To hell in a milk float

A short while ago, this page contained a chronicle of these dear people.

But it so happens that I've done some research (If you just want the bare bones, go here and here)

But, having delved deeply (I've been delving for over two hours now, and I reckon I have a pretty good idea of what all the fuss is about), I want no part of it. They have my email address and can get my real name and address if they try hard enough through my (fixed) IP address, but sod 'em. This is England, not the bloody land of Oz, so I'm frankly not bothered.




On a happier note, it's just been brought to my attention that a service based in Finland are offering to put you in SMS contact with god, at a cost of 1.2 Euros per message. No-one need ever fail a theology exam ever again!

Ok, my life. I have a genuinely lousy life at the moment.. I've just been doing some maths homework, which naturally enough involves me staring off into space while prodding buttons at random on my calculator in a vaguely erotic way. Instead of my usual daydream - you know, the one involving four young girls, a vat of baby oil, two cucumbers and a goat - I instead took stock of my life. Here's what I found:

Bad:

1) A month's maths homework due in in two days.
2) I'm guaranteed an E grade whether I finish it or not due to the fact that it's already a fortnight late.
3) There are three whole days of school before the weekend - which, incidentally, is going to consist of me getting home on Friday afternoon, going straight to bed and getting up againd on Monday morning.
4)I still don't own the Grandaddy album "Sumday".
5) I'm single. To the point where I'm probably going to lose the use of my genitals if I stay single for much longer.
6) I missed the empty bus this afternoon due to nothing but my own stupidity, and so was forced to travel three miles to the accompaniment of twelve year old girls who can't shut up, can't stay still and can't even bloody well stand in a queue.
7) Rosie's scary freind Lenin was at school today, so I spent lunch break somewhere safe. With a bloke who not only enjoys mathematics but doubts his own existence!
8) A general studies exam tomorrow. Not only do I miss the chance to fool around for an hour with a badminton raquet, but I have to answer questions on mindless bloody twaddle I cannot possibly comprehend. What is "General Studies", anyway? I've being doing it since September and I still have no idea what it actually is.


Good:

1) I've got two Belgian waffles with whipped cream and chocolate sauce in the fridge, the best cuisine Sainsbury's can provide.
2) As far as I know, nobody currently wants to torture and kill me in a painful manner.



All in all, I've really got no right whatsoever to be in any state other than deep, overwhelming despair.

Mind you, I'll probably have taken the Tony Hancock/Kurt Cobain route by this time tomorrow. I think I'll decorate my suicide note with sparkly pink glitter sprinkles. That'll really screw 'em up at the police psychology department.





Sara, you've hit the nail on it's proverbial head. Art (not just drawing) is, in my opinion, 70% bullshit. The thirty percent left over is all promotion. If you draw a penis with a crayon on the front of a school book they go mental, but submit it to an art gallery and it attracts thousands of geriatric female art critics with pince-nez glasses that've never seen a penis before who'll give it at least three awards and take it on a tour of Europe.

Laura, come on! Was there really any need for that? A thoughtful and intelligent post, bringing delight to one and all, and improving the minds of all who read it, then at the end a cruel and heartless jibe that tore my soul in two, gave my heart twenty seconds on setting three in a blender and microwaved my spirit on full power. Please, don't torture me so!

Fi, thankyou for cheering me up after Laura's dirty lies and mental torture.

Dave, Yes. You. Are.

DJ, if they couldn't do modern art, they could always get themselves other jobs, like hod-carrying and ice-cream selling.

Dan, played that game many a time. I wonder if they'll incoorporate it into the Olympics any time soon? THE OLYMPICS! Why have I written out a post about my depressing life story when I could have talked about London's recent bid to host the Olympics? Ah well. Guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow, people.

While other sites descent to vulgar wrangling about what the Americans loosely call "sports" and wildly unnecessary violence towards former romantic partners, I shall atepmt to preserve some intellectual quality on the internet by making a post about the arts.

There are two types of art - the creative man's art and the wally's art. The creative man's arts consist of writing interesting books, drawing pretty pictures and composing nice (I've run out of adjectives) music. The wally's arts consist (among other things) of anything that weighs more than a small sheep or involves people in funny moustaches scratching their heads and saying things like "I partiularly approve of the artist's use of pastel crayons in order to create a dramatic impression of insecurity in accordance with the ziddyblongian school of artistry."

The former set of arts require talent, imagination and some degree of appreciation of previous works of art. The latter set of arts require a pot of luminous paint and the mind of a toddler. Now I'm not knocking freaky arts and crafts (by "freaky arts and crafts" I mean pretty much everything from a statue of some greek woman with no arms to the left-hand-side of an embalmed cow), I'm just pointing out that anyone could do them, given enough time and money.

Of course, I'm much too ignorant to understand art and when I try, the above is the kind of thing I invariably come out with, so those of you who enjoy reading books with more than a thousand pages and find pleasure in listening to music by Mozart, good on you!

On the other hand (I love writing that, it makes me feel like I'm giving a lecture to a roomful of students who couldn't care less!), I love the tate modern! It is, ladies and gentlemen, a brilliant institution, built primarily to provide a part of London you can go to get away from sensible, normal people.






DJ, I meant precisely the same thing as you did, only I made the mistake of saying "I fall into the category you've mentioned" rather than the more specific "I'm a liberal know-it-all twat who thinks my opinions are worth more than everyone else's" Well, I think that this post is conclusive proof of that.


Oh and I feel oblighed to tell you that Dave has updated his blog! I urge you to read it because the subject of his post is conclusive proof the he is the jibbering idiot the whole world thinks he is.

Haven't shaved all week (yes, that's right, I use a shaver - not for me the finest disposables Wilkinson Sword can provide. I used to use 'em, but the shaver goes buzz, buzz, buzz and looks like it kills people in sci-fi movies - no contest.

I also have a vague unwilingness to having white shaving cream smeared all over my chin. Which is what separates me from Graham Norton.)



Anyway, the point is, I now look like Indiana Jones does about twenty-five minutes into a film - when he's not yet ungroomed enough to have rampant sex with a noisy American woman, but just about retains the look of a man to stupid to use a razor (see Beckham, David). The kind of disreputable, stubbled look that makes a bloke look wild, but at the same time more scary than sexy - that's me.

Well having enlightened you as to my present status as regards to stubble, I'm off to shave.




Mistyblue, you mistook me for an American! But I spell correctly - colour, petrol, centre, magasine! Ah well, I know you can't all be English, eh? Who would we look down on? Though I must confess I also felt some little confusion, only I was wondering why you named yourself after a toilet bowl freshener.

Also, I think to whole point of music is to be wildly insular, and (in the case of hip-hoppers), to miss the point completely.


And Dan Gingery, the "George Foreman Lean Mean Sucking Machine"? He doesn't give blowjobs, does he?


Finally, those of you who were expecting me to update the previous post, I was going to, but then realised I looked like a yeti, so you've got this instead.

When I made this blog, I decided not to talk about things I and only I care about, (like opinions on the upcoming foxhunting ban), and instead planned to convey my thoughts and opinions on world-shattering and vital issues (like the Sainsbury's vs. Tesco's debate).

But now I find myself straying. I realise no-one gives a damn, but just who leads the world when it comes to that peculiar brand of emotion-ridden, heartfelt, freaky-lyricised, shout-from-the-rooftops rock music that seems to come from countries next door to a much more influential nation.

Is it one of the Canadian groups in the category:
The Foo Fighters, Nickleback or the beautiful Melissa Auf Der Maur (who, I must admit, I have a 'thing' for)?
Or is it one of those Welsh wonders The Lostprophets or Hundred Reasons? (Now they, Dave, produce music that does the Welsh credit.)

Anyway, must dash. I'll probably add more to this same post later (the usual - pointless wrangling with the people who've been kind enough to comment on previous posts), but my sister is clamouring for the computer, so until she blinds herself with interminable (is that even a word?) games of mahjong, Adieu!

Go to Google and tap in "Toma Sota Balcu". Go on, I'll wait right here.

Good. Now, as you've seen, this appears on thousands of sites, almost all of them weblogs. It hadn't shown it's ugly face on Blogspirit until Bec pointed out some twonk who'd converted it from a blogger's fad into a chain letter.

Well, the point is, what a load of twaddle! As the story goes, some homicidal murderer (yes, he was a homicidal murderer, unlike all those vicious pacifist murdering saints. I bet the girl he killed was a female one, too.) killed some little girl, who chanted "Toma Sota Balcu" as she snuffed it (as young girls are prone to doing).

By some strange leap of logic, this means we'll all die too, unless we all post this feckless pap on our own blogs. (Usually, advertising coorporations pay thousands of pounds to get their message spread. Silly of them not to think of threatening death from beyond the grave, wasn't it?) Quite how she's going to scour the blogosphere to see just who's posted her story and who hasn't, the story fails to mention. Perhaps she employs Google. (Look forward to http://ghosts.google.co.uk, service begins next June.)

Also, the method of death is quite interesting. Well, you've all read the words "Toma Sota Balcu", so I might as well let you know what you're in for - apparently, you're going to awake suddenly in the middle of the night but be unable to move, and this bloodthirsty bint is going to appear on your ceiling and suffocate you (because, of course, the easiest way for a young girl to wrap her arms around your throat is from eight feet above you). What she does to tramps and tent dwellers is beyond me, hangs from the nearest available tree/lamp-post, maybe?

If any of you do believe in ghosts, magic, demons, aliens or anything of that nature, I've probably put the wind up you proper now, but don't worry - pacman and the tooth fairy will save you.


... Hang on, who does you in? The girl, isn't it? Yeah - but she's the victim! How the bloody hell can she complain about being on the recieving end of a bit of homicide if she herself proceeds to wreak death and destruction on the innocent webloggers who read the phrase "Toma Sota Balcu"? Most unfair, this murder business. Murderers first and the rest nowhere, is how it seems to me. Something should be done.

Finally, the question remains, what am I going to do? Well, the answer is simple -

I'll wait until she appears directly above me, then look up her skirt.

I've been off school for a week now, and if it wasn't for the fact that I'm pretty damn close to death I think guilt would probably have started to set in.

I fully expect people to be hollow, twisted wrecks of their former selves when I go back, having deprived of my company for one entire week. Rosie and Dave will probably have had a gunfight in our common room, Jason will have slept with (the other) half of the girls in the yeargroup and Greg may possibly have grown up a bit. Posssibly.




DJ, couldn't agree more:

Firstly, why's it called football? They don't use feet, (except to run away from each other with) and they don't use balls (they play with an "oblate spheroid").

Secondly, nor do they appear to have balls - look at the sheer amount of padding they wear! You see rugby players or footballers walk onto a pitch dressed like that and see what the crowd'll do. The players have to be huge, strong chaps simply to be able to carry around both their bulk and the bulk of the pads they wear.

Finally, they don't play sport! That's not a game! What are the rules?

1) You have to get that funny-shaped vinyl thing to the other end of the pitch. You can throw it, you can kick it, you can carry it, you can roll it, you can have it delivered by a courier on a moped, whatever you like. Where's the skill?

2) You can hurt people. That's more like it. Until you find out that you can't get near anyone because they're all surrounded by twelve feet of cushions and wearing a wicket-keeper's helmet.

3) Just to prevent the game getting interesting, they stop play about twice a minute to have a redecoration of the pitch and a slap-up meal. Because of course if there was anything remotely resembling a flow of play, the people who go to these games would probably die of mental overexertion.





Today is a sad day for Blogspirit. The wonderful, wise (and not a little slutty) Jen Monkage has left this noble site for modblog.com. Please, Monkey, stay with us, for we have need of your strange stories about your rampant sex life. (Especially me).




Yes, Laura, Dan Ginger is very, very ginger. (Probably the reason he's called "Gingery"). In fact, he's probably the only person in the world who could set their head on fire without anyone noticing.

I'm already having doubts about making Laura and Dan friends. I can easily imagine them setting up an "Equal rights for Gingers" movement, turning themselves into an ethnic minority. Or even getting themselves re-classified as a whole new species "Homo Gingery", starting a programme of ethnic cleansing all "Homo Sapiens" in South London and starting a Jihad on the human race. Except Chris Evans.

Now I think of it, is Chris Evans a member of the Human Race?

On that thought, I leave you.

Okay, I've spent the last five hours without moving more than three feet from the spot I'm in now. In fact, I think it's gone on long enough.

...

There, I've just been to the kitchen and back. Hope I didn't keep you waiting. Now, where was I? Oh yes, my wild, reckless, exciting day. I started it by watching series three of "Porridge" on DVD. (Americans, it's not a cookery program, it's... no, wait. Look it up yourself. And that'll teach you to watch Comedy Central less, won't it? Not a hope. Oh well.) As an aside, can I just point out that I'm never going to prison. Until I watched Porridge I hadn't made up my mind (well, have you ever considered a career of crime? Those of you going "Me! Me! Me!", you're not the sort of people likely to be a positive influence on my delicate readership, so please leave now. Except Dan Ginger, you can stay if you want. Provided you don't set anyone on fire.) But now, there's no way in Hell, Hull or Halifax you're going to see me doing time, not on your nellie, sir.

I know that in ten year's time there'll be about a dozen middle-aged women from the Home Office reading this, looking for evidence that it was (will be) me who planted that bomb in George Bush's Y-fronts. Well, it wasn't (won't be) me - the only time I'm going into a nick will be when they ask me to identify Dan for arson.

I can imagine him in court right now -

"Daniel B. Gingerpubes", you stand accused of setting fire to a convention of webloggers. How do you plead on the charge of Arson?"
"Hehe - you said 'ARSE'!"



Anyway, after Porridge, I downloaded a brilliant little game - "Smallball" (Click the link. It has nothing to do with a midget's testicals) and I've just bought the "Deluxe Trainer" (which is basically a training pitch for my little baseball player people to practice on) because I'm too lazy to train them myself. Great start I'm off to.

(The only pity is, the game's Baseball (or "American Cricket" to the educated).

Hang on, there should be another bracket there, shouldn't there? I'm confused. Hang on a second. Oh yes! I've put a bracket within another bracket! How terribly, terribly clever of me!


)





I wish there was something else I could write - I'm bored out of my tiny, purple skull. But there isn't, so I'll be leaving you now to move to a region precisely three feet to my left so I can watch the Magic Roundabout on BBC Two.
Goodbye.

Geomag. Wonderful stuff. As I've said.

I've just found out that the Geomag kit I own is the one designed especially to appeal to toddlers, being both basic enough to keep their (and my) brains from exploding, while complex enough to provide them (and me) with a challenge. The two types of parts are fire-engine red chunkly plastic things and silver chrome balls. (Sounds like a stage-name for a male porn star, "Silver Chrome Balls", doesn't it?)

So I've discovered - via the Supermag coorporation's product placement specialists - that I'm an idiot. (Those of you who know me are already preparing to post comments along the lines of "We've known that for years, John". Do it and I kill you all.)






Ginger, you don't need a GCSE in biology to cut people up. All you need is a butcher's knife and a disarming smile.



Trisha (Jesus, woman! Can't you stick to Trishey, or Patricia? The name "Trisha" has been reserved specifically for opinionated windbags who can't shut up for five minutes. And host ITV talk-shows.) I'm not calling you "Fat and/or Greedy" (though I do like the way you phrased your accusation like a court order!) What I do when I go to a party/dance/funeral is, immediately upon entering I hack my way across the room to the nibbles table. I then proceed to eat enough free snacks to balance out the price of going to the event (ie a £5.50 ticket to a cheap dance would result in me clearing them out of sausages on sticks, a quarter of the total number of available chicken wings, two tomatoes and a passing cockroach, wheras if I go to an expensive party at a 5-star London hotel, I'll eat more cucumber sandwhiches then than in the rest of my lifetime). All sensible people do this. Even the Queen.



Tweed, we use "Wanker" where you'd use "Arsehole", though technically "Wanker" means "Any male human being other than the Pope".
"Sod" literally means "Anal sex", but since it also means "Cow's vomit", you can use it pretty much in any way you like. We use "Sod off" where you'd use "Piss off", we use "Sod you" where you'd use "Kiss my arse", we use "Sod it" where you'd use "I don't give a damn any more".

Now go and shock America!

Well, I've been doing absoloutely nothing for two days, and I've got sod all to post about. Boredom's forcing me to make a post, however, so let's see what comes into my head...

...

Well, I've thought of a topic, though it's about as interesting as you'd expect me to come up with after two days confined to indoors because of illness.

Geomag.

I don't know if you've heard of it, but it's the ultimate executive timewaster. The lego aspect of it appeals to your inner child, but instead of peices being held together by chubby toddlers' fingers forcing them into place, but by magnets! This means you can pretend you're someone from The Matrix, holding the pieces in weird configurations by the sheer force of your mind. Which is what I've been doing for the past two hours. You can also, should you so wish, use them to create weird-shaped (yet imaginative) sex toys. Thankfully, it's only now I've packed my Geomag kit safely away upstairs that the idea to actually use them occurs to me.

As an executive toy, however, it's not the best in the world, and I think I know the reason why: You see, the idea of an executive toy is to make the user (temporarily) a prat. There's rubber-band pistols and remote-controlled fart machines and singing trout - you can be a cowboy, you can be a practical joker, you can be a surrealist fisherman. But the last thing your tired, stressed out design architect wants to fill his spare time with is an architecture simulation toy. So if you're looking for a present for a design architct you want to impress, buy the dancing naked Barbie doll.

But, as I've already said, the best feature of Geomag is the magnets, because magnets, are magic. They hold things toghther with invisibleness! They can bugger up a compass! (Unless it's a digital compass, but they're magical too, and the magical powers of the magnets and the digital compass cancel out.)