Me, Being Me

So what have we learned this month? Well, the main thing is that it seems I can only keep up with doing one-a-day of these things without resorting to scraping the back of my skull for words to materialise somehow. The only time I can come up with something to say is when some kind of big event happens. And what a bunch of events we've lived through this month: the fulfillment of The Janitor's prophecy, the night Blogger went blehhhh, the UK not winning at Eurovision again, and even the end of all existence as we know it!

On a more personal level, I've managed to blather on about pointless stuff, like how many hours I've clocked up on the ol' Wii, my own musical ventures, living with restricted Internet access, having odd tunes stuck in my head, writing about postcards, leaving out letters and replacing them with apostrophes, trying to decide between a bowl of dried pasta or half an onion, and drinking tea when I could be drinking gin.

All of this has become simple time-murder whilst I moan at myself about how I wished to spend this month writing, coming up with ideas for poetry, lyrics, short stories, blog posts, murals, mosaics, and other such feats of creativity. Over the last few hours, one word ideas have come to me but unfortunately the prospect of expansion doesn't want to follow, which is a shame really since the expansion of an idea is slightly more necessary. For example, here is my most recent short story for your reading pleasure:

So, right, this guy, he wakes up, right, in the middle of nowhere, doesn't know who he is or where he is, memory loss, right. Anyway, later on it turns out he's been given drugs to forget what happened to him and he's on a quest to find out.

The End.

You can see the big flaw in this story, right? And no, it's not the fact that it ends with "The End". Even I, as the writer, want to know why this guy's been made to forget himself and what it is that he needs to find out, and me, as the writer, should know this. But me, being me, doesn't know this and is waiting for the expansion of the idea to come to me so me can stop being so me and start being the writer.

But I digress, I've just spent the last week finishing both Super Mario Galaxy 2 and Super Mario Galaxy (in that order) and spent the remainders of today (or yesterday really, I notice it's now 1am that I type this) finishing off Super Smash Bros. Brawl so my eyes are throbbing, my brain is full of 3D animations and my fingers are tired from having to type out the names of those games. I suppose it is my own fault for going with the games with long titles, which is why the next on my list is little known Japanesey-styley Ōkami.

Although, exactly why I have a list of games lined up for obsessive-compulsive gameplay completely elludes me considering I'm trying to further my story ideas.

So I've got this idea, right. It's about this short, fat Italian bloke, who's a plumber by day, right, and his girlfriend is a princess who lives in a massive castle, but she gets kidnapped by an intergalactic dinosaur (or summink) and he goes to rescue his princess girlfriend from space and he gets helped out by some little people who look like mushrooms, right...

Just As Everyone Predicted

I was rudely interrupted during my monthly blogging travels by a certain impending doom, meaning this had to go on hold for a bit whilst I tended to the much more important things in life: tearfully saying goodbye to all my friends and relatives, sampling an ASDA's-own roast chicken, completing Super Mario Galaxy 2, putting the cat out, bringing the dog in, dancing "The Funky Chicken" on my 75th wedding anniversary and listening to Enya.

Sadly, the whole of creation did not come to an abrupt end on Saturday night and we won't be facing five months of eternal damnation... just as everyone predicted. Either that or we are, in fact, living on post-apocalyptic Earth in which we must face the horrific trials and tribulations of never-ending rain. After all, Saturday's anti-climactic climax of all things was supposed to have come on the anniversary of God drowning everybody and telling a pensioner to build a boat out of some wood and twigs, a length of rope, a cardboard tube from a toilet roll, some PVA glue and cream cracker, whilst carrying through with him two of every other animal to continue populating the planet, yet somehow managing to forget a human female companion what's got a fully functioning womb, thus putting the entire existence of the human race into question if you're going to believe that story.

Anyway, if I am actually here, I've just been for a walk in the rain. It's not burning which I suppose we can take as a positive that we haven't all been left here to die for our sins whilst the divine have reached nirvana somewhere unspeakably beyond the clouds. To be honest, the only person who would've been saved from this great ball of deathness would've probably been Mother Teresa of Calcutta, but since she's already departed from this plane of existence, I'd hazard a guess that Hell on Earth has been going since September 1997 and no-one's batted an eyelid.

The man what brought on all this fear and panic is none other than American Evangelist and "Apocalypse 1994" predictor Harold Camping, who blamed all the gay people of the world for pissing off the big man upstairs and causing certain death on a wide devastating scale, even going on to call San Fransisco the "cesspool of humanity" (if San Fransisco is the cesspool, what does that make Brighton?), although to be honest, if I was burdened with the surname Camping, I'd probably be hatin' on da gayz too.

However, if the world/universe/fabric of reality itself does go kablammo one day as a result of zany fundamentalist say-so, I do hope that charity shops will still be around. I just managed to bag The Nightmare Before Christmas on DVD for two quid. Hold everything! The world's having a going-out-of-business sale! Everything's been reduced to sell! I mean, come on! We've only (apparently) got until October before the planet absolutely, definitely, one-hundred-percent-ly becomes engulfed in flames!

Of course, now that I've joked about that, just you watch as Hallowe'en gets ruined by a massive incident on a global scale which can only be described as "simultaneous pumpkin malfunctions".

All Buggeried Up

I'm not even sure where I am right now. Well, spacially, I am: I'm in my room. But in terms of the progress of time, I'm not sure quite what's happening. My sleep pattern's all buggeried up and I believe that, even though I've fallen asleep about three times today, this is technically the second post of the day since I missed doing one yesterday, or what felt like yesterday, or what actually feels like last week.

On this day, my brain's been disturbed by the relentless cock-a-doodling of one of my Uni Halls people managing to sleep through his alarm, even though he set it loud enough that an Australian man in a coma was getting irritated by the bleeding thing, and managed to keep it going for five whole hours (each cock-a-doodle-doo lasting approximately five seconds, meaning the alarm brought us a record 3,600 cock-a-doodles) before being justly rudely awoken by another folk of Hall-dom.

Ack, that's enough tapping away, back to sleep now.

No Amount Of Sorries Can Turn Back Time

Well, I only done gone and failed, di'n I?

I managed to make it 15 days, and even though technically to me it's still Monday, technically to the world it's Tuesday because apparently midnight is the cut off point. Although, exactly which midnight is open to interpretation (in my head). Apparently, in the United States of Arsefacery, it's very late in the evening, so I suppose you could imagine I've been stuck on a long haul flight for a few hours before posting this, rather than accepting the fact that this thing slipped my mind all day.

Unfortunately, I only have finite space for cranial thinking in this 'ere 'ead o' mine. So little in fact that I'm miss'n out s' many le'ers 'n' 'avin' 'o resor' to excessive use o' apostrophes. As it happens, having to remember the fact that I needed to buy milk earlier in the day forced any thoughts of remembering to make words appear here out of my head and into the ether of tomorrowdom, where, now after midnight, the thought has attacked my brain and made me feel like I have to apologise every 20 seconds for neglecting this thing all day, even though no amount of sorries can turn back time.

With nothing to talk about, other than chastise myself for my complete lack of the ability to remember stuff, I shall go on with the day's boringest highlight: the notebook. Not even sure if I mentioned anything here or not so I'll start from the beginning. When is this beginning? Thursday evening.

I got money for being a student. Yay. Et cetera. I spent 180 British pounds (well, 179 British pounds and 99 little Fruit Salads) on a notebook computer. This notebook computer, in fact; the one on which I'm typing and having to retype words a few times over because I keep messing them up because the thing's so small and the letter-making buttons are far much closer together than I'm used to. Anyway, technically the story starts last Monday, but forget that, that's just the purchase date. Thursday evening, I get the thing, out the box, plugged into wall, and within two hours I've managed to mess it up. FUN!

By mess it up, I really mean "try to be clever but ultimately end up being an arse-tit" (arse-tit noun, stupid person who acts like an arse and a tit at the same time, thus being unable to differentiate between the two) I didn't do anything too bad, but it was bad enough to make me not want to continue using it. Luckily though, common sense prevailed and the lovely little "DELETE EVERYTHING - START AGAIN" function courtesy of the Packard Bell corporation took hold of this thing and, well, started the whole thing from factory settings. Yay for factory settings!

Now it means I can use this on my travels instead of resorting to other means including the technological advances of an iPod Touch or a borrowed computer with all the capabilities of Windows 2000.

Now alls I need is to go on travels... Oh that's right, I'm off to America to post this just in the knick of time!

"Haterz Gonna Hate"

I've just about managed fourteen posts this month. You know what that means fact-fans, I'm 45.16% of the way through the month! Celebratory woop, moderately enthusiastic party popper, wave miniature flag on a cocktail stick, recklessly open champagne accidentally blinding random passer-by with the cork. I actually have none of these celebratory items, so am currently imagining them with my brain (and I sincerely hope you are too, otherwise the rest of this may well be hugely pointless) and the results are unspeakably hilarious. There's far too much going on, which is ironic as it's in stark contrast to what's happened to me lately.

Yes, the reason I've not been writing about anything is because I haven't had anything to write about. There's always the possibility I can witter on about the idea of sitting in public for the sake of sitting in public. I could go on for a bit about how when I ordered a glass of coke and was asked "ice and lemon" - to which I replied "no ice" - I was disappointed when I got a solitary glass of coke, even though by stating no ice specifically, it implied I still wanted lemon. The yellow half-moon wasn't to be though and kept said glass of coke at a consistent level of bland cokeyness. (That went on longer than it could've done). I could go on about the telleh-box in't corner, who sits and shows me things like the people on The Apprentice being even douchier and more cringeworthy than last year (a feat never thought possible), the surprise of relentlessly watching Deal Or No Deal actually paying off when someone actually won the top prize for the first time in years, or my ever increasing fascination with this year's Eurovision coming to fruition and the "thanks be to God" exhalations that followed after the Jedward brothers (I don't care what anyone says, that is their surname to me now) didn't make it to victory... although, I must commend their backing singers on such an excellent performance! However, having the winner's song (from Azerbaijan, di'nt ya knoo?) stuck in my head for the best part of 27 minutes only made me realise it's just like that song by that Rihanna-botherer and the girl what won American Idol, except they've both turned white and neglected to include any emotion they once had.

We Brits, in fine form, have taken to our patented moaning sesh about how everyone else hates us, which is the true cause for our Eurovision failures. Apparently, the fact that people in 25 different countries managed to give the UK points this year got lost on some people. As much as I love a good moan, and a good bitch, and a good racial slur and xenophobic rant every now and then, the sane part of my mind refuses to deny that actually not coming last and actually not scoring nothing means that we have to face up to the fact that somehow, somewhere, people actually do like us. It just so happens that they don't like us enough, or at least as much as ten other countries.

In true Internet-style though, "haterz gonna hate", each to their own, the occasionally rational part of my inner monologue ain't gonna change the world. So while I try and put what is essentially an inoffensive piece of yearly entertainment into a decent perspective, I'll just bypass anyone and everyone who moans about how we would never win Eurovision again, even if we sent a supergroup comprising of Elton John, Queen, The Beatles, Leona Lewis, The Rolling Stones, Iron Maiden, Take That, Ozzy Osbourne, Cheryl Cole, that other one from Girls Aloud what isn't Cheryl Cole, The Spice Girls, Cliff Richard, Justin Bieber, Busted, the bloke from the Go Compare adverts, Bullet For My Valentine, The Saturdays, Coldplay, Lily Allen, La Roux, a parrot in a stylish fedora, Margarita Pracatan, the same people who won it this year, and a tin of spaghetti hoops.

Then again, we wouldn't really be allowed to since the rules dictate that each country can only have six people on the stage.

Midnight

Seven minutes to midnight. Am I gonna post something?

- Yes

What?

- This

What have you been doing all day?

- Who cares?

We do!

- Really?

No.

The Blog-Monster

Blogger has decided to go down meaning this has been delayed and all creative juices had been postponed earlier. What's more, it's decided to "temporarily" get rid of yesterday's entry for reasons too horrid to imagine. Let's imagine them anyway:

Hypothetical reason one: Gremlins are stuck in the Blogger-system.

Hypothetical reason two: That new notebook I ordered arrived, but I managed to irreversibly fuck up the screen resolution on it within the first two hours of ownership. (This has nothing to do with Blogger per se, but I'd like to think a considerable portion of the world revolves around me, otherwise what have I to live for?)

Hypofeticaw weason fwee: Last night, too many people simultaneously blogged about John Jedward and Edward Jedward (what do you mean that's not their surname?) as they destroyed Ireland's tourism prospects for the whole of the 2011-2012 financial year, causing the Blog-Monster to clap its hands to its ears, curl into a foetal position and piss and moan about how much it hates Eurovision, therefore cutting itself off from the world for hours.

Hypathuticool raisin thor: Google broke.

Happy-thumdiboo wozun five: The Internet is a figment of nothing and therefore cannot break down. It's all an illusion to piss off the simple man and the nonexistent reader.

Hybllbrrbabll brrbll six: Too much jibberish.

Taking all bets! One of these reasons must be true! Of course, these aren't bets for money, but your pride is potentially at stake here. As for my pride... well, I do this, so there's no point worrying about that any more.

The Hangover Fairy

I've said it once, I'll say it again: Hangovers are bad. They make you tired, they make you hungry, they make you want to die for a few hours, they make your poo smell even worse than normal poo should smell, and they prompt you to look inside your wallet to be greeted by a single fiver, when in actual fact you remember there being much more than that in there when you went to bed. It seems the Hangover Fairy has noticed the unconscious slobber underneath my pillow and helped herself to commission for cleaning it up. Either that or God hates me so is punishing me by hiding half of my remaining cash, only to never give it back again. I'm reluctant to think the latter is possible, however, due to the fact I don't particularly believe in a shapeless, all-seeing, all-knowing deity simply hanging out off in the sky (and calling himself "God", thus proving just how egotistical he is), whereas whilst I know there's probably no such thing as a Hangover Fairy, I'm still open to the idea of it being somewhat possible.

What's more is effects of hangover-ish-ness mean that even though planning to go out earlier, I still only managed to make it as far as the kitchen, which led me to using up pretty much all the remaining bacon and egg stocks respectively to make what I'd like to call Bacon French Toasties: basically bacon toasties, but make with eggy bread (like the French do) and given an unimaginate title (like the French do). Furthermore, through no fault of my own, the reggae stylings of Dawn Penn's "No No No" has been swimming around my head (possibly in leftover cider) for ages, for reasons which, I'm guessing, come down to the lyrical simplicity of the whole thing. I now plan on wasting the rest of this entry reciting the most memorable lyrics to the aforementioned song:

No, no, no...
(blank space)
No, no, no...
(blank space)
(blank space), baybehhh...
(blank space)
No, no, no...
(blank space)
(saxophone section)

That's Right, It's Red...

My head's a bit dead today. I'm not sure if that's because I've done barely anything (surprise, surprise chuck) or if it's because I've had CBeebies on in the background for a considerable chunk of the afternoon. Why so? Because according to Miss BBC Writersroom Lady what came in to do a talk in yesterday's super-special, limited stock, once in a lifetime, Creative Writing seminar mentioned that said Writersroom's next "competition" (I use the term loosely because it always sounds so childish [then again, we are talking about CBeebies here]) involves them commissioning scripts for original pre-school material for said channel. Of course, I still don't have the foggiest idea what I'm doing, where I'm going, or how I'm breathing in this life, so getting straight to work on an entire hypothetical idea for a television programme for the simplest of humans amongst us is it bit sort of head-explodey... and I don't think graphic violence would bode well with a pre-school audience. They're best targetted with things more like "What's this shape I'm pointing to? That's right, it's a square", as opposed to "What colour is this water dribbling out of my ears? That's right, it's red... and boy, there sure is a lot of it".

All the primary functions of my mind are still there, but I've been reduced to a more basic version of me, resorting to simply sitting and doing naff all instead of trying to come up with multiple ideas every day to keep up with this 'ere thing. That's my excuse, anyway...

In other news, my recent rekindling of familiarity with the music of Fight Like Apes, alongside the newest series of The Apprentice (which I am still yet to begin, but that's what iPlayer's for) has driven me back to the idea of how much I'd love to see the "candidates" (or as I like to call them, "arseholes") walking out of the building post-dismissal no longer to the smooth "oooh-aaah-oooh-ee-oooh" kind of violin-y/piano-y/orchestra-y moody and serious "dun-dun duuun!" style music they employ, but instead have them crawl out of there looking all ragged, suit torn to shreds and crying in the rain as they limp towards the evil minicab of unemployment to the sound of this li'l extract from the annoyingly-long titled "I'm Beginning To Think You Prefer Beverly Hills 90210 To Me".

Nothing would give a sadist any more pleasure than all of the above happening whilst Old Man Sugar points at them mockingly and rhythmicallly chanting "you're so fired, you're so, so fired" repeatedly... except for maybe someone's head exploding on children's TV.

I Can't Simulate My Own Handwriting

Due to either sheer laziness at this present moment in time, or awesome time organisation and planning, I'll be bringing you two (ja, zwei!) different short pieces of free writing as inspired by a photograph und a quote from a seminar today that seven (ja, sieben) people showed up for. Hopefully, these two pieces can make up for the evident laziness of the past few days. The following you're about to witness is actually word-for-word, format-for-format, except for the fact that the originals were handwritten and I can't simulate my own handwriting on this 'ere textimabob-maker. Sorry, but that's just the way binary works, I guess. And I'm still not sure why I'm switching between occasional words auf Deutsch and normal speak.

Free Writing Piece Nummer Eins!

 (not sure how clear that is to ye, the first sign says "2 Types of People in Life", then "Givers", then "Takers")

There are two types of people in life, those who will see the dirtiness of this picture and those who won't. Unfortunately, my warped mind makes me one of the former. Hence why I picked it out.

Have a 10-minute scribble about this? I ALREADY DID! I have nothing more to say about this picture, although why I picked it out must say something about my unconscious mind, as Freud would put it. Although, I suppose I still need to work out which of the two I am: a giver or a taker. Not necessarily in a physical, sexual sense as implied by the clever use of road signs, but in a general "life" way of either scrounging off other or giving things without getting anything back in return like love or compliments or money or sanity.

Free Writing Piece Nummer Zwei!

"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page."

I would've thought that the world was round though, due to the simple fact that it is. How many round books do you know of? Do you realise how difficult that would be? They wouldn't stay on their respective celestial shelves. As we experience it, the world is one big page on the ground, essentially a map, and having a 1:1 scale map of the world seems a bit pointless really.

Random Thought Generator

Technically, I have three hours left to put something here under my own rules. However, the rules of my willpower forbid me from writing anything when I have nothing remotely interesting (or at least partly planned out in my head first), the rules of frozen chicken only permit me sixteen more minutes to take it out the oven and the rules of the Gregorian calendar dictate that a new day begins at midnight. Therefore, I have a matter of minutes to come up with a topic and whitter on about it to a pseudo-humorous degree in as many words as possible (well, not really 'cos I'm stopping at 750).

This would be the point where I imagine someone has invented the random thought generator and made it commercially viable so I can get one for a princely sum and never have to work hard again. Unfortunately, as it turns out, the random thought generator was invented some 200,000 years ago by some fella named God and gave each one of his human-shaped creations a random thought generator (or "brain") upon entry into existence by default... sort of like Internet Explorer 8 getting bundled with Windows 7 or Wii Sports with a Wii. Unlike IE8 and Wii Sports, however, the human brain is essential to us mortal beings for our every waking and sleeping second upon this plane, which is why it takes the piss sometimes when its more essential functions are overshadows by humming Herb Alpert's "Spanish Flea" over and over until your face leaks, or by thoughts of meeting another human being you'd like to spend the rest of your life with in a mutual friendship extending to occasional acts of a sexual nature. But even then, the thought generator is still at maximum randomness as you remember watching Deal Or No Deal earlier in the day and before you can stop yourself, you're naked, stimulated and picturing Noel Edmonds for the next eight seconds (...it never happened).

Well, ding. Time's up. Or at least it would be a "ding" if I were in the same room as the oven... or if the oven dinged. Thanks very much for coming, I've been babbling, good night!

And Then I Did This

I notice I've been slacking lately, but it's only because this whole "blogging-every-day" biz is actually rather dull. Instead, I've been filling the time between coming back to this page to make words appear at it by doing a multitude of other things, and while I normally hate the idea of people's personal blogs going along the lines of "today I did this, and then I did this, and then I did this, and then I did this, and then... " read in the voice of a self-important five-year-old, and vowed that this 'ere humble space would not end up like that, right now I'm more in the mindset of "screw morals, I've got space to fill!"

So, just for you, here's what's caused me to slack in days of recent, but to make it less boring and hopefully less self-important, I'll do it in rhythmic list form:

I went home, stayed alone,
spent a morning on the throne,
almost deaf, my ear hiss
had to come and update this,
waited for train in freezing cold,
entertained a one-year-old,
stole some rice, it was nice,
ordered water without ice,
walked in rain with holey shoes,
had a wee bit too much booze,
took some pics, walked on bricks,
Adam & Joe on Radio 6,
stressed for lack of Internet,
people in car park I never met,
learned about investment banking,
eating,
drinking,
sleeping,
w...ell, that's about it.

According to word count, I'm stick slacking so I guess I still have a way to go before I'm cured of my hatred for this idea. Eight down, twenty-two left. Then I can write at my own pace, which is essentially "when I frickin' feel like it".

One-Fifth Of A Carrot

There are days where you just burst with energy. Then there are days when you can't bothered right up to the point where you can't even come up with a stupidly over the top way of interpreting the phrase "burst with energy". This day is one of the latter. This post is pointless, except for the fact that since it exists, it counts as one of my one-a-day, very much like one-fifth of a carrot.

Insert humorous last line to finish the post.

A Daily Piece Of Nothing Special

You know those times when you're out and busy for practically the entire day, come home exhausted and have the sudden realisation that you have an hour and a half left before your own self-set goal of producing a daily piece of nothing special. Yeah... that.

I currently come to you thanks to the inner workings of a iPod touch, so advance apologies for any made-up words being auto-corrected to something "normal" if a little obscure. However, thanks to said exhaustedness, the chance of any extra stupid words appearing are pretty slim for two reasons: 1) because tapping out words on this thing is as time-consuming as a 12 course dinner with a crowd of elderly anorexics and 2) because of said exhaustedness, which is itself a made up word.

I did spend the best part of a contemplative seven minutes trying to decide of what to articulate in this 'ere thing o' text, but the best I could come up with was the thing about being exhausted, so that's what it is and that's where it ends. And again apologies for spelling boo-boos.

I suppose I can always claim getting a B in English for bad use of the language.

Mange Tout

My ears have still not recovered from the night before and, therefore, still sound, and feel, like they've been penetrated by mini-walls of hiss. Needless to say, last night's much anticipated gig was, well, worth anticipating, although being monumentally creeped out by the stares of the Fight Like Apes keyboardist "Pockets" left me feeling somewhat uneasy to the point that I had to avert my gaze to the nondescript drummer at the very back of the stage. Altogether, the evening panned out rather enjoyably for all twenty-one people who seemed to have showed up to the gig, especially for the big guy behind me who, stereotypically, seems like the kind of person who spends his days on World of Warcraft for 23 hours of the day, all the while surrounded by empty pizza boxes and pint glasses full of warm urine. Said guy was so enthusiastic I ended up with several beer-showers, and even to this point my clothes still smell fresh from a visit to Carlsberg factory.

Forgive me for being reluctant to talk about the gig in all its finest details but my brain is still mangled from the infectious jingle of support act Man Get Out, local band trying to get the word out. Unfortunately (or fortunately as the case may be), running all three words together for the purposes of web addressery means that they fall under the name "mangetout", mistakenly looked at through my intellectually scattered eyes as Mange Tout. For the unFrenchified or those who don't understand Paris speak, mange tout is a vegetable consisting of peas trapped in a vacuum-packed green bed. The upside of this, of course, is that should any foodie or aspiring chef ever come to Google mange tout but accidentally leave out the space, they'll be redirected to the musical stylings of this Liverpudlian lot. Not the ideal way to get famous but if it works, it works.

I'm keeping this one short now, mostly because last night's gig was, in my view, such an amazing feat to behold I can't find the right words to describe it (which is just as well considering the amount of words I'd use to describe something as simple as a pencil sharpener), but also because I'm currently using the computer of my newest residential dwelling (my home away from home away from my first home, really) and am about to be interrupted by a hyperactive almost two-year-old, who gets so fascinated by things that grown-ups use (cupboard doors and salt shakers, for example), that if I leave this laptop remotely exposed and within his reach, the rest of this post might end up looking something like thisghwfkjufhgaduwejegjdhjn jhlvjlkjhhojjkjkkjkkolkklkpjhujyhgoiu;yutygf

Mentioning Things I've Already Mentioned

Staying indoors has its perks. For example, you don't have to communicate with people unless you feel like it, your best friends from the land of transmitted television can entertain you without engaging you in any direct conversation, and it's great if you're not looking your best. For me, it's the latter.

For months I'd been planning on doing something radical to the colour of the fibres sprouting from the top of my head. Unfortunately, this went horribly wrong and since I am unable to gauge the full extent of the damage without the ability to look at the back of my own head, I'm reluctant to leave the security of closed doors and walled environments.

It's just as well I'm away to a much anticipated gig tonight then. Only the second gig of my life I shall have you know (assuming if we discount the more "art music" shows as showcased by the University's Contemporary Arts Centre) so I be mighty looking forward to this. I am not, however, looking forward to being away from my workstation for the next four days. Knowing my luck, I'll be back here on Monday to find the Internet connection being uncooperative and forcing me to angry tears... again.

I'm having the horribly overwhelming feeling that I'm mentioning things I've already mentioned before, but when there's virtually nothing going on in this particular life, it's difficult to draw any inspiration from it. Furthermore, I have yet to switch on the people-box today so am currently unaware of any breaking news developments that might've happened at 4am this morning. Then again, that's about the time I went to sleep so naturally nothing much was happening then, else I would've stayed up. So, in the event that there's some current major world event developing as I type, then I would like to give my opinion that this event confuses, disorientates, surprises, pleases, and angers me at the present moment, and it will take me another 24 hours to digest this information.

There we go, that should do. I'll leave this one short considering the last one ended up going over my self-imposed 750-word limit by a whole thirteen words, which had to later be cut out. Without those odd words, I'm surprised if the previous post makes any sense.

Then again, do any of these things make sense?

Not Much Really Of Interest

My source of inspiratrion somethingeveryday.co.uk is back in the virtual realms of quasi-existence; so long CRAZY DAVE! It's nice that I can finally direct you to it, but it's fairly obvious that what I'm actually doing is hoping that if anyone does go there from here, the folks at SomethingEveryDay will take note of this humble source of redirection and want me to write super awesome hilarious things for them in exchange for scraps (I live off bread crusts and my own toenails now). With that theory though, I seem to be under the impression that a lot of people come here in the first place which is, regrettably, so far from the truth it needs super-laser-vision to properly see an eye chart that looks something like this:

T

W O

P L U S T
W O I S F O U
R . . . D U M B A S S

So in my quest to drum up Internet traffic I begin doing stupid stuff that I find difficult to do, like, oh, I don't know, forcing myself to churn out a huge ramble once every day even if I have nothing to ramble about. Altogether, I end up babbling, like this what I am doing now, for no particular reason, other than to extend this particular sentence on and on and on and on and on a little bit further... and then some.

I should be used to being able to throw words at a blank space with relative ease by now; this time last month I spoke about my predicament of having to come up with over 8,000 of the multi-alphabetical buggars for the sake of assessment, which is really just another word for "so we know you haven't just wasted the last seven months of your, and our, lives listening to our knowledgeable stuff that you're not going to bother taking any notice of", which, incidentally (just because of its sheer length, boringness and mind-fucking complexity) could easily pass itself off as an essay question, if you're ever taking a course at University in Taking a Course at University.

However, it's a bit hit-and-miss when there's not much really of interest to even babble about, let alone rant. I suppose I could talk about the fact that my shopping endeavours took a little over one hour today, or the fact that I tried to dye bits of my hair purple so it would look like an orange and purple mess but instead looks blandly orange on the front and blindingly violet at the back, or even the fact that I had a cup of tea today. Unfortunately none of these events seem (to me, at least) remotely interesting, let alone moderately.

One thing that did worry me quite early on in the day (by which I mean within the first seven minutes of up-waking) was how the computer miraculously lost connection to the Internet: any student's and geek's worst nightmare. I had the same trouble literally the day before the first of the month (i.e. the last of last month) where I spent most of nine-and-a-half minutes on the corded telephone (I didn't know they still had those either) to the University's tech support, who couldn't resolve the problem. However, leaving the bloody machine switched off for four hours seemed to do the trick after one hour of relentlessly switching it off and on again, whilst wailing through frustrated tears about how it worked the last time I had it on. Luckily, this morning's techno-fuck-up lasted a mere forty-eight seconds and it was at this point I realised how specific I get with regard to timings.

However, I was going to mention this in the event of such disastrousness, but I think it would be far easier to alert the folks now that should my connectivity to this 'ere Web ever be a temperamental bitch to me again, I'll be forced to use the 3G-ness of my crappy-WAPpy phone with all the latest features at the height of 2007 to complete my daily onslaught here. In such an event, prepare for something that looks like this:

internets broke, so im stuck using the phone for this post. my god typing is boring, but i cant stand predictive. anyway, gonna go now cos its taken me seven hours to write that and im not sure i can be bothered fini

It's about this point in the day that I realised I'm doing weird centralised formats too.

No More Home Videos

It's a little bit surreal forcing yourself through tiredness, being directed to rolling news channels and watching a live address from the American president, so I guess it's just as well people don't capture and kill the world's most wanted terrorist leader every day. Yep, no more home videos from Osama bin Laden in this lifetime. What seems to be even more surreal is how seriously the Americans are taking this though. Al-Qaeda didn't just attack them; people were brutally taken out of existence in Kenya, Yemen, Madrid, even London (if you can be bothered to remember as far back as July 2005), but those streets are just normal today. I'm assuming that anyway since there's no media coverage of crowds around the London Underground. And why are there no crowds out in London? Because it's a fucking bank holiday, that's why! People don't want to spend this precious day off getting stuck in a mass crowd in the streets. Christ, it's bad enough dealing with the morning commute of any other day. That, plus we're all "mass-crowd"ed out from the Regal Union. The Americans are having their own mass gathering of Royal Wedding proportions on the streets today, though, just so they don't feel left out this long weekend, I guess.

Of course, Americans don't do things by halves. When they celebrate something, they go the whole hog and bring out the flags, the cameras and the mob mentality. Oh, and that mind-grating chant of "U-S-A" over and over, and I can't help feeling that without the Pakistani intelligence they received, they wouldn't even be celebrating today in the first place. If anything, they need to modify that tri-syllabled "U-S-A" chant to include "Pa-ki-stan", while Michael Jackson leads the afterlife celebratory movement with "This-is-it" and Janice from Friends shouts "Oh-my-God".

Nevertheless, I can't help feeling all this celebration will horribly backfire looking at the bigger picture. I mean, this man was the head of a terrorist organisation but all he really did is give the orders and make rubbish videos. Meanwhile, it was the groups of followers who were the ones to force their way into cockpits and kit themselves up with self-explosives. Those followers are still alive and I'm guessing they's gonna be reet pissed off a bit that their leader's been killed. If the Americans had captured bin Laden alive, he'd at least be in exile or whatever (I'm not that clever with politics), but the fact that they've killed him outright and declared his corpse to the world means there ain't no going back on it now. I'm all for justice and peace and everything, but I can't see this being the end; if anything, this is a horrible new beginning.

Going back to the celebrations in Washington and New York, I can't help feeling the Americans are drawing far too much attention to themselves and practically just asking for trouble, but right now they're acting too wrapped up in their own bubble to realise that even though the leader's gone, there are still followers and, if anything, they'll be wanting to avenge his death. Even though in the long run, what we essentially have is a small organisation vs. the rest of the world in the humanity stakes, we've seen what those guys are capable of doing to us "rest of the world" folks and I'm just hoping that should there be a 'next time', it won't be as catastrophic as previous attacks.

Osama bin Laden's life may be over, but there's a scarily massive potential for a whole new wave of destruction beginning. In other words, America: CALM THE FUCK DOWN!

"Once A Day" Is Far Too Often

Well, I said I would, but evidently my brain didn't mean it. Here's the first of (what is intended to be) 31 entries of this month. Of course, I can't promise I'll stick to it, or even remember, since my brain/body/entire existence will most likely get annoyed after Day 2 and loudly proclaim that "once a day" is far too often. But therein lies the challenge, I guess.

Yes, I decided to make myself write stuff in here every day for the whole of May because I saw some other website have the idea, only for it to go down mere days before so I can't really cite it or redirect ye to it without ending up a page named "Crazy Dave's Crazy Domain Names 4 Sale... DOT COM". Anyway, I decided to give myself a limit (because I always tend to ramble on for an unspeakably stupid amount [like this {hey! more brackets within brackets!}]) so as to stop me from pointlessly going over the 1,000 word mark. So 750 is the benchmark for the next (potential) 31 of these 'ere thingys, some of which will probably go nowhere even near there, like this one for example. Can you tell I'm waffling and using random words like 'domain' and 'pointlessly' and 'the' to just pad this out? I tell you what, it really feels like it. It's pretty much what I've done with essay writing where I deliver everything in about three times as much space as I could've done just by talking normally, meaning that theoretically some very learned, educated, professional-type person could edit my essays down to a paragraph and a half, and fill the rest of the time with a very eloquent and perfectly executed bowel movement or ten. Speaking of which, my essays are pretty much done now.

I did actually think these finishing touches would take me whole days to do, but a combination of still looking at them when I've written them all out and the big glass rectangle of BLINDING COLOURED LIGHTS is distracting me terribly. By that, of course, I do mean the television, but one could easily be mistaken for thinking of my westerly-facing window in these increasingly longer Spring evenings, as the slowly setting sun makes its way towards the horizon RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW!!! I suppose it's nice that for literally an hour before sunset my room is just bathed in a brilliant orange, but the fact that the object of my distractions is right next to said window means torture for my retinas and frustration for my brain as it tries to work out what coloured snooker balls are left on the overhead-angled table.

Come to think of it, it's a bit ironic having my window onto the imaginary world right next to my window to the real world; almost like the rest of my room being so boring that one single side of it provides so much outlet to interesting...ness.

Ooop, here I go. Brain's dying. Fingers... failing. Words making less ond luss sornse. Blarrbl blehhbl, juccoriba word count of about five hondrod und something. Gunner go be-four Brian gives owt in-tyre-lee.

One down...