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Over there there's friends of mine, what can I say? I've known them for a long long time

One of my very good friends turns 30 next week. He's the first one; after that, over the next 18 months, we all drop out of our 20s like rather depressed dominoes. To be honest the whole idea gets me down in a big way. One of us turning 30 is fine, but when the whole lot go that's it: the end. We're all grown ups. 


Still, these things happen. There's fuck all I can do about it, right? Might as well get on with the weekend's festivities. Birthday boy has a full weekend of drunken good times planned... in Somerset. Yep, we're off to Somerset, and we're going camping.


Excuse me one second, would you mind looking out of your window? Thank you. Now I'll say it again: we're going fucking camping.


We'll survive, I mean, it's only a bit of rain. Several of us are veterans of Glastonbury '97*, when it rained for two weeks prior to the festival. It stopped as soon as 80,000 people turned up; which meant that the mud went from soup-like on Friday, to disticntly porridgy on Saturday, to sucking ceemnt on the Sunday. Trust me, after that you can handle anything. But still, we're gonna get very wet and very muddy this weekend. I don't know about you, but I think that that shows absolute friendship.


So, i'm going to be in a field in Somerset perfecting my Somme-chiq look, no doubt. Enlighten me and tell me what you'll be doing this weekend. I promise not to hate you too much.


 


 


 


 


*That wil sound so much cooler in 20 years.
26.5.06 11:25


Like a conversation in a nursing home

Goth Colleague is selling some old stuff: DVDs, clothes, that sort of thing. She sends an e-mail round letting everybody know.


Blonde Colleague #1: What's a buffalo sabre?
Other Idiot Colleague: Something you use for hunting, maybe?
Booger: It's an ice hockey team. See where it says 'hockey jerseys'?
BC #1: Oh yeah, I did wonder.
OIC: I thought it was like a machete.
B: Nope, ice hockey. It's their name: the Buffalo Sabres.
Blonde Colleague #2: I like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
B: Eh?
BC #2: The DVDs she's selling. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, y'know.
B: Yeah, but we were talking about the ice hockey tops. See above the DVDs?
BC #2: Oh yeah. What's a buffalo sabre?
B: *gritting teeth* It's the name of the team, not a thing. Buffalo... Sabres. See?
OIC: I like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, too.
BC #2: Ohhh, I see.
BC #1: Booger, do they play round here?
B: Huh?
BC #1: The Buffalo Sabres. Where do they play?
B: *tugging at hair* Erm... Buffalo!?
OIC: Ooo, clever - that's part of their name...
25.5.06 08:39


To bastardise a Clash lyric...

I sought the truth, and the truth lost.


Saw the Da Vinci Code last night. Not good. Not good at all. Unfortunately, it's not bad either; no, it commits the most heinous crime a film could possibly commit - it's boring. I can watch an awful lot of shit films and not get bored, but this takes the cake. Two-and-a-half hours of not a lot, it's a cinematic Volvo. Thank fuck they cast Paul Bettany, Jean Reno and Ian McKellen - all infinitely watchable. Other than that? Dunno. It's just... not much at all.


3 out of 1-, a point each for the above named actors.
24.5.06 08:46


The best bad joke in the world

I promised Diva that I'd tell it, so here it is.


Please don't hate me.


 


 


There's this guy, and he breaks down one night on a lonely country road. It's chucking it down with rain and his mobile is dead. Just as he's about to kip in the car, he spies a light at the top of a hill. He pulls his hood up and legs it towards the light, which turns out to be a big old house. He bangs on the door and pulls on the bell, and eventually the door is opened by an old monk. The house is a monastry.
"I'm so sorry to bother you," says the man, "but I've broken down at the bottom of the hill. Could I possibly use your phone to call the AA?"
The monks do more than that. They take him in, give him dry clothes and a cup of hot chocolate. They bring him a phone, he calls the AA, unfortunately they can't help that night. The monks insist that the man have some food and a bed for the night. As he's about to go to sleep, this guy hears a sound. Way, way off. It keeps him awake for a bit, but he's tired and comfy so soon drifts off to sleep.
The next morning, he's invited to breakfast and ends up sitting next to the head monk. They eat in silence for a bit, until the man remembers the strange noise from the night before.
"Friar," he says. "I was wondering something. Just before I fell asleep last night I heard a sound. Would you mind telling me what it was?"
"Alas," says the head monk, "I cannot tell you - you are not a monk."
"Fair dos," says the guy. "Just wondering."
So anyway, the AA turn up and fix this guys car and away he goes.


Ten years later, older but not necessarily wiser, the same guy is driving down the same lonely country road in another thunderstorm when he breaks down. He scans about for the lights of the monastry and - as luck would have it - he sees them. He runs up the hill and bangs on the door.
"Ahhh, you've returned!" says the monk who opens the front door.
Same deal: they give him dry clothes, some food and a big mug of hot chocolate. He doesn't want to be a burden, but the monks insist he takes a bed for the night. And, just like last time, he hears the same sound. It keeps him up for quite a while this time; he can't quite put his finger on what it is. So, next morning, he asks the head monk again.
"Alas," says the old man. "I cannot tell you - you are not a monk."
The guy is in his 30s now - no family, okay-ish job. Fuck it, he thinks.
"How do I go about becoming a monk?" he asks.
"It is not a task one undertakes lightly," says the head monk. "You must travel to the ends of the earth; counting every blade of grass and every grain of sand. Only then will you have shown your dedication and commitment."


So the guy sets off. Ten years he travels, visiting every place on earth: evry country, every mountain range, every valley and every coastline. He returns to the monastry, older and so-much-fucking wiser, and knocks wearily on the door. The monk who answers recognises him instantly. They take him in and give him a bath and freash clothes. They take his tattered boots and give him some plush sandals. Once he is rested and fed, the head monk enters the room.
"Well," says the monk. "What did you find out?"
The weary guy pulls a battered notebook from his pocket.
"I discovered that there was 1,678,987,046,972 blades of grass on the face of the earth."
"Sad," says the head monk. "That's less than last time we counted. What about the sand?"
"I counted 26,865,234,619,420,608 grains of sand," says the man.
"As I suspected," says the head monk, "it has gone up. Well, you have proved your worth - you may now become a monk."
There's a huge ceremony. The man is given robes and a new name, he's welcomed by his new brotherhood and there's a massive party. The head monk asks him what his first act as a monk is to be.
"I'd like to see what's making the noise," says the guy.


The monks lead him off to a small door in the kitchen. They go through the door and down into a cellar. At the back of the cellar they go through a secret door into a dark passageway. They walk for several minutes before they get to a set of stairs. They go down those, round the corner and walk for a bit longer. They eventually get to a small wooden door. The head monk takes a small wooden key out of his robes and unlocks the door. Behind it is a steel door. The head monk uses a metal key to unlock the steel door. Bronze door, bronze key. Silver door, silver key. Gold door, gold key. Finally, he uses a platinum key to open a platinum door. He ushers the man into the room, and he finally gets to see what is making the noise...


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


But I can't tell you - you're not a monk.


 
22.5.06 18:15


Self-flagellation and crappy film analogies





self-flag·el·la·tion (slfflj-lshn)
n.

  1. The act of severely criticizing oneself.
  2. The act of punishing oneself.


As practiced by Paul Bettany's albino-monk-assassin in The Da Crappy Code. Also practiced by a certain angry blogger around this time of year: me. Yep, Davina comes on the TV, squarking away and archly raising one cunty eyebrow at a time, she introduces another clutch of fuckwads to an unwitting public and away we go for the Summer. It can only be Big Brother. And it's responsible for my hate reservoirs overflowing each and every year. There'll be no spitepipe bans around here. (Enough with that similie? I think so.) Did you see that parade of fuckery last night? Put me in that house with a cricket bat for just half an hour and I'll reap bloody carnage. But, as I'll expain, I will not stop watching. In fact, I could probably win that stupid golden ticket competition and before I knew it I'd be there, in with the detritus. Without the cricket bat, hopefully.


There are three general groups when it comes to Big Brother, which I'd like to outline here today.


A: You're the Truman Show waitresses - you lap up every second of it. You fall asleep to the live coverage on E4, you set the video for eviction nights and you're a fully paid-up member of at least three BB forums on the internet. You probably read Heat or Nuts regularly, and you really admire Chantelle. You once saw Anthony from last year's show in a club and you delight in re-telling the story. You are content to let your brain slowly liquify. You probably go along to the open casting sessions.


B: You guys are Malcolm McDowell in Clockwork Orange; desperately trying to move backwards from the television, desperate to escape the relentless torrent of mediocrity that's washing over you. But you're trapped: trapped by blanket coverage and constant exposure. You fucking wish you could flick over to The Street or something equally worthy, but you're powerless to resist those evil geniuses at Channel 4. And as such, the remote remains untouched at 9pm on a Friday evening. 


C: After seven summers of utter shite, you've had enough. You're Kurt Russell in Escape From New York - oblivious to everyone and anyone, with a fuck-you attitude and a wry, take-no-shit expression on your face. When BB matters come up at work, you grit your teeth and soldier on, safe in the knowledge that The Man holds no sway over you. You smug bastards.


There is also the lesser known category D: the self-flagellators mentioned above. We hate everything about Big Brother with every fibre of our beings; and yet we actively seek it out, soaking up every second of it's soul-destroying, end-of-humanity naffness so we can torment ourselves later. We lap up the punishment, whipping our culture genes into submission, until we emerge at the other end on a higher plane of conciousness. We suffer the punishment in the hope that one day we can make a difference. It's extreme. It's remorseless...


And we do it every year. 
19.5.06 18:19


Happy Jack - aka Booger's sloppy side comes to the fore

Okay, so today's intended blog was going to be the very long and highly annoying joke mentioned here. Sorry Diva, it'll have to wait for another day. I've had one of the best afternoons I can ever remember. Seriously, in the space of three hours I was clobbered round the head by a double whammy of excellent news. You'll get no rants and bitterness from me today; I have a shit-eating grin slapped accross my face and it's not going anywhere.


First bit of good news: The Better Half recently applied for her job permanently (she is currently on a pre-registration year). She found out today that she got one of only three jobs going. It's at times like this that I know how stupidly in love I am: I'm so fucking proud of her I can't put it into words.


Second bit of good news: This came while I was banging on to anyone that'd listen about how great TBH is. My mobile rang, I took the call... and was told that, depending on references, the flat we wanted was ours. Touch wood things go to plan, TBH and I will be comfortably ensconced in our cosy one-bed before an England player even kicks a ball in Germany. Domestic bliss beckons.


 


I feel like I'm floating, I'm that fucking happy. Pinch me. Actually, don't.  


 


 
18.5.06 17:54


17.5.06 18:08


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