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.