Hello all kind and regular readers.
Just a quick note to say that I have acquired a new premises for the blog and that we have moved. For the next few weeks I'll be relocating everything from here gradually over to the new site and setting up shop properly there.
What I am hoping for from the new site is a bit of rapid expansion. More blogs, obviously and hopefully, should some people wish to, we should have some guest bloggers on there too.
The future's bright. The future is http://mexicanpenguin.wordpress.com.
Thank you all for your support and comments. I hope this continues over on the new site.
You can follow me on Twitter at @MexicanPenguin.
Joey
Friday, 10 September 2010
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Flashbulb Memory
When studying Psychology in Sixth Form (shocker, I know) we were asked to recall where we were when Princess Diana was killed in the car crash in Paris. I remember quite vividly that I was only a kid. I'd got up at about 7am and the living room was dark, as the huge curtains we used to have were still drawn. I turned the telly on, expecting cartoons yet I was greeted with unfortunately tragic news reports.
Fast forward to the 11th of September 2001, and it is highly likely that you remember where you were and what you were doing when the Twin Towers were brought down. I remember seeing it on the telly with my Mum and ex-girlfriend. I even remember that my Dad was painting our back yard, listening to Radio City. I can still smell the gloss on our pebble dashed back wall.
This then is a phenomenon called Flashbulb Memory. Events that everyone seems to be able to recall vividly where they were, what they were doing and how they felt. The assassination of JFK. The day John Lennon got shot. The Moon landing. Elvis' death. I could go on.
I appreciate that this goes on, and while this blog is already ripe for being set up as lecture notes, I'm not going to go into reasons why this miraculous memory madness occurs. I could dress it up and say that I don't want this to become an educational blog, but quite frankly, I have told you all everything that I remember about it, and what you'd be getting is recycled Wikipedia shite that has more than likely been tampered with by an acne riddled teenager who is bored out of his skull. If you're interested, Google it at your own leisure.
What I will say though is that I have started to become quite sceptical about the motives behind the researching of this phenomenon. Every single event that has been researched for this psychological occurrence seems to have some sort of controversy pinned to it. JFK's assassination. John Lennon's
shooting. Margaret Thatcher getting in to office.
I imagine that the initial research could have came about when a group of people were sat down in a room, slapped about a bit, and forced to recall where they were the day JFK was killed. When all the suspects came back with answers so vivid, including who they were with, the smells of their surroundings and what undies they had on, the police officers all gave up their jobs and became psychologists.
The Moon Landing is probably included in examples of this phenomenon for more sinister reasons than you would expect too. I'll set the scene. You're in America. A gang of REM fans in balaclavas are kidnapping a number of employees from NASA. They pile them up in a room, asking questions about that day. They've got pictures of their families gagged and tied up and they're expecting them to say "Okay, I was in a studio behind a camera!"
So the next time someone asks you where you were the day the Twin Towers were brought down, don't answer anything until your solicitor arrives.
Fast forward to the 11th of September 2001, and it is highly likely that you remember where you were and what you were doing when the Twin Towers were brought down. I remember seeing it on the telly with my Mum and ex-girlfriend. I even remember that my Dad was painting our back yard, listening to Radio City. I can still smell the gloss on our pebble dashed back wall.
This then is a phenomenon called Flashbulb Memory. Events that everyone seems to be able to recall vividly where they were, what they were doing and how they felt. The assassination of JFK. The day John Lennon got shot. The Moon landing. Elvis' death. I could go on.
I appreciate that this goes on, and while this blog is already ripe for being set up as lecture notes, I'm not going to go into reasons why this miraculous memory madness occurs. I could dress it up and say that I don't want this to become an educational blog, but quite frankly, I have told you all everything that I remember about it, and what you'd be getting is recycled Wikipedia shite that has more than likely been tampered with by an acne riddled teenager who is bored out of his skull. If you're interested, Google it at your own leisure.
What I will say though is that I have started to become quite sceptical about the motives behind the researching of this phenomenon. Every single event that has been researched for this psychological occurrence seems to have some sort of controversy pinned to it. JFK's assassination. John Lennon's
shooting. Margaret Thatcher getting in to office.
I imagine that the initial research could have came about when a group of people were sat down in a room, slapped about a bit, and forced to recall where they were the day JFK was killed. When all the suspects came back with answers so vivid, including who they were with, the smells of their surroundings and what undies they had on, the police officers all gave up their jobs and became psychologists.
The Moon Landing is probably included in examples of this phenomenon for more sinister reasons than you would expect too. I'll set the scene. You're in America. A gang of REM fans in balaclavas are kidnapping a number of employees from NASA. They pile them up in a room, asking questions about that day. They've got pictures of their families gagged and tied up and they're expecting them to say "Okay, I was in a studio behind a camera!"
So the next time someone asks you where you were the day the Twin Towers were brought down, don't answer anything until your solicitor arrives.
Monday, 5 July 2010
From Walton to West Derby
Inevitably for most, there comes a time in your life when you have to fly the nest and set up on your own. As someone said to me not so long ago, there comes a point when there are simply too many adults living in the one house. You're bound to annoy each other for one reason or another so it's time to set up our own house.
Now I've technically done the moving out thing before. Except last time, there wasn't really much to do with regards to setting up, and we were probably spent more money on crates of Carling than the rent. Fuzzy times. Part time work and a sore liver saw me return to my parents house, tail tucked neatly between my legs.
But now I'm doing it grown up style, as I don't work nights in a call centre any more. As Stan Lee nearly once famously said, 'with proper relocation comes proper responsibility.'
I've got so much more to consider now. First off, I've got about a million things I've got to change my address for. Bank and phone bill are just the start.
Then there's sorting out your council tax and electoral roll stuff. If it weren't for the Internet, I wouldn't have the foggiest where to start with those.
Then there's the Internet. It's probably a sign of the times when I'm considering the TV and broadband packages as bills and not luxuries, but how could I leave all of you high and dry with regards to you all reading my random shit chatting?
There's the furniture to consider, as well as bedding and curtains. Tea towels, bath towels, hand towels. I could go on, but it's actually starting to look like my list for stuff I need to do in order to have a new flat to live in without any repercussions.
After going through a lot of this stuff, I've decided there is one massive difference between the last time I moved out and now. And yes, there's the obvious stuff such as the employment situation, the difference in age and the fact that I'm no longer going to be living in Walton.
But I'm talking about the difference in my approach to the whole thing. Last time, it was a trip to Ikea for a few knives and forks, some cups and glasses and a child's night light to put outside the bedroom to signify that we were not to be disturbed. Now I'm looking at the whole thing, thinking of what we need to live there in a reasonably comfortable manner and how we can prevent people knocking saying that we owe them £10,000 in telly licence fees.
And this is because there is a female involved. I'm certain that if I was moving out on my own then the beanbag and PC chair in my room would represent a sufficient seating solution for two people. And I definitely wouldn't be asking for measurements so we can sort some curtains out. But now, I have bought bar stools for the breakfast bar. We're sorting a nice couch out. Curtains are a must for the bedroom. And I'm pretty sure I heard the word cushions the other day.
What's more, I'm actually taking a step back and checking out my finances and seeing whether we'd be able to do it comfortably. "The man from Del Barclays. He say yes!"
So there it is. When you're moving out and you want to do it properly, make sure there is a woman involved at some point. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Now I've technically done the moving out thing before. Except last time, there wasn't really much to do with regards to setting up, and we were probably spent more money on crates of Carling than the rent. Fuzzy times. Part time work and a sore liver saw me return to my parents house, tail tucked neatly between my legs.
But now I'm doing it grown up style, as I don't work nights in a call centre any more. As Stan Lee nearly once famously said, 'with proper relocation comes proper responsibility.'
I've got so much more to consider now. First off, I've got about a million things I've got to change my address for. Bank and phone bill are just the start.
Then there's sorting out your council tax and electoral roll stuff. If it weren't for the Internet, I wouldn't have the foggiest where to start with those.
Then there's the Internet. It's probably a sign of the times when I'm considering the TV and broadband packages as bills and not luxuries, but how could I leave all of you high and dry with regards to you all reading my random shit chatting?
There's the furniture to consider, as well as bedding and curtains. Tea towels, bath towels, hand towels. I could go on, but it's actually starting to look like my list for stuff I need to do in order to have a new flat to live in without any repercussions.
After going through a lot of this stuff, I've decided there is one massive difference between the last time I moved out and now. And yes, there's the obvious stuff such as the employment situation, the difference in age and the fact that I'm no longer going to be living in Walton.
But I'm talking about the difference in my approach to the whole thing. Last time, it was a trip to Ikea for a few knives and forks, some cups and glasses and a child's night light to put outside the bedroom to signify that we were not to be disturbed. Now I'm looking at the whole thing, thinking of what we need to live there in a reasonably comfortable manner and how we can prevent people knocking saying that we owe them £10,000 in telly licence fees.
And this is because there is a female involved. I'm certain that if I was moving out on my own then the beanbag and PC chair in my room would represent a sufficient seating solution for two people. And I definitely wouldn't be asking for measurements so we can sort some curtains out. But now, I have bought bar stools for the breakfast bar. We're sorting a nice couch out. Curtains are a must for the bedroom. And I'm pretty sure I heard the word cushions the other day.
What's more, I'm actually taking a step back and checking out my finances and seeing whether we'd be able to do it comfortably. "The man from Del Barclays. He say yes!"
So there it is. When you're moving out and you want to do it properly, make sure there is a woman involved at some point. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Food Nazis
We've all heard the term 'he's a growing lad.' I've had it bandied about while I've been piling down someone elses tea once mine had gone, but those days are behind me now.
It would be fairly obvious to say that the older kids get, the more they will probably need to eat. Of course there are exceptions, such as fat kids or fussy kids, but for this rant we shall use an example of a child that eats fairly normally.
All of this stuff is obvious. Many people have had kids and have fed them a sufficient amount of food to maintain their vitality, if you will.
So why then do restaurants think that they can dictate what point a child has to start eating adult sizes?
If you look at a menu in a restaurant, you will see that there is, more often than not, a separate section for children's food. Usually consisting of chicken nuggets, small pizzas and fish fingers.
Now I take issue with a number of things with these menus in mind. First of all, why do they think kids eat nothing but balls of chicken covered in breadcrumbs, similarly set up sticks of fish and cheese and tomato bread? It's not very often you will see a kids menu that deviates much from those three examples. Perhaps the odd spaghetti based meal.
Secondly, how do they decide the age limit? Surely this should be up to the guardians of these children, as most other things are. Is there a legal responsibility to impose such rules on parents taking their children out for something nice to eat?
And with these rules, I'm fairly sure the flexibility of them is not bending both ways. If you had a child who could stomach the majority of an adult size meal, you could order one with no issues whatsoever. Yet, if you (say, a 25 year old adult) didn't feel like you could down a whole pizza and chips alone, and you took it upon yourself to order a kids size chicken nuggets meal then it would be a completely different story. And even if there was no problem, you definitely know that the waitress will be glaring at you as some tight fisted con-artist.
And last, and by no means least, the drinks you get with them. Fair enough if they're offering a small apple juice or orange juice. Even a glass of Coke. But why would you serve an evil drink like Fruit Shoot with it?
People are paying you good money to serve them food and give them a pleasant break from the monotone of working life. Why serve up a liquid dose of cocaine designed specifically for kids? They go nuts off it. That's not a break.
So next time I go to a restaurant, I'm going to wreck the waitress' head and order my nephews two mixed grills and me and the missus can have dinky pizzas and bottled up tablets.
It would be fairly obvious to say that the older kids get, the more they will probably need to eat. Of course there are exceptions, such as fat kids or fussy kids, but for this rant we shall use an example of a child that eats fairly normally.
All of this stuff is obvious. Many people have had kids and have fed them a sufficient amount of food to maintain their vitality, if you will.
So why then do restaurants think that they can dictate what point a child has to start eating adult sizes?
If you look at a menu in a restaurant, you will see that there is, more often than not, a separate section for children's food. Usually consisting of chicken nuggets, small pizzas and fish fingers.
Now I take issue with a number of things with these menus in mind. First of all, why do they think kids eat nothing but balls of chicken covered in breadcrumbs, similarly set up sticks of fish and cheese and tomato bread? It's not very often you will see a kids menu that deviates much from those three examples. Perhaps the odd spaghetti based meal.
Secondly, how do they decide the age limit? Surely this should be up to the guardians of these children, as most other things are. Is there a legal responsibility to impose such rules on parents taking their children out for something nice to eat?
And with these rules, I'm fairly sure the flexibility of them is not bending both ways. If you had a child who could stomach the majority of an adult size meal, you could order one with no issues whatsoever. Yet, if you (say, a 25 year old adult) didn't feel like you could down a whole pizza and chips alone, and you took it upon yourself to order a kids size chicken nuggets meal then it would be a completely different story. And even if there was no problem, you definitely know that the waitress will be glaring at you as some tight fisted con-artist.
And last, and by no means least, the drinks you get with them. Fair enough if they're offering a small apple juice or orange juice. Even a glass of Coke. But why would you serve an evil drink like Fruit Shoot with it?
People are paying you good money to serve them food and give them a pleasant break from the monotone of working life. Why serve up a liquid dose of cocaine designed specifically for kids? They go nuts off it. That's not a break.
So next time I go to a restaurant, I'm going to wreck the waitress' head and order my nephews two mixed grills and me and the missus can have dinky pizzas and bottled up tablets.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Election Day 2010
It's election day. Not that you need me to tell you. The telly, papers and the gimps who are knocking on houses won't let you forget. The whole thing is a circus and I'm over the moon it's finished tomorrow.
Regardless of the result tonight, it is going to be ruthless for the forseeable future. Certainly everyone is, at some point, going to be pissed off by our elected government over the next 5 years because of the cuts they will have to make. Unless you're minted, and Cameron gets in of course.
So, with the telly all booked up tonight with Election 2010 stuff, why not introduce a change of the voting system? Everyone has been saying it has been hyped up X-Factor style, so why not just take the plunge and sell off the TV rights? The polling stations were rammed earlier, so there is an increased interest in it all. Then you could have it as a Saturday night programme in the weeks leading up to the big day, rather than televising all the shite they've been polluting our news and adverts with? And you could vote from the comfort of your couch instead of standing behind a slightly smelly fella with his headphones on listening to Celine Dion. True story.
The TV rights and money raised through telephone voting (let's be honest, people paid to make Joe McElderry win, so in theory they might actually pay for something that matters) would certainly throw a few bob in to the government's money jar. This in turn could potentially decrease the cuts they would have to make. And in all honesty, if it saved a good few people's jobs, then it would be worth it.
And then I'd know specifically what time to avoid the telly to not be subjected to it.
Regardless of the result tonight, it is going to be ruthless for the forseeable future. Certainly everyone is, at some point, going to be pissed off by our elected government over the next 5 years because of the cuts they will have to make. Unless you're minted, and Cameron gets in of course.
So, with the telly all booked up tonight with Election 2010 stuff, why not introduce a change of the voting system? Everyone has been saying it has been hyped up X-Factor style, so why not just take the plunge and sell off the TV rights? The polling stations were rammed earlier, so there is an increased interest in it all. Then you could have it as a Saturday night programme in the weeks leading up to the big day, rather than televising all the shite they've been polluting our news and adverts with? And you could vote from the comfort of your couch instead of standing behind a slightly smelly fella with his headphones on listening to Celine Dion. True story.
The TV rights and money raised through telephone voting (let's be honest, people paid to make Joe McElderry win, so in theory they might actually pay for something that matters) would certainly throw a few bob in to the government's money jar. This in turn could potentially decrease the cuts they would have to make. And in all honesty, if it saved a good few people's jobs, then it would be worth it.
And then I'd know specifically what time to avoid the telly to not be subjected to it.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Temporary Work
Having recently lost my job, I have found myself placed in temporary work for the first time in my life. This is okay. The money is okay. The work is okay. It's all okay.
But having experienced this now for two weeks, you don't feel as secure as you would do in a normal long term role. Which is quite ironic, having just been made redundant from one! You get that feeling like it could all come to an end anytime soon and you'll be out on your arse looking for another job, like the poor soul you are.
So having felt these unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling thoughts, I can't help but liken it to the employment equivalent of a one night stand.
Yes, a steady job is the much better option, with much better long term benefits. But the quick fix, temporary sessions can add that little bit of experience to your CV. Sometimes it is experience you may not get in a long term period of employment. You may be asked to do the stuff they wouldn't ask their permanent staff, or even stuff they are tired of doing theirselves.
Then there is the part where you wonder where this fast and furious fun will lead you in the near future. Will you have impressed enough to earn yourself that little bit longer, or will it be a case of "I'm not looking for someone to fill that gap in a permanent position."
But that being said, there is always the possibility of that special scenario where someone spots the qualities and characteristics that they feel they could put up with for a couple of years. Until someone else with an 'extensive resume' comes along that is.
But having experienced this now for two weeks, you don't feel as secure as you would do in a normal long term role. Which is quite ironic, having just been made redundant from one! You get that feeling like it could all come to an end anytime soon and you'll be out on your arse looking for another job, like the poor soul you are.
So having felt these unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling thoughts, I can't help but liken it to the employment equivalent of a one night stand.
Yes, a steady job is the much better option, with much better long term benefits. But the quick fix, temporary sessions can add that little bit of experience to your CV. Sometimes it is experience you may not get in a long term period of employment. You may be asked to do the stuff they wouldn't ask their permanent staff, or even stuff they are tired of doing theirselves.
Then there is the part where you wonder where this fast and furious fun will lead you in the near future. Will you have impressed enough to earn yourself that little bit longer, or will it be a case of "I'm not looking for someone to fill that gap in a permanent position."
But that being said, there is always the possibility of that special scenario where someone spots the qualities and characteristics that they feel they could put up with for a couple of years. Until someone else with an 'extensive resume' comes along that is.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Blogs
Now this may come as a surprise to you, but I write a blog. Yes, I do, I swear. And as a result of this blog writing, I've actually taken the time out the past couple of days to have a look through some other blogs knocking about to see what all the fuss is indeed about.
Except I haven't really looked at other blogs. You try and Google some funny blogs and see if you can find something with a slight bit of an aim on writing topical and humerous quips day in, day out? I bloody well can't!
You go to the top of this page right now, and click on 'Next Blog.' I'll give you about 3/1 on it being about Jesus. Or photography. Or a photographer named Jesus. Of Warrington.
The only one I've found is an absolute cracker and I have spent a good few days (don't worry, I read slow) reading some of the entries and pissing myself. But other than that, they're all hiding! I have Googled high and low and I still cannot find some other funnies to amuse myself.
So I can only apologise in being the only blog like mine I can actually find on the internet! If this be the case, then I shall strive to do my best in keeping up my onslaught on all things everyday!
Except I haven't really looked at other blogs. You try and Google some funny blogs and see if you can find something with a slight bit of an aim on writing topical and humerous quips day in, day out? I bloody well can't!
You go to the top of this page right now, and click on 'Next Blog.' I'll give you about 3/1 on it being about Jesus. Or photography. Or a photographer named Jesus. Of Warrington.
The only one I've found is an absolute cracker and I have spent a good few days (don't worry, I read slow) reading some of the entries and pissing myself. But other than that, they're all hiding! I have Googled high and low and I still cannot find some other funnies to amuse myself.
So I can only apologise in being the only blog like mine I can actually find on the internet! If this be the case, then I shall strive to do my best in keeping up my onslaught on all things everyday!
Saturday, 3 October 2009
The Three Little Pigs
There's been a few stories on here that have been re-written/blitzed to bits, for your reading pleasure, so I thought I'd continue the curve by murdering another one of our childhood favourites.First off, the three little swines don't live in some fairytale field, as you'd expect of the images that have been installed by 'little you' when you were 6. They live in Norris Green, and from what I can see, their houses aren't built from straw or sticks. Just bricks. We're being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not.
The next twist has got to be is that the Big Bad Wolf is obviously a metaphor for some other being. It would be extraordinary if a Big Bad Wolf would be able to wander around a district of Liverpool unquestioned. A bailiff will be suffice. We'll stick with the pigs though. Unless you want to imagine them as Policemen. Depends on your stance on the latter really.
Anyways. The first little pig has set up a nice one bedroom terraced abode, fitted with bog standard wooden windows, courtesy of the Thatcher era. God knows us Scousers love a bit of Maggy. It's a 'front door on the pavement' gaff, just like them ones you see in that Hovis advert. Minus the little kid running through time, etc.
So the Big Bad Bailiff knocks one Little Pig Number One's house with that reassuring 'I'm here for your telly' knock. The walking slab of butcher's produce spies the Tax Bandit out of one of his shabby, council standard portholes at the front of his house and decides to make bacon and do a runner down the entry and visit Little Pig Number Two.
Now, Little Pig Number Two's house is a slightly better form of accomodation. There is certainly more than one bedroom. Two if you're interested. It is also fully equipped with single glazed UPVC windows and doors. And there's a small sized garden at the front. No soil. Just concrete and sadness.
Number One gives Number Two a swift text (fantastic pigs these, houses, phones and everything!) to inform him to lash the kettle on and fire up last week's X Factor for a bit of a blimp of Cheryl Cole on the Sky+. Dirty swines.
After a decent dose of consumer television, they both heard a familiar knock on the UPVC door. There's no need to look out of the window this time. The Big Bad Bailiff's knock is sound enough for them. They picked up their coats, made somewhat like Elvis, and left the building.
They jumped in their Ford C-Max (getting better this) and drove around the corner, out of Norris Green and just past the Walton Asda, to Little Pig Number Three's house. This is something of a step up to the other pig's houses. Front and back gardens, with actual turf. Wood effect UPVC windows. Four bedrooms, including an en suite bog for the master bedroom. And wireless internet. For all your Facebook needs.
It was getting a little later in the day now, and Little Pig Number Three decides to crack the tins of Carling open and lash the match on. Liverpool v Hull, 2009. Cracking match. After a large fix of pure mullering, the Pigs wind down with a custom made pizza from the Asda and a few more cans of lager. Until they hear an unnerving thump on the front door. Pigs One and Two seem unsettled whilst Little Pig Number Three calmly gets up and grabs another three cans.
The Big Bad Bailiff walked around to the bay window, where he could plainly see the three little pigs enjoying their pizza and ale. He knocked again, only to find that he was being ignored. So he huffed, he puffed, and he knocked again.
Evenutally, the Big Bad Bailiff did one and all the Little Piggies got blitzed and celebrated not paying their council tax. Or whatever.
So the lessons learned from this much altered fable? Wood effect UPVC windows are the future. Pigs hate spending money. You're probably better off hiding from bailiffs in a friend's house in Walton, rather than your house in Norris Green. You could potentially save money in this economic climate by sharing a house, rather than renting or buying individually. Or just pay your council tax. It's upto you.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Holidays
In the country we live in, with it's poor economy, it's shootings and it's plethora of clouds, it is understandable why so many British people want to do one for 10-14 days each year. I myself stuck with this mass exodus this summer and did one myself. The holiday itself was fantastic. Speedboats, sun, and a Maltese ringer for Cannon or Ball. I'm unsure which one it is, and can't be arsed researching either. I take pride in my work.Next up is my beef with sun lotion. It's generally well known that anything below is Factor 15 is just Factor 15 with water in it. But that's besides the point. I want to know why the sun tan stuff we brought along sounded more like a lolly ice. Ambre Solaire? I could have waded in drunk and drank it, it sounds so good. Did the trick though, I must say. (Sun tan wise, not quenching a drunken yearning for fruity goodness.)
We then have families who leave their children to their own devices while they seek a tan that resembles something of a mahogany-esque quality. Quite unsettling really, especially being on the roof of the apartments. I shall strike down these families now with scorn. Scorn and sunburn. And they kept reserving the best sunbeds. The bastards.
Holiday food is always a talking point. I myself found the variety over there a nice change. Instead of my usual fish and vegetables, I ate unusual fish. And vegetables. And a whole rabbit. And before you all write me off as a monster for eating poor Thumper, I will add that this rabbit was a convicted murderer. So it deserved eating.
And finally, the place of choice, which was Malta, was absolutely fantastic, especially given that I have family over there. I've got to thank Alberto Santos Dumont or The Wright Brothers (depending what side of the fence you're on) for the capability of flight so I could see my cousin's new baby son and my family who I have missed and, as a result of coming home, am continuing to miss.
Malta itself is a fantastic island, if not a little dangerous on the roads. The people are so very laid back. The weather is fantastic during your run of the mill holiday months. But a little passage such as this could not describe the little place sufficiently enough. Just go over there. You'll see what I'm on about.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
I don't think there's much denying it anymore. Beside all of it's good little bits, like Poker and the other games you can play, Facebook is fast becoming the Oracle of the modern world. Facebook finds out about engagements before the majority of people's families. Facebook has also replaced the calendar as a way of remembering birthdays.
It is quite funny, and I don't participate in this part of Facebook very heavily myself, but before, or immediately preceding, anything that you may or may not do, a status change is always in order! You're off to bed. You're looking forward to tonight's night out. You feel a bit pissed off. For example...
Joey Burns is going to get in the bath.
Straight after this, people will like it. Or comment it, about how you should approach this bath notion, and what consequences it may have on your life. It's like an online conscience! Funny enough, a status update about getting in the bath can then lead up to a large conversation about what you've been up to that day, etc. Which has also been outlined in a previous status update about possibly eating a biscuit.
There's then the guilty pictures of a dirty night on the piss that you post up the next day. It's ritual for most now, this process. Your online conscience then views these pictures, tagging itself in the photos relentlessly. These tags are then links to other people seeing your stuff, which then leads to someone you were in a lift with back in the 80's adding you.
I do also genuinely feel that Facebook is very much a part of breaking up with someone these days. There's not just the Relationship Status that needs changing from In a Relationship to Single, or even It's Complicated! You then need to go through the friends that you've added as a result of this relationship in a view to blocking off any way of the ex clocking what you've been up to. Because this is literally the sole purpose of Facebook.
It's like Friends Reunited crossed with Big Brother. People want to see what you've been up to, every single second of the day. The success of Blackberrys and iPhones speaks volumes, as people want to be on top of the goss every single second of the day. You see people turkeying for their Facebook fix.
It seems that it was invented as a way for people to keep in touch with each other, but it seems to have snowballed into a bitchy gossip site where people are often bullied.
And Joey Burns doesn't likes this.
It is quite funny, and I don't participate in this part of Facebook very heavily myself, but before, or immediately preceding, anything that you may or may not do, a status change is always in order! You're off to bed. You're looking forward to tonight's night out. You feel a bit pissed off. For example...
Joey Burns is going to get in the bath.
Straight after this, people will like it. Or comment it, about how you should approach this bath notion, and what consequences it may have on your life. It's like an online conscience! Funny enough, a status update about getting in the bath can then lead up to a large conversation about what you've been up to that day, etc. Which has also been outlined in a previous status update about possibly eating a biscuit.
There's then the guilty pictures of a dirty night on the piss that you post up the next day. It's ritual for most now, this process. Your online conscience then views these pictures, tagging itself in the photos relentlessly. These tags are then links to other people seeing your stuff, which then leads to someone you were in a lift with back in the 80's adding you.
I do also genuinely feel that Facebook is very much a part of breaking up with someone these days. There's not just the Relationship Status that needs changing from In a Relationship to Single, or even It's Complicated! You then need to go through the friends that you've added as a result of this relationship in a view to blocking off any way of the ex clocking what you've been up to. Because this is literally the sole purpose of Facebook.
It's like Friends Reunited crossed with Big Brother. People want to see what you've been up to, every single second of the day. The success of Blackberrys and iPhones speaks volumes, as people want to be on top of the goss every single second of the day. You see people turkeying for their Facebook fix.
It seems that it was invented as a way for people to keep in touch with each other, but it seems to have snowballed into a bitchy gossip site where people are often bullied.
And Joey Burns doesn't likes this.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Diets
Diets are something I'd usually lump in with chunky women who feel that their neck breasts are becoming too much to handle when they're hiding it on every picture taken for the sake of the almighty, Facebook.
If you feel that your belly neck is a bit too X rated to publish to the watching world, then it's usually time to curb the cake.
I've always felt that not eating what you want, when you want was reducing yourself to some sort of torturous non existence, funny as that may sound. Not eating burgers, steaks, jalapeno covered nachos and fat drenched ice creams was denying yourself the pleasures that make being a man, so very manly.
But a simple booking of a holiday has prompted me to kick out the crisps, ban the bread and fuck off the fried rice.
After a week of hardcore dieting, I have now changed my entire outlook on food. I now pour scorn on chippy teas and look on with pity at the people drowning themselves in emulsified fats.
I'm not really that much of a food Nazi, but I've started actually thinking about my dinner and how it's going to affect me.
My usual ham butties have been replaced with a nutritious fish steak, with a plethora of vegetables accompanying them. There's also the pasta bake, usually from the night before, with chopped tomatoes and sweetcorn.
Now I would love to come on here and tell you that I am carrying these changes out scientifically and carefully, taking note of all the bits and bobs I'm lashing in my body and balancing them in a logical manner. But I'd be bullshitting, ladies and gentlemen. I haven't a clue about any of the ingredients so I'm literally picking generally healthy things and eating more of them, and taking the other stuff and eating less. But in general, I leave the picking up to my better half.
Now, I have listened to the Missus. I've lost weight, and I'm planning to continue to do so. In a healthy manner. I don't really fancy the LSD diet. The general consensus is fibre, good. Bread, bad. Salmon, good. Crisps, bad. Tuna, good. Coca Cola, very bad. Chicken, good. Biscuits, bad. Pasta, good, in moderation. And that's about all I can remember.
So, besides coming on here and chatting a bit of bollocks, I would just like to send a message to all you wannabe 'dietees' out there. If I can start eating healthy and lose some weight before going on one's jols, anyone can really.
If you feel that your belly neck is a bit too X rated to publish to the watching world, then it's usually time to curb the cake.
I've always felt that not eating what you want, when you want was reducing yourself to some sort of torturous non existence, funny as that may sound. Not eating burgers, steaks, jalapeno covered nachos and fat drenched ice creams was denying yourself the pleasures that make being a man, so very manly.
But a simple booking of a holiday has prompted me to kick out the crisps, ban the bread and fuck off the fried rice.
After a week of hardcore dieting, I have now changed my entire outlook on food. I now pour scorn on chippy teas and look on with pity at the people drowning themselves in emulsified fats.
I'm not really that much of a food Nazi, but I've started actually thinking about my dinner and how it's going to affect me.
My usual ham butties have been replaced with a nutritious fish steak, with a plethora of vegetables accompanying them. There's also the pasta bake, usually from the night before, with chopped tomatoes and sweetcorn.
Now I would love to come on here and tell you that I am carrying these changes out scientifically and carefully, taking note of all the bits and bobs I'm lashing in my body and balancing them in a logical manner. But I'd be bullshitting, ladies and gentlemen. I haven't a clue about any of the ingredients so I'm literally picking generally healthy things and eating more of them, and taking the other stuff and eating less. But in general, I leave the picking up to my better half.
Now, I have listened to the Missus. I've lost weight, and I'm planning to continue to do so. In a healthy manner. I don't really fancy the LSD diet. The general consensus is fibre, good. Bread, bad. Salmon, good. Crisps, bad. Tuna, good. Coca Cola, very bad. Chicken, good. Biscuits, bad. Pasta, good, in moderation. And that's about all I can remember.
So, besides coming on here and chatting a bit of bollocks, I would just like to send a message to all you wannabe 'dietees' out there. If I can start eating healthy and lose some weight before going on one's jols, anyone can really.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Alternative Endings to The Little Mermaid
(Blog First Wrote September 22nd 2007)
I've had a good day and what better way to celebrate is there than absolutley blitzing a popular children's story?
And the child's story to be killed? The Little Mermaid seems pretty good, as I've never seen it and I'm not likely to change that in the next few years of my life.
So how did the story really end? I'm not entirley sure, but after a small amount of internet research I found that the Prince fucked her off for a temple girl (who was really a Princess or something daft!) and she was meant to kill the Prince so she can have fish legs instead of human legs. But she can't, and dissloves in the sea becoming a spirit or some other shite that helps kids deal with death.
The Disney version however actually has a happy ending (which I can't be bothered with) I, personally, feel my endings will be a much better success than that old Mason, Walt Disney himself!
But, as I have previously believed, is not nearly slapstick enough for a cartoon! Here are my ideas for alternative endings for this animation picture.
Seamines
The mermaid is chasing down her would be fella (can't think of his name, we'll call him Ken!) who's fleeing in James Bond's underwater adapted Lotus Esprit! God knows why he's getting off, he just is! Probably that sea witch flashed her biffer at him. Well, Ariel is chasing him down on a sea adapted Kawasaki bike. Jumping across sea ravines, and such like. Until she encounters a big spiky ball thing, on a chain. She leaves a ramp and cannot control her direction. She ploughs straight into the mine, which explodes from the inside! It shoots harpoons out, killing all the animals in the surrounding area, including that yellow fish who Ariel thinks is her mate, and Thumper from Bambi. Ken then ends up marrying Jenna Jameson, who cheats on him with Stephen Hawking. Money talks you see! And computers! (For Big Ste!) Ariel gets a job in the Oxfam shop, selling skirts to blind men and radios to dead people.
Redundancy
Unemployment becomes rife in the area of 'Under The Sea' and everyone starts losing their jobs. That Red Crab (can't be arsed researching) loses his job as a Circumcision Surgeon and Thumper is kicked out of his 'impregnation service.' Even that Octopus is kicked out of his band (he was the drummer, obviously.) Ariel is the only person left with a job, as a fishy prostitute. But as no-one has a job, no-one can pay for a bit of a seeing to and she starts starving. As a final kick in the cunt, Ariel then finds out she has a bad case of the clap. This eventually kills her, and all surrounding animals. Including Thumper. And the yellow one!
Racists
A new section of the KKK is sent underwater to discriminate against the fish human hybrids under the sea. Packed with Scuba hoods and harpoon guns, they dive deep into Mermaid territory to get shut of these fishy bitches! Ariel's Dad gets a cob on, but gets shot through the face with a harpoon gun by the racist scumbags. One by one, the Mermaids (and Mermen!) are executed. Ariel is the final one left. The KKK representative comes up and is about to dispose of the ginger bitch when she wriggles free and hides in a miniscule rock shaped nuclear bomb shelter. She encounters Tom Cruise in there, who she mates with and lays some Cruise eggs! A small family of sea-Cruises are born and the saga lives on.
Alchohol Poisoning
Ariel is fucked off by Ken, who deems her a freak when she reveals her weird fish arse thing! She goes down into the depths of 'Under The Sea' and finds a dingy bar where she meets Randy off My Name Is Earl. He deems her a freak too, and goes to seek some normality on dry land. Unable to cope with this extremely abnormal feeling, she starts on the Vodka, which we all know can potentially cripple Mermaids. She plunges into a drunken oblivion, gets hit by a Submarine on the M52 and falls asleep on the hard shoulder. When she wakes up, she encounters a bottle of Southern Comfort. This mixed with sea water can make people implode from the feet upwards. Fortunately, before this can happen, she has a fatal multiple organ malfunction and dies on the spot.
Asassination
George W. Bush feels that Mermaids are plotting against him for the control of Iraq (a highly likely possibility!) He sends sea-politicians down to the town of 'Under The Sea' to find out what's happening. When they get there, they fail to identify themselves to the fishy doormen and are killed on the spot. Bush then sends out his fleet of Sea-Jedi's to go down there and check the place out. When they arrive, all of the Mermaids except one are dead. It's not Ariel, she's dead aswell. They kill the remaining Mermaid and leave the area. Brandon Flowers from The Killers then enters the area (no scuba suit, he's just too cool for drowning) and resuscitates Ariel who then turns into Goro off Mortal Kombat and swims up to Bush's bedroom in the White House. As she sneaks upto Bush in his bed, Lui Kang then mistakes her for the real Goro and kicks her through the wall. A brick lands on her chest and cracks a rib, which pierces her lung. She eventually dies of internal bleeding. A government sniper situated in Texas then shoots her through the head, confirming her death. Lui Kang is then held for thirty eight days for offences to Americans for a serious lack of a shirt.
I've had a good day and what better way to celebrate is there than absolutley blitzing a popular children's story?
And the child's story to be killed? The Little Mermaid seems pretty good, as I've never seen it and I'm not likely to change that in the next few years of my life.
So how did the story really end? I'm not entirley sure, but after a small amount of internet research I found that the Prince fucked her off for a temple girl (who was really a Princess or something daft!) and she was meant to kill the Prince so she can have fish legs instead of human legs. But she can't, and dissloves in the sea becoming a spirit or some other shite that helps kids deal with death.
The Disney version however actually has a happy ending (which I can't be bothered with) I, personally, feel my endings will be a much better success than that old Mason, Walt Disney himself!
But, as I have previously believed, is not nearly slapstick enough for a cartoon! Here are my ideas for alternative endings for this animation picture.
Seamines
The mermaid is chasing down her would be fella (can't think of his name, we'll call him Ken!) who's fleeing in James Bond's underwater adapted Lotus Esprit! God knows why he's getting off, he just is! Probably that sea witch flashed her biffer at him. Well, Ariel is chasing him down on a sea adapted Kawasaki bike. Jumping across sea ravines, and such like. Until she encounters a big spiky ball thing, on a chain. She leaves a ramp and cannot control her direction. She ploughs straight into the mine, which explodes from the inside! It shoots harpoons out, killing all the animals in the surrounding area, including that yellow fish who Ariel thinks is her mate, and Thumper from Bambi. Ken then ends up marrying Jenna Jameson, who cheats on him with Stephen Hawking. Money talks you see! And computers! (For Big Ste!) Ariel gets a job in the Oxfam shop, selling skirts to blind men and radios to dead people.
Redundancy
Unemployment becomes rife in the area of 'Under The Sea' and everyone starts losing their jobs. That Red Crab (can't be arsed researching) loses his job as a Circumcision Surgeon and Thumper is kicked out of his 'impregnation service.' Even that Octopus is kicked out of his band (he was the drummer, obviously.) Ariel is the only person left with a job, as a fishy prostitute. But as no-one has a job, no-one can pay for a bit of a seeing to and she starts starving. As a final kick in the cunt, Ariel then finds out she has a bad case of the clap. This eventually kills her, and all surrounding animals. Including Thumper. And the yellow one!
Racists
A new section of the KKK is sent underwater to discriminate against the fish human hybrids under the sea. Packed with Scuba hoods and harpoon guns, they dive deep into Mermaid territory to get shut of these fishy bitches! Ariel's Dad gets a cob on, but gets shot through the face with a harpoon gun by the racist scumbags. One by one, the Mermaids (and Mermen!) are executed. Ariel is the final one left. The KKK representative comes up and is about to dispose of the ginger bitch when she wriggles free and hides in a miniscule rock shaped nuclear bomb shelter. She encounters Tom Cruise in there, who she mates with and lays some Cruise eggs! A small family of sea-Cruises are born and the saga lives on.
Alchohol Poisoning
Ariel is fucked off by Ken, who deems her a freak when she reveals her weird fish arse thing! She goes down into the depths of 'Under The Sea' and finds a dingy bar where she meets Randy off My Name Is Earl. He deems her a freak too, and goes to seek some normality on dry land. Unable to cope with this extremely abnormal feeling, she starts on the Vodka, which we all know can potentially cripple Mermaids. She plunges into a drunken oblivion, gets hit by a Submarine on the M52 and falls asleep on the hard shoulder. When she wakes up, she encounters a bottle of Southern Comfort. This mixed with sea water can make people implode from the feet upwards. Fortunately, before this can happen, she has a fatal multiple organ malfunction and dies on the spot.
Asassination
George W. Bush feels that Mermaids are plotting against him for the control of Iraq (a highly likely possibility!) He sends sea-politicians down to the town of 'Under The Sea' to find out what's happening. When they get there, they fail to identify themselves to the fishy doormen and are killed on the spot. Bush then sends out his fleet of Sea-Jedi's to go down there and check the place out. When they arrive, all of the Mermaids except one are dead. It's not Ariel, she's dead aswell. They kill the remaining Mermaid and leave the area. Brandon Flowers from The Killers then enters the area (no scuba suit, he's just too cool for drowning) and resuscitates Ariel who then turns into Goro off Mortal Kombat and swims up to Bush's bedroom in the White House. As she sneaks upto Bush in his bed, Lui Kang then mistakes her for the real Goro and kicks her through the wall. A brick lands on her chest and cracks a rib, which pierces her lung. She eventually dies of internal bleeding. A government sniper situated in Texas then shoots her through the head, confirming her death. Lui Kang is then held for thirty eight days for offences to Americans for a serious lack of a shirt.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
The UK Is Sinking Because...
(Blog first wrote 29th Ocotber 2007)
Fatties and immigrants apparently! What a laughable thought!
But, however, this is the reason! According to the Sunday Sport, which I wouldn't have noticed on the kitchen table but for the apparent lack of anything else whilst eating my full English! But less of that, I didn't buy it, it was just there! I digress...
It reads;
Britain will soon be under three hundred feet of water. Expanding waistlines and rocketing immigration means the country is struggling to cope with the increased weight.
Experts say the combination will leave much of the country flooded by 2031.
So there it is! Immigrants and fat people are making us sink. This, forgetting the fact that we do not live on a giant version of Fred the Weatherman's map! We're attached to a fucking large mountain scape under the water! But wait, there's more!...
"Top geologist" Dr John Archer said the impact the country's population and weight crises were having on the land was heading towards disaster.
He said, "What is happening to the UK is devastating."
A swift interruption for a moment, as you may want to go the toilet before you read this next bit. As you will either piss yourself laughing or actually do a poo from disbelief that a "Top Geologist" could make a comment like this...
"If you thought the tsunami in South East Asia was bad, wait until Britain goes under. It's going to make that look like a wave machine."
That was nail in the head time for me. He goes on to say that immigration in our country is like stepping onto a life boat that's already full!
So a silly article is highlighted with captions surrounding it, to give it more emphasis! The title is Littler Britain for fuck's sake! And a computer enhanced image of the Newcastle Tyne Bridge submerged is accompanied by 'The bridge isn't so wae high man' That makes for some intellectual reading!
My view on all of this stems from the fact that water levels are apparently rising anyway due to Global Warming. And this wasn't mentioned anywhere in this article! But don't get me started on the Global Warming debacle....
What I gather is that John Archer got his Doctorate in the post, possibly from an Internet site where you pay for honours! And the fact that he chooses the Sunday Sport as a medium to get his idea across to the people! And who buys the Sunday Sport! Drunk people my friend! And idiots! I mean, it's only selling point is breasts for fuck's sake! Buy a porno mag! They've got better writers! And much better pictures for those of you who are illiterate! Which gets me back to the Sunday Sport readers....
Fatties and immigrants apparently! What a laughable thought!
But, however, this is the reason! According to the Sunday Sport, which I wouldn't have noticed on the kitchen table but for the apparent lack of anything else whilst eating my full English! But less of that, I didn't buy it, it was just there! I digress...
It reads;
Britain will soon be under three hundred feet of water. Expanding waistlines and rocketing immigration means the country is struggling to cope with the increased weight.
Experts say the combination will leave much of the country flooded by 2031.
So there it is! Immigrants and fat people are making us sink. This, forgetting the fact that we do not live on a giant version of Fred the Weatherman's map! We're attached to a fucking large mountain scape under the water! But wait, there's more!...
"Top geologist" Dr John Archer said the impact the country's population and weight crises were having on the land was heading towards disaster.
He said, "What is happening to the UK is devastating."
A swift interruption for a moment, as you may want to go the toilet before you read this next bit. As you will either piss yourself laughing or actually do a poo from disbelief that a "Top Geologist" could make a comment like this...
"If you thought the tsunami in South East Asia was bad, wait until Britain goes under. It's going to make that look like a wave machine."
That was nail in the head time for me. He goes on to say that immigration in our country is like stepping onto a life boat that's already full!
So a silly article is highlighted with captions surrounding it, to give it more emphasis! The title is Littler Britain for fuck's sake! And a computer enhanced image of the Newcastle Tyne Bridge submerged is accompanied by 'The bridge isn't so wae high man' That makes for some intellectual reading!
My view on all of this stems from the fact that water levels are apparently rising anyway due to Global Warming. And this wasn't mentioned anywhere in this article! But don't get me started on the Global Warming debacle....
What I gather is that John Archer got his Doctorate in the post, possibly from an Internet site where you pay for honours! And the fact that he chooses the Sunday Sport as a medium to get his idea across to the people! And who buys the Sunday Sport! Drunk people my friend! And idiots! I mean, it's only selling point is breasts for fuck's sake! Buy a porno mag! They've got better writers! And much better pictures for those of you who are illiterate! Which gets me back to the Sunday Sport readers....
Sunday, 10 May 2009
Car Modification
(Based on original blog, wrote on 19th November 2007)
I read an article by the man legend that is Jeremy Clarkson the other day. Yes I was on the toilet; that's what lads do on the bog! It's an actual counter argument to the popular woman theory that men cannot multi-task. I assure you ladies, that we can. Also, it's a man thing which makes us feel more intelligent. And ensures we read daily. But I'm going off track, I shall continue...
Anyways, I read the article and it was wound around the notion that people who rag around in little shit box motors are fucking it up for the people who have a genuine love for cars. They are the prominent thought when someone brings up the term 'petrol head' or 'car freak' as I'm so commonly called. You imagine little boy racers in tweaked up hot hatches trying to impress people by driving like a complete and utter twat in busy built up areas. Not the refined types who simply see the beauty of a car for what it is.
I see cars and look at the shapes, the lines, the details in the lights and the way the size of the wheels fit in with the cars size and stance. I open the bonnet and don't stand there feeling manly. I know about engines, and although I don't feel I'd be able to fix one, I sure enough know how to fucking appreciate one. And I do feel that the majority of boy racers are fucking it up for the people like myself, who see a car and think 'fuck me that is a sight to behold!' And this is my argument.
I love cars. I love going fast in cars and realising a car's full potential, yet realise that in the middle of Orrel Park, going fast is clearly a dangerous thing to do! On the M62 at 3am in the morning isn't nearly as dangerous. That's why when we breach the 100mph mark, it's always an empty road! It's a stroke of common sense really!
And then there is the design of cars! It's reaching new heights these days. Wind tunnels are used in the design for family cars. You can't grumble at that! A new Seat Leon holds the same amount of interest to me as the new Lamborghini. The modern design of the car is brilliant. It's interesting and can keep your attention for longer than 5 seconds.
Then there's the technological advances we now currently enjoy. The Bugatti Veyron is a wonderful machine to look at but what really makes car people wet their pants is the technology lying underneath all of the CFRP (which is the proper name for carbon fibre ladies and gentlemen!) It has 1000bhp, which in laymans terms is a biblical amount of power! It has the pulling power of 10 1.6 Vauxhall Astras! It has ANOTHER 1000bhp, to cool the engine down! Which means it has the sheer power of about 25 Grand National line-ups. Just to make sure the engine stays at a reasonable temperature. Imagine that air conditioning in your house!
So my point I'm trying to make is that all of these boy racers knocking about in their Nova's (which funny enough, in Spanish, Nova actually means doesn't go! Interesting fact for you!) and their Saxo's are not the real car enthusiasts! They add spoilers to 'enhance aerodynamic effects!' The Escort Cosworth's whale tail spoiler actually lowers the car's top speed by 12mph. Which is why the rally going version of the car drove out with a different spoiler. Yet a lot of car modifiers, with their knowledge and all, didn't believe me and called me for all sorts.
They throw carbon fibre shite all over the car to 'lower weight!' What they're actually doing is throwing carbon fibre effect stuff on, which is the same material underneath carbon effect sheets which is actually heavier. And they do this in entirely inappropriate places. The wing mirrors! What physical effect will that have? A BMW CSL has a CFRP roof because it makes the roof lighter, lowering the car's centre of gravity, making handling the monster of an engine much easier. This act will have no effect on a N reg Vauxhall Corsa.
Neon lights? What effect does that have? It's the funniest thing I've ever seen! A Renault Clio driving past pretending to be a spaceship! You're driving a car! You must be over the age of 17, earning money to fund it! You should have grown out of this by now!
I hope I've taught you a thing or two! I love cars, as you probably will have guessed by now and I've always got time for someone who wants to gab about the new Aston Martin or even the new Fiat 500! My closing thought for this is that if car modifiers, petrol heads or tuners! Whatever you want to call them! If they love cars so much, then why the fuck are they hell bent on changing them?
I read an article by the man legend that is Jeremy Clarkson the other day. Yes I was on the toilet; that's what lads do on the bog! It's an actual counter argument to the popular woman theory that men cannot multi-task. I assure you ladies, that we can. Also, it's a man thing which makes us feel more intelligent. And ensures we read daily. But I'm going off track, I shall continue...
Anyways, I read the article and it was wound around the notion that people who rag around in little shit box motors are fucking it up for the people who have a genuine love for cars. They are the prominent thought when someone brings up the term 'petrol head' or 'car freak' as I'm so commonly called. You imagine little boy racers in tweaked up hot hatches trying to impress people by driving like a complete and utter twat in busy built up areas. Not the refined types who simply see the beauty of a car for what it is.
I see cars and look at the shapes, the lines, the details in the lights and the way the size of the wheels fit in with the cars size and stance. I open the bonnet and don't stand there feeling manly. I know about engines, and although I don't feel I'd be able to fix one, I sure enough know how to fucking appreciate one. And I do feel that the majority of boy racers are fucking it up for the people like myself, who see a car and think 'fuck me that is a sight to behold!' And this is my argument.
I love cars. I love going fast in cars and realising a car's full potential, yet realise that in the middle of Orrel Park, going fast is clearly a dangerous thing to do! On the M62 at 3am in the morning isn't nearly as dangerous. That's why when we breach the 100mph mark, it's always an empty road! It's a stroke of common sense really!
And then there is the design of cars! It's reaching new heights these days. Wind tunnels are used in the design for family cars. You can't grumble at that! A new Seat Leon holds the same amount of interest to me as the new Lamborghini. The modern design of the car is brilliant. It's interesting and can keep your attention for longer than 5 seconds.
Then there's the technological advances we now currently enjoy. The Bugatti Veyron is a wonderful machine to look at but what really makes car people wet their pants is the technology lying underneath all of the CFRP (which is the proper name for carbon fibre ladies and gentlemen!) It has 1000bhp, which in laymans terms is a biblical amount of power! It has the pulling power of 10 1.6 Vauxhall Astras! It has ANOTHER 1000bhp, to cool the engine down! Which means it has the sheer power of about 25 Grand National line-ups. Just to make sure the engine stays at a reasonable temperature. Imagine that air conditioning in your house!
So my point I'm trying to make is that all of these boy racers knocking about in their Nova's (which funny enough, in Spanish, Nova actually means doesn't go! Interesting fact for you!) and their Saxo's are not the real car enthusiasts! They add spoilers to 'enhance aerodynamic effects!' The Escort Cosworth's whale tail spoiler actually lowers the car's top speed by 12mph. Which is why the rally going version of the car drove out with a different spoiler. Yet a lot of car modifiers, with their knowledge and all, didn't believe me and called me for all sorts.
They throw carbon fibre shite all over the car to 'lower weight!' What they're actually doing is throwing carbon fibre effect stuff on, which is the same material underneath carbon effect sheets which is actually heavier. And they do this in entirely inappropriate places. The wing mirrors! What physical effect will that have? A BMW CSL has a CFRP roof because it makes the roof lighter, lowering the car's centre of gravity, making handling the monster of an engine much easier. This act will have no effect on a N reg Vauxhall Corsa.
Neon lights? What effect does that have? It's the funniest thing I've ever seen! A Renault Clio driving past pretending to be a spaceship! You're driving a car! You must be over the age of 17, earning money to fund it! You should have grown out of this by now!
I hope I've taught you a thing or two! I love cars, as you probably will have guessed by now and I've always got time for someone who wants to gab about the new Aston Martin or even the new Fiat 500! My closing thought for this is that if car modifiers, petrol heads or tuners! Whatever you want to call them! If they love cars so much, then why the fuck are they hell bent on changing them?
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Cake Idol
I never thought that I'd say this, but the television is desperately short of top quality reality TV shows at the minute. Of course, we have the run of the mill examples such as Britain's Next Top Model, I'm A Celebrity, Dancing On Ice and our eternal favourite, Strictly Come Factor.
They run yearly, although it doesn't feel like it. There's an X Factor final every other week in my mind. This is an obvious ploy to keep people watching each year, which works of course. But we need something to grab the masses. It's all well and good creating shows which dancing fans would like, or singing enthusiasts want to watch every weekend.
Think back to the only good bit, let's be honest now, of X Factor. It's the numpties who come in and make a tit of themselves in the auditions. There's a nice blend of top quality talents, with the odd splash of shite thrown in for good measure. It's worked well since Pop Idol and I'm sure it'll work just as well 'til Simon Cowell hangs his pants up. Which brings us to my own idea.
Obviously the model programmes have covered the girls who are going to be gracing the covers of Vogue and.... so on. Celebrity Fit Club has covered the chunks who want to shift some titties. Why not a programme for the comfortably fat?
Michelle McManus was a massive hit, no pun intended, on Pop Idol. Everyone bought into the story. Fat lass, goes on reality TV show. Enjoys 15 minutes of fame. Disappears into mediocrity only to pop back up having lost weight. To disappear into mediocrity once again!
Why not introduce Cake Idol? The programme which allows you to be who you are. Unless you're less than a size 28 of course. People, who are comfortable with their size, competing for the ultimate trophy!
The auditions would obviously be in the Big Brother style. Videos sent in of portly housewives professing their love for Ronald McDonald. Or 10 second English breakfasts. The whole nation will be enchanted by the talent.
Then onto the competitive side! A bit of light cake tasting. Think I'm A Celebrity. Without the scorpions and the bollocks. Obviously there are points for correct answers but we need some charisma thrown in there as well.
Judge number one will obviously be Rik Waller. He's graced more reality TV shows than Ant & Dec. His petulant style will obviously keep viewers enthralled. We could throw a bit of Lisa Riley in there. Or all of her, by public demand. Then replace her with Harry Hill and we'd all have much more fun! And of course, we have Mr Motivator. We always need an anti-fat judge.
Of course, we'd all need to put this to the TV standards. It'd need the stamp of approval before we could unleash it on the masses, with it's obvious ethical connotations. There'll be a few chunks calling for my head before it get's put on telly!
But before we know it, Simon Cowell will have come in to take it to America. I'm sure it'd take off over there...
They run yearly, although it doesn't feel like it. There's an X Factor final every other week in my mind. This is an obvious ploy to keep people watching each year, which works of course. But we need something to grab the masses. It's all well and good creating shows which dancing fans would like, or singing enthusiasts want to watch every weekend.
Think back to the only good bit, let's be honest now, of X Factor. It's the numpties who come in and make a tit of themselves in the auditions. There's a nice blend of top quality talents, with the odd splash of shite thrown in for good measure. It's worked well since Pop Idol and I'm sure it'll work just as well 'til Simon Cowell hangs his pants up. Which brings us to my own idea.
Obviously the model programmes have covered the girls who are going to be gracing the covers of Vogue and.... so on. Celebrity Fit Club has covered the chunks who want to shift some titties. Why not a programme for the comfortably fat?
Michelle McManus was a massive hit, no pun intended, on Pop Idol. Everyone bought into the story. Fat lass, goes on reality TV show. Enjoys 15 minutes of fame. Disappears into mediocrity only to pop back up having lost weight. To disappear into mediocrity once again!
Why not introduce Cake Idol? The programme which allows you to be who you are. Unless you're less than a size 28 of course. People, who are comfortable with their size, competing for the ultimate trophy!
The auditions would obviously be in the Big Brother style. Videos sent in of portly housewives professing their love for Ronald McDonald. Or 10 second English breakfasts. The whole nation will be enchanted by the talent.
Then onto the competitive side! A bit of light cake tasting. Think I'm A Celebrity. Without the scorpions and the bollocks. Obviously there are points for correct answers but we need some charisma thrown in there as well.
Judge number one will obviously be Rik Waller. He's graced more reality TV shows than Ant & Dec. His petulant style will obviously keep viewers enthralled. We could throw a bit of Lisa Riley in there. Or all of her, by public demand. Then replace her with Harry Hill and we'd all have much more fun! And of course, we have Mr Motivator. We always need an anti-fat judge.
Of course, we'd all need to put this to the TV standards. It'd need the stamp of approval before we could unleash it on the masses, with it's obvious ethical connotations. There'll be a few chunks calling for my head before it get's put on telly!
But before we know it, Simon Cowell will have come in to take it to America. I'm sure it'd take off over there...
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Fitness
Fitness is a funny thing. Something which mankind used to uphold quite easily a million years ago now costs £40 a month in gym memberships and a low carb diet.
We used to run around killing dinosaurs and now we get a sweat on watching people do it on films. While chomping on Ben & Jerry's and Minstrels! This is probably more expensive than the gym, but that's for another blog!
In general, you go to the gym. Feel inadequate for an hour or two and then go home and eat crisps. Or is that just me? Either way, I'll run you through the experience, bit by bit.
So first of all, you sign the form which basically said if you're killed during your trip to the gym, it's your fault. Not the equipment, the staff or the serial killer that's been hiding in the male showers!
You start with a warm up on the treadmill! Running at about 9.5 whatevers until 5 minutes, and then upping it by 0.5 whatevers every further minute! This is all well and good when you're, say, not a fat fucker. Me though? Well....
After that, there's the weights machine. You'll stand there lifting what you feel is a considerably heavy amount while next to you, a bouncer who lives behind the cross-trainers is lifting a people carrier. Onto the next lot then!
Excercise mats! You can do sit ups, press ups. Even forward rolls. But then this means lying on the floor in a gym full of sexy people and panting while you attempt to excercise a muscle which is restricted by the ale gut your trying to get shut of!
Then you have the swimming pool. Or the jacuzzi in Joey language. You can't beat getting in the aquapool, then the sauna, steam room, etc. Although it's probably just a good way of resting those muscles I've done in whilst trying to fix them. Irony? I think so!
We used to run around killing dinosaurs and now we get a sweat on watching people do it on films. While chomping on Ben & Jerry's and Minstrels! This is probably more expensive than the gym, but that's for another blog!
In general, you go to the gym. Feel inadequate for an hour or two and then go home and eat crisps. Or is that just me? Either way, I'll run you through the experience, bit by bit.
So first of all, you sign the form which basically said if you're killed during your trip to the gym, it's your fault. Not the equipment, the staff or the serial killer that's been hiding in the male showers!
You start with a warm up on the treadmill! Running at about 9.5 whatevers until 5 minutes, and then upping it by 0.5 whatevers every further minute! This is all well and good when you're, say, not a fat fucker. Me though? Well....
After that, there's the weights machine. You'll stand there lifting what you feel is a considerably heavy amount while next to you, a bouncer who lives behind the cross-trainers is lifting a people carrier. Onto the next lot then!
Excercise mats! You can do sit ups, press ups. Even forward rolls. But then this means lying on the floor in a gym full of sexy people and panting while you attempt to excercise a muscle which is restricted by the ale gut your trying to get shut of!
Then you have the swimming pool. Or the jacuzzi in Joey language. You can't beat getting in the aquapool, then the sauna, steam room, etc. Although it's probably just a good way of resting those muscles I've done in whilst trying to fix them. Irony? I think so!
The Biggest Evil In The World
(Blog first wrote 24th April 2008)
There are many evil things in this world! Many say it comes down to money. There's also power! But I read something the other day which made my stomach turn. Something so grotesquely inhumane, I didn't realise someone could be capable of such a greedy and selfish act! And it came from the biggest evil of all! BINGO!
The very thought of bingo is enough to make a small child cry! It's dressed up as such a nice thing to do! Go play bingo, have fun and a drink and maybe win some money! They try and start children off young with little bingo sets! Planting the seeds early so they blossom into little bingo loving killing machines!
You think I'm joking!? Get onto this....
Three sisters fighting in court over how to share a £50,000 bingo jackpot!
Doreen Thomas and Linda Kenny have sued their elder sister for what they claim their slice of the cash.
They say the three had always agreed to share their winnings and had done so for three years.
But Edna Sexton, 59, who played the winning card, denies the promise applied to her win.
The article carries on to explain that police were brought in due to the bitterness of the argument! The sisters even called the DSS claiming that the winning sister should be stripped of her benefits due to the win she's brought in! Also, the one time that Edna Sexton was absent, the other two had a winner and still weighed her in with her share of the win! Nothing like a kick in the teeth to repay your kind generosity!
This makes it even funnier!
Mrs Thomas said she allowed Mrs Kenny to push in the queue to buy Mrs Sexton's winning card because her eldest sister was late.
She said: "If I had got that ticket, we would have our money and we would not have had to go through this"
Any game which can drive old women to court over a win should be banned! It's funny, but your not allowed to advertise ciggies or even alcohol, soon anyway! At least everyone knows what ale and fags do to you! They dress bingo up as this fun game where everyone fucking loves each other! The reality is that every old woman in there is like a little grey cage fighter!
Fingers crossed the two sisters get their money! I think it's terrible that the old boot has fucked them off! And a word of warning to anyone wishing to play bingo! DON'T!!
There are many evil things in this world! Many say it comes down to money. There's also power! But I read something the other day which made my stomach turn. Something so grotesquely inhumane, I didn't realise someone could be capable of such a greedy and selfish act! And it came from the biggest evil of all! BINGO!
The very thought of bingo is enough to make a small child cry! It's dressed up as such a nice thing to do! Go play bingo, have fun and a drink and maybe win some money! They try and start children off young with little bingo sets! Planting the seeds early so they blossom into little bingo loving killing machines!
You think I'm joking!? Get onto this....
Three sisters fighting in court over how to share a £50,000 bingo jackpot!
Doreen Thomas and Linda Kenny have sued their elder sister for what they claim their slice of the cash.
They say the three had always agreed to share their winnings and had done so for three years.
But Edna Sexton, 59, who played the winning card, denies the promise applied to her win.
The article carries on to explain that police were brought in due to the bitterness of the argument! The sisters even called the DSS claiming that the winning sister should be stripped of her benefits due to the win she's brought in! Also, the one time that Edna Sexton was absent, the other two had a winner and still weighed her in with her share of the win! Nothing like a kick in the teeth to repay your kind generosity!
This makes it even funnier!
Mrs Thomas said she allowed Mrs Kenny to push in the queue to buy Mrs Sexton's winning card because her eldest sister was late.
She said: "If I had got that ticket, we would have our money and we would not have had to go through this"
Any game which can drive old women to court over a win should be banned! It's funny, but your not allowed to advertise ciggies or even alcohol, soon anyway! At least everyone knows what ale and fags do to you! They dress bingo up as this fun game where everyone fucking loves each other! The reality is that every old woman in there is like a little grey cage fighter!
Fingers crossed the two sisters get their money! I think it's terrible that the old boot has fucked them off! And a word of warning to anyone wishing to play bingo! DON'T!!
Friday, 20 February 2009
The Credit Crunch
Now it's a touchy subject the credit crunch. As it affects everybody! Apparently. We're reminded daily of this recession we're going through. People losing jobs because companies are going bust. People losing their houses, because they've lost their job, etc. You get the picture.
But the real implications of a recession only hit home when it affects you directly. I had one man on the phone to me in work today complaining about the stock market and what not. In all honesty, the only stock most people around my part of the world know of is the one you throw in gravy. It's not that different in my everyday life. I have no money, because I spend it. On stuff. This was the already case before the papers (and me, of course) were writing about it.
The main thing most papers or people seem to talk about is your every day shopping. We've always had Vosene as shampoo in our house. I haven't a clue if this is good or bad. Vosene could be the Ferrari of the shampoo world for all I know, but I've grown accustomed to it and that's that. Yet when you find that you're left with fake 'Asda's own' Vosene, you know things have become slightly difficult.
But then there is Listerene in the bathroom. This is priced astronomically high considering it has the taste of petrol and a window cleaner. It may clean your mouth to a higher standard than most mouthwashes, but so would bleach. And you can get that in lemon flavour! So perhaps our shopping hasn't been affected as much as it seems. My Mum still buys Dairy Milk's that I wouldn't dream of eating (Whole Nut, Fruit & Nut, etc) and we still have enough Bran Flakes to build a small village.
But noting supermarket's prices fluctuating is a little objective. Food prices have always went up. Every year. Recession or not. The utility bills are getting a bit silly though, that is true for everyone. But that's down to the numpties knocking about saying using electricity killed Flipper and his Polar bear mates. They've have to up their keep so as to cope with all the energy saving shite they've been forced into. I moved out of my parents' for a bit last year and the first thing I noticed was how expensive lager becomes when you have an electricity bill to pay.
I'm not saying that there isn't a recession going on. Because there clearly is. All of the banks have went tits up because they took your mortgage to Vegas and threw it on red! But the noticable stuff really isn't that bad! You can go bowling by ours for 1p. For the whole day! That makes a change! And the supermarkets trying to 'out credit crunch' one another is only going to be good for your cupboards! And if all else fails, we could all stop using electricity and keep the numpties happy!
But the real implications of a recession only hit home when it affects you directly. I had one man on the phone to me in work today complaining about the stock market and what not. In all honesty, the only stock most people around my part of the world know of is the one you throw in gravy. It's not that different in my everyday life. I have no money, because I spend it. On stuff. This was the already case before the papers (and me, of course) were writing about it.
The main thing most papers or people seem to talk about is your every day shopping. We've always had Vosene as shampoo in our house. I haven't a clue if this is good or bad. Vosene could be the Ferrari of the shampoo world for all I know, but I've grown accustomed to it and that's that. Yet when you find that you're left with fake 'Asda's own' Vosene, you know things have become slightly difficult.
But then there is Listerene in the bathroom. This is priced astronomically high considering it has the taste of petrol and a window cleaner. It may clean your mouth to a higher standard than most mouthwashes, but so would bleach. And you can get that in lemon flavour! So perhaps our shopping hasn't been affected as much as it seems. My Mum still buys Dairy Milk's that I wouldn't dream of eating (Whole Nut, Fruit & Nut, etc) and we still have enough Bran Flakes to build a small village.
But noting supermarket's prices fluctuating is a little objective. Food prices have always went up. Every year. Recession or not. The utility bills are getting a bit silly though, that is true for everyone. But that's down to the numpties knocking about saying using electricity killed Flipper and his Polar bear mates. They've have to up their keep so as to cope with all the energy saving shite they've been forced into. I moved out of my parents' for a bit last year and the first thing I noticed was how expensive lager becomes when you have an electricity bill to pay.
I'm not saying that there isn't a recession going on. Because there clearly is. All of the banks have went tits up because they took your mortgage to Vegas and threw it on red! But the noticable stuff really isn't that bad! You can go bowling by ours for 1p. For the whole day! That makes a change! And the supermarkets trying to 'out credit crunch' one another is only going to be good for your cupboards! And if all else fails, we could all stop using electricity and keep the numpties happy!
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Fashion
The fashion life cycle. It makes me laugh. About 3 times daily. People walk past in a different top and all I can think about is that somebody has sat down, with a pencil and some paper, and thought, 'this would look handy on a supermodel for next weeks show.' Which advertises it. People like it.
They then get passed onto the shops. Who advertise it as looking handy on a supermodel. And then 'chunks' purchase them, in the aim of looking quite handy, like a supermodel. And then the top is replaced and it goes out of fashion. And has to be binned.
Don't get me wrong. I understand that looking good is paramount these days. But it's the direction of fashion that has me worried.
The very fact that Australians can, and have invented boots that would make Eskimoes feel toasty. The fact that the more dangerous the heel, the better it's meant to look. The very existence of platform shoes.
Lumberjack shirts are the best one of late. A shirt, designed to be worn by big hefty examples of male, is now only allowed to be worn by skinny examples of Indie culture. It beggars belief.
Yet I do understand the idea of wearing something so someone will comment or think it's fantastic. I love any type of classic Adidas trainees. They are fantastic and they just don't go out of fashion. They stand for the culture of our great city and how us nicking them on away days in the Eighties led to people around the country copying us, albeit with ever so slightly worse looking Hi Tech and Kappa examples.
So the hands down winner is the Samba. It'd kick the shit out a fashion belt and some skinny jeans any day.
They then get passed onto the shops. Who advertise it as looking handy on a supermodel. And then 'chunks' purchase them, in the aim of looking quite handy, like a supermodel. And then the top is replaced and it goes out of fashion. And has to be binned.
Don't get me wrong. I understand that looking good is paramount these days. But it's the direction of fashion that has me worried.
The very fact that Australians can, and have invented boots that would make Eskimoes feel toasty. The fact that the more dangerous the heel, the better it's meant to look. The very existence of platform shoes.
Lumberjack shirts are the best one of late. A shirt, designed to be worn by big hefty examples of male, is now only allowed to be worn by skinny examples of Indie culture. It beggars belief.
Yet I do understand the idea of wearing something so someone will comment or think it's fantastic. I love any type of classic Adidas trainees. They are fantastic and they just don't go out of fashion. They stand for the culture of our great city and how us nicking them on away days in the Eighties led to people around the country copying us, albeit with ever so slightly worse looking Hi Tech and Kappa examples.
So the hands down winner is the Samba. It'd kick the shit out a fashion belt and some skinny jeans any day.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Silly Adverts
(Blog first wrote 4th January 2008)
For fuck's sake! Why? Why do people do it? Why do people make these adverts to put them on the telly when, clearly, the average age of the viewer is around 11-16! Just prior to the age when you finally start to weigh things up in life with an adult head on your shoulders!
For example! A girl, clearly about 15, standing in a nightclub by the bar with some lad! I don't know if he's remotely attractive or not, nor care! This girl's clearly a bit interested! So, in the most abnormal bit of teenage behaviour I've ever seen in my entire life, she reaches for her phone and taps in LOVE2 and then her name (KATE) and his name (TOM) and sends it to some godforsaken 60 something number! This will clearly cost about £3, which will be taken off her Pay and Go credit or the phone bill her gobshite parents are obviously paying for!
So I'll explain the apparent reason for this bizarre new mating trend! If you text LOVE2 JIM STEVE to 60222 or something like that, you'll recieve a message saying how compatible you both are! Splendid! If only we could use this!
Of course, the girl on the ad recieved her text back! With a 9% compatibility! Oh dear, poor old Tom! She then goes on to swill Tom with her drink and walk off! Charming girl, I'm sure!
Yet I know that this advert is not going to make me text 60781 or whatever! I've got a fair shroud of common sense hanging around me, mixed in with a nice double shot of sensibility! But it's not me I'm worrying about! It's everyone else!
It's silly little teenage girls who think that they're going to find out the name of their firstborn child by texting BABY1 to 60771! And it will cost them £4 for the privelage! Even better! They'll keep recieving texts from the same shower of nazi twats, which will cost the another £1.50 or so for each text, telling them what their NEXT unborn child will be called! Even drunk people may text these things for a laugh, and end up being shafted for £30 off their phone bill every month, with no way of stopping it!
Or even better! Lots of girls will go out on a date with you, providing they've text the digital Cupid on 60891 to find out whether or not you've got bally crawlies!
But then you'll have to pay for everything because these girls will be skint after being fleeced daily by some tits who sell ringtones! But as hard as you try, they'll fuck you off eventually anyway. Because phone Cupid will text them to say you're cheating on them, with another man!
So a message to any would be romantics out there! Find out what the person is like by engaging conversation! Laugh, joke, talk about deep meaningful stuff like religious beliefs or football! Have a fumble in a side alley! Find out if you like each other, the good old fashioned way!
And if a girl is texting on her phone and you see her typing a 60 number in, run for the fucking hills! Or swill her, as you may aswell get the dig in before phone Cupid tells her you're bent!
For fuck's sake! Why? Why do people do it? Why do people make these adverts to put them on the telly when, clearly, the average age of the viewer is around 11-16! Just prior to the age when you finally start to weigh things up in life with an adult head on your shoulders!
For example! A girl, clearly about 15, standing in a nightclub by the bar with some lad! I don't know if he's remotely attractive or not, nor care! This girl's clearly a bit interested! So, in the most abnormal bit of teenage behaviour I've ever seen in my entire life, she reaches for her phone and taps in LOVE2 and then her name (KATE) and his name (TOM) and sends it to some godforsaken 60 something number! This will clearly cost about £3, which will be taken off her Pay and Go credit or the phone bill her gobshite parents are obviously paying for!
So I'll explain the apparent reason for this bizarre new mating trend! If you text LOVE2 JIM STEVE to 60222 or something like that, you'll recieve a message saying how compatible you both are! Splendid! If only we could use this!
Of course, the girl on the ad recieved her text back! With a 9% compatibility! Oh dear, poor old Tom! She then goes on to swill Tom with her drink and walk off! Charming girl, I'm sure!
Yet I know that this advert is not going to make me text 60781 or whatever! I've got a fair shroud of common sense hanging around me, mixed in with a nice double shot of sensibility! But it's not me I'm worrying about! It's everyone else!
It's silly little teenage girls who think that they're going to find out the name of their firstborn child by texting BABY1 to 60771! And it will cost them £4 for the privelage! Even better! They'll keep recieving texts from the same shower of nazi twats, which will cost the another £1.50 or so for each text, telling them what their NEXT unborn child will be called! Even drunk people may text these things for a laugh, and end up being shafted for £30 off their phone bill every month, with no way of stopping it!
Or even better! Lots of girls will go out on a date with you, providing they've text the digital Cupid on 60891 to find out whether or not you've got bally crawlies!
But then you'll have to pay for everything because these girls will be skint after being fleeced daily by some tits who sell ringtones! But as hard as you try, they'll fuck you off eventually anyway. Because phone Cupid will text them to say you're cheating on them, with another man!
So a message to any would be romantics out there! Find out what the person is like by engaging conversation! Laugh, joke, talk about deep meaningful stuff like religious beliefs or football! Have a fumble in a side alley! Find out if you like each other, the good old fashioned way!
And if a girl is texting on her phone and you see her typing a 60 number in, run for the fucking hills! Or swill her, as you may aswell get the dig in before phone Cupid tells her you're bent!
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