... blong?

So I haven't been bothered to post for the last, you know, year or so. But I have exams coming up and it's amazing how the stress and pressure of having to actually succeed at something can motivate you to do all sorts of irrelevant bullshit.

Couple of short stories here that I wrote a while back. I may write some more after the exam season is over... you know how testing those things are.

Saddened by global warming, the planet cries Arctic tears. She groans under the strain of metal girders strewn by us brutal beings over her skin. Pollution gives her a bleak outlook and an acid temper, and the penguins have nothing to stand on. Only Captain Gobstopper can save us from our plight.

"Stop gobbing on the streets, youths!" decries the noble Captain, speeding past some dribbling drunk yobs. "And quit dunking those drinks with your gobs!"

Awestruck and gobsmacked, their jaws dropped, the slovenly kids stop spitting and gaze at the perfect sphere flying off into the urban sunset.

"I'm so high right now," he yells back at them, gaining altitude by the second. "Fucking drugs or some shit!"

"I tuck my legs in whilst flying," shouts the Cap, "to lower air resistance! This decreases the rate of entropy increase throughout the entire universe!" When the mountains nearby don't crack up with laughter he burns them to the ground.

"I'm making this shit up as I go!" he declares, "y'know, winging it!" A flock of geese don't get it, so he punches them in the mind and makes them cough medicine.

Sailing onwards, he hits a time barrier. Looks like the planet's salvation will have to wait until instalment two of Captain Gobstopper!

Blackpool is a seaside holiday resort filled with rollercoasters and sweat. Its rich heritage consists of Victorian peasants and workers staying there for the weekend to laugh and shout and piss in the sea. Everyone there nowadays is mighty unhappy; the single recent sighting of someone having fun in Blackpool resulted in a massive overdose on a combination of sea and other people's envy.

Let me tell you a tale of this rich cultural centre: a tale of adventure.

Mr. Al was a typical Blackpool resident; he had sat and saddened patiently next to a teddy bear during his childhood whilst a clown taught him the art of mime. Instead of washing, he relied on the salty sand-stung wind to erode dirt from his skin faster than it could accumulate. The bleached seaside planks and roadways were his only friends. Whenever he got lonely, he'd sit at the end of the pier talking to the seagulls, but even they only ever shat on him.

In short, he was dissatisfied. Too lonesome without human contact, Al stuffed his bags with a day's supply of sand, packed his pockets full of fish and went on his way to London.

When he arrived in London, he was confused. See, they do things differently over there. Instead of their food being served up by Nature herself on a beach full of seagull shit, some of their food has plants and animals in it. Instead of fish, they have cars and dogs and prostitutes and children, some of whom you have to pay to stick your penis into. Truly, this was not the free city Al had been expecting.

The average blogger, I suspect, types his posts out with a keyboard. None of that for me. I am in fact shouting this through a megaphone for some sellout to type up, whilst simultaneously injecting beer through my eyeballs and overthrowing the government.

That's right. I can overthrow the government from the comfort of my own home, through sheer willpower. Not that I believe in homes of course - they're symbolic of those middle-class commercialised bastards.

Society will soon crumble, from the combined mind-chaos of us elite few punks. Anarchy shall prevail; the streets will be filled with the joyous shouts of those we have saved from the disease that is capitalism. People will smash up guitars on the pavement, and throw TVs out of windows. Entropy and Disorder shall prowl the streets in their uniform of spiky leather jackets and unconventional haircuts.

The sidestream movement that is punk shall remain underground no longer. We are rising from the ghetto.

Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

Look how awesomely wasted I am. Examine my inability to string together coherent sentences without mentioning the word "punk". Inspect my disrespect for society. Analyse how unique my punk spirit is, and ponder over the fact that only punks are individuals.

Check, in short, my bad self.

Yeah.

Aside from the whole "rains of fiery meteors from purple-streaked bloodshot skies over lands afflicted with disease, drought and famine" business, there's actually quite a few of these:

1. OK! magazine. The headlines on the front page of my sister's copy (not, repeat, NOT mine) are:

• "Beckham exclusive - amazing secret revealed!"
• "Big Brother exclusive: Michelle and Stuart's diary"
• "Celebrity Love Island - diet special - exclusive"
• "Brad & Angelina World Exclusive 'we get on great' interview and pictures"
• "Jordan - Wedding Exclusive".

No joke. Those are the exact words. Straight from the mouth of Hell.

2. The death of Elvis.

3. The way people are really stupid. More African kids die every day from starvation than died from the tsunami and its aftereffects, yet people don't think about it that way. Because the tsunami was so sudden and unexpected (and got so much media coverage), people think that somehow it's worse. So they donate their £5 and get on with their lives in the knowledge that they've done something good. A few weeks later, they won't have thought much more about it. And the thought of those African kids, or any other of the hundreds of millions of people suffering similar fates worldwide, probably won't have crossed their mind at all.

4. The government. Just who do they think they are, running our country for us? What's wrong with feudalism? Who needs society, anyway? REAL men don't need medicine. Or technology. Or jobs. If we were all given big swords and a horse and told to farm ten acres each, the world would be a lot simpler. Moreso if we lived in caves.

5. Junk mail. Who actually makes it? And do some people believe it enough to give them money?

6. The way global warming is going to dry out the planet with the heat of a million Suns, then flood it with the water of a thousand seas, then propel it to the outer reaches of the galaxy via some extremely weird particle interactions, then finally scrunch it up really small and make it explode, producing a lovely visual effect for any passing aliens.

Oh yeah, and Death harvesting the souls of the damned on his fiery skeletal steed. That too.

Points 1, 3 and 5 being serious. Satan made me put the rest in.

On my eternal quest to find the roots of society's ills (good working hours; pretty shitty conditions; all applicants accepted), I've come across a little something, commonly known as "human nature". And now I'm going to tell you a story about it. You may have heard it before, but I expect you shall read this, just on the off-chance that you glean something from it.

During the Napoleonic wars, the fisherfolk of Hartlepool one day spotted a French vessel (the Chasse Maree) off the coast. Fearing an invasion, they were glad when it was eventually sunk due to severe storms. They scoured the beaches for wreckage, and found one survivor - the ship's pet monkey. In a sailer's uniform.

When the monkey wouldn't respond to questioning about Napoleon's tactics, they hung him for being a Frenchman.

This explains a lot about human nature.

I'm so awesome that I update my blog regularly AND make posts of more than one sentence.

I've always wondered what it would be like to be crucified. In fact, I say always, what I mean is I've just been wondering about it today.

It would hurt, sure. But, to me, what would really be suffering is having to hammer your own nails in. I imagine it would get kind of difficult after you'd done both arms and a leg. That second leg would be pretty difficult to pin down, unless you had a really abnormal anatomy. You'd have to do it with your elbows or something.

And, yeah.

I'm an idiot.

... But not because of their squareness. I merely find them more practical to manage, and consider not having to make curved doors to be a bonus.

This is not irrelevant to everyday life.

Oh no indeed. This has repurcussions fundamental to our very society and outlook on life.

It explains why we don't make roads out of gold, or bridges out of monkeys. Though you could probably have figured those ones out for yourselves.

Anyway, it's well hardcore, proper gnarly style. I'll use it to make my millions. Posting it all over the int0rw3b like this means nobody will steal it. Honest.

Yeah, anyway, this is deep shiznitz. Deep, man.

Right, Alpha males are out. The Battle Arena is no more. Delta Minus males are what's in this season. Anyway, apparantly there's some kind of election going on, so I'm going to put my views across. Everyone should do one of three things:

1. Vote for the Monster Raving Loonies.

2. Be a non-conformist old-skool hardcore punk-anarchist rocker, and rebel against society. Overthrow the government, have unconventional attitudes and set up a culture in which everyone has to get crazy-wasted and be punk all the time. Even in their sleep. If they're not punk enough, they get stoned (with stones, not drugs). Drugs, sex and violence will be free; just go to your nearest pharmacist's and you'll be provided with a copious supply.

3. Become at one with nature. Roam the woods and wildernesses as one who is carefree in both heart and mind. Feel the warmth of life flood through your veins; know the spirit of nature and see it flowing through the world around you. Sniff the sweet heady air of freedom, and run through the forests untamed. Wonder at the marvel that is the Earth. And then maybe vote Monster Raving Loony.

The fourth option, colonise Mars, is sadly unavailable due to lack of atmosphere and indeed habitability.

Yeah.





Hopefully now I'll be able to sneak the tablecloths and books on "Minerals and Gemstones" and the unforgettable "Existential Pleasures of Engineering" out of my room without someone putting them back in the middle of my floor.

We might also turn the new leanto into an Alpha Male Battle Arena. We'd be manly and flex our biceps and stuff, and talk about masculine things like beer and women, and how many times we'd farted that day. If that fails, I'll do it in my bedroom.

Anyway, onto the main topic of discussion, I found a tooth. It may be a wisdom tooth, but as I'm not actually sure what they are, it's probably just trying to cause me as much pain as possible by coming through ten years too late. At any rate it makes me wise, just like Rafiki. I might grow a beard and give people advice on tweed, and then whack hyenas around the head with a stick with orange coconuts on the end.

*whack!* "it's in the past." "Yeah, but it still hurts!" "ah yes, de past can hurt."



He is WISE.

Italians are really weird.

One thing they cannot do is drive. At all. Not even in a straight line. Instead, they tend to go for the racing curve, regardless of who's in the way. Lanes are seen as optional; a kind of route that you could follow if you wanted to, but it would be a bit boring.

The police are even worse. We arrived in Rome the Friday before last (the day of the Pope's funeral and hence the busiest day Rome has seen in its 2759-year history, with, I'm told, over 6 million people; pretty good timing on our part really). With surprising idiocy, the Italian government had decided to place about half of Italy's police force on Rome's ringroad. They are physically incapable of driving. They're under the impression that the car doesn't work unless its siren is on, and that crashing is an inevitable fact of driving, and hence is not worth trying to avoid.

They have amazing icecreams though. We went to the best icecream shop in the world, San Crispino I believe, and had the best icecream in the world. And then, a couple of days later, we did it AGAIN. From experiment, I can conclude that the best icecream ever invented is their Pear, Apple and Wild Orange.

Mmmm.

I decided the Romans were awesome. They not only conquered, looted and enslaved the entire known world, but built statues to how great they were. What more could anyone want from an ancient civilisation?

The PGFs also performed in Ye Olde Romane Amphitheatre, in which the accoustics were amazing. When we get world-famous we'll build an amphitheatre and make people pay lots of money to come and watch us in full gangsta.

Knows it.

The other day, I was hungry. I'd spent all day metabolising, and needed some nourishment. I wanted an iced bun, but we had none.

I therefore decided to make one. Out of bread.

Scene: several innocent kitchen ingredients, gathered round one lonesome chunk of granary and walnut bread.



Enter Max: a malicious devil with intent to plunder and loot the kitchen for his own vicious satisfaction.



(No animals were harmed in the making of this bun. Promise.)



You can't see it in this pic, but this bread was, by now, thoroughly plundered. At the bottom was a layer of butter, followed by a drizzling of honey, some coffee, a sprinkling of white sugar, hot chocolate, brown sugar, nesquik and some more honey. Throughout the affair were several layers of embedded raisins. On the top half of the bread was cream, and more raisins.

The finished article:



And the most surprising thing? It was actually pretty tasty.



Think I may have overdone the coffee though.

Today I witnessed the strangest sight I have ever seen.

On the bus home was a young man, and by the Gods I do swear he was possessed by demons. He struggled wearily up the stairs, tackling each step as though it was a very mountain, and lifting his aching muscles through mind-strength alone. Eventually did he manage to sit down, but this was just the beginning of his ordeals. Oftentimes through the journey I heard him muttering to himself, and growling as if through some bitter feud with his very soul. One time did he stand up, and strip off many of his sweat-soaked clothings. I fear the motion of transport was too much for him, however, and he fell down again with the contortions of one in constant torture.

Glancing rapidly left and right, this nervous young fellow seemed of a disposition not to be molested; for were he to be so disturbed, his devilous mindperils would surely sense a danger, and he would attack the hapless molester with all the fury of Satan himself.

Verily then, this youth had a mind polluted. Polluted with the unwanted babble of a thousand screaming demons.

Either that or he was very very drunk.

Also today, I tried Branston Pickle for the first time in about three years (cheese on its own is horrible, and there were no other sauces in the cupboard) and found out that actually I rather like it. Just after this I discovered that cheeks can go crunch if you bite them hard enough.

I now have a flap of skin hanging off the inside of my cheek, and it still hurts five hours later.

That's right, today I'm not going to make any jokes. Or even be remotely funny. I'm just going to babble for a while about my life, and you'll damn well read it, or else I shall sulk.

Hmm. So, today's been ok. I guess.

I got me my V ticket a couple of days ago, and my parents are refusing to pay for it. I'm gonna have to resort to prostitution.

Probably.

Lovely weather we've been having. Some interesting cumulo-nimbus formations, and even a spot of the old trans-atlantic wind coming into play.

Easter soon. Chocolate. Sounds like a deal.

I've been going out with the lovely Gracey-poos for a couple of weeks. I shall have metaphorical sex with her on Friday.

Probably.

I failed my mocks. Daddy says I have to do 30 hours revision per week until the exams.

Should be fun.

Possibly.

...

The writing above is my sensible post.

The picture below is me being foolish with bubblewrap.



Oh, and I've given up on druidism. The climate's just not right.

Today I begin my 18th orbit of the Sun. I am old.

This orbit sees me becoming road-legal, and soon, no doubt, terrorising innocents with the amazing speed, power and agility of the Vauxhall Astra.

I am also, due to some mightily screwed-up legislation, now allowed to kiss girls (or indeed boys) over the age of 16: apparantly it's illegal for under-16s to kiss anyone. It's good to know the Government is so eager to prevent unsolicited and dangerous activities like underage kissing.

Mmmm.

I'm hoping for a sombrero, or at least some kind of silly Mexican headwear.

Presents so far include a rather nifty tweed jacket, courtesy of master Mikey P.



And some compost.

Mmmm.

I've decided I want to live in a tree. A big one, with holes cut into it for rooms. The furniture would be living tree, and I'd sleep on a pile of leaves. I would be at one with nature, and have deep meaningful conversations with squirrels (all they can talk about at the moment is their nuts).

I'd dress in a robe made of treecloth, and drink the sap of the tree. I'd weave joyful dances with wolves, and gaze at the stars by night. I'd laugh the laugh of the forest, and pull faces at chimpanzees.

I'd sing with all the voices of the mountains, and paint with all the colours of the wind.

I'd make bad puns about finding my roots, and branching out in life. I'd cackle the glee of a merry merry man, and doodle on the trees with my teeth.

In fact, I think I will.

Might not see you for a while, I don't think they have broadband in nature.

This sounds like willy but is, in fact, a different word.

Tuesday is games afternoon so, with nothing better to do, we sauntered over to Castle Park, where they have a set of fairly hardcore Roman walls. And the Romans tend to build things chunky: ---------->

(These aren't in Castle Park. They are merely chunky and Roman.)

I discovered the best wall ever. Romans weren't too good at building straight (yes, shut up, I know about the roads) so this wall angled at about 20 degrees. To make up for their lack of straightness, and with the kind of wisdom that comes with having the largest army in the known world, they decided to build it 30 foot high. It also has moss on it, and painful sticky-out bits.

... Ru threw my coat on top of it. Now, I could have gone round the other side, where there was a grass verge and you can reach the top. However, I am a gangsta, so I decided to climb. After a while my coat got blown off by the wind, but I reckon I would have got it eventually. I shall return there next week and throw something valuable of Ru's on top.

Thinking about it, the Romans were pretty awesome at walls. They had it all sorted. Pile of bricks; cement; army. What more do you need?

Anyway, on an equally wall-related note, we're getting a room built next to our bathroom, and the window makes the entire bathroom the same as the colour outside. Yesterday it was cement-coloured and today it's a fairly hideous pink. Sometime soon we should achieve white. We've got the electrics installed, so now all we need is the floor. Apparantly it takes a month for the concrete to set, but this is clearly an excuse for a tea-break, and maybe a holiday or two to boot.

As I speak, Tom's cutting his hair with a flint. It's now about two inches longer on one side than the other. He says he's being manly, and neolithic.

Hmmm.

The PGFs have decided that we're going to blend Mafia, Samurai and Hip-hop to produce the ultimate gangsta experience. We're so ghetto it's unreal. Anyone who doesn't think so is clearly a complete emu, and goes round slitting their wings and sticking their head in the sand.

I would also like to point out that it's possible to fit around 18 creme eggs in a £3.00 pick and mix cup from Woolworths, with room to spare for smarties. Original idea and testing carried out by Paul. Other than that, I have that cool kind of pasta with ham and cheese and stuff inside it now, so you will have to excuse me.

That's right. A lot more Gangsta. 400 watts of it, to be precise. Two cordless mics, two 200-watt speakers and a mixing amp. We have the bass.


(I'm not a poser, honest) ¬_¬

Currently I'm using them as furniture because they're so fucking huge. One of them on its side funcitons as chair, bedside table and shelf combined. We have them on pretty much minimum volume the whole time so as not to get completely basslined.

We have the amplification.

I also coughed up blood today, which was pretty scary. But then I found out it was from my finger.

Easy mistake to make.

Anyway, best journey to school ever yesterday. It was more of a voyage really.

First we got stuck in a traffic jam five minutes out of the house, and didn't move anywhere for half an hour. Then my mum needed to go to work, so she abandoned us at a bus stop. We waited for another twenty minutes, then decided to walk.

In two hours of walking, no bus overtook us. We win.

The PGFs are completely underground.

We're working on some punk songs to turn into urban floor-anthems. Anti-flag's "Die for your government" shall be henceforth known as "Dance for the Mafia". So say Don Rafiki and Mafioso Bassline.

We're not going to put them into our album, because true gangstas are too hardcore for covers. We'll just perform them live for the total urban-wolf ghetto effect.

In boilersuits.

Hmmm.

Lemonade from Iceland. That was pretty amusing. Mike stayed sober (... weirdo...) and took videos, most of which I don't remember. Me and Dave got rather woozy on it, then wobbled into Culver Square, where there were policemen. Dave realises, shouts "THERE'S POLICEMEN OVER THERE!" and we manage to wobble off without them realising.

My parent's didn't realise I was completely wasted either, which leads me to suspect that either they don't pay attention to me, or that I'm so immature it doesn't make much difference whether I'm drunk or not. Probably option B.

Anyway, before getting jolly, we purchased us some rather hardcore cutlasses from Poundland (second time this week: they had new stock in on Monday for the first time in about six months; hence the piratesex with Paul on Monday) and went round slaying, looting and pillaging each other.

Good fun.

Right. What I want to know is WHO invented the keyboard?

Seriously.

I regularly spill stuff on my keyboard, being the complete spack that I am. At the moment I'm typing with water on the desk, because it fell out of the glass. I've decided that coordination is for grungers.

WHY are there so many holes in the keyboard?

I spilt milk yesterday. 10-minute solid mop-up job. Dettox and all.


Same goes for the guy who invented glasses. They should have lids.

And straws.

It had to come. You know it did.

There was always going to be a post where I moan.

So anyway, being the emotionally-charged angst-ridden teenager that I am, I was unhappy yesterday. Very unhappy. I felt like I was watching both Bambi and The Jungle Book at the same time. And Bambi's mum got shot at the same time as Mowgli thought Baloo had died.

Emofest or what? So, without further ado, I present to you:

How to be happy in 40 minutes.
Step #1: Get some cocoa with at least 20 spoons of sugar in. Heaped ones.
Step #2: Get yourself a duvet.
Step #3: Play Rolf Harris songs loudly until you're happy.

Worked for me.


Oh, further to this, I failed my Mechanics mock and had piratesex with Paul in Castle Park. But that's another story.

What I don't get is why it's Sunday. Sunday means it's the end of half-term, and I have to go back to school to face my Mock AS's tomorrow. Which I haven't revised for and for which I'm going to have to improvise.

If it was Thursday, I would have a chance to revise a bit, and maybe shift my grades up a few notches. I'd have the weekend to look forward to. I could go and get wasted. Or stay in and go to sleep for the entire weekend. Or dance naked through the streets shouting "Hallejulah". I would be happy. I would have choices; opportunities; ramifications. Three more days of my life.

Whoever designed the 7-day week is a bit of a bastard.

Anyway, today I discovered a FACT. Not a FACE, or a FURBY, but a FACT:

To turn my shower on, you can follow one of two paths. You can either rub it, make sex noises and hope it gets aroused. Or (the sensible choice), you can pull the cord then twist the handle thing. Today I forgot to pull the cord, and found out that the shower still works. Only problem is, the water isn't heated.

That is my fact.

Try not to do the same.

And song of the decade is now "Oo-de-lally" out of Disney's Robin Hood. You know, the one with the foxes.

Look who's discovered the best thing to do ever. It's Max.

Cook spaghetti. It doesn't even matter if you're going to eat it or not, just put it in a pot and damn well cook it. But leave one piece (a strand?) uncooked, and while the rest are cooking, snap it. See how many times you manage to snap it. It makes an amazingly satisfying snappy sounds when you snap it, and if you're really poor at it, bits fly off.

Seriously, do it.

Anyway, I've decided to actually update this here blog regularly, because I'm cool like that. So you now get to read my pointless angsty ramblings twice weekly. Starting now.

Yesterday Daddy told me that he had 80 trees for me to plant. In the cold, cold garden. And I wanted to go into town. So I spent an hour or so doing this with Daddy and Tom and Liddy, until Daddy told me to dig up the Scary Tree, which nearly killed me. I'm telling you, it wanted my blood. In the end, the spade wasn't having any effect and the fork broke, so I gave up and got to go into town. But I still have the scars.

When I got into town I laughed at the word "sex" with Gangsta Matt from about 1.30 to 2.30. Constantly. We then got everyone else to say sex too, because we're mature like that.

All in all, a profitable day.

Today I shall be making fun of ethnic minorities.

That's right, it's parrt of my new positive discrimination plan. Next week it will be women, then homosexuals, then the elderly and disabled.

Seriously though, I don't get it. Equal rights and the such I agree totally with, but the whole we've-got-to-favour-minorities-or-we're-ignorant-pigs idea loses me completely. Where are the golden days of yore, when all the firemen in Fireman Sam laughed at the black fireman who was rubbish at being a fireman?

Bit of a pickle, eh? So what do you do about it? As usual in these situations, you blame the government. They're leading and encouraging this kind of spackery, plus they're also the nation's main source of bullshit these days, so it's a fairly safe bet anyway. Bloody democracy.

On another note, I've decided to turn all the Mr. Man books into a folk-pop fusion album. Just because I'm cool. The PGFs are also going to release our first album (sadly deficient in Mr. Men) in a month or so. If you don't buy it, you're a filthy smelly grunger and you don't wash often enough.

I've also decided, in my infinite wisdom, that all grungers are goths, all chavs are emo kids, and all punks are total gangstas (with an a, because they're too hardcore for "er" endings). I've therefore decided to scrap the lot, and bring back Mods and Rockers. I might shove the Victorian working classes in there too.

Now onto the main point. Dire Straits - Romeo and Juliet is the best song in existance. Look at these lyrics:

"All I do is miss you, and the way we used to be;
All I do is keep the beat, and bad company.
All I do is kiss you, through the bars of a rhyme.
Juliet I'd do the stars with you, anytime."

Now go and download it.

New blog layout and jazzy style is by Mike, because he's such a complete Victorian peasant. Ta much.

Meh. Am bored so decided to post here, in the vague hope that someone somewhere will read it and be amused.

Um. end of exams soon. Should be good, a months extra holiday than smaller people, I will laugh. Burn books, paint the town red, and generally get ridiculously high.
as they say, Unlucky! :D

Mmmmph. Don't go on this site, for it sucks mightily. I shall notify you when it's good. Yes....