then" and the gig began. believe it or not it was hot then, remember heat? no, me neither, but it must have been because the air conditioning was on. "turn off the a.c.!" ordered mr. gira, "no!" shouted a girl in the crowd. "yes." answered gira, adding "suffer", a word which for some reason sounds so great coming out of his mouth. half way through the gig he was sweating profusely "i like the heat," he said, "it reminds me of when i used to exercise". he opened with 'goddamn the sun' and closed with 'blind'. need i say more? why weren't you there?

apparently a recent survey confirmed that most 18 to 24 year olds would rather give up sex than their mobile phones. these are the people i'm at university with, and whilst i don't want to have sex with them thankyouverymuch, such a widely held belief in ones so young does fill me with a crushing despair.

i'm not sure if it's evidence of my incredible stupidity or just supreme irony, but i can never seem to remember the word 'articulate' when i want to.

television ad: "puzzling in the round couldn't be more fun!" o really? i'm sure it could y'know. what i'm not so sure of, having watched the advert, is that it could possibly be any less fun.

apparently, while staying at chez liles in brighton, i said "meow" in my sleep.

the lovely new red leather suite we ordered was finally delivered and the cat managed to ruin the couch less than an hour after it arrived. up she jumped, misjudged her landing, duly fell and scratched her claws down one of the (undetatchable) cushions. it was a good thing that i had to go out to hand in an essay because i think if i'd stayed in the flat i'd have crammed the fucking animal into the microwave and danced a jig when she went pop.

in journalism class we were given three examples of interviews with writers, each, as it happened, by women, each chock full of snidey comments and semi-hidden digs. the last one, an interview, i think, with author kathryn flett about her autobiographry 'heart-shaped bullet' and conducted by libby brooks. the article ended with the line: "...i felt dismal. because i didn't want to know all those things about all those people." and i said "but isn't that her fucking job?" following it, perhaps unadvisedly, with "this just underlines my idea that 80% of journalists should be taken behind the house and beaten with pick handles" ...i think my journalism class are beginning to laugh at me rather than with me.

the occassion of mine and hostess elisabeth's fifteenth anniversary party finally arrived and much drinking was undertaken and... yes... there was dancing. like yer dad at a wedding. o the huge-manate etc. hostess elisabeth also baked, wait for it, roughly 160 cupcakes for the event, which we then both spent the best part of a day decorating, with strawberries, sugar hearts, crystalised rose petals, edible glitter and the like:

for presents we recived, from lang and mark, something called 'mr grasshead', of whom the box tells us "he's a pal in a pot!", different sides of the box spelling this out in different languages: monsieur grasshead "un copain dans un pot!" and herr rasenkopf "der kumpel in topf!". mr grasshead is basically woodshavings wrapped in old tights and topped with grass seeds -he's been soaked as instructed but has yet to grow any hair at all... updates as and when. from american john we got this fantastic knife rack:

which frankly couldn't really be any more 'us' if it tried. from the venerable gude we got a weekend away in lille, france!! better than christmas.

speaking of which, this site should ably solve all your christmas present quandries this year, next year, who knows? you may, for some totally unconnected reason, have less presents to buy...

fellow student sandy told me recently of a phenomena called 'pro-ana'. apparently there are movements and support groups in favour of anorexia. that's i n f a v o u r o f. adherents to this belief system post videos on youtube like this, or this. this is all done in the name of what they call 'thinspiration'. incredible. so very stupid. human beings never cease to amaze me with the ingenious and drawn out methods they concoct to end their lives. i mean, i know anorexia is seen as a mental illness and i have no problem with that, but this? just amazing. my favourite 'pro-ana' slogans: "empty is pure", "never too thin", "hunger is beautiful", "food is for the weak" and last but by no means least, "anorexia makes girls pretty". maybe they should incorporate "ignorance is strength"?

fellow student update (sandy special):
* sandy told me that he once met and spoke at length with ashlee simpson. i had to look up who that was. and how to spell her name. this is a good thing.
* sandy can name every single spice girls single, and in which order they were released. bizarrely he fails to be ashamed of himself for this.
* sandy also told me that when a person dies of dehydration, what actually kills them is their urine becoming so concentrated that it eats through their bladder and internal organs. nice.

recommended: (audio) 'facepeeler' -track- by geronimo -featuring david yow / (comestible) mince and beans! / (visual) approx. 160 cupcakes / (sensorial) the smell of spilt bisto

reviled: (audio) 'the black and white album ' -cd- by the hives / (comestible) 'bavaria' beer -from holland- in a plastic bottle / (visual) scratched sofa / (sensorial) the tearing off of latex stuck to my face with surgical adhesive, resulting in small chunks of skin being ripped right out of my face. ouch.

and finally:

the label in my new underpants:

"liar, liar..."