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Language.Sex.Violence.Other?The toilet walls of the internet 4月11日 I Want To Hear What You Have Got To Say... if you haven't lost your voice.A couple of months ago I bought a ticket. No, that's a lie I got Gary to buy me a ticket with the guarantee I'd pay him back one day, as soon as the family rent is paid and little Jimmy's leg operation so that he can walk again and see the light is fully funded.. Essentially, a ticket was bought to see the Subways on April 11th. And I, for reasons unbeknown to me, filthily assumed that I was thus going to see the Subways on April 11th. Why I based this assumption on such unreasonable grounds remains questionable.
And "Fool!" I hear you cry.
Apparently, and alongside grudging website evidence, Billy's pulled out (something insignificant like he lost his voice etcetc). Everybody knows that personal health and physical welfare always come secondary and if I end up wandering into a downtrodden bar exchanging illegal substances with a man I barely know while making crazy bets on horses in the time I was meant to be at the gig, then I'm blaming them for turning me into a drunken crackwhore with gambling debts. Instead of just a drunk.
Young For Eternity, but called in off sick for medical reasons.
I'm going to go now and put The Subways on at full blast to drown out the crying wails of my now bleeding heart.
[Disclaimer: Drugs are bad kids, and I do not endorse them in any way. What you find here is merely an embellished outpoor of an immensely hysterical broken girl.]
Oh, and a few songs I either uploaded DIY style or squeezed out of the internet:
2月12日 The weather today is slightly sarcastic with a good chance of: A. Indifference or B. Disinterest in what the critics sayUpdate: WLM [ That's Wildly Lame Messenger for those in the abyss of the unknown] is now in Albino form. They've pushed the boat out too far and tried making further improvements to what was never [that] shit. 'Tis to the detriment of any aesthetic features [afterall, what other features are there left to obliterate?] but nonetheless it arguably sinks through a loophole amidst the pressing needs for racial harmony because of it. Bravo team, bravo. [I still have an issue about the hug emoticons but that's a different lullaby and at least it's positive discrimination.]
Smileys all round and a *nudge nudge wink wink* (Oh, sorry, I forgot. Everybody hates nudges and after you've played the Silly Face 3 times and Winked yourself to merry blindness, the novelty slides away.)
I can't believe I'm actually expressing aggressive discord between MSN Messenger and I through their medium [of dance? But no.] of MSN Spaces. How fucked is that? That's like shouting at a fat man for the filthy state of his toilet and then going off to eat out of his fridge. Oh, except the former actually washes away the shit rather than cause it.
27th Febrero: Added an attempt at doing an eye with colour pencils.
[Generally Listening To// Shoorah shoorah - Betty Wright + Wonderwall (live).mp3 - Ryan Adams. [Not as great as the contemplative quality included with his studio version, but still a nice spin on the original (;Oasis-whine is only tolerable in very small doses and even when on mute, the monobrow stings. Infact it blinds and stings, kind of like pepper spray]
On the 4th of February, Chloe, David and I beared witness to the amazingly talented Regina Spektor at Shepherds Bush Empire and experienced the view from seats of which were delightfully positioned almost alarmingly close to the stage. Usually when you're at the front there's still a despairingly fuck off gap seperating that of the stage and you but by favourable chance this was not to be the case. I bet I could have easily stolen her shoes if I so wished.
Luckily with the flash deliberately switched off so as to not be intrusive nor discomposing ["they're loud and flashy, and I'm [she's] the only thing that's allowed to be loud and flashy"] we managed to retrieve back a set of Regina Spektor visual edification in the more commonly known form of photographs located in my gallery.
Golden Subway Ticket [But no, not a discount voucher to the apparently delicious fast food place with the big green sign]
In further news: I'm going to see The Subways in April!! Admittedly I'd first cast them aside as shite, unoriginal and untalented; almost irreversible disdain - that it is - but they proved me oh so wrong whilst being the support act at the Stereophonics which if anything suggests the powerful atmosphere needed to fully appreciate the Subs music. [Or because, less assuringly, any performance done live is enough to compensate for however shit their material is. These tickets aren't refundable; let's overlook the latter.] The girl singer is however still a terrible singer and considering the incessent hair shaking, I feel she'd be more suited to a l'oreal advert where activities of that nature are worth it. They probably pay a lot more too.
I'd also had the chance to buy Foo Fighter golden circle tickets (privelage of the signed up members to the site) but refrained [was struck down in my attempts] for a multitude of both controlled and external bastardly factors: The internet presale site was being arsy; the gig is during my exam period and the parents were much disgruntled; I've seen them before and this could possibly open up the possibility of growing bored of seeing them live [is that even feasible? Am I hopelessly and rather unfashionably clutching at straws here with this last reason because the only way I can convince myself it isn't worth it is by persuading everybody else with my transparent pretense?]
Right, I must endeavor to deliver a proper blog at some point.
iNews: My iPod was a very dearly cherished mp3 player to me. Despite it being unwittingly moulded into populist pants by those with all of 3 songs I still harboured a certain bond that withstood the cold of both the weather and the dissenting opinions of my fellow iHaters. Of course, as thoroughly vented in this entry I dropped it due to grabbing it out of my pocket by the earphones and having that subsequently drop out of the socket. And it - lo and behold to think the unthinkable - broke. Admittedly I ill-judged the situation and thought that those headphones were grabbable. For future reference - they are not. So after much mourning I - perhaps in an act of denail or perhaps of acceptance - bought a newer version; the superceding iPod Video.
Suddenly my weather is sunny again.
And because I'm feeling unstintingly munificent:
The Subways - With You [.mp3]
Protocol - Those Things I Do [.wma]
The Marshals - For You [.wma]
The Like - Falling Away [.wma]
With regards to Windows Live Messenger [or WLM, the new Beta replacement for MSN ((it just doesn't roll off the tongue as easily as MSN does it))- it's instability was initially of much mirth but that soon dissolved into infuriating and as I'd previously stated on Karishma's space, I knew that people would crumble under the instinctive curiosity evoked by the invites, I should've known better than to throw them around at my whim. I feel like a man that's handed out free drugs to children. It's definitely an odd replacement for MSN. They've added pointless albeit novelty features at the expense of basic necessities that I consider to be tilting more towards integrality such as signing me on, keeping me on - and whilst achieving both of these - allowing my 'recipients to receive the following messages'.
Do that, and I think they've just about got it sussed.
And Now All The Strings Are Cut, By Wit, By Time, Of Things You Trimmed The Ice For, Threw The Dice For
Have you ever had that indescribably alienated feeling? And sometimes it feels like you're trapped inside this huge drifting vacuum where everything is static and you're so cut off from what's spinning around you; there are no links to the rest of the earth, be it people or passions or furiously perpetuated hatred. Not links as in ties or restraints but just the ol' 'security, ontilogical to the extent of which, perhaps. Maybe I am afraid ["but you, you are the fucking anti-christ"] or maybe I've just lost the motivation and focus I once had by way of infomaniac tendancies, or realising I really have dropped in standard, educational wise, but hey maybe even in a form that's applicable to other fields also.
And the sounds don't make you jump and music you play is totally ineffective. And the nights that seperate the day have just become sets of blinds that all collectively rolled up so you're just one beam of light enduring day after day after day, feeling no different from the day you've just gone through and pretty indifferent to the ones that'll invariably strike. Perhaps it's the constant exposure that inures people to the crap and - standing inside that logic - I can see how adulthood will be so tremendously boring, infact I can understand why for others it already is. Is it possible to lose your intuition by overkill analysis of yourself? Or of anything equally as intensely. If something really rocked your coping mechanisms or dependable sources does it taint your perception forever by way of disorientating your ontological security and stuff? "Learning how to respell 'trust'" It's so much easier to have a sense of humour that deflects any potential personal attacks if you're a balanced person and I'm rather afraid that experiences of which are to an unbelievably shitty extent reduce those chances. Maybe they're reversible, but that's a pretty hard process to do all by yourself. None of this is explicitly biographical, just an alluvion torrent of subconsciousness [/ bollocks]
- Fall Out Boy are playing on the 24th of July! I need tickets. 12月6日 "Why can't we open the gate?!" Because everyone knows that Bulldog suck.08th Jan: An unfinished Evangeline. 29th Dec: A new sketch installment in the gallery up there. Maddox's view on blogs and buzz words. Oh Maddox, you hypocrite. You bastard. You grudgingly hilarious, hypocritical bastard who sits at his computer all day, slating everybody else who's doing the same. I'm terribly offended within my own overly sensitive and emotional little world so bear with me whilst I momentarily exude cries of pain into my already tear sodden pillow.
British humour: Subtle. Funny.
American Humour: Director: "What's that now? You didn't quite get the joke first time round? ..But we've said it loud enough; slow enough; 'big' enough; we have actors in with exaggerated eyebrows and a token sassy black woman; we've already exceeded the realistic limit of how many fake laughs we should add of which we blatently use in order to condition you into believing it's actually funny and understanding exactly when to let out the roaring guffaws! Hell, we even got Andy Dick! Still totally addlepated? Spell the joke out just one more time Matthew Perry, then leave a lengthy pause to let it sink into the impermeable audience, forcing the obligation to chuckle. Ok, Matt this isn't working - go phonetic. Take 'em on an elaborate tour of every corner of the quip to rally in the leftover unelightened. Look damnit, I've told you before - stick to simple sarcasm, painfully iambic emphasis. And if that doesn't trigger them, vigorously gyrate the hips and hands whilst increasing the sarcastic voice volume to Max. Or should that be Supersize? Then repeat joke slower, hyperbolized, and destroyed."
Quite obviously, that largely erroneous illation isn't applicable to all, if any American sitcoms and I understand that I've, uncreatively, just whipped up an arguably misconceived and jaded notion up there^ and it's absurd. Because Friends was funny. They just laboured the punch line so that most of their country would realise so. Therefore, eternal apologies for any potential offense to anybody who's American. I shouldn't latch onto the ironically comical fact that the comedy they breed isn't more tremendous than not. Because I am wrong; God endorses George Bush. ..I'm just desperately putting off History and Economics calls of slavery, speaking of which..
My History and Economics presentations:
Need to turn up:
There Goes My Hero.. [In true Beccy Livejournal style:] Music| Lou Rhodes // Beloved One] Mood| Weirdly quixotic + a little pissed off that I've spent so much on iTunes; legality is so boring. Foo Fighters Concert, 18th December '05: What a barnburner that bloody was! Possibly one of, if not the best night of my life and I wonder, if anything could ever feel this real forever, if anything could ever be this good again. It wasn't too dissimilar from the feeling of renewing marriage vows [let us assume for the purposes of the analogy that I have vast knowledge of that]; I've always been a steadily loyal fan probably ever since Britney's flower hadn't even been pollinated yet but having this experience definitely intensifies that stack of devotion I'd held up for so long and, as with any concert, relishing the 'concert zest' will only last a week or so, so I've just gotta Grohl with it. Done, done; on to the next one. Stereophonics Concert, 17th Dec [Hope my incredibly subtle implication is made noticeable by way of this strategically decreased font size]: Not bad, not bad. Even though it'd be a somewhat absurdly insensitive review if I was to go as far as saying it was a ribald blizzard of musical bollocks, being slapped back to back with a Foos concert definitely put Kelly's performing skills, or lack thereof to a little bit of shame. The Foo's weren't the puddle of light to illuminate the Phonics success but more a patronising foot to stamp on it. I'm now, tragically, of the opinion that my space title ceases to epitomise my musical taste anymore both because my musical inclinations may prove a little too eclectic [Eurgh! Self-confessed 'eclectically' swayed person = high opinion of oneself = wankaa!!!!11!] for just one album to do it justice and also because I've gone off the title a little bit anyway [Or have I? Hmm. What to do]. The supporting act - the Subways - were definitely not substandard and they actually came frighteningly close to contending for who was the best band of the night. I guess it was nothing but inevitable for a band that'd swam the same scorching path as the Phon's to soon be victimised by the tedium of the unsaitisfactorily dumb and intimate-with-the-commoners little gig's located in crappy dust filled places such as Alexandra Palace (Ally Pally) whereas The Subs just looked like they were flying high on the excitement of actually having an audience. Oh what tragedies that complacency blights on a band; their fatal death hangs nigh.
Xmas weren't bad, neiver. 11月13日 Oh All The Times I Tasted Love, Never Knew Quite What I Had[I'm afraid this may enter into the realms of emo-ism but fear not, I've strapped rope around my stomach in order to safely climb myself back out of it afterwards. However, this has had dire consequences in that I'm probably going to dive in even further. Unreservedly.]
"Why did it feel like all the pain that I had to swallow up and unburden, was because of this sickening, nagging, inpalatable self infliction? It wasn't my fault, orwas it?"
I've seen so many friends crumble away and fall apart because of exactly this. Because of love. I guess self-destruction is a confusing thing, and I can't believe how much you can rip yourself apart with your own thoughts whilst beginning to hate yourself too much to even bother esconsing the rational "bigger picture" psyche which might just help you to see again. Being reasonable is the last thing you're able to do. Like figuring out the huge difference between what's good for you, and the desires that, if fulfilled, will only disease you for longer; being ablel to speak to them, enjoying their company, just one more time for 'closure' may possibly be that quick temporary fixture tablet to put you at ease, at least for a while, but what what about afterwards? The realisation will hit you that you've just scratched manically away at the wound you'd be trying so hard to heal. It's a despairing conflict of rationality and raw instinctive emotion. I don't know, there's a certain time frame that moulds into a rut the longer you keep running back and forth in it, going nowhere and getting attached to blotches of the past, unwilling to move on. You need to find a button to deaden the pain but it's only found in the direction you don't want to consider going in. Catch 22?
How could you hate somebody, yet turn around and blame yourself for being the terrible consequence kicked away into a niche. Do you hate yourself for still loving them? Is it their fault for violating you or your fault for inappropiately trusting that they wouldn't? Are you lost between trying to understand, and wanting so hard to repetitively stab them with the kitchen knife? A mental battle between internal and external locus of control. And nothing helps. Nothing could. It wouldn't be able to patch up that hole that hit you like the speed of a bullet and left you gasping for air. No matter who you could blame it on, regardless of where the responsibility rested, despite who you ran to it does't change what you're running from. And the constant fight left you exhausted when you tried to sleep. And when you ate. And when you watched TV or laughed at stupid private jokes with your mates and other dumb trivial daily's. How tiring was it to pretend everything was ok in the hope that the facade would dissolve the pain? Repression isn't healthy. The walls around you just crashed down because the person you'd come to depend on to hold you up took one step away. Does it still feel like you're so close to them, you can breathe them in? Are you going mad? Were you just in love with a lie?
Why couldn't you see what was happening? Are you too locked inside the turbulance of it; is it too early to be objective?
Your identity, knowing who you are, being content with yourself and your flaws, they were all a part of that building that helped you climb up and establish who you were. It was a team effort. Now the opened door of trust that you exposed to someone elses love reversed back onto you as an invasion, violating you and vegetating off of all you had left to give, tearing it all apart. Something so magic reduced to tragedy. But if it wasn't you alone that built those walls of security, then how would you ever restore them with your own difiled hands? The ones that belonged to those same eyes that couldn't even bare to look at you in the mirror in fear of that disgusting reflection it would unmask. Out of hands that belonged to someone now so spiteful, stubborn, withering, so broken by disbelief at how somebody else could lull you in, tell you they loved you, only for it to end up giving them the power to demolish you and your armour of protection. Mutating your trust into nothing but gullibility. Flinging out tiny sprays of their ever-so-valuable and forever-diminishing attention so that you can keep on hanging onto the edge of existence. Don't you feel pathetic? Needy? Alas, are you living inside the vision of a life that isn't truly there; holding onto a hope that's killing you. It's as if they deliberately wanted, all along, to hurt you, to laugh at you as you get back up. Knocking you back down while you tried. What a joke it came to be.
But they're not laughing, are they? Neither are they watching. They're not even there anymore. They just don't care about you. How harsh can someone be. They seemingly stopped caring before you even stopped crying. I guess if you really liked them, you'd see their happiness as more important than yours, right? Otherwise you're being selfish and making the person you 'love' unhappy. Proper love is altruistic and free. You just have to try & grudgingly let it be, no matter how much it hurts you to know they can't be happy with you. [Exactly how bollocks and helpless a plan is that?]
So you're torn. Do you want to scream an indentation of pain into them to scorch just a tiny simmer of the burning you had to endure during all those restless nights? Gain some kind of justice? Retrieve a little bit of dignity back? To dig that vengeful flame into their entire life, show them what they've done. To make them realise, because as it is, they're looking pretty reckless and indifferent. However, there's something holding you back. Preventing you from lashing out. Another factor; not just uncertainty, not just doubt, not just overwhelming depression. But pride, perhaps. They've already stripped you of most of it, what good would it do to throw away the rest? If they really think that they've locked you in a power struggle whereby you're so deeply crushed by the impact of what they do, be it as little as a whisper in the night or as forceful as a punch to pierce the sky, then their ego's managed to just about elevate itself out from the confines of what's egotistically possible. Well done, your anger and lack of self control has made them feel good about themselves. To magnify the voice of your hurt for the sake of at least a faint echo of it to reach their ears would only help them paint the picture that you're still fixated by them, confirming just how helpless and anxious you are. Proving that you'd take them back given half the chance. You're a slave to your emotions and it's going to be a long tiresome ride. You've exposed that you're on your knees and they've made a tune out of it, singing blissfully at the power and what you've degraded yourself to. Don't you feel foolish?
The more intimate you'd become, the more the pain of splitting up insists on welding itself deep inside every artery, every vein, every thought you ever had for the future, until your totally corrupted and rotten to the core. Who knew that love could ever end. If they knew you inside out, if they were familiar with your hates and hopes and adored your penchante for mozarella cheese, then the break up with you was exactly that, a break up, with you. In the most personal, accurately swivet sense. Not a break up with a facade you'd held out simply to strike up a part in the perfect partner vision, not a light hearted companionship with no hopes of ever really lifting off square one, not a stupid teen puppy love crush, but you. It was real love, wasn't it. Breaking up felt like rejection on a whole scope of levels; it was the ridicule and defeasance of anything you'd ever wanted to be; how you look, how you thought, how you felt, how you say goodbye over the 3 hour phone call. Who you are, what you want, your worth.. turns out it just wasn't good enough. Shit. You ask yourself why? Suddenly this huge black blind cracks down infront of your eyes, rendering the thought of pressing on through the day as blinding, cutting of your oxygen supply, restricting you from seeing where you're meant to go. Your stomach churning, your mind running around in desperation, telling anyone who'll listen that you don't know what to do. How hard should you try to restore that previous equipoise stream of limitless love...
And when do you give up? How do you find out what they're feeling? Is there some universal answer? Will guilt bring them back? Would you even want somebody fused to your side by guilt? And what are you supposed to do; try and salvage what you could? Say thanks for the memories and enjoy the rest of your life? To accept it? Get over it? Forget it? Deny it? Pretend it was all a horrific dream?! Simply sit back and reassure yourself with some delusional hope that you needn't worry because one day you'll find a shred of string that'll lead you back to how it used to be? Leave it to the workings of destiny so you can happily shrug off responsibility? Could it ever be the same as it once was? If it could, is that what you want? To open up the possibility of it happening all over again? Surely you should have learnt by now? Every memory that evoked an uncontrollable smile came with it a gracelessly disgorging barrel of tears at the realisation that your sparkles of amazing memory were falling further and further away, getting old and parting with you just like the person that had helped to create them. Those memories of happiness were tearing you apart and the dreams in your sleep simply toyed with those facts in some sick and surreal blur of pain and panic.
They can lure you in and drop you just as fast, your trust is their power, and the more you fall hopelessly in love, the bigger the hole in your sail. Peace love & empathy 10月23日 I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloore4's McFly Special with Simon Amstell managed to calm down my boredom for an hour and I don't know why.
Tom's favourite cheese is cheddar.
Dougie doesn't like golf.
Danny is purportedly very warm and comforting.
McFLACT.
Win MX. Now that it's finally pulled the curtains on its unreliable yet previously unremitting performance, the one where it gave me the songs I want, and [near enough] when I wanted them, I've conveniently been stung with realising the error of my ways. Noticing the sheer extent of the corruption to the music industry that my selfish love for music had proliferated, I've taken to spitting with disdain [/envy] at the people still holding the ability to whisk up a song or two at the tap of a few cheap keys and a "Your illegal song will be with you shortly". Of course, it's brilliant to own the CD itself, music that's bottled at the source, but now I don't have the choice which makes it more of an expensive undesirable discomfort more than anything else. Especially when I'm perpetuating a fiscal decay in my purse for the useless de trop packaging which is essentially just CD art, breakable plastic cases and a photograph or seventeen of the artist wearing [possibly only] an odd-looking designer hat and thinking that you'd rather see 56 egocentric poses of them with that on rather than, say, the lyrics.
Untimely, Babyshambles album sails on course to reach our ears by November the 14th. Taking all things into account, is this an inopportune request for the drug aficionado Babyshambles and will it arrive on time, if ever at all? Do they even know if they have fans waiting for it? On the contrary, the pendulums taken a forceful swing in the opposite direction and has managed to spill the album all over filetrading networks as we [/I] speak. It's now available online before anywhere else and intoxicating unauthorized ears.
Disclaimer: I have not, do not, will not ever and nor do I condone participation in the disrespectful [and slightly illegal] flagitious procedure to download music off of various naughty music-industry-obliterating filetrading networks in an attempt to save myself a few quid. Or to further explore my own musical orientation or to aid a compilation CD "for my mate". Everything I'd previously stated which bears association with how WinMX has screwed me over is a lie.
Cristiano Allegations.. "Christiano Ronaldo (Man United footballer) has been arrested for sticking it in without permission. It seems that these days, every footballer and his dog is being accused of stabbing people with their cocks." - James space. It is irritating that selfish women who realise that either way, they can swindle out a buck or two for permanently defacing a celebrity with the cry of rape, probably just perpetuate this type of behaviour amongst others due to legal protection rendering their identity anonymous, yet rip up a celebs rep in the process anyway regardless of the verdict.
Even if the charges [most probably] turn out to be completely false, the legally protected woman and her attention-seeking monetary-profiting accusation gets off scott free, possibly even with a book on the go that's based on how her claims were dismissed and how rough he handled her, and end up ironically victimising Cristiano who gets landed in oxymoronic innocent piles of shit. iTold you I'd gone to the Apple store to plan on making an appointment with a 'Genius' at the assuringly-named 'Genius Bar' and whilst waiting, I naturally followed my sidetracked eyes which led me to experimenting with all the mesmerising glossy white iPods, iPod photos, iPod videos, Shuffles, Nanos etc. When it came to the Nano, I couldn't help myself. As role of unofficial yet dutyful tester, wanting to help the British public with reviews of experience, I made an unintentional yet debatably artistic crack on the screen of an iPod Nano. It turns out that indeed, the claims were true.
After swiftly walking out of that shop because it was getting a little boring in there, I sauntered into HMV only to discover Starsailor singing their lil 'Your daddy was an alcoholic' heart out in that entrancing albeit a little whiney voice whilst emoting their "starsailor anthem" 'Keep us together'. Personally I thought it was the 'Good Souls', but I'm not sure because, get this, I'm not actually a fan. Or at least I don't have what I'd consider constitutes being a fan i.e. owning a CD; I walked in and it was too loud to ignore and the man with a guitar held my attenion, which proved to be something Starsailor themselves picked out as an ulterior quality in most of the crowd.
Lead singer: "If you don't know who the fuck we are, and you've just come in off of the street [me: *whistles*], then just get your stuff signed by er, buying our album. [No?] It's over there.[Straight to the bone he is. The charmer.] I know you lot already have it *points to rowdy fans* cause you're 'ardcore [/bizarrely fixated], but if the rest of you are just random, our albums over there. Somewhere." They mentioned that they'd been going for at least 7 years? I feel bad that they've always, in my eyes just been a backgroundish mediocre band never quite harbouring scorching success. Not so much "Starsailor!!!!!" as "Oh right. Starsayler?"
Harry Potter's Too Commercialised.
In the midst of a world where poor politics, lingo wars on literacy standards remain everpresent and shit programmes on abc1 take centre stage, I raise a point. In converse with Simon, we'd figured that Harry Potter is a little too commercialised now. Because it is. Slightly detracts from it's supernatural girdle. Or it possibly just taints debatably stunning writing with the fact that there's a bombload of profitable gain made down the financial back alley with mass produced crappy games consisting of pencilled characters so far away from resembling Harry that it could just as easily be Spiderman in a monkey costume with a banana in one hand and wand in the other. Abracadabra we've swindled money out of you. All of this feeding off of kids adoration for the book.
With a franchise that is based entirely around magic and defying your own destiny, it does seem rather sad and ironic that that same franchise relies on the all-too-real concept of human greed to sustain it.
Apologies for the rather sparsely updates only I've been suffering from lack of inspiration, motivation, bothering, and sleep.
I have Stereophonics tickets! Unfortunately, it's for the day before the Foo Fighters gig.
On that note, X Factor is bad. Really bad. I bet Simon Cowell wants to die.
10月1日 I doubt she does receiptsA few weeks ago, I dropped my ipod, onto the roiled pavement. The old vintage first edition 20GB ipod which I'd gently been lulled into believing had fallen into a derelict loophole of invincibility. Slick, classic, unstoppable, minimalist dress sense and a best friend with an incredible music taste etc. By this time, as with any iPod mishap, I'd assumed it'd make it through the fall; I've clumsily played ping pong with it against hard-bitten surfaces aplenty and thus imagined its physical limits to be indomitable in a secret over confidence. However this time, I nonchalantly picked it back up with my infallibly misconstrued psyche that it'd done a Jesus, striking back with its amazing white shine minus a beard, only to find that in actual fact the screen had cracked. [Overriding general consensus, I didn't break it on purpose to open the gate to the niche of nifty Nano's. No. Definitely not.]
Bloody apple.
I could travel to the apple shop to get them to fix it up, make it look sharp, but the upgraded iPod in Nano form's busy teasing my eye with its swish demeanor, and well worth consideration; amazingly advert-purported-and-therefore-a-fact invincible screen, featuring a full spectrum of colour, bonus points for the engrossing advertisement, and sexy refined physique, no? Wrong.
The swifty realisation of flaws in the Nano has resulted in a bevy of "iPod Nano owners in screen scratch trauma"
 "I broke my iPod while it was sitting in my pocket. Apple told me I'd be better off buying a new one, instead of sending it in. [Well done apple for attempting the win-win situation of raking in money via the initial buzz of, and then the inefficiency of your products!] "
"I found that my black 4GB Nano scratched within minutes after peeling off the protective wrapper and wiping it with a cotton T-shirt. I put it in a pocket just once and it was inside the soft case that came with my third-gen iPod. [So you breathed onto it, and it self combusted? Oh apple.] "
"My thoughts are that the nano is way too expensive to scratch so easily like this. [Amen.] "
With literally all of its customers wearing the fashionable understatement of being dissatisfied with the iShod:
ipod Nano = Big [Na]No No.
It also holds a scant 1000 songs which in itself is a picayune offer to the public and I. And quite frankly, exactly how much would I want an iPod that highlights my chosen song in an adventurous blue instead of grey, which moreover would be hidden from view in my pocket for 98% of the time anyway, if it's only going to be to the detriment of the intergral function of the capacity to hold the number of songs that I actually have? How much would I want to renew my sight with a screen that chips as easily as my confidence and a superficial enticement that in turn obliterates its purpose?
The answer is, not very much.
Academia melt into MSN life?
After History on Thursday, Simon got queried by Miss Rawlinson as to whether he had MSN. Could this be the cardinal stage in the development of teachers actually becoming involved with a students social interaction with others over the modern novelty that Microsoft kindly gave to us free of charge? Isn't that simultaneously breaking various laws? It'd be like your folks chillin' wit your crew. A few of us were slightly frightened by her interest, or even her knowledge of MSN [which on reflection isn't actually that horrific], of which spurred on a brief contemplation of how life would shift if [or when] teachers make their way onto my buddy list. If this happens, the end of the world will be nigh. Just imagine if you'd done the whole "Sorry, wrong box. You've got a similar font to them" thing to a teacher, but with the content being something you'd wish to circumvent a teachers vision. Rest assured you can kiss goodbye any otherwise potential A grades. I'd probably just surgically attach {Busy doing history homework} to the end of my screen name.
Whilst I've somehow spilt opinions on the withdrawal of content on MSN that's being inhabited by teachers [this being a criminally strange anachronism], isn't it sometimes slightly insulting when, after the most noticeably large drift of convo silence, they suddenly make the bar at the bottom flash orange in a suggestively urgent manner, only for you to realise it was sadly "the wrong box. soz".
And of which is sometimes the direct translation of "Oh. Sorry. I typed that in the hope that it was going to be recieved by somebody else. I.e. not you. Unfortunately, it was you. Which actually made it appear as if I wanted to speak. To you. To converse. But I didn't. Please go back to believing that my "Away"/"Busy"/"Out To Lunch"/ "Leave Me Alone"/ Fool Proof Filter status is authentic. <end>"
"Wot U Fink U Kno bout Landon City?"
Yesterday I went to London to visit CASS art, the best art shop in the entire world, when I walked past that man on TRL whilst they were filming. I dont know his name, I don't watch his programme as I haven't the channel, but we engaged in eye contact for all of 3 seconds. It's the vaguest yet most intimate brush with fame I've yet to encounter, [aside from meeting Girl Thing, allSTARS, and some band beacon of mediocrity called Busted who was obviously just trying to imitate McFly]. But if it's the fame-aquainted link that'll locate me nearer to celeb than pleb, then the fact he's the equivelant of Mariah Careys backstage portable loo's cleaner's left shoe's piece of dog poo ridden sole, is where it's at.
I also, in Oxford street, bumped into a guy I was standing right next to in the crowd at Reading festival, with the distinct cap and piercing on the back of his neck. It's even more odd that out of all the people there, he was the one I saw again, as I was hoping that I would [lol..]. He was wearing the same red shirt though, which I sadly found quite amusing. Wardrobe deja vu's happen to me too though; I wear a certain collection of clothes, hang around with some people. So far so good. Then, the first time since then, I wear those exact same clothes on a later date and I bump into the same assemblage of folks. It's a tad embarassing as it looks like I have a very limited wardrobe, or I don't own a washing machine. Or both.
Trip to Franz
7 mates and I are going to see Franz Ferdinand! That is all.
I've just done two sketches after the commomplaced weekly contract I made with Ben. I hope they're alright, I haven't had as much time to dedicate to sketches as I'd like. I love the flexibility of 'Show and tell Friday' i.e. we don't always show anything and it's not necessarily on a Friday. On Tuesday night I found out that my Art GCSE was 3 marks away from an A*. It's a sign that I shouldn't take this on as a career.
Ooooh, and happy belated birthday to my fellow "sex muffin" James who was 19 on Friday!! September is clearly where it's at. He is of the opinion that:
" Kaiser Chiefs- They're just shit, and the lead singer is fat. I predict a diet."
Isn't that just concise genius? 9月22日 Red RainThe best colourfully engrossing blog introduction I've yet to weave out of previously jaded words:
"Today I did 20 questions on algebraic long devision."
School quote of today: "Chapped lips is the number one killer amongst black people!" - Bukkys plead for the vaseline, presumedly in order to prevent her lips from rusting to the point that they've actually solidified and broken off her face into shards on the carpet.
On that hurried note, I've made the pencil do two tiringly longwinded sprints onto paper today, because maths didn't need me and I thought I'd take advantage. They're hopefully alright ish. One's of Jennifer Love-Hewitt, who I'd actually, in pensive negotation with Ben, agreed to materialise for last Friday. I'll pretend I just forgot, or that I got my days muddled up and somehow thought we were still in the process of nearing the end of last week, or even better - thought that we meant the Friday coming up tomorrow. Naturally easy mistake to make considering there's roughly anually 52 of them.
Proper blog on its way.
Adios caballeros and señoras
UPDATE: I've never religiously leaped onto the sofa in anticipation to watch the news. Racially galvanised stabbings brightly girdled with paparazzi camera flash isn't an upshot you'd like to be enlighted with on an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning, as unsteady an angle that might be to position a personal slant. Yet I wouldn't be wrong in saying it could've become useful knowledge in terms of the ability to be conversant about it; y'know, mirroring the idea of heading off out to see a film in Vue that you just know will be shite, but go to see anyway just so you can discuss its poorness with the rest of your punks.
BUT, I couldn't help but hear the serious supposititious furore oblivious to its own hilarity of London and other regions slowly surrendering itself to a nation wrapped in Ghettos. The sanely educated people are slowly being wiped out as we know it, calling eachother 'safe' and other such crazy stunts of uprising. As far as the metal protective kind goes for storing valuable possessions, it'd be fairly accurate to say that they need to be locked up. One minute people are anally tidying up their teeth with toothpicks, the next thing you know they've permantly secured the piece of wood in their mouth and referred to themselves as a G. The message here is: SAY NO TO GHETTO (and theft and drug dealing and hitting old people) 9月13日 Déjà FooHola amigos!
It's a year on; year 12. GCSEs are either neatly in the bag of brag, or falling out of a patchy hole round the side that you'd created after pulling the trigger to your own educational suicide, and into a place where you'd rather forget about them and move on.
It's been a reinvigorating ice cube down the back after perambulating idly into school, at a later time, in a top I chose to wear, laughing at juveniles in - oh, what's it called again - 'uniform', and playing the fainéant figure of a 6th former. I'm a cog in the big kids parade now, but being aloof in the outskirts of recently discovered authority has meant the ablility to override the rules, which naturally comes hand in hand with the staff remaining unreactive to whatever we choose to do; we're crazy yet invisible authoritative socialites. But I'm not quite feeling the congruity in the air just yet; it's as if I'm watching through my own eyes yet not making any decisions as to what I phsyically do, like a puppet on a string, distant from their actions and detached from the lifestyle, even though tiny year 7s have taken it upon themselves to ritually depart to the side of the corridor in order to let me through; I did indeed feel like a surreal painting of Moses when he divided the sea like a fluid planar of curtains. Such power. And I'm back on [6th] form.
Teachers have undergone some unearthly transformation; they've suddenly let down their hair, melted their uptight skittish ways into eased out human emotion e.g. smiling, and begun exhaling a stampede of respect like nothing I've ever seen before. 6th Form's like the secret passage, revealed to the ones that managed to / bothered to make it this far. An apple on the desk for an A on the paper, well why not? Not that I'm a complete sycophant fallen under the idea that inveigling teachers with bum kissing is an example of elevated morals. But let's not judge.
Here's a lustrated example of selfishness, and instead of using a bible reference, as one usually does, here's a better one by noneother than:
Mr Bilsborough in his savoir-faire speech: "It's a fact, I wouldn't be here if I wasn't getting paid. Forget about happiness and poems and *intensely gyrates right hand to make a point [/shadow puppet?]*, it's about GREED and POWER."
Distraught pupil: Don't you love us, sir?
Mr Bilsborough: "No."
Lit. Up
English Literature has got to be the best subject going, regardless of the supposed regalia of new subjects branded into the system. Why do English teachers usually give that suggestive look of an unspoken collusion? It's all just that little bit better, perhaps my fingers will even let me type the word 'exciting'. But our teacher, Mr Taylor, loves the word 'gothic'. As well as teenage girls. And dramatic language: "It's very GOTHHHic" *Theatrical hand motion followed by laggard blinks and slurred speech*
Drugs? Probably.
For exampleria: Scene: Mr Taylor's reading a book.
Year 7 (Appearance: Innocent yet devious disposition, malapropos height, unflatteringly large blazer leaving space for the ol' 'growing room', tie with maximum stripes, and a radiating glow reminiscent of some kind of enthusiasm towards learning - like I said - BIZARRE): Whatcha reading Mr Taylor? *Blink blink*
My Taylor: "PORN."
Year 7: *Mortified cries*
True Story.
Arty Business
I'd paid a visitation to the long ago abandoned art department to retrieve my GCSE material. I thought it'd be easy. I'd initially prepared a talk down the tactful alley so as to bubble up just enough hints to make the art teacher realise I didn't want to stop and chat, I didn't want to have a little rethink about why Art wasn't down as one of my chosen subjects, I didn't want to appreciate the ornamental evergreen plant. I only wanted to be handed my GCSE artwork and go home. There was brief contemplation over the plan of raking out the reenactment of the 'Grab my stuff and run' theory but that form of modus operandi is commonly known in these regions as theft. It would also need to be a fashionably executed plan and somehow reducing the idea of sprinting to a modestly paced jog; I had crap trainers on. Pink Fcuk ones for that matter. £30 cut down from £60 in the sale. Not bad.
Anyway, to conclude, I saw all my work on the class walls or in the store cupboard. The teacher told me to come back on Monday to collect it. So I walked into school, Monday morning, and saw my paintings stapled onto the wall behind a thick plane of plastic, drilled onto the wall. Permanently. In the main hall corridor.
I'll get them back. One day.
You're A Foo!
After my friend and I collided existences on our way to catch the 398 home, and after continuing to share experiences of what year 12 is like at our seperate educational institutions, she caught a glimspe of my Reading wristband [I just can't let it go, I've evidently subscribed to Tramp Trends...] and deduced via the most prudent deduction that I'd indeed gone to the Reading festival. Cutting wit. Following that was time spent wisely as she fronted roughly half an hour of light hearted sulking at, well, her absence from the event. Having worn it for so long, it does look like I'm wittingly waving around the symbol of a perinnial mockery of the fact that she didn't go. All of a sudden it hit me, like a fly to the eye, that in due course I was infact in line for a little bit of deja Foo as the Foos had owing perfomances payable to the stage I'd be at in Earls Court. It's bizarre how minor aspects of life like education can occupy and thus wreck your memory from something as monumental as a concert. Shame on Economics. Me: "I'm seeing them on december the 18th if you wanna come?" Response: "I love you!" *Nearly kisses me shoes, until she realises that the WHSmith floor is dirty. And so are my shoes.*
Who could have known that such a strong and underlying common thirst for music was going to end up shamelessly unveiling a somewhat superficial bond, overriding how critically shit it is to have a conterfeit friendship by your side.
The Fresh Prince
Do you remember the Prince of Bel Air, back in the day, where in West Philidelphia, born and raised, the playground was where he spent most of his days? Chilling out, relaxing, relaxing all cool and shooting some Bball outside of the school, when a couple of guys who were upto no good, started making trouble in the neighbourhood? He got in one little fight and his mum got scared and she said "You're moving in with your auntie and you're going Bel-Air...?
Do you hate the Ku Klux Klan?
(If you've answered yes to the former, you're a great member of society and should congratulate your parents for the way they raised you. Oh, and well done if you said "yes" to the latter, too.)
Then play the game Fresh Prince Vs. the KKK. It'll be right up your street.
Live To Love Liv
Completed [what was meant to be] Liv Tyler, but in accordance with the limited time my new fangled 6th form life has allocated to me, the sketch was a simple delicate 1hr spry of lead sprinkled quickly onto paper by my left hand before English homework was a-calling. Also see Bens excellent version, as we'd made an online agreement to both do a picture of our favourite Lord of The Rings character, no? I might add the next actress we've decided to do onto the end of this entry if I complete it some time by the end of the decade. I'll plop some GCSE cswk sketches in there too.
Final Thoughts: England won the ashes! Although what it is they're planning to do with the desirable powdery black residue, I just don't know.
And with that, I'll say adieu...
Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Dontcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Dontcha?! 9月3日 The Denial TwistHurricane Katrina. It wasn't nice, its torturing need to scrape up who you are again is still stuck in a sunken track, and in George W. Bush they'd blessed their little freckles of trust which he festively wore on his visage, but then let fade away when the sun wasn't shining its spotlight crusade of cameras on him. Each time he absent mindedly grins, the US of A is incomprehensibly reassured that America is invincible. Roll on hard times.
We've all seen the footage and heard the screaming cries, their belongings and their family gashed away with the surroundings that defined their lives, and now the only thing they have left to lose is their mind. So they steal, an issue that Aaron delicately raised, and that's what they have to resort to. Because that's all they can do. When their coteries of communities have been ripped to shreds in the quaintest unforeseen and unfair army of errupting air, to then try and panel down the rule of No stealing is somehow warped. Rules are designed to keep things orderly. Now there's nothing left at all, so what's there to retain? The force of rules is nothing compared to that of the natural disaster of a hurricane, surely? And look what we become when the physical furore wipes out civilisation..
"In the south parts of America, this is where the legacy of mistrust between black and white people truly begins to show."
Final thought: George Bush was the same man that attempted the sincerely unfeigned approach on our educational development with the question:
"Is our children learning?"
Well is they?
September B'day!
Hip hip Hooray! Happy birthday to James who's 19 today, the 3rd of September!
Also, my birthday occured, in that annual fashion that it seems to have adhered to, on the 1st of September, where it's ripened the predictably mechanical verbal interchange of:
"Hey, so that makes you the oldest in your year then? Oh, so if you were born one day earlier, you would have been in the year abov-"
"Yes. The snippet of time that dictated which year I settled into was tighter than a ducks arse."
(Thanks Matt)
Special thanks to Karishma, Caroline and Kyle and lots of other spacians for wishing me a good birthday, t'was smashingly age accumulating. My life is now filled with the fruity scent of Paris Hilton's perfume, sleeked to salon perfection with Morphy Richards Hair tongs, visually enlightened with the OC entire first and second seasons on DVD, and my aural state has picked up with a selection of CDs including the White Stripes, Supergrass, Kaiser Chiefs, and KT Tunstall. Basically, my senses went under the knife for a face lift. I may also have been subject to a slight financial boost.
 I've not much against Paris; she's flaunting it whilst she's got it, and well, if I'd inherited "x" number of billions, I know too what I'd be doing with it...
However, if I did hold a grudge towards her existance in this world where celebrity status is the alter at which we worship, then I'd justify the possession of the perfume with the fact that, set aside from it being a birthday present that essentially crosses the barrier of choice, she also probably had nothing to do with the manufacture, design, nor choice of scent with this perfume. Therefore, it's just a commercial rape of her aesthetic appearance. Her face doesn't hinder its smell, it just decorates the box nicely.
Following that, was my Dads birthday on the 2nd, where he'd also bought me a new Yamaha flute. It might have been interpretated as a munificent big-hearted surprise had it not been for the fact that it was a replacement for the one he'd deliberately broken in his moment of rage last month. Unfortunately, it's behaviour that's far from a rarity. But it's all good :)
Form of the 6th
Friday at 10:00:I can't believe I'm awake:hours AM was 6th form "enrollment", as, for possibly the forth time, we've had to confirm our A level options for the new timetable next week. Once again, I'd stated my, what's up to this point been unvariable A level choices: History, English, Maths, Economics. And then once again, I was told it was a huge workload. For the nth time, I told them I knew that.
Can't Pity The Foos!
Guess who has Foo Fighter tix?! My brother rang up from Tawaiin the other day, quickly informing me that The Foo Fighters were due to perform at Earls Court in London on December the 18th, and that tickets went on sale at 9AM. That meant that they'd been on sale for 4 hours. Shit. Merd. Mierda.
To the detriment of my plans however, my desultory foreign vernaculars were failing to assist me.
Me: Huh? When?! Where?! How'd you find out?! How do I get them?! Are there any left?! Where am I?! Who ate that pie?! Consistent spurts of incoherent panic?! etc etc etc.
Luckily I got a pair just in the nick of time. I just have no one to go with yet..
"No one owes you a ride. You know damn well you could walk there if you wanted to. And you know too that you could have what you need. To give is true and admirable too, but to be taken from is loss and totally false. Imagine that you are being taken from. What faith is tested? What hope is wuthering? What angel was persecuted who worked so hard at something never to achieve it?... And what child who was innocent was pushed to the ground never to get up again? Where's he or she at right now? Where's a Starbucks when you need one?"
"Don't damn yourself with a painted smile on skull-man! Do yourself a favo[u]r and breathe real, get it?"
Draw The Curt [Cob]ain
I've been suffering from a cold lately, so I'm all nose-blowey and slightly disorientated on the whole, unable to see properly and offer the old people my bus seat etc, thus, drawing has been heartbreakingly bad. I can't get it right of late. Hopefully it's just the cold, and not the re aquaintance with a once-upon-a-time very close person. I haven't felt the heart in my chest jump like that in ages.
I was in a conversation with Ben last night, and we'd been discussing why I draw girls as opposed to men, or males at all. It wasn't much of a conscious decision, and I don't really know how to answer. Well, more accurately, I'm scared to answer. I wouldn't draw them if I didn't think they were pretty. Not in the gorgeous commonplaced conventional sense, just in the I-want-to-catch-that-on-paper-to-keep-it-still kind of way. It's always challenging, and it's nice to use your graphite to aim for a perfection that's already there, that you just need to capture. And if you adore it, you'll try bloody hard to get it right, as if you need to do it justice. I like that idea of beauty being something that was essentially crafted by me, something that wouldn't have been seen had I not emblazoned it onto the paper.
Obviously, I dedicate a lot of arse-working-off into it [at times], so if a facial feature's gone to shit, I'll feel flawed. Like each stroke of the pencil represents my ability to control the output as sophicatedly as possible. Here's a few sketches amigos! [About those teeth... the rubber smudged it up, and I can't rectify it lol. Grrrr. Just pretend you can't actually see any teeth.]
8月30日 'Roe Your BoatGifts and Threebies
My 3B pencils, the ones I'd earlier annunciated as being out of stock on, came in thick and fast once again. [Is this the most profound update I have to offer? My resevoir of sketching gear?]
Towards my Dad I'd worded the sheer devestation that we were all out on the ol' 3Bs and that they were so small that "I could probably inhale this pencil without noticing." My Dads rejoinder was thus: "Hmm, use a different one." I appreciated his fire of instinct but stayed firm in my dilemma that only a 3B could do the trick.
What then stalked this proclamation was either a complete piss ripping on my leaded needs or sincere panic that I might violently collapse inwards had I not been fully equipped. My father, after arriving back home had bought me 6 packets of 3B pencils.
Jesus.
Interspacial Relations
I was speaking to a mate Beccy of mine, and we'd bubbled up the word 'Interspacial' [We were bored and MSN is great for innovation]. I think it's a little witty rip off of the words 'inter-racial' and 'outer-space'. To define it, we'd concluded that it was 'getting involved in different space races' which, lo and behold, is yet another sizzling rhyme imbedded into wordplay action. [And you get this all for free folks]. From that we'd established just to what extent the MSN Space service has used every trick in the book to splash as many different spaces in your face as electronically possible [so many rhymes..] to see what other irksome adventures our MSN spacians have had the terrific duty of tackling. Wo playboi buny style iz it to be 2day? "Updated Spaces" list, "New Spaces" list, "Why aren't you looking at these spaces yet?" list, orange glowing blobs that scream 'LOOK AT MY SPACE!' and comments that are as easy to leave as pie. Moreover, there's the statistics information which excludes IP addresses and yet will more than willingly on its own volition tell you the visitors space address, just incase you're slightly curious as to who was lingering on it at 02:16 in the morning...
Marilyn Mon Ami
I've never been a fan of the star, nor really getting smothered, or even casually bumping into any information concerning her, her lifestyle, or her dubious bucket kicking. [Her death and my birth was a mix of bad timing], but Marilyn's definitely stunning so I couldn't go without at least attempting a drawing of her. Six hours and half a 3B pencil later, the sketch can be seen at the very bum of this blog entry. I don't know if I should start taking some professional arty classes or what, really.
Am I totally out of whack for bothering to deliniate her features onto paper? Is she Marilyn or Marilout? Just to clarify, those eyes are meant to be a little doolally, honest. That's the Monroe Realism right there, encapsulating the very essence of Miss M.
Speaking of stars... not the star, but A*, I thought I'd partially lay down the panel of results I'd whipped up.. mainly because of the unreasonable reason that I told myself I wasn't going to due to the fact that the exposure would warrant comparisons in a roar that could have been avoided. Also, I just wanted to do the 'star' linkage and quite frankly, that alone is enough.
English Lit. - A*
English Language - A*
Art - A
History - A*
Graphics - A
Music - A*
Maths - A
German - A
Sarcasm - A*
General acerbic wit - A**
Ability to not care - A**
Retaining Internet:Revision to a 2:0.2 hrs ratio - A****
((*cough*RE*cough* short course i.e half a GCSE/ level of God worship - B))
FrOg UPDATE: I'd nearly frogotten [they're getting worse..] about this.
- Crazy Frog goes to Jamaica. It's only a matter of time before they run out of countries with distinctly nonpareil cultures that enable the Frog to impliment the addition of one extra note and a negligible slender of foreign twang. It'll start frog-hopping [-!] over the United States and we'll get Crazy Frog goes to North Dakota, Crazy Frog goes to Illinois, Crazy frog interacts with visually impaired Innuets, Crazy frog initiates world peace... Crazy Frog is finally diagnosed as being Crazy despite the subtlety of his symptoms..
Hey, what about the proposition of a remix where Crazy Frog goes to 'Californiaaaaa' with Phantom Planet?
'We've been on the run, driiiving in the sun, looking out for the amphiiiibian...' Just give it a sprinkle of R'n'B dust and it'll brutalize the syllables and somehow miraculously begin to rhyme. 8月27日 Come Away With Me..Nearly finished coupla sketches, the 3B pencil is now smaller than my little finger.. shit.
Needs touch ups around die (das?) Augen und hair and many a facial feature. But at the moment too tired. Cranky. Don't know where I am etc and the only pencils I'm left with at tolerable length is the H category.
Reading festival tomorrow. Bed now.
Line up includes Foo Fighters, Babyshambles, and some of those supporting 'act' pieces of litter that nobody's ever heard of, liked, or remembered. But with a live atmosphere and an intimate [/jam packed] crowd, you'll love anything that's in front of you when it isn't a TV you can turn off.
Rock and Grohl fellas.
01:00 am waffle: Obscure bands that identify themselves within the music industry using even more obscure band names. Why? How? My Theory for how they materialise out of thin air the possibly thought of as 'deep' names is by taking any two DVD titles in your collection, and blending the first half of one title with the second half of the other.
Or just really go off the deep end and provoke a tramp into insulting you and then rearrange his verbal mess.
Everytime.
Gay Map
A gaymap colour-coded to suit the degree of legality towards homosexuality in different parts of the world. Worth a look if you're considering emigrating to a different region of the planet yet pivot around the bent section of the pipe.
In some areas you even get walloped with the death penalty so it's probably in your best interests to stay in the closet. And if necessary, leave any clothing reminiscent of excercising a tranvestite vigor in there too.
Hope the drawings are ok. 8月24日 Who's Got The Crack?How much would you care if the prevalent social norm had the tacit opinion that they hated you, so much as to describe you, not with, but as an abnormally large cock? I might question it. Only recently had I read an article in which Liam Gallagher from Oasis chose to openly asseverate his affection towards Pete doherty through the comparison of him towards a 4 ft inflatable penis. Liam, we love you too. However most of you probably already know [I didn't watch any V festival related programmes on meine telly [[why?!]], and you probably already laughed. It began with the lyrical permutation where the words "But you don't care, because you're living fast" were traded in for "But you don't care because you're smoking crack". [My, that rhyme was tightened to such refulgent perfection..] [Personally I wouldn't even have batted an eyelid at that modification because I don't know the lyrics to 'Bring it on Down' off the top of Mein Kopf, aswell as the fact it's Oasis, and Liam aint exactly an unblemished youthful pearl who's in it for the kids.] It escapes being thought of as a personal attack because, well, Pete's not the only one to 'chase the dragon', and the lyric fails to embrace both his first or last name. Basically, it's poor. My pet chinchilla could have done a better job of insulting a guy with an under nourished torso infected with the inclination to 'crack' his way down the celebrity heirarchy. Abruptly, Liams famous feeling of disdain towards Doherty ascended as, after Liam requested the lights to cut out the surrounding audience and glorify a particular slice, he spotted an inflatable penis and announced: "It's good to see Pete Doherty turned up. One big cock" - 'I'm sure he's 'heard it all before, but he never really had a doubt.' The piss-ripping derives from Petes long-ago decision to not turn up as a support act to an Oasis gig, as promised. [Come on, open your eyes; it's Pete. We all know the drill by now; he says he'll arrive; you can bet he won't]. It's a long term feud. Maybe it's insensitive to say Stop crying your heart out as we all need catharsis and cleansing, But don't look back in anger, I heard you say? Perhaps his mollycoddle of cocaine has 'established just why he's little time for those who seemingly have everything on a plate yet would rather swap it for a spoon full of brown powder and a bunsen burner.' They've produced a debatably ramshackle band known as Babyshambles where "the ability to write a tune can only be described as wishful thinking". Despite the knocking, I still enjoy their tunes. They even impliment parts of life through the eyes of a crack addict; I always love a fresh outlook. It is odd the way that the zoomed in eyes of the media portray the worded amazement of how many others would swap life threatening conditions for just a sparkle of the lifestyle that Doherty appears to want to piss away up the wall. What a waster. Intoxicate me now Has anyone begun watching "Britney [Spears] and Paris [Hilton] squashed IN YOUR GAFF".. it's what e4 has been promising me for ages in that trademark televisual outfit of purple and bluntness and being 'down with the kids'? I only watched a mere fleck of it until after Britney fell into gibbering away with her make up artists [-plural!] with the remark 'I had sex three times today. It was ecstasy ecstasy ecstasy ecstasy!" *Fans face in what I presume to be a re-enactment of how intoxicating it all was*, I went to purify myself via channel flicking. Channel 5's regular bible stories oughta do the trick. Three times and yet four barrels of ecstasy. A bargain if ever I saw one. Go Britney, go.
Encrypt our English! I've reached the brim. The brim of tolerating stupid irrationally déclassé phrases conjured by the less intellectual subculture, stranding all true definitions onto a literate island and specializing their own expressions indigenous to a particular field. Lost [is on today. C4 10 o' clock. Great programme. 'Fit' actors.]. Obviously, they've managed to reach such an elite level of superiority that it's naturally become within their rights to forge their own code language to communicate [?], and get this, they are so guilefully clever, that they've ensured nobody will understand what they're chatting 'bout by assigning each phrase an entire waterfall of eclectic meanings so that they can't even understand eachother! - A play that centre-stages obscurity, where genius writers are at their best. Suddenly, so much fits into place... For instance. Comedy Sketch
Perhaps not only that, but its very outcome visually expresses the elbow grease that went behind it's production, and surely that in itself spurs on slight admiration. The subterfuge of the focus punctured into the produced image makes the underpinning person appear to be of more value than perhaps they actually are, were, or ever will be. I hope that's a fathomable opinion of mine, maybe seeping into general consensus? I reckon it makes the viewer of the art feel closer to the artist that created it; unlike a mere photograph which instantly and straight forwardly captures a human in a way that displays their exact appearance, a sketch can serve to reveal the perspective of somebody else out there, an interpretation of how they see things, and on a grander scale.. their outlook towards life. Thus, why I love art to the extent that I do and [here comes the cheesiest thing I've said] feel it brings us that bit closer together. In a world where so many terrible things happen, where we all suffer the same emotions and feelings of being all alone, and yet our caution continues to blame it on each other.
GCSEs to put me at ease
I'll only touch upon this as if it were scorching hot to hold, because the topic makes you want to hurl if you elaborate on it for some reason. It is strange, how all the built up panic gets vented inside the final hours before we recieve our results. People place more worry into this then they do at the time of the actual exams. There's a few points of view as to why it's the case. Surely, if they knew they were going to be so wrapped up in the anxious finale of it, they would have shared the characteristic of feeling pressurised at the beginning and therefore wanting to put effort into the exams themselves; it's a bit of a delayed reaction to start panicking over the results towards the time of collecting them; a time where you have no control over what they are to be. However, exams aren't eternal, we walk in and we walk out in the space of no more than 2 hours. We can totally abscond the thought of exams whilst we're not in that big formality ridden hall, creating a mental block of the situation completely. And because it's easier, it's tempting. And because we can, we do. It all changes though, when we're in the process of gaining back our results; it's the final walk to pin an end to it all, where reality smacks you in the face despite whatever mindset you have, and despite you being ready for it or not. These are results that stick with you for the rest of your life, regardless of whether you choose to be proud of them or shrug off any failures [or deferred successes]. I'd write more if this topic wasn't so diabolically vomit inducing.
Sketch End I'll throw a Phonics one in too because, well, their album is my space title and I want to be apt. 8月21日 I Predict A RiotTo begin with, I'm going to get cracking at snowballing my friend's popularity into the depths of Space as she's successfully trying to break into fame as a model! Already wired up to Premier model management, here are the pics of: Katrina
As it is presently my title, and The kaiser Chiefs have won an award for [one of] the best albums of the year, as well as the just as respectable award of my awe, [perhaps an aweward?], if you would like you can witness their video - I Predict A Riot as I feel like being promotional.
Admittedly, I was irritated by their initial arrival into the music scene and thought they, along with their debut, was just a pile of annoying Kaiser sheisse [It rhymed. So kill me.], and they were mentioned more times than I felt it musically required. But I for some reason have got this song stuck in my head, and if there is to be controversy over the inquisition of whether they deserve the adoration they've been lathered in, than I shall accurately declare that I predict a riot.
Behind These Hazel Eyes Modesty. Oppugning the praise that ploughs in your direction. Most people that are exalted with talent, skill, or even slither in a trickle of flair are never usually the ones to blow their own trumpets of triumph. And for what reason should they need to? There's already an orchestra outside the garden gates celebrating their prestige regardless. There is rightfully recognition gained, of which is naturally accrued by the mere existance of gifted aptness. There's almost a gravitational pull for attention onto things that deserve it, despite malicious attempts to sabotage an innocent talent. There need be no forceful guidance towards the direction of something that speaks for itself in how astounding it is. The voice representative of it's justification for being simply fantastic lies in the truth. Indisputably. I've, after regularly reading Hayley's Space of resplendant dazzle and delicate "waffling", realised that the ones who distinctly deserve the credit are the ones most liable to bashfully deny it, creating a little negative correlation on the graph. No matter how frequently they're hampered with honeyed words, a shell inside their skull will not let it get to their heads, or be absorbed as a believable fact at all. Overall, that must certainly be a good thing - to not let your head get inflated. Curiously, people that earned the attention they acquire are people who had this particular attainment absent from their intentions... and the people who boast the most, pityfully have nothing to back that up. So we laugh. Because they are shite. And yet "Why is it that people who don't know anything, know it the loudest?" When compliments breed into upsurges of cultivation, elements of embarassment and incredulity seep into a somewhat increasingly insecure mindframe, although, to knock down those walls of disbelief always serves to be a bloody hard piece of persuasion. Speaking generally, there's always that constrained conundrum of whether to peacefully yet guiltily accept compliments you then feel you've stolen, or strongly vocalise the unremmitting refusal that what you're hearing is an absurd array of poppycock. Some feel as strong as to say they basically feel harassed to a degree. Fair enough, but a little far fetched dontcha think? To admit to modest malarkey, or to battle out against you're obviously obscene radical amazement stricken compliments? Ignoring it all could be said as a 3rd option, but something's telling me that's a little rude. But the problem remains that, to accept compliments is to admit to thinking you're good. Uh oh, what do we have here, arrogance it's called in most books. I've been called a show-off many a time, simply because the teacher chose to use my work as an example. I in no way deliberately showed people at school my art unless they asked me. Basically, when people get envious of you, perhaps they'd like to think you have endless flaws in character just to preserve their own self importance. Vindictive human nature at it's most transparent. I hope she doesn't mind the fact that her entry has inspired this one, and led to a little light bumming of her blog in the process [what can ya do? I just can't help myself], but a few others and I have discussed and agreed that we feel the same as she does, yet the apprehension in vocalising this took its toll and the fingers remained off the keyboard. When we say we feel the same, we're not crapping out a synthetic empathy ridden load of tripe, it's.. all from the heart folks, all from the heart. It's all lovely, it's all amazing and eternal thanks is given in tiny little bundles of sealed love, but most importantly, the compliments feel contrary to all reason. [Inter]Net Work
Other spacers and I thought that perhaps it'd come to the point where our blogs had grown to an overrated state. I think that MSN Spaces have begun emulating the mulitformity of the Underground network. Well, that does sound gay, but what with thoughts and inspiration tottering into readers around the world [wide web], it's similar to stations linking onto other stations and coteries of people with various endless ideas. Spaces linking to other spaces, that link to other spaces, which open up a whole vortex of opportunies, that shower over additional spaces yet again.. then occasionally you get a big bad main station, [aptly titled Kings Cross?] that help strengthen it all and tighten the bond. It might however get bombed now and again by terrorists, as Kyle's was when it got eradicated by some motherfunky. Bumbling Blogging insecurity I'd then noticed that of course, inside all of us, somewhere sewn to the backs of pride, live little insecure frays, low self esteemed beings that are never fully confident in their own abilities, yearning for reassurance despite the facade, even the ones behind the bestest of blogs! All the shy and reserved populace can suddenly heighten the awareness of their capabilities by communicating through their space, communicating something which they otherwise wouldn't have wanted to in fear of rejection. The thoughts would have fizzled out and disappeared. Slices of genius vanished because someone was scared to air an opinion. People get irritated when you impose onto them a topic that's most probably non beneficial to their life and in every parallel universe out there, but if you weep into a remote piece of the internet, far away in the timeless depths of space, then it just flows out with no worries over whether the other end is listening. Or cares. Or wants to kill themselves as a result of your tedium. Once people have the choice to either stay or go, then they're more inclined to stay. [However, there are the odd few Space Invaders. Luckily, their attempted insults are shite because they're so impersonal it's a joke.] Spaces just arguably let us bypass our insecurites and get straight down to business, or where the talent lies, or what our next secluded concern is and how we're going to organise the thoughts best onto the screen. And the sharper people have a clutch over how to do this; they can carefully craft how they're seen. Not necessarily lie, not embellish, not manipulate, but express in the most tactful and wonderful of ways. In amongst many others, I prefer the fairly non-biographical rule of sometimes straying direct attention away from myself, I mean I'm like a 16 year old girls guide to understanding the BBC "with pinkness", as Kyle puts it. Things that I'd like to keep secret, are secret. [For the record, yes I was born a girl and no I'm not the one you saw in the video..] You can personlise the filter and let what you want through. Unlike in a face to face conversation, there's no dodgy facial expressions or unintentional tones, or even scrutiny over whether there was any intricate undertone of sarcasm. In Space, if you're remotely smart, you can control down to a T the tone in your writing, so that there's absolutely no confusion and you've managed to make your point, the way you want it. Therefore, your appearance comes accross as marvellously confident with the upmost articulation because you're holding the ability to be coherant. We all love a person with a brain. Internet Addict? On reading an article in the Times, I was enlightened by others perspectives on why there are "youngsters who can't log off net". As the numbers living online continue to rocket [often into Space... [[Tada!]] there has been a development in clinics to cure the 'obsession'. They have concluded that the reasons kids 'live huddled infront of a computer screen, drifting through internet chat rooms..' is because "these are children with low self-esteem or behavioural problems and going on to the internet boosts their self confidence. It makes them feel mature and successful and it gives them a sense of achievement." The clinics then force the children to "sit on cushions" [most probably needed due to the surging pain in their bums after sitting for hours at the monitor?], to "gather in a small room" and "share experiences." Child: "Hello. My name is Bob. And I'm a net addict. [other children: *patronising claps*]
Doctor: "Well done, Bob. You are very brave [in using your vocal chords]. Sit down.. No, not at the computer. Kid: Doctor! He's crossed the line!
Doctor: How so, my child? Kid: He's gone from offline, to online! Sorry about that. Anyway, they've described them as suffering from depression, fear, [Donnie Darko, anyone?] and an unwillingness to interact with others. The treatment involves 'therapy' including a 30-volt charge. Now I'll Draw [In Pencil] to a Close:
So, when words fail me, I draw; I draw a lot. Art, it's the next best communication device, arguably the only real one, foregoing the limitation of the english language, the systematic combination of words. The concept of 'correct' being to spell properly, paragraph appropiately, keep a keen eye on those commas yada yada. Art; it's all a feeling, it can't be wrong. And hey, I don't even need to think. Just look. Have perspective.. Firstly, I've done a sketch of a debatably forlorn guitarist singer. Hopefully it resembles her, in the slightest I pray! I apologise profusely for the fact that I muffed it up a lot, and signed it with fingerprints everywhere. I've provided, for some reason, a close up during mid-draw, and a view of the whole thing once it's done. Incidentally, I found a further two sketches that I'd drawn back in year 8 based on the same musical artist. I thought it'd be interesting to exhibit a 4 year progress [if any]. [I entered it into the class competition and won, even though they are shoddy. The prize was a chocolate bar :)] Oh and I'll put in another sketch I did, just for the hell of it. Is it safe to say I have improved? 8月19日 All The Young PunksIt's August. All the results for academic examinations are flooding in, with a providential portion surfing on the relief and others drowning in a pool of tears and dysphoria, hunting around for a uni that'll accept them.
A level results were released upon 6th form and college students no sooner than yesterday, Thursday 18th, and hopefully everybody achieved el bueno spectacular grades, although, that's exactly what most of the news has been based on and started roaring about, and not in a very good light. So there's the anually habitual question of: Are grades becoming easier?
Being in my position, well, I hope they really are, but merely to ask that insultingly brazen question has tipped the scales into disparaging the value of grades altogether and pissing on the students efforts, and it'll be a rather difficult comparison to make as the circumstances themselves in which the exams are sat repeatedly change. I do think it's bloody irritatingly inconvenient the way boundaries get shifted back and forth every year, depending on the percentage that have attained a certain mark, however. To say somebody got an A, well what kind of A is that in relation to an A somebody else accomplished 3 years ago? Inconsistency disrupts the whole judgement. What will it represent when the people in question had both undergone a totally different examining framework. Absolute niente. Nada. Surely that undermines the point?
In last years GCSE maths paper, the percentage to get a C had dropped into its teens, something like 16%? When I did this paper during my mocks the following year, and remembering that hardly anybody bothers revising for mocks [as they, in my opinion, are just a waste of time and counter productively reduces how nervous you'll feel in the real thing, therfore the importance of GCSEs fails to hit home as hard], me being one of these people, I managed to get a solid B without even being fully attentive to the paper, or thrusting myself into the right state of mind. A monkey could have got a similar mark. For the calculator paper I hadn't even remembered to bring a calculator; I take these mocks seriously. I'm not trying to cheapen anybody's result who actually had this paper as their GCSE, as it would depend which examination board you were with and whether you were truly just thick, but honestly I don't see how anybody could get below a C with that kind of marking system. The boundaries in my opinion should remain concrete, with the standard of the exam to each year be kept as similar as possible. Or is continuity too much strenuous work to sustain?
Once the education system people design a way of examining children that seems to be an all round acceptably efficient process, what's the thought that ruminates in their head and causes to cudgel their brains? What is it that brings to pass the new found spurious desire to let the grade values fluctuate each year, rendering each A that's achieved as an inutile indication of talent or skill?
"So... we have an education system that works... hmm, what do we do now?" Then, they grow bored, fidgety, and tinker around with it some more. Genius. Willy Wanka
After long delay, went to finally see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory! Wonka's a bit of a wanka severely detached from reality at times. I know the kids were "rotten" but he wasn't magical enough like I'd expected him to be after reading Dahl's book yonks ago, just disturbed due to that somewhat troubled childhood they'd shown us in flashbacks and said 'I don't care!' quite a bit.. Definitely a good film overall and Willy Wanka wasn't too bad, but I was certainly baffled by what the directors were trying to convey him as. Back to Back
Oh dear Lord, did anybody happen to watch that day of unceasing back to back Newlyweds on Wednesday? With Jessica Simpson at her.. wittiest, funniest and most awake state to fashion, and her husband called ....?
I know I did, but to indemnify this like greased lightening, I was blatently only waiting for Lost to come on C4, meaning I watched roughly about two hours or so of Newlyweds, and as expected I was staring vacantly at a television screen where the day's episode carried a feast of antics involving Jessica enduring an onerous obstacle as she's required to lay out a table, equipped with blow-by-blow instructions in case she encounters dubiety. It's Valentines day; she's determined to move her weight. Knives, forks, even spoons my friends, all equally earning Jessicas concentration and methodical placement in preparation for when her dearly beloved husband arrives home, a man whose probably more interested in the food being served on top of the table, rather than what diligent historical monument the tissues flanking the plate have been punctiliously folded into.
" I worked HARD today" says Jessica in what was initially a heavy unrelenting sigh, but towards the end of the proclamation transposed into a deep spoilt whiney whinge, synchronously dragging each foot stubbornly up the stairs.
Posterior to that was the episode in which her and her outwardly identical twin of a mate tiresomely travel in a car to be subject to laser eye surgery. The doctor then handed her a 'squealy' pig [and I'd like to clarfiy at this point that the pig did infact do no such purported noise] followed by the reassurance that this fluffy pig is all part of the process to improve her eyesight. "The key element". I can't believe he's underestimating Jessica's intelligence here. Neither do I feel that this pig in any way played a function as an integral element to the machinery or mastery involved, nor a prerequisite even in the form of a catalyst within the procedure. The doctor, I'm afraid to inform, was lying.
However, psychologically it could be deemed a toy to act as a piece of comforting company with the intention of easing her into a state of relaxation and extirpate the anxiety. I thought that her age might slightly dull down the truth in that logic, a fraction if anything.
 I quite like that top. Anyway, since I'm on the subject, here, have a video featuring Jessica singing These Boots are Made for Walkin' and Tyger's observation on how that bottle in the vid is definitely superglued down.
FROG UPDATE: Oh my gawd I've witnessed the adverts for the 'Pump up the Jam' remix version featuring Crazy Frog on my screen. Luckily I erm.. already have the pleasure of owning the song in its entirety on iTunes?
Trademark Departure
As the fluently silver-spoken Hayley has verbalized, a collection of spaces have added to their individuality by spraying the addition of a regular sign off at the very end of their entry. Kyle has his duo gift of a tiny segment of the dictionary and a question essentially pivoted on the idea of choices made for an alternative life. Hayley has delicious Vin Diesel updates and graphics potraying him at his most dignified positioning on the hippest of transport. Daniel with a censure seizure, and Caroline I think also helping out the kids with their spelling. Karishma's also got a quotey thingy bob although I'm not sure if that's a regularity to rain as much as British clouds.
To join in the fun and games I've decided to develop the rule where I need to add a new sketch at the end of each time i present to you some banal badinage in regular doses, in an attempt to get me to start drawing more again. Also, considering I apparently don't draw often enough (!?), I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone by conjuring a rule that would mean I'd end up blogging less too. However, with retrospect, and without disregarding the rule, it's impossible to complete both those two tasks of blogging less and drawing more. Catch 22? [or not?] Go me!
I was drawing this into the early hours of the morning, the only time it's peaceful, and I was watching The Hits when suddenly a man popped up in the right hand corner of the screen and started expressing the lyrics in sign language. Dance moves, the lot. Reminded me of Michael Stipe from REM, but trying to get funky. Is there much point in bothering to add sign language to music?
Le drawing: splendiferous present to anybody who can guess who it's meant to be.
Note: Sketch is rather wrong in terms of proportion so.. that'll be a quest and a half.
8月13日 You Rose Above and Took It's PlaceI'm not much of an avid Eastenders lover, what with it taking a turn for the worst and losing a large proportion of its ratings, coupled with having nothing behoove me to watch it, but my mother still finds enlightenment in it in spite of everything, and thus watches it regularly. I was listening in the background [Yes..] to the scene involving the two run away lovers in what would have been a happy ending if they weren't too young, broke, and a pair of foolish adolescents who think drugs are fun. Yet somehow, it failed to enhance their escape, or at least, the type of escape they'd intended on. A sad scenario.
FURTHER UPDATE: My kind friend Sagie has sent to me over MSN a "Pump Up The Jam" remix version featuring none other than CrAzY FrOg himself doing his ding ding thing over the top. His vocalist position in the song is limited, but still enough to taint and disease the whole track, making any 'Blog against the Frog' supporter, cringe. Why I was sent this is questionable. 8月9日 Crazy Frog Hits the RoadWhilst in Espanol, Crazy Frog was cavorting out of the Hotel stereo around-the-clock with the Spanish reacting as equally enthusiastic, bless their lil socks, as i imagine some music-industry related sanity destroying propaganda disemminator told them it's all the craze in London.
After finally escaping that aspect, and then proceeding to arrive home and, in time, view TMF, the most highly sought after Freeview music channel [because the list to choose from is endless...] it's come to my attention that they've now brought out the hypnotic ringtones:
1. Crazy Frog in India
2. Crazy Frog goes to Hawaii
I do'nt know how late i am to realise this, as my outlying position on holiday, for better or for worse, removed me from being naturally engaged in Englands antics for a lengthy period, but nevertheless i'm still stunned at how the inadequately dressed amphibian has peregrinated across the seas, and then dared to release versions upon us uncannily reminiscent to his last, with a slight tingle of a foreign country imbedded into the back beat. [Similar to Superman who would smack on a pair of glasses and, Hey Presto, his entire face has warped into the identity of Clark Kent]
Apologies for how late this disbelief on my blog may have been publicised. I hope it's not as cringing as to inform you all that there was actually a set of bombs that exploded on the London Underground, killing 50+ people. But in regards to that, did you know that a small collection of individuals felt to relive the adrenaline of this event by planting dummy nail bombs that failed to go off, two weeks post the London bombings??
UPDATE: Phillip informs: "There's even a Crazy Frog album coming out"
 Correction: The Crazy Frog album is out, and [not all] people are loving it.
"This is milking the Crazy Frog for every penny"
Véale luego 8月8日 Makedohertyhistory?As articularly noted on Inne's Soapbox, there's a site poorly dedicated to the hatred of the hugely talented crack addict that is Pete Doherty.
The guestbook comments seems to have lost the biscuiting plot and all - bit rich, coming from people who say they have a raging hatred for the erratic bloke.
"Pete your mama's soo old she has an autographed version of the bible" - How lousy. At least make an attempt to get personal; he's hardly an unblemished bloke; there's quite a few foibles or commonly seen flaws to choose from. For one, being a cocaine sybarite could be taken as easy baite. As sensual a lifestyle as the funds accrued with his Babyshambles band has let him have, one of the reason's he's despised is due the evergrowing media cognizance that his mollycoddle of cocaine had proliferated, so why on earth you've opted for a moronic mindless mum gag is beyond me. Then again, to hate Pete is to have a screw loose somewhere.
He is somewhat of a hedonist, but an intellectual one whose drug indulging clearly hasn't been unfavourable towards his ability to produce poetical lyrics, or at least, it doesn't seem to have been.
In any case, he got Kate Moss... even if he has lost her again.
www.makedohertyhistory.org. - Inspired by the fact his last name happened to rhyme with poverty, i imagine. How fruitless.
 "Libertines and Babyshambles are great bands, and this guy has a biscuit problem.
Nobody slated Kurt Cobain for his biscuit problem. All soo narrow minded and influenced by tabloid biscuit." Don't you hate...
Blog Comments that basically mean this:
"I fink u hav 2 much free tym on ur hands but o well nice space [probably], not dat i actually read it probz i mean duz it look like i can actualy read much [/anyfin at all] 2 u? luks a bit geeky but na dat cant b helpd i mean u wer jus born day way realli. cum n visit mine, i ope my blatent advertisement for my space wernt 2 obviuos tho lol even tho its the main reason am typin!!1253h. cya luv ya bum ya add me, whatever it teks 4 da link 2 my space to be touched by ur cursor..lol.. of which u will find a guestbook wif threatenin n abusive language.. red bull gave me wings 2day.." Judging from how frequently they do this, i think it's safe to say that the both of us have just as much free time as the other. But to distinguish between the two, would possibly be to decide who's used up their free time more productively, and less pointlessly? I just don't know. 8月7日 If you'd like to walk a while, we could waste a dayBuenos tardes to all, me alegro de volver a verle, cuánto tiempo sin verle, muchos gusto?
What an amazing time in Español señors and señoras, it's truly outstanding, just like 98% of the number of inhabitants constituting Northolt [who all seem to have visited Spain more times than i've used my eyelids] said it would be, definitely the best trip so far.. although skiing on the Swiss alps only marginally cosigned to second place. Apologies in advance for desultory language decisions; Spanish is just too tempting a communication choice so i may hop freely between the vernaculars of Europe until i resort back to boring Londoner jibberish. It's yet to be as bad as Dick van Dyke however, promise. There might also be a few spanish translations sunk into the writing, mainly because I'll probably prefer the spanish version, and partly because I would love to educate you all.
Question: So what's the overall view of TygerTygers choice of migration to another blog company? It's like the feeling of departure when Ross from Friends moved apartments. Still close by, almost as accessible, but just not the same involvement and somehow isolated. Not intentionally, but just by.. style of device.
Quick unsystematic update before i jump off to do something loosely involved with reality.
And so, on arrival back from Costa Brava at approximately 23:56 in the silence of night, away from the blistering sizzle of the Spanish sun rays [a star which burnt me somewhat due to my ignorantly excessive exposure to it. Story behind that is, I got carried away; it's not everyday that i get blessed with natural warmth, & then proven that Nivea sun lotion 25 clearly just isn't enough.. ], and away from the vibrantly spirited Español nightlife that bounced off every nightclub wall and every short miniskirt that a pair of alluring legs would strut down the boulevard with an attitude oblivious to potential drug-rape, having to settle back into humdrum Middlesex with it's trademark drab aura is quite heartbreaking, yet still essential, i grudgingly come to realise. Oh how i miss the holiday fun of being physically relaxed and emotionally renewed.
I never took on board the sheer quantity of old and useless people that take up space here either. Here, grocery stores around the UK, or bus stop [Parada] seats. I guess that, because of the vast Spanish majority that indulge in smoking in Spain, they pop their clogs before they need to pop their hearing aids in. And that wasn't a reference to Flamenco dancing.
A Quick Fag lav
Taken aback i was, as to how liberal Español generally is with dishing out tobacco [as well as the odd custom of blending in sex toys with supermarket products - elves with a mechanism enabling you to erect their penis?!?], without the constant usual necessity of a UK shopowner to preach - "Before i sell to you these cigarettes [Cigarillo], please can you enlighten me with your age, because there is an age restriction. However there is very little point in me asking you this, as, if you really were underage, I doubt you will reveal this to me following the easy hurdle of interrogation, which basically means I am a very stupid man. It is like asking a suspect terrorist if he is in possession of bombs.", and the need for ID and what have you. Apparently certain 'Paki's' don't care though; they'll take anything to get the business rolling, even if it is the sack through illegal tobacco exchange.
I.E.
[Me and fellow chum are pretty peckish, we're at the local market, so we take an english stride into local Spanish newsagent to purchase an overpriced sandwich]
Shop owner at till who evidently spoke very little inglés: *grunts* "Cigarillos over there" *points hand vaguely [more] to his right [than his left], failing to look in that particular direction* [Said as if the idea of introducing a 16 year old to the positioning of fags is a somewhat routine fixture in his life]
So the whole ordeal is quite skilled at pronouncing a contrast of atmosphere between Espanol and GB, and there's really nothing to do for us youngens that we'd find remotely interesting, as the idea of anything wild taking place has a slender probability, unless i take up bowls (sp?) in Islip Manor with the local pensioners. Forgive me, but I don't quite fit in with the age [/zimmer] frame. So what do we do? We resort to drugs at a cheap and affordable price; we get addicted; we recieve complaints. Maybe it's to do with being pressured into finding jobs at this age and therefore earning our own money. Who knows.
So basically, boredom invites insanity into circulation; obesity developed following a strict combination of the middle-aged, a conveniently placed Maccy D's and a suitable vehicle - all they need is a parking Space, juveniles enlightened with cheap hedonistic lifestyles and whacky backy and MySpace, and the elderly generally taking up the Space, if not subjected to bowls. I'm sorry it had to be this way.
Drug Rape Drama
Visit Barcelona! You haven't lived until you make like an intrepid tourist and experience the many adventures. However, take mild precaution upon entering Tropicana nightclub where a drug rape took place, the rapists being noneother than a brilliant twosome of the security guard and the owner. That'll corrupt any sense of security amongst that club for many years to come, probably for the best. "If you can't trust the authorities, who can you trust?" [Or, who can you trust full stop?] But hey, if you're all up for hardcore clubbing, don't let me, or sex crime, stop you. To recompense for me holding the club up in a bad light - The disco floor looked funky.
Nudist Beaches..
Other feature: Nudist beach [It really is a collection of individuals you just don't want to see in.. nothing]. Gives an efficient tan though and I'm sure they enjoyed the airy breeze. Yet the question remains, who on earth is going to see that tanned part of their body anyway? I doubt the general public would approve of the exposure. Or a more cadging question is, who in the name of Jahovas witnesses would want to?
What is the general opinion on nudist beaches anyhow? Or plain nudists for that matter. Yes, it's nice for us all to appreciate what the ol' man upstairs created, in all our natural scenic glory, or to hug trees if we're passionate enough [Surely in this case, the bark would bite?]. No, we shouldn't cover up what we are or be ashamed. But the matter of it is, does England's dodgy climate promote that kind of dress sense, and do I want to see you without your clothes on?
Meridian of my holiday [vacaiones]: Meeting the most lovliest [and great-looking by the pool :P] boy who earned a permanent place in my memory after a holiday romance was soon to flourish :) Whatever it was he found attractive, I haven't a clue and will remain a mystery, but he was a true gentleman. Shame he lives about 300 miles away. Long distance relationships are so hard to sustain; if you're both serious, the miles between you will grow as your heart yearns more and more. If you're not serious, the relationship isn't worth the distance anyway. Conundrum.
Yesterday, soembody from Barcelona added me over MSN. Not only is it peculiar to have somebody foreign add me, but to have someone foreign add me who lives in the part of a country I've just travelled back from? 00ooeer. A sign to get me to learn spanish; no comprendo, I just can't escape the buggers.
Note to self: Remember to capitalise 'I's when referring to myself.
Hasta mañana, adiós 7月21日 Burn Down Our NameTeachers say no-one should 'fail'. [Sadly, people do. And they should know it too.]
Education Secretary Ruth Kelly has dismissed suggestions that the concept of "failure" should be removed from school in favour of "deferred success".
Rightly so. If kids are made to feel like they've already succeeded, and fed with kind little 'encouraging' phrases of deceit, then why will they bother trying to better themselves? Who's going to tell them when they're crap? They need to know what failure is in order to achieve. Otherwise, they'll descend into pools of acid because a teacher took away the warning signs and said it was OK.
Apparently, they want to stop the 'undermining of pupils enthusiasm' by making 'failure' redundant, but wouldn't that ironically lessen the attitude of fear amongst kids towards the idea of failure?
I'm, after doing my regular round of reading Kyles spectacular space, one that's recently touched upon the alteration of the word 'failure' by teachers to the words 'deferred success' [to prevent children feeling like they've done bollocks at their work; lie], having the issue now ruminate in my head. It doesn't actually change the standard of the childs produce, so surely lying about it with a nice friendly stamp of 'deferred success' would give them the wrong impression? Oh such deceit.
"So, whilst browsing the wealth of knowledge that is Ceefax, I discovered on page 571 that there are a group of teachers who want the entire concept of 'failure' to be replaced by the fancy meaning-the-same-but-sounds-posher phrase "deffered [it's actually spelt deferred, Kyle :P] success". I am assuming that this is designed so as to not demoralise students who fail; indeed it is designed with the intent of making sure that children's interest in learning is not damaged. [Someone's been reading the BBC website too] It is interesting, clouding a child's idea of failing by glossing it over with a poncy phrase that would not mean anything to the students to which it be applied to, for if they knew, the object of this change would be destroyed; a failure if you would, or would it in itself be called a 'deffered success'? It could be seen that in today's society, too much emphasis is put on these kinds of issues, so much so, that there could be all matter of changes in the 'educational vocabulary' as it is so described. Perhaps an absence will be known as a 'lesser presence' or a pass known as a 'matriculated success'. All this would seem a bit pointless if you ask me." "The Professional Association of Teachers will be told at its meeting next week that the label of failure could undermine pupils' enthusiasm."
I know the truth hurts guys, but if the concept of failure is banished, then will anybody value success, and how will the brilliantly intelligent people feel? Neglected? Unappreciated? Trodden on? If people can't be arsed to put effort in, i'm fairly certain that delicate euphamisms aren't going to do the trick. Honest.
Wouldn't the usage of the elusive word 'success' becoming increasingly frequent amongst various levels of attainment end up cheapening the entire word altogether, slowly losing it's definition; undermining the efforts of the true winners and handing out false triumphs to the 'under achieving'. Thus, idiotic kids will feel more comfortable with being just that, and the intelligent ones will feel cheated. [Similar to when you get a magnificent certificate from the head teacher, under the illusion that it might be of some value, only to discover that they've given everybody else one's that look the bladdy same. The whole certificate, including the head's signature, was set to PHOTOCOPY X 1300. How.. meaningful] Also, seeing as 'deferred success' has connotations of being an accomplishment in itself [considering that most children won't actually know what 'deferred' means, and the amazingly rarely seen word 'success' with glitter in their eyes], children will wrongly feel satisfied with what they've done and therefore lose any incentive to keep on trying, ironically working in opposite to the intention of 'boosting children's enthusiasm', thus progress amongst school kids will fall; 'failure' looks like more threatening a word to get kids to veer away from it, as opposed to 'deferred success'.
However, one could also say that 'deferred success' does blatently sound like a cover up for something more sinister, resulting in children thinking you're underestimated them so much that you've splashed patronisation all over them, thinking they'll fall for it. The ultimate insult.
Moreover, teachers probably want to disguise the word 'failure' because their school pupils seem to house this word far too often, and so it an attempt to improve their teaching image, let every kid feel successful and therefore save themselves the humiliation of being a shite teacher.
To conclude, i would like to know when i am failing, and not be patronised with a phrase like 'deferred success' to soften the blow. It's actually quite demeaning, like those 'good effort' stickers, or 'nice try' comments. they place more attention on the fact you're going no where. I'm not too bothered about the term, just as long as kids realise they're still as crap as they were before. I need it Louder Than [Dummy Nail] BombsSo you've all probably heard the news down here at London with, well whadaya know, the innovate plan of the London Underground actually being sabotaged.
However, they were crappy detonators that did nothing but go bang, cause a minor injury, and blow out a few windows of a 26 bus on Hackney Road. Nill points for originality as i'm sure the ol' lets blow up trains n buses strategy has been done. Judging by the news and my own deductions, it doesn't look too serious [don't hold me to that], but the huge furore of evacuations and hoo hars is just the initiative used by the police, caused after the tragedy of 07/07, to never underestimate any smell of threat or warning. And fair enough.
Warren Street, Oval, n some other places were affected.
 Update: Lauren and I had experienced difficulty in connecting to the internet, and Sagie couldn't sign into webmessenger. Blatently, webmessenger, i agree, is a slightly shite communication device to use in the progress of planning a terrorist attack, and if I were a terrorist myself, i might use something more reliable and less novelty. But, seeing as they managed to plan a sequence of bombs that cocked up and failed to go off, anything goes.
They probably devised an escape getaway using mini scooters and used bluetooth to exchange converse. They've labelled it a "security alert" and the police have given it an Amber code thing.
Remember 07/07 bombs on the London Transport Network, back in the day exactly two weeks ago? "Due to a security alert, the entire London underground has been suspended whilst we assess the situation"
Not that i'm implying any euphamism usage here. Not that i'm cynical.
The sniffer dogs are out, backpacks have been allegedly smelling strange, and police men are entering Warren Street station cat-walking the fashionable chemical suit look, as a 'precaution' [for...?]
1) Either they were duff empty-threat explosives to frighten everyone, unable to throw up the ablility to kill, but able to feed some sly motherfunky's sick pleasure of keeping alive the publics panic. [Striking up further alarm that terrorists are back in town]
Or 2) the sneaky bastards purchased a set of shite bombs that sadly didn't go to plan [If I planned something as extensive as terrorising the London Underground, i'd at least do it properly], preventing the 3 inch nails from bursting out of the bomb and giving everybody an acupuncture session free of charge.
Apparently it's 'nothing serious' say the latest news reports; the people we obviously trust with our lives for imbursing the truth upon us. I can't be arsed to get too cynical about it ever since 07/07 [To digress, 07/07 is better looking that 9/11 wouldn't you say?], but even if that's the case, it does still highlight how the London underground is vulnerable to any attacks that people feel like electrifying it with, and if you've gained your confidence back in the undergrounds safe nature, you are no doubt being proven wrong here, because even though those nails never managed to pierce their way into people's bodies, or puncture their lungs [as, being 3 inches, would have had the potential to do so], they were still there.
Coincidence?: During the 'bombs', my BT broadband internet suddenly shut down, inabling me from re connecting until, well, now. Also, my friend James was trying to read news sites that uncommonly started crashing, and his overall connection to the net getting cackier. |
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