Black as midnight on a moonless night. 17 sugars.

First entry of 2009! I'm due a sizable update, and I do plan to do one about how livejournal is still worthwhile, even if I do barely look at it. For now though, I'll say that to call someone a something 'end' is the most devastating insult one can deliver. You're not the entirety. You're not even the journey. You're an 'end'. A dickend. A titend. An absolute precipice.

I hope you're all well.

I'm off into Liverpool town center now to take advantage of the fact that the actual biblical apocalypse has arrived in the somewhat disappointing and anti-climatic form of pre-January sales. Hopefully I won't be stuck in a queue behind Pestilence trying to purchase the first season of The Wire for the knockdown price of a tenner.

I notice as I get older that New Year becomes less and less a time where an absolutely massive booze and balloons explosion with everything involved seems all that necessary. It's built up as being a fundamental time of reflection and drunkenness and jumping about and multi-coloured bits of string all at the same time, all the while you're still either residually or completely physically fucked from Christmas. It's still good fun, usually, but surely all of the time should be time for reflection and change, rather than a slither at the end of the year when your brain is still soggy with goose fat and becks?

All the same, have a pre-Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-itised Jim Carrey:

Have a Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year and fuck Noel Edmonds.

Not have sex with Noel Edmonds. As if in fuck off, Noel Edmonds. Stop it. Go away. Don't die, or anything, because you're fun in a bearded Daily Express weirdo sort of way. I raised a curious eyebrow when I read that you believe your dead parents float above your shoulders in the form of melon-sized electromagnetic orbs, and chuckled hearty when you stated that you sought to fix 'Broken Britain'. "Heh, Noel Edmonds is such a complete tit" I thought. You're fit for purpose on Deal or No Deal and you were great in Brass Eye, however, 'Noel Edmond's Christmas Presents', no. Just don't. Please be much less prevelant.

That aside, I wish you all pleasant times over the holidays and nice tidings, with blissful bits of tinsel and gnarly returns. Have a good one!

Freedom Now Stands Alone.

A fantastic article by the ever correct Melanie Phillips. What an exceptional and bold columnist she is. A searingly brilliant, truth spurting pragmatic conservative. She cuts through, or to, the bullshit and just spreads it everywhere. The truth, I mean. One of the few. She's definitely not, y'know, a fucking raving beady-eyed lunatic.

"Those who have for the past eight years worked to bring down the America that defends and protects life and liberty are today ecstatic. They have stormed the very citadel on Pennsylvania Avenue itself."

I read this, pulled a face, looked at the wall briefly, rubbed my eyes a bit and then got up to make a cup of tea to just try and forget I ever spent any of my life reading such unadulterated nonsense. Preferably before I started imagining myself trying to destroy the Statue of Liberty by hacking away at her ankles with a penknife. Or punching the Lincoln memorial in the shin, shouting "how do you like that then, DICKHEAD." Never again. Unless...

"Millions of Americans remain lion-hearted, decent, rational and sturdy. They find themselves today abandoned, horrified, deeply apprehensive for the future of their country and the free world. No longer the land of the free and the home of the brave; they must now look elsewhere."

Well at least they're sturdy. Not sitting on a funny angle or anything. Arched to the side a bit, in a way that makes your abdomen feel a bit creaky. There are no rocking chairs in this crumbling American Utopia, don't be fucking stupid. There are lots of lions though, which are bred especially for heart transplants. Nope, sturdy, 100% level with the horizon. Just sitting there, looking on, terrified, as America melts itself.

Also, if you have a few hours to spare, the comments section might sustain your interest. In that masochistic, must read on oh good lord that was stupid I'll read some more argh why does anyone think like this ever ugh no this is just, sort of way.

"Great words Melanie. If President Elect Obama is the hard left, black power anti-semite that I fear he is, no doubt after he's freed the Al Qa'eda terrorists from Guantanamo, he'll put his opponents there instead."

Haha. Ha. Oh, no.

Really now, the Daily Mail? Are you sure? God help the clinically depressed middle-Englander.

I'll get round to writing something of substance soon, as my life is loadsful recently. University is ace, not smoking is the best idea I've ever had and morning swims are good for thinks.

While doing a bit of ironing, I heard this coming from the television, which I'd only put on as a bit of background noise in lieu of a radio.

Krishnan Guru-Murthy: We want to know your views. Were you satisfied with the G-Spot Season? Did programme names such as The Perfect Vagina turn you off? As a man, did you merely tune in for titillation? Today we have *such and such a person* with us, welcome *such and such a person*. First of all, did you tune in and watch Lisa Roger's Perfect Vagina with your daughter?

*such and such a person*: I did, yes. Though I would like to make the correction that we sat and watched A Perfect Vagina, not Lisa Roger's Perfect Vagina.

Krishnan Guru-Murthy: Of Course.

I ironed that collar about 7 times.

Ah brilliant! Yet another boringly formulaic Guy Ritchie film about gangstarrrrs. Or in this case.. 'rocknrollas'. Fuck off.





Nice to see a Fast Show sketch from 8 years ago still applies.

Today I am researching Edward Furlong's abysmal career after he finished American History X, because that's what passes for fun on a Sunday.

The most exciting snack you can rustle up is Branston Pickle spread evenly over a single weight watchers piece of cracker bread. The sort of snack that makes you mumble 'jesus' as you crunch it in your mouth as fast as possible, just to get the thing out of your way.

I've joined a gym and I'm feeling lovely. I just completed my first official work out, apart from working as a labourer, going on massive moody walks for long thinks and doing sit-ups to keep a semblance of muscular tone. Though none of that really counts as proper exercise because I find losing ones breath to be uncool.

The place is rather incredibly swish, very well air conditioned and overlooking a pool/sauna/jakusi. The closest thing I've came to a gym is a sweaty boxing club, which I fled as a child after 20 minutes because they wanted to make me run up a hill, so I was honestly expecting to walk in to something akin to Rocky. Perhaps a load of tattooed bouncers and ex-cons would be there to greet me with a box of roses and a nice friendly clothes line maneuver whilst I was eating them, spraying chocolate and tears everywhere.

The walls are lined with plasma televisions in case you want to plug some headphones into whatever infernal machine you're on and watch infuriatingly poor television, such as the US version pilot of Life on Mars, to get yourself pumped up. Something to angrily rail against whilst on the rowing machine, imagining the Oars are whacking Colm Meany and that bland boring bastard who plays Sam's fucking tedious faces in on each row. Not that they'd show that ever, because it's the most soullessly awful piece of television I've seen since I watched the US version pilot of Red Dwarf, just an example.

I am now officially the gym going sort. Eventually to become an ultra-fit oblivious wanker, too ripped to the core to care even remotely about the feelings of others when my mind will be so busy coordinating my finely toned, highly reflective and heavily oiled Zeus-esque torso.

When walking down a street, you come to notice a figure in the far distance, ever so slowly getting closer. It's a long road and you seem to be walking about 0.2mph faster than him/her. At some point there will come an agonising ten second take-over moment where you have to swerve this person without looking at them or tripping over, just a reassuringly quick boost past them. But for those five seconds as you encroach, you feel somewhat bad that the person has no idea that you're a pleasant sort in an Animal Collective t-shirt, and for all he/she knows you could be a fucking wildebeest.

Also: Fuck you, Kitchen Robot.

Today I have developed a fondness for nonchalantly chucking things over my shoulder when I'm finished with them. Cups, lighters, etc. There's a bed for them to land on, so no damage is incurred.

Still, fuck off cup. Fuck off lighter. Fuck off tiara.

If only Eddie Murphy and Michael Jackson were in change of all governments. Peace, paedophilia and cruising for transexual prostitutes in our time. Imagine.

Fucking hell, that was even worse than last year.

Daleks: Universe destroyed in 3! 2! 1!

*something fucks up*

Daleks: Eh?

Catherine Tate: Because blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah....

Doctor: Brilliant!

Bill: Terrible.

Asides from the Nazi Daleks, anyway. That I couldn't be any more in favour of.

Edit: Oh, yeah. I forgot. Spoilers. Watch out for the spoilers you've just read.

I head to the dole office tomorrow for my first Job Seeker's Allowance claim for a couple of years, due to a credit crunch related lack of work in the building trade. What I find most incredibly enjoyable about doing this is sitting opposite stoned bombheads in their 30s, as if we are one and the same. Rrr you and me lad. Also fun is coming up with at least six things to put under 'What I did', which covers the past fortnight or so. Even though I actually plan to actively search for work, I will take the piss with the occasional one.

What I did: Pumped iron for 6 hours in preperation for advanced skullfucking position.
What happened: Got skullfucked :*(
What I will do next: Seek medical attention.
When: ASAP.

By the same token:

Got hat.
Worn hat.
Discard hat.
Immediately.

I hate using the phrase 'Roll on [desired event]', so I'll say that university will be a much desired event that is oncoming as the future transpires 4th dimensionally in a linear fashion, as these series of moments become ever looming to my great expectations. Roll on not being an overly verbose dickhead! Fuckin' wayyy.

Are you a woman? Seriously though? So why aren't you watching sex and/in/or/of/with the city?! Which girlfriend do you most relate to exactly? The slutty one? The married one? The big one? The fluffy one? The furry one? The red one? The on fire one? The Liverpool One?

How good are shoes?

I'm off to All Tomorrow's Parties... tomorrow, which given the line up promises to be excellent. I'm not there to enjoy a festival by any means, I'm there to appreciate sounds, stone faced, rolling my eyes analytically and eventually expressing a single approving nod towards any beats/strings/tangents/break/time signature irregularities/woops/ I agree with.

Yerse!

Contrary to unpopular belief, I would make for an excellent Father. I'd be dedicated to the point of home schooling my many children in the fields of knowing how to like boss music, being the best at crossing the road and time machine construction. Their education will never cease until they're Masters in all three endeavors. Facebook seems to agree, as apparently I've been voted 3rd out of presumably several millions of extraordinary men as best potential Pah material. Those holding down the #2 and #1 spots would be Mettie and Purple Aki of course, but I'll put this down to some moronic glitchquirk and clutch the minor victory.

I'm also something like 3rd Sexiest, 2nd Best to Work With and 4th Best Hair. This is where the reliability of these rankings comes into dire, depressing question.



This is a photographic impression of me at work. Not sexy, not remotely talkative or flirtatious and that's not even hair. They're milliantennae, communicating with the clouds and downloading accurate meteorological information at the rate of 4000 bits per second.

Due to my awesome paternal potential, I found this article in the Guardian today especially heart warming, in a way only a barnstormingly boss future Dad like me could.

Boy wonder

Five-year-old Samuel Houghton is the world's youngest inventor. Last week, he was granted a patent for his Improved Broom, which he came up with at the age of three. Patrick Barkham meets a little lad with big ideas



Ahh! Look at his little double brush thing that he did with a lazzy band! Now there is a promising child with the world at his feet! Quite literally! Something! Either that or that's the shittest invention I've ever seen in my life. Actually... I can barely manage to be sneering about the ickle genius without feeling terrible instantly. You did good, kid. Well, you did barely adequately, kid. You tied two brushes together, kid. It's not exactly a particle collider, kid. Well in kid.

WAR ON DRIVERS. BADLY THOUGH.

Is this seriously the most pressing news piece of the day, you fucking fictional Middle-Englander catering for whoppers?

Is other news, those lovely orange flavoured vitamin C tablets (I chomp handfuls of them down for the taste alone) you've been walloping over the years were, as it turns out, extremely mild cyanide capsules. We're probably all going to die now. Either now or at some point in this or the next century. Which is extremely worrying.