A Return

My boxing day hangover has gone, I'm refreshed, ready to go, bounce around in a field for a bit, do something worthwhile, perhaps eat a salad, rescue a bear, buy a big issue, stop smoking, choose life and become an all round good citizen of the world. Ahem, to my right, 20 boxes of Saudi Marlboro Reds, made in Germany, bought for £5, street value, £100. All for me. To my left, cigarette butts floating in remainder of sweet and sour sauce from two nights ago, chicken balls are nowhere to be seen. At me feet, laying on its side atop a mound of mismatched socks and lecture notes is a half empty (definitely half empty) bottle of Sainsbury's basics (they don't even give a capital B, they really do cut down on the quality) cider. Yum. Behind me, my sink, four, five, no that's the other end of that one, oh yes, four empty (or not full) cans of Carlsberg. Above the sink, a mirror, oh dear lord.

And that's how cool I am, well, I say me, the new me, the one who I think is a twat, nowhere near as cool as the me me, or the not me but actually me me, or the not quite not me but potentially not not me me. I don't expect you to understand. I expect I don't expect me to understand.

Wasn't Christmas amazing??? I don't think anybody noticed it, it sort of slipped past undetected on the radar amidst the interference of our collective impending financial and emotional meltdown. Happy Christmas, where's my Prozac??

My little sister got a Nintendo DS gizmo whotsit bobbin jobby for Christmas, enabling her to "interact" with pet animals, dogs, cats, hamsters, gimps, you name it. She got excited at being able to feed, play with and, most importantly, clean a pet hamster. Twilight (hasty introduction of simple character: a hamster, real, Roz's Christmas present last year) sat looking on, weeping her small hamster tears, one by one, into stale food, unchanged since Halloween.

I got things, music-ish things, Kings of Leon tickets, Fratelli's tickets, iTunes vouchers (redeemed so far by Johnny Foreigner, MGMT and, unfortunately, Alphabeat) and a guitar amp made from a cigarette box. Been banging on music for a while now, going with it as well, set up a band, a real, recording, performing, pouting band, beautiful. We're called Get-out Claws (though Vicus didn't really like it, I failed to take heed to his advice and alternatively think inproportionately i.e. he doesn't like it therefore it is a rockin' and a rollin') and we're a two piece. I'm not going to plug it, apparently that annoys people (you know who YOU are), but we're on myspace at www.myspace.com/getoutclawsmusic so if you want to hear what it's really like being a fairly unimaginative post-disaffected youth of the future, check us out.

That's all really, oh, apart from my mother instilling in me a rampaging love for Pernod (preferably mixed with Babysham).......I just read that back and noticed how gay it sounded, hmmm, should address that. We burned a copy of Wuthering Heights the other night for my friend's art project, I have been asked to act in a friend's short film for his film and photography type course and MY BAND'S MYSPACE IS WWW.MYSPACE.COM/GETOUTCLAWSMUSIC

Thanks.

3am on a Tuesday

This is a public service announcement from the heart of the slight outskirts of foggy Leicester's city centre, next to the rugby stadium and the gynaecologist, more of a public cervix announcement then.

I realised today that it is the 16th of December (advent calendar sent by mother, not in any way evidence that I am aware of the passage of time) and therefore 'tis nearly that most joyous of days; Boxing Day. Everybody loves Boxing Day only because it doesn't matter nor does it mean anything whatsoever. Being a student, I regularly employ the use of the magical wikipedia to aid my research and it was whilst flicking through loosely associated subjects on said magical pedia (loosely i.e. Bronte to Book to Paper to Ancient Aztec Culture) that I thought the thought that we all think, "what is Boxing Day?" or more specifically "why is Boxing Day?". After the merry sound of clicking keys, I found out the piece of information that has for some sick and sadistic reason made me fairly happy; Boxing Day has its origins in "the tradition of giving gifts to the less fortunate members of society". Fantastic, I'm actually looking forward to working in a soup kitchen on the 26th, just like we all do, it IS tradition after all, I'm going to walk a guide dog, paint some senile old biddy's living room in psychedelic colours for her and eventually (around about tea time, I'm guessing) have solved the financial, environmental and emotional crises in which we now find ourselves. I WILL NOT, I repeat unnecessarily for emphasis, WILL NOT spend the day drinking Tesco's own scotch pigging out on Jaffa Cakes and screaming abuse at my 8 year old sister, who would do that? Who in their own right mind, after having pigged out just the day before, would pig out again? No-one, that's who, only sick and twisted freaks with no regard for anyone but themselves, nobody in this society where we appreciate the true meaning and relevance of the 26th of December could possibly justify being this selfish.

As a small post script may I direct your attention to said wikipedia page where you can easily educate yourself more about Boxing Day, it's origins, why they don't have it in the States (it originates in charity, duh) and a funny song called the Cutty Wren where the word "penis" I think mean "pennies" but is funnier left as penis because there is nothing more funny than a penis. We all agree? Fantastic. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boxing_Day

So here we go

Wow, shazamalamabam and other such exclamations of excitement and wonder, welcome to the blog. The blog. The Blog. Hmmm, that seems better. I don't really have much to say on right wing journalism and the pitfalls of the BBC but I'll try to keep up with the greats with respect to wonderful grammar and a thesauras-like vocabulary, perhaps, more likely I'll just be a bit catty about brilliantly mundane happenings in my sweet little life and then wonder why nobody cares.



Today somebody made joke about my hair, what a cunt.



I think I'm getting the hang of this.



Passions etc could be staying up late enough to hear jazz on classical fm, kicking the shit out of musical instruments just to hear them cry and pretending to know more about books than I actually do. I'm currently apparently doing an English degree but I'm not at a University, well, I'm not at anything my grandfather would call a University and he is the font of all knowledge what with being an old blustering northern racist homophobe. Did I mention he's always right?

I'm an enthusiastic musician, "enthusiastic" being the most perfectly versatile of adjectives; I never said I was any good. I like writing songs that have no relevance to anyone, not even myself, they make people feel safe and warm, trust me, listen to The Wall, there we go, nice and fuzzy.



The purpose of this blog is really to put my words to a more harmless use and therefore lower the number of times I get kicked out of peoples' kitchens for being completely offensive, the way I see it is that if I complain to no-one in particular about nothing specific with a large amount of enthusiasm I'll stop being horrible to people. Hmm, let's see how this goes.

Oh, I forgot to add, I'm really deep and profound and troubled. Lol.