I'm moving. Shit, I bet you're excited.

Ok, I'm moving to a different address, because I'm shit at computers and understand the other website better.

It looks better on phones, and I think I've also made it look 'more professional'. Which is good. Also means after a week of this being inactive I can recycle a shit tonne of this material.

MY NEW BLOG.

The written address is 'robperryetc.tumblr.com' but the link above will take you straight there.



Xx

Thanks, Jim. (Shane).

Today is Boxing Day. I hope you didn’t go shopping, for the sake of your own soul. Watching the news was like bearing witness to the first few hours of a global pandemic, or the coming of the apocalypse. Or the savage sacrifice of a baby animal.

I was a little bit sick in my mouth when I saw hordes of humans bursting through the front doors of Next (on TV, I didn’t go there), because a) the things they received yesterday were not the right things or b) they were the right things but they needed a shitload more of them.

At least the TV was good tonight. One of the highlights for me was the bizarre reimagining of ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ hosted tonight, by Shane Ritchie. The concept was both uplifting and exciting for TV viewers in the seventies, eighties and nineties but tonight’s perverted doppelgänger culminated in a macabre sing along where kids stood around a semi famous opera singer, not really singing, while a six year old girl hung suspended in a harness above, dressed like an angel, but looking more like a cumulus cloud motionless and ignored.

I’m not sure Shane fixed anything, but at least he gave a six year old girl an attention deficit complex.

Merry fucking christmas you bastards.

Twat

I had designs for my blog to be a regularly updated insight into the mundane but just cynical enough to be funny observations I frequently happen to come across in my day to day goings on. I left the house this morning in the usual fashion. Timed to perfection, allowing thirty to forty seconds less time per task than is comfortable. Eating my cornflakes so quickly I coughed flecks of them onto my bathroom mirror and left without cleaning them off. Anyway what I'm getting at is that I rushed, forgot my charger and therefore couldn't use my laptop to write this lunchtime. So I'm going to do it tonight.  Xx

iBorrow an iFad

I’m back once again (not this time like the renegade master), at my place of full time employment. This means that I have an hour to vent my frustrations and to get jacked up on coffee. (I know it’s not a proper addiction, but I care about my grandmothers feelings).

I spent a while deluding myself this week that I might be able to acquire an iPad on Apples  Fiona finance option, because I need one, I need one, or I’ll die. I need one because it’s exactly like my iPhone, so does all the things my iPhone does, but it’s a bit bigger. So my emails will be a bit bigger, and so will the boobies.

I quickly realised though, that in this time of financial crisis they only lend money to people that could easily buy it outright in the first place anyway. Gone are the glorious days of irresponsible lending to the poor. My monthly paper bills are testament to this and apparently they expect it back at some point. Unfortunately I have recently and selectively decided to refute the actual worth of currency and since I charge for receiving correspondence, per phone call, email, letter, bailiff visit etc., I now estimate that they owe me £20.

Anyway, here are some more realistic strategies for acquiring an iFad.

Stage one: Make all of your Christmas gifts this year. It’s free and more ‘personal’. I heard mum’s like pressed flowers on paper, framed and with a poem underneath. Where I live, there are no flowers, they all died when the atmosphere collapsed, so instead I pressed a dead bird that I kept in the freezer from ‘before’. Birds are pretty too.

Stage two: Eat out of bins. As long as no-one you know sees you, it’s not demeaning. Just think about how people will view you when you have an iFad, it’s a success indicator and worth risking your health for.

Stage Three: Mug someone physically weaker than you. Pick your target well. The person should not be able to resist you forcefully taking their iFad from them. If they do and you are unable to acquire a real iPad the other option is to buy a digital photo frame. Below is a conversation you might have and strategies for making the façade realistic:

Mug friend: Is that an iPad? You must be really successful.

You: Yeah it fucking is. Keep your hands off it or I’ll brain you.

Mug: why is it plugged in?

You: It’s fucking charging. I’ve been watching a shitload of porn. Drains the battery.

Mug: What you doing on it now?

You: Looking at pictures. On iPhoto.

So there it is, you’ve got an Ipad. And it’s all down to me.

Mistletoe and Bastards

It’s fucking Baltic outside, I’ve spent all my money on thermo set plastic mince pies and Christmas day looms like a wave of syphilitic prostitutes down a water slide.

I’m personally looking forward to the mounting pressure, the potential for driving myself into further financial ruin and the festering smell of the humans in all the great churches of modern day consumerism. (Bluewater, Norwich mall etc, etc.)

Thing is, I love Christmas; the Christmas I have at home is by far my most treasured day in a year. It’s just that I fucking despise the fact that everyone else insists on having Christmas too, because I end up on the business end of a cock slap of unreasonable desires.

Once upon a time, a shop sold some of the things you wanted, but not all of the things and if they didn’t have the size or the colour you’d just get over it, or pick the lice out of your hair. Maybe wash in a stream. The shop reserved the right to tell you to fuck off, shoot at you and to call you bad words.

Now, because I can decide which programs I want to watch on telly at the very moment I want to, can pause them for a pot noodle or a wank, rewind to the bit with the boobies, pause that and take a screen shot and make it my background, I walk around thinking everything works like that.

I can understand when stupid people expect this level of indulgence in every part of their mundane existence, they’re used to it. They don’t understand that there are still some areas of life where you can’t get exactly what you want and in a fit of tiny brain misunderstanding, they are rude. I also understand that while in my Reich I’d drown them in sack bags for their insolence, its fairly unacceptable to kill a rude person just for being rude.

So like a tiny primate, fettered by its desire to throw shit, I must continue to make myself feel better by dribbling cynicism into the void that is the internets.

Unfortunate really.                                                                                                             

Tomorrow, I’ll be talking about the issue of ‘the bills’ and winter survival for those that can’t afford heating or Christmas presents.

I've realised that I don't have a lunch break on my day off, so I might not write on here to avoid getting confusd about what day it is. There are also so short story deadlines coming up so I'll spend the time writing those and maybe post a little bit on here when I'm done. Safe.

Dragons taking some time out.

Fuck the 7%

Yesterday’s slow loris of optimism has today been mutilated by the raging lawn mower of hatred, fuelled by the blood of the innocents.

OK, so yesterday I had time to enjoy the little things, but a looming regional manager visit has turned the little things into nothing more than a distant memory. They’ve become the tiny shard of light that creeps through the shattered windscreen of a broken down car in a tunnel, amid the anarchy of a zombie apocalypse. Only, this shard of light turns out to be nothing more than a globule of undead saliva sliding it’s way down the last plate of glass you’ll ever see. And by the time it reaches the bottom your arms will have been torn from your body and your face eaten off.

It’s important to realise how these things work. Like everything else, if you understand the mechanisms- the fundamentals, it usually makes it easier to stomach the realities.

If you are an employee, and you’re boss wants more from you, the following ‘fundamentals’ come into play.

Adam works at 84% efficiency. (You are Adam) 84% efficiency does not cause Adam/ you discomfort. Adam does not think about work while he watches match of the day or cooks chicken goujons or scratches his balls.

If we then ask Adam for 100%, and let us assume 100% results in Adams death, then in the pursuit of 100% Adam will reach 91%. This is an increase of 7%.

7% more efficiency means Adam thinks about work while he watches the days goals, he stops appreciating them. 7% more efficiency means Adam burns his chicken goujons and burns his hand as he removes them from the oven. 7% more efficiency means Adam accidentally twists his testicle, causing him agonising pain and a temporary limp.

The understanding is that a boss will always ask for 100%. Thing is, they ask it knowing they won’t get 100%, but that breaking your balls for not working at 100%, will always yield the 7%.

It’s what the world has decided to obsess over, because it makes us forget about the other things. The things we really don’t want to acknowledge.

My boss wants 7%, because their boss wants 7%, because their boss wants a bigger boat. And that’s the fundamental.

Fuck the 7%. Fuck the boat and fuck Duncan and his den.

(Apologies for allowing Duncan Bannatyne to become a figure head for capitalism, especially to Duncan. Above is a photo of Duncan having fun, in a relaxed social environment.)

Peace motherfuckers. x

My bitch.

Duncan Bannatyne is my bitch.

Today, while I wondered around at work thinking about what I could write, I had visions of an account that chronicled the working mans grind. The long hours, the callous work hardened hands and the stresses of a real days labour.

Then I realised I fold clothes for a living.

Then I realised that that’s not really the point.

OK, so sometimes my brain hurts from the mundane shop chat that I’m subjected to 50% of the time. The occasional walking OK magazine that sees fit to issue Cheryl Cole’s tweet updates as and when the make the arduous journey from her brain to her Twitter account. But then I remembered that the other 50% of the time, I’m pretty lucky. I get to work with a lot of very funny people.

Yesterday someone got their head stuck in a door (Will Denton if you’re wondering). They’d invented a game during their lunch. One person stands heels to the wall and primed, the other (The technical term for this person is ‘the setter’) holds the door open until the ‘runner’ is ready.

Then it happens.

The door is released, and the runner waits, and waits and waits. The more confident runners may even turn around or close their eyes.

AND THEN BAM. It happens fast- in a frenzied collection of movements the runner throws themselves forward in a moment of daring. The heavy fire door only a foot or so from closing as they slide through the vanishing gap, like flat Stanley on crack.

The record line is then recorded on the floor in shoe streaks of rubber, the place where the door was when the last most daring left their heel poised post.

So yeah, I thought I was going to try and reach out. Say something to the disillusioned slaves of the economy, become a figure head, lead a revolution, make Duncan Bannatyne my bitch. But the more I thought about it, It’s the little things, the stupid games and Karan’s ‘ethnic banter’ that make it liveable.

What I’m trying to say is that we could be doing anything really. Selling clothes, shares, stolen goods, used underwear (we’re not, they have sanitary stickers to defend against this) but as long as you’re still able to fuck about a little bit, it’s OK. In fact, it’s more than OK. It’s hilarious. 

Slow Loris for the Bastards.

Lunch Break Re-take.

So it’s been a while. Let‘s not talk about the intervening period between the last time I wrote on here and now  in which I seem to have left university only to have found, I think, what I always dreaded. Full time occupation, a better understanding of fiscal dynamism and some lovely matching furniture.

Anyway, in many ways what better reason to resurrect a long dead blog than to whinge about the assorted grievances I now have with working full time, over Christmas, in a shop. It seems like an even easier opportunity to vent the cynicism that collects like damp on the walls of my nine to five.

Don’t get me wrong- Given the current climate, I’m lucky to have a job. And I should be happily on my way to a my first down payment on a house and the first of a lifetime of arbitrary promotions, (see earlier blogs for an explanation of these concepts and my views on them ) but the trouble is, much as I love dealing with the humans, they do turn into a proper set of twats during the festive period.

The problem is, there is a tendency (and usually among the stupid) to cater for and to adorn our loved ones with all the affection and sensitivity we are able to muster. Problem is, these same stupid people, in their pursuit of gifts to lavish said loved ones become, for want of a better words, fucking dickheads.

Just because Nathan really wants a t-shirt and the company I work for doesn’t happen to have it in size awful, doesn’t mean you need to treat me like I’ve just dribbled out from under the six day old kebab salad in your fridge. I hate to harp on, but seriously, get a fucking grip.

Anyway, here’s my suggestion for fixing the world. If there’s one sure way of thawing my icy heart, it’s videos of tiny animals doing shit like eating and holding umbrellas on Youtube, as long as the scenario is genuine and not the result of some weirdo’s orchestrated efforts to make their Chihuahua in a hat play stairway to heaven. I’m not prepared to deal with that. (I'll post an example next and you'll totally understand).

Anyway, hopefully from now on my breaks will be a time for thought, and for writing on here, so we’ll see.

Stay tuned.

All credit to Sam for anything you find funny here as it was by his suggestion that I started blogging again. Ever since the fateful day that I threw his book into a lake (See this link for a full recount, described in such beautiful and gripping fashion that summarising would only tarnish the tale). 

http://ordinarythingssmashedandreconstituted.blogspot.com/2011/06/offending-everyone-through-narrative-i.html

Obviously, thanks also to Bagnall for the account.

Peace.

It's alive. Posts to follow.

It's been a while again. Blogpology. lol.

What I've realised with most blogs, (and by most blogs I mean the flower backgrounded, Christian family themed ones that serve predominantly to dribble mundane bullshit all over my laptop and surrounding desk area about their weekend in the garden) is that the more that happens in their day by day progression towards incontinence, the more they see fit to tell me all about it in their blogs.

I myself, see a reverse correlation in mine. I've done stuff, so I haven't had the same amount of time to dedicate to considering the really worthless issues that I generally comment on here.

I haven't really posted because I've been busy and unlike the 'Charlotte Family' from Alabama, me being busy doesn't mean I'm going to tell you all about my shit kids new found ability to eat raw potatoes. Mainly because as far as I see it, children are ultimately a bit (or entirely) shit; poorly functioning versions of ourselves for at least a sixth of a century who will ultimately, probably, be left with a radio-active lump of rock and sixteen fingers. But then I'm a cynic. And I don't have children. (Maybe it's wonderful). (But probably not).

What this means is that I have several issues to address and not enough motivation to address any of them at length.

The main one is that the puppet man has had a little trim. He's gone for a much shorter, neater variant of his classic style and I think it works well, not only has he had a shorter back and sides, but he's also gone for a neatened cut about the ear and a shave to match. Well done Mr. Perry. (Followers of my continued interest in the puppet man will know we share a surname).

Point two is also for the followers. A while ago, I remarked on my neighbour. The old boy who had me assist him in climbing into his house as he'd forgotten the keys. Well this week I forgot mine, so I went round to see him. He looked at me blankly while I explained what I thought would be a funny role reversal situation in which we would laugh, contrary to the linguistic barriers and bond as fellow residents of Grosvenor road.

Fuck did we.

His only words were in response to me saying, 'How are you?' and they were 'I'm alive'. He did show me through the house and into my garden where he stood and watched as I spent fifteen minutes squeezing through my kitchen window, a window that is by all accounts, too small for me to easily pass through. Anyway I put my hand in raw chicken, my foot in yoghurt and promptly fell into the sink. I turned to wave thanks, but the old man had gone.

Anyway, I'm going on a spontaneous trip into Europe tomorrow (possibly France, Austria or Italy so I'm not sure how often I will update, but bear with it, eventually I will write something worth reading.)

It seems prudent also to suggest you have a good Easter in case I don't post before then.

Ode to a blogger.

Right. Tuesday, one of my favourites.

I'm back once again (like the renegade master), using the free WiFi in Starbucks and thinking about stupid but interesting things to throw into the void, also known as the internets.

I'd first like to start with a nod of approval to my friend, Mr Will Shaw, who this week got hit by a 4x4 in China. After initial worry, I realised that only Will Shaw could be hit by a car, but insist on completing the last 4km of the run immediately after.

"It will surprise no one that I have absolutely no intention of reporting to a Doctor, nurse or witchdoctor about being hit by a car. I feel to do so would be to destroy the aura of infallibility created by my ‘more machine than man’-esque exit from the scene after being mown down by a 4×4. And I don’t really like making a fuss."

Inspirational stuff. Norfolk LADS til eye die. YEAH.

The next point I'd like to address is something I recently heard our lord and savior, Charlie Brooker talking about. Now normally, I wouldn't comment on anything he'd written because it's entirely unnecessary. If he brings something up, it needed to be addressed. And whatever he says about it is right. But today I feel like adding to his perturbed riflings through the human condition.

The subject of debate is how you treat people in the service industry. Not you personally of course, but like, some wankers, and by extension how your conduct in these situations is a direct representation of whether you are an inherently shitty person or not.

If you phone a help line, and you're angry because there was a logistical error and it's briefly inconvenienced you, apparently some people think it's fine to act like a bellend. Some people even think it's impressive to speak to another human being like they literally just formed in the bottom of the shower at a leper camp, out of the severed remains and belly button smeg of the afflicted.

Some people start talking to Julia at BT like they are well hard because theres nothing she can do about it anyway. It's what she's for isn't it?

Well guess what, Julia likes to eat bon bons in the garden and read books about space. Give her a fucking break.

You know those guys that swear at other motorists because in the little bubble that is their car and by extension their singularly linear existence, it's them that are abusing Julia down the phone. They said goodbye to their ugly wives this morning and couldn't wait to accelerate towards you at a Give Way point, only so they can beep when they get closer and it's apparently your fault.

I like to imagine the terrifying acceptance of doing what other people do as being like broadband. Millions of little beams of lights, carrying quite individual, potentially affecting moments of brilliance careering down a tube, following a direct path from start to finish. Birth, to mortgage, to death.

Alright so along the way you get to feel a little bit better about the impending doom of the path you put yourself on by asserting some sort of superiority complex on Julia who may or may not have had cornflakes for breakfast (Just like you, Fucko) and indeed wasn't switched on at 8.59 in order to indulge whining inadequates for the day, only to be turned off and popped in a stasis chamber overnight.

But what do I know, I just think being nice is better.

On 'lunch punching' and Misery.

Actually, mainly lunch punch. The phenomenon thats sweeping the country at a rate dictated by how quickly I can tell people about it.

It's simple really, but beautiful in it's simplicity.

Step One:  Wait for a friend to buy lunch, preferably something with a high viscosity content. For example a pie or a yogurt.

Step Two: Punch the shit out of their lunch.

And there it is. The 'lunch punch'.

If ever I'm bored or sad, say for example I just found out that I got a bad mark in a university assessment I don't care about, I like to bitterly take it out on my friends by ruining their lunch, and by extension, the key to their ultimate survival in this our lives; the race to a mortgage.

Fuck I love mortgages.

Because I speak really good French, like basically fluent and sometimes I have to help my French friends with talking, I know that the word 'mortgage' roughly translates as 'a measure of death'. Mort means death and gage means measure. See? These are all facts.

Obvious.

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day.

So yesterday I went to the beach, because it now looks like summer (Even if the sea is still Baltic). We got in the car and drove in the general direction of Yarmouth. Although arguably the best coast in Norfolk is the Stephen Fry/ Shakespeare in Love bit that's in the other direction entirely we decided it would be more entertaining to drive to the beach called 'California'. Near the Beach called 'Newport'. We'll talk about this in a second.

Actually, Let's do it now.

CALIFORNIA?. Not to offend anyone living there (I can't imagine they have the internet anyway) but whichever twat brought attention to the fact that that pebbled scattered town that smells of fish and misery by calling it that needs a stern speaking to. Ok, so you decide to live on the coast, FINE. You decide to invite some tourists there, FINE. But why, why the fuck would you then name it after one of the worlds most renowned beachey areas? WHY OH FUCKING WHY?
The area of 'California' is covered in a mixture of Chernobyl styled flat blocks and pavement. Grey, oppresive day ruining pavement.
It's like the illegitimate child of Yarmouth and Slough, conceived on a quiet Wednesday night in Club Mercy. Or MOJO's. Yeah MOJO's.

I went to 'California' Norfolk, and I saw the void.

Then I went to Winterton, which was really nice.

Oh and watch this...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wupToqz1e2g

It's cool.

Experiment Fail.

Alright, so the daily writing thing has gone awry, BUT instead of mindless chatter I wrote some short stories and entered them into some competitions, which I probably won't win. But at least I tried. Or something.

I felt that instead of continuing to be the hyper critical sofa based writing expert that I currently am, I would submit something that I've made for approval and see what happens. If they don't like it, then they're wrong.

Much as I love arbitrarily assigned marks between 60 and 70, (Which is sadly what degree level creative writing starts to feel like) (No offense directed toward Trezza Azzopardi, shining light that she is.) (I mean this seriously, shes brilliant) But everyone else, primarily Vikram Kapur, who is a bit of a bell chuff, again, serious, applies what is at best an entirely non specific, generic mark scheme in what can only ever be a subjective analysis of formal techniques. Anyway, this rant can only really apply to a few unfortunates, so I will stop.

So today, let's talk about the largest animal you could have in a fight.

Someone I spoke to yesterday insisted she could have a horse in open hand combat. I believe this to be an absolute lie.  For a start, Horses are fucking massive and if they kick you, that shits going to hurt.  More than falling off a table onto your face. Here are some statistics:

Ricky Hatton is capable of delivering a punch with a train weight of 400KG.
A Horse is capable of kicking a bucket off a fence.

So there it is. Categorical proof you can't have a horse. And that the internet sometimes doesn't yield all of the facts that you require of it.

If you ask me, the largest animal you can hope to defeat is a large dog, at a push. Not including animals so docile that they won't fight back. Like a giant tortoise. Which would only retreat into it's shell.

Someone stipulated that you could simply flip the tortoise when I recently brought this issue up in pub chat. My response was that the animal has to participate in the fight, engage. A tortoise would not. And in reference to 'flipping the tortoise' which someone so whimsically suggested, they can weigh up to 300KG. The world record for a dead lift is 504kg so while you could argue it's possible, the man that lifted said weight was 6 foot 3 and 175KG.

The fall out of this is simple, even if you were fighting a giant tortoise (which you shouldn't because it's so placid) you couldn't flip it unless you are Lithuanian and huge.

So there it is, don't shit talk a horse and don't even dare to suggest you could have a badger. I know you were thinking about it.

Shout out to Townley working for the man. The Ladbrokes man.

Sunday Sunday.

Dear Diary,

Today I went to the shops and I bought a packet of crisps and I saw a man walking his dog and I said hello and he said hello back and now I am drinking tea and I like to eat skittles.

So most of the mundane bullshit that I post on here is stolen; the regurgitated version of conversations I've had during the day, the concentrate of my existence. I think actually this might be a bit depressing, that the highlights and sum of some of my days can be distilled and displayed as a list of amusing pornographic film titles, but there it is. Oh Well. At least soon I will finish University and be able to join the ranks of shoes and haircuts (Definitely Brooker, I'm not even trying to play that off as original)  walking to grey buildings, arbitrarily punching in numbers and generally avoiding the idea that one day, they are definitely going to die.

Sometimes people should be reminded (In my opinion at midday and 5, everyday, screamed in Russian over a tannoy in all public places) that if you are unhappy, then you're wasting valuable seconds in what is ultimately a fleeting moment of too often squandered potential. Doing things you hate, because thats what other people do, in the big lump of doomed flesh that you are, is stupid. Irrespective of the infinite religious debates, what if this is it? OK, so if you get lucky and the religious text you subscribe to (Mines National Geographic) happens to be the one divine word and you are saved, brilliant. But if it turns out that that text is just a construct to give millions of other people something physical to believe in, it's probably worth remembering, in 60 years time, when you look back, will you actually care whether it was the iPad 1 or 2 that you checked your e-mails on?

Maybe write a letter to a bank, doesn't matter which, telling it that mortgages can fuck off. (Although maybe I'm just saying that because my phone bill direct debit has bounced so many times I couldn't get a mortgage on a shed.)

All I'm suggesting is a coffee, some nice biscuits and a visit to a bench you don't often sit on. Oh, and maybe read some Nabakov.

Oh yeah, and no-one gives a shit if you don't have an Audi.

Never say no to Panda.

Because today has been uneventful and rather than do anything productive I just ate eggs, I have nothing interesting to say. Except for imagine what Liam Neeson would do if he found you eating his last rolo in a bed with his mother wearing his favourite hat that you just cut eye holes in.

Also, WATCH THIS. It's absolute GOLD.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwCWiDfr-fU&feature=fvst

Wifi at Work.

I just found out the WiFi works at work and I have 12 minutes before I officially have to deal with the good restaurant going people of Norwich. What this means is that I can formally apologise for telling Peaches Geldoff to fuck off. And explain the obscutrity of the link.

Today is official Peaches Geldoff Day.

To celebrate, here are some facts about Peaches Geldoff. While you read them, why not try repeatedly punching your own head, or listening to Aqua with your fingers in a vice.

Peaches Geldoff was once a member of the Russian Ballet.
Peaches Geldoff can breath underwater.
Peaches Geldoff is Immortal.
Peaches Geldoff is the spawn of his royal highness, the lord of depressing noise and whining activist Bob 'the lad' Geldoff, that women what he married, and Jesus.
Peaches Geldoff is see- through.
Peaches Geldoff is a capable journalist, telecaster and TV personality and is both qualified and intelligent enough to comment on the current affairs she so confidently discusses.

Yeah. All absolute bullshit.

Turns out I'm not sorry at all.

His hat says sexy. Sexy.

Norwich Puppet Man Vs the Wandering Radio Man.

I've spent the last 45 minutes watching the Norwich Puppet man.

For anyone that doesn't know, the Puppet man is a man that stands outside Primark in Norwich and gyrates around holding a puppet (If you watch it's head closely it looks like he's violently killing it) alongside and definitely not in time with some fairly discordant and sometimes not even tuned in radio stations. Apparently, it's completely legal. For a more in depth description, see link: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norwich_Puppet_Man

According to the link we share a surname. I am pleased by this. he was born in 1942, on the same day as the Australian Novelist, James Cowan, who shares a name with UEA lecturer, Andrew Cowan. Mental.

Anyway, every now and then and for no apparent reason he runs away down the road. (He has done this three times while I have been watching him). I can only imagine this is because the wandering radio man sometimes comes close and that the Puppet man is both aware and terrified of the potential implications of their meeting. Unfortunately, the radio man does not have a wikipedia, he is lesser known and does not perform for an audience but more, i believe, for personal satisfaction. He walks around with a portable radio pressed to his ear and playing out loud, commentating on the radios activities. Sometimes accurately, sometimes not. 

Anyway, much like if that ginger twat on weakest link and Laurence Llewelen shitehawk Bowen or whatever his name is occupied the same space, the space time continuum would be forever altered. People would have fingers for toes, Your nan would do backflips and listen to the Wombats and Simon Cowell would turn into a molusc. Some side effects would obviously be favourable. Effectively the two people occupy the same space, they are the same physical concept, in the case of the aforementioned celebrities, they embody the concept of public hatred. In the case of the Puppet man and the Radio Man, obscurity. Puppet man knows this. If he and the radio man were to collide, the fallout would be of a magnitude thus far unimagined. Obscurity magnified. Think about it. I think it would feel like eating a muller corner and stubbing your toe all at once. Fucking mental.

As an aside, I'd like to thank Tom Furby for becoming a follower of this blog. After his initial abuse, he now receives emials each and every time I talk about shit. There's something satisfying in that.

Have a good day. 

Fuck off Peaches Geldoff.

An old man and a ladder.

Today was somewhat of a highlight in my otherwise fairly uninteresting existence. An old man turned up at my door, waving his hands and making sort of, Hungarian noises. By this I mean the words he said, none of them understandable had that friendly sort of tone only Hungarians have.
So, yes. After waving at me, he walked past me and straight down my hallway. At this point he stood pointing at the back door (locked) and making friendly noises again. I let him out assuming this was all he wanted and watched him go into his back garden through our side gate. All fairly normal.
Anyway, I go back to my room and continue to watch zombieland alongside formulating my own end of the world scenario survival plans when I hear the scraping sound only a very large ladder can make. Hollow aluminium fear. The man was at least 80, no taller than 5,2 and less than mobile. Nevertheless, there he was, shimmying and chuckling his way up to a second story window. I run out, stubbing my big toe on the way and try desperately to reason with him. All he did was laugh, shake his head and continue to try wriggling himself into the tiny window.
It was at this point that I desperately tried to decide how much he weighed and then whether I could infact catch him when he inevitably fell. The answers were 68 kilos and no, definitely not. Is it murder is you don't try to catch a falling pensioner? I don't know. Maybe. After what felt like minutes he fell into the house, punctuated by the sound of falling/ breaking pottery.
He turned, smiled and closed the curtain. What a champion.

Eating Beans and watching TV.

After Sunday nights distinct lack of sleeping, I'm still recovering. But I have finished my dissertation. I'm about to read it through for the first time, so very soon someone is likely to forcefully remove my best writer in the world crown, on account of the fact it's probably shit.
Anyway, what I thought I would do, and I'm not a man that plays computer games ordinarily, (I move the control around in the air sometimes as though in my head, this and not the directional pad is how you move the character) was to spend the day dual screening with Family Guy on one TV and a game called Dead Space on the Other.
I thought that being an adult male, computer games wouldn't be able to psychologically damage me any more. Turns out they can. The first time a fleshless, dribbling and very angry long armed alien tried to stab me in the torso with his sword arm I think I made a girly noise. You sort of wonder round space in the dark, looking for festering corpses that promptly re-animate and fuck you up. It's really pretty cool.
It's now in the list next to roast dinners in the things better than money list.
In other news, in the continued argument between me and Vodafone, that has resulted in them not allowing me services without me first paying for them (Selfish bastards) I still don't have the ability to phone anyone. Which is proving difficult because even people that KNOW I CAN'T REPLY continue to text me questions, this is very frustrating,

The nighttime.

So Today and yesterday and last night became one like in the Spice girls song because George basically dared me to write my dissertation in a night to see what happens. By 8am I felt like people were watching me even when i was alone in my room. I think this is called paranoia and is bad. I also felt like my ears were pulsing and i couldn't feel my face.

On the plus side, i wrote several thousand words about sandwiches and gunfights and punching horses. I'm pretty sure in my tired state it's the best thing anyone has EVER written but by the time I've slept and re-read it I will quickly realise it's the distracted ramblings of a very tired and soon to be failed novelist. Until that time comes though, I'm the best writer in the world. Fact.

Roast Day and Debt Collection.

Today is Sunday and for that reason we are to roast various things. Collectively we'll call them a roast and hopefully they will taste good.


Here is what Wikipedia has to say about roasts:


The Sunday roast is a traditional British main meal served on Sundays (usually in the earlyafternoon for lunch), consisting of roasted meat, roast potato, mashed potato together with accompaniments, such as Yorkshire pudding, stuffing, vegetables and gravy.


Despite my issues with the suggestion that you would ever have mash and roasted on the same plate, the bulk of the information here is right.


Anyway, the other day something funny came up in conversation. Myself and Seth were swapping Bailiff stories- which ones we respectively had after us for example. I have now paid Virgin Media because they sent Glaswegian Bailiffs and thats some pretty heavy shit. Seth's first statement at the time? "At least we'll never get mortgages". Brilliant. Basically because it made me realise I probably never will, But it's OK because I don't really think I want one. Or an Audi with air-con, or a job with good progression prospects. It's all about roast dinners.


Todays point? Don't get a mortgage, get a roast.
Or roasts are more important than material possessions. Or Something.

Some films I found in Gareths room.

Again, i don't really have anything interesting to say so instead, i'm going to make a list. It's very childish. Tomorrow I will make some sensible comments I promise.

Breast Side Story
Blown in 60 Seconds
Men in Black. Men.
White men can't Hump
Jurassic Pork
Shindlers Fist
In Diana Jones and the Temple of Poon
Cockwork Orange
Glad he ate her
Star Whores: The Emporer Loves Crack
American Booty
School of Cock
Gangbangs of NewYork.

These are all films I found in Gareth's room. (My new housemate). And I do promise to stop just posting lists.

Realising I titled the last post before I wrote it and there are no hypotheticals in it, here are todays top three...

1. You can be Ben Affleck for a day but you have to have a Dogma crotch.
2. You can have Usain Bolts leg's, but they must remain black. (This obviously only becomes a difficult decision if your top half is currently white.)
3. You can be the best pianist that ever lived, but you have to have toes for fingers.

Something to think about.

Some Hypothetical materials.

Right, after my initial reservations about Blogs, I have decided to carry out an experiment. Admittedly I haven't added to this in the last couple of days and that doesn't bode well for the longevity of my experiment, but I'm going to try adding stuff most days as I really have little else to do. In conjunction with my Blog, I've also recently got myself a Starbucks card and even though the name on the account is 'coffeetwat', no amount of irony can save me from the fact that I'm a dickhead with a laptop in a coffee shop writing a blog. Feel free to smear the word 'bellend' in chocolate on my front door. (This is an actual challenge.)

As a side note, I have a new house mate, Gareth, so to celebrate his moving in, we gift wrapped a neighbours hedge. The wrapping paper had sweets on it.

Blog Porn.

It's possible that this blog is going to be short lived. After making it, adding a story and looking at it for a bit, I'm not sure what you write in a blog. At the moment my view isn't entirely positive. It's sort of like wiping your tears on a shit baggy jumper, burning the jumper in a pile with all the things that make your life terrible or brilliant, writing a poem about it in a dark room with the smoldering ashes and then smearing the still wet ink all over the faces of anyone unfortunate enough to find the web address.

Writing a journal makes sense I think. It's like talking to someone about something that won't have a shit opinion, so that you don't have to talk to real people, because they are disgusting.

All I'm saying, is basically, at the moment, I don't think you should care yet. Because I don't think I would.

I'm starting a blog. Shit I bet you're excited.