And so once again, I have been suckled unto the breast of Reality TV masquerading as documentertaintment. The culprit; Masterchef.
It started in the 90s with a boring old man with a boring old voice, showcasing boring people cooking boring food, interspersed with boring chatter from other boring people. Unfortunately, it became apparent that viewers could only tolerate such boredom for eleven years, leading to the programme vanishing into the ether of non-existence.
Some years later, it got revived by an Australian man and a baked potato in glasses. Somehow, they managed to take the boring old show and make it new and mad, giving contenders twenty-seven different tasks including: making a two course meal with a maximum of four ingredients, working for three hours in a real high-class restaurant and flambéing a watermelon until it reaches the correct consistency akin to a SmartPrice jaffa cake. Naturally, viewing figures steadily rose (...probably. I don't have any actual evidence for this, but since I'm going somewhere with it you might as well just take it as given for now and argue with me later).
Leading us to this year. And keeping with mainstream trends, the show's gone all upmarket and wham-bam-pizzazz on yo asses. Gone are the heats of contestants you'd see once every three weeks as they rotated and ultimately progressed further on. Now the show follows a much more simple linear style of taking on a shitload of amateur cooks, only to tell 95% of them to fuck right off, and for those lucky few (twenty to be precise) to make it to the boot camp kitchen, only for another ten get the butcher's knife in the neck and the ten survivors get to live another day to cook for their lives. Within the first two or three episodes, they manage to cull a sizeable crowd to a mere handful, then allow the others to keep going and going until they inevitably get picked off one by one over the course of the rest of the series. Ultimately, the whole thing ends up looking like the X Factor for foodies, except without the public involvement, the whooping crowd hollering over every vaguely positive comment and the face of Simon Cowell.
I suppose, to draw another parallel (since this is the BBC we're talking about), it's very similar to The Apprentice; a show which I found myself becoming a slave to over the course of my initially lonely months in Halls of Residence. Basically, we're shown the lives of people who want to "make it" in their chosen sector of careerdom and follow them as they undertake increasingly brutal tasks that would force any normal person to throw their hands up in the air, scream, cry, swear, shout and shit all over the place and tell the masters of this cruel show of puppetry exactly where to go, leaving with as much dignity as they can muster from within themselves after all the torture they've been put through. Although, naturally, having cameras around makes all the difference.
The thing with it is, though, that up until now it hadn't quite dawned on me the cruel nature of what this programme has become. Yes, it deeply saddens me to admit, but I have been conned once again by "Reality TV" in believing that this was a simple cookery show (which is, quite frankly, a style of programme I enjoy watching [it puts me in the mood to cook and makes me feel like I can do it, so much so that if this whole writing jig never takes off I could seek solace in the kitchen of a greasy spoon {no I'm not doing the whole brackets thing again}]), when in fact it's been lying to me and feeding me the heart-warming, life-changing, "journeys" of the contestants (I must stress that the notions of contestants' journeys are now copyrighted by Simon Cowell, no infringment is intended by this mere, simpleton peasant of a blog post). Furthermore, it's done that thing where I feel even more competent than the people inside my tellybox, yelling at the bloke with a severed finger for not laying his tomato slices out properly and telling him I could do it better.
It only occured to me during tonight's episode, the vegetarian special, in which the only vegetarian competitor felt she could excel but was criticised by real people (by "real" people I mean people who aren't actually judging a televised competition, but merely passing comment on the food they've been given) on one single dish. This lead to a montage of upset-face, the scraping of uneaten food off plates and "I really thought this was my chance" soundbites... probably with Röyksopp playing in the background; I can't be too sure of the music. And the reason I don't remember the music, is because I was actually moved. I'd been drawn in, captivated by this woman's love of cooking and utter dismay at the idea of failure and the feeling of her life crashing around her into tiny pieces of circus tent. (Oh yeah, they were cooking for circus people inside a tent, did I not mention?) Anyway, it's not all bad. She made it through to next week's show in the end so life isn't one giant apocalytic chasm just yet.
Although this brings me onto the true realisation of the con-liness of the whole thing. All through the programme we'd been informed that, in a special double-elimination twist (trademark Cowell), two of the contenders would be washing pots and being banished into the realms of nowheredom once again. And so came the big reveal. One contestant down, another to face the chop. If I were a betting man (and if they actually took bets on the next Masterchef evictee within that little 30-second silence that comes after "the next person to leave the competition is...", which gets accompanied by a montage of slow-zooming shots of petrified looking faces), I would've thought the second person to go would've been the bloke who said "there's really no room for mistakes at this point" straight after he dropped a bowl of flour all over the floor making his shoe look like a snowy-capped mountain in the middle of a Christmas postcard. Unfortunately, however, he didn't get the boot, or the chop, or any other metaphorical device you can think of. Instead, we were told that since all the others had done a good job, they all get to stay on another week.
Now, I don't like Simon Cowell at the best of times, but at least whenever he calls a double-culling he sticks to it rather than use it as a device to ram the fear of God into people just so they can cook you some better food. (What actually happens to the food after the judges take a single bite of it, anyway? Is it divvied out between the rest of the production staff, or simply thrown out? Surely not in these times of Comic Relief we're in. Couldn't they just stick half an aubergine-stuffed haggis and a bowl of ravioli in a doggy-bag and ship it off to Ethiopia? I dunno!!)
So that, my friends, is how you turn the phrase "I just watched Masterchef" into over a thousand words. If only I could write that much this easily when it comes to actual work I should be doing.
All in all, however, not only has it managed to make me feel somewhat diminished that I have succumbed to the powers of "Reality TV" once more, but also (as is common whenever I watch any kind of cookery programme) I'm now stupidly hungry and have the overwhelming urge to cook something extravagant and beautiful to look at and a delight to eat. Problem is I'm still living on a student diet and, thus, the height of my extravangance amounts to instant noodles, two minutes in the microwave.
Besides, what five-star meal can you make from baked beans, corn flakes and half a rotting onion?
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
The Internet Is Just Mean
Once again, I've found myself pondering "why, exactly, do I wish to pursue a future in Writing, when I never allow myself to do so?" and come to the same conclusion as I have done for last insert-inexplicable-amount-of-times-here.
"I'll do it later..."
Well "later" isn't good enough, me! You'll do it now!
This came to me during a brief morning period in the shower (technically it was before I showered, but I decided not to say that because a) I couldn't be bothered typing it [except I just did in these brackets, well not these brackets but the brackets surrounding these brackets {more brackets!}], and b) I wanted to sound like a normal person, like I do normal people things, such as cleaning myself whilst doing the nudey-boogey-woogey singing out of time, tune and language to one of Shakira's numbers en español. You know, like normal people).
Unfortunately, I feel I have not much to push these letters for considering the amount of dead space in my brain that's been left by the mass amounts of nothing that's been filling it up. I've not started reading anything new, Deal Or No Deal's still shit but compulsory and the amount of takeaway menus pinned to my noticeboard has risen from one to three, whereas the amount of actual takeaways I've order remains static at zero.
Even worse, I managed to suffer a case of Writer's Block yesterday (although not so much a "block", more of a Writer's Head-On Collision with a Crash Test Wall Where the Dummies Fly Through The Windscreen at Infathomable Speeds Helpfully Slowed Down So Normal People Can See the Hilarity at the Hypothetical Gruesome Deaths of Mannequins [too wordy? {more brackets!!}]). Whilst being told to draft out a short story from a single picture - a fairly simple task, n'est-ce pas? - I found myself spending the first eleven minutes of twenty gazing into the abstract swirlyness of nothing, another three minutes trying to think of a story based on it, and the other six writing what was, in fact, much closer to a shite poem than shite piece of prose. The only thing that could've made it all the more fun is if I'd been told to continue it, work on it, redraft and present it in a mere seven days. Naturally this is what happened and now I have six remaining to do it. But of course, I'm not doing it. Instead, I'm on here moaning about how I'm not doing it (whilst also moaning about how I'm not writing anything [the fact that I've been writing all of this is completely irrelevent in my head {BRACKETS!!}]).
My days of late have been filled by none other than that Satanic bitch called the Internet. I find it thoroughly amazing how something so non-existent can be so distracting. It's essentially the virtual equivalent of a cat batting around a ball of string that's actually made of nothing, even though what constitues as "nothing" does not technically exist considering everything is made of something. But that means if "nothing" can not exist, then "nothing" is nothing and, therefore impossible. Thus "nothing" must be made of something, otherwise it cannot exist. However, "nothing" is just a concept; it does not exist except for in the minds of theologians and philosophers through means of vowel- and consonant-sounds originating from the letters H-I-O-N-T-G-N, which, incidentally, is the sequence I used to get "nothing" on Countdown the other day for seven points.
But yeah, fuck all that. The Internet is just mean. It makes me refresh Facebook every twenty seconds just to see if anyone I remotely care about has decided to say anything of any relevance to my existence or for my own amusement. Of course, this is never the case, so all these seconds of my life are collected up and wasted, thus feeding the monster that is, in fact, this. My further exploitations into the "World Wide Wha...?!" include me having happened upon amusing articles that actually broaden my mind as a reader/writer combo, stumbling across heavily-pixellated (or low quality [brackets?] {MUTHA-FUCKIN' BRACKETS!!!}]) YouTube adaptations of the first half of the songs intended for this year's Eurovision Song Contest (possibly to be followed up by witty/polemicalpiss-taking writing for the amusement of, amongst others, myself [that is, if I ever get round to feeling like getting round to it {do I even need to mention this any more?}]), and remembering a place someone told me about on this 'ere Intermaweb, which I would normally write about and rip into for it's notoriety, shockingness and downright wrongness for its existence. However, Rules 1 and 2 prevent me from speaking of this.
Basically, what I've been trying to say in all those paragraphs is that I can't be bothered writing, unless I force myself to and just let my brain free onto the page. But this isn't really a page. This a segment of virtual non-entity, which does not technically exist, yet cannot be considered "nothing" as it is in fact something: an amalgamation of letter symbols presented in a way for your actual existent eyes to look at, and your actual existent brain to understand.
Actually, you're better off forgetting everything you've just read for it doesn't actually make sense, is incohesive and I don't feel like being taken away by people in white coats who've had an anonymous phone-call about fears for the state of my mental health. I can assure you I am perfectly sane with a firm grip on reality... until I get on the Internet, that is.
"I'll do it later..."
Well "later" isn't good enough, me! You'll do it now!
This came to me during a brief morning period in the shower (technically it was before I showered, but I decided not to say that because a) I couldn't be bothered typing it [except I just did in these brackets, well not these brackets but the brackets surrounding these brackets {more brackets!}], and b) I wanted to sound like a normal person, like I do normal people things, such as cleaning myself whilst doing the nudey-boogey-woogey singing out of time, tune and language to one of Shakira's numbers en español. You know, like normal people).
Unfortunately, I feel I have not much to push these letters for considering the amount of dead space in my brain that's been left by the mass amounts of nothing that's been filling it up. I've not started reading anything new, Deal Or No Deal's still shit but compulsory and the amount of takeaway menus pinned to my noticeboard has risen from one to three, whereas the amount of actual takeaways I've order remains static at zero.
Even worse, I managed to suffer a case of Writer's Block yesterday (although not so much a "block", more of a Writer's Head-On Collision with a Crash Test Wall Where the Dummies Fly Through The Windscreen at Infathomable Speeds Helpfully Slowed Down So Normal People Can See the Hilarity at the Hypothetical Gruesome Deaths of Mannequins [too wordy? {more brackets!!}]). Whilst being told to draft out a short story from a single picture - a fairly simple task, n'est-ce pas? - I found myself spending the first eleven minutes of twenty gazing into the abstract swirlyness of nothing, another three minutes trying to think of a story based on it, and the other six writing what was, in fact, much closer to a shite poem than shite piece of prose. The only thing that could've made it all the more fun is if I'd been told to continue it, work on it, redraft and present it in a mere seven days. Naturally this is what happened and now I have six remaining to do it. But of course, I'm not doing it. Instead, I'm on here moaning about how I'm not doing it (whilst also moaning about how I'm not writing anything [the fact that I've been writing all of this is completely irrelevent in my head {BRACKETS!!}]).
My days of late have been filled by none other than that Satanic bitch called the Internet. I find it thoroughly amazing how something so non-existent can be so distracting. It's essentially the virtual equivalent of a cat batting around a ball of string that's actually made of nothing, even though what constitues as "nothing" does not technically exist considering everything is made of something. But that means if "nothing" can not exist, then "nothing" is nothing and, therefore impossible. Thus "nothing" must be made of something, otherwise it cannot exist. However, "nothing" is just a concept; it does not exist except for in the minds of theologians and philosophers through means of vowel- and consonant-sounds originating from the letters H-I-O-N-T-G-N, which, incidentally, is the sequence I used to get "nothing" on Countdown the other day for seven points.
But yeah, fuck all that. The Internet is just mean. It makes me refresh Facebook every twenty seconds just to see if anyone I remotely care about has decided to say anything of any relevance to my existence or for my own amusement. Of course, this is never the case, so all these seconds of my life are collected up and wasted, thus feeding the monster that is, in fact, this. My further exploitations into the "World Wide Wha...?!" include me having happened upon amusing articles that actually broaden my mind as a reader/writer combo, stumbling across heavily-pixellated (or low quality [brackets?] {MUTHA-FUCKIN' BRACKETS!!!}]) YouTube adaptations of the first half of the songs intended for this year's Eurovision Song Contest (possibly to be followed up by witty/polemical
Basically, what I've been trying to say in all those paragraphs is that I can't be bothered writing, unless I force myself to and just let my brain free onto the page. But this isn't really a page. This a segment of virtual non-entity, which does not technically exist, yet cannot be considered "nothing" as it is in fact something: an amalgamation of letter symbols presented in a way for your actual existent eyes to look at, and your actual existent brain to understand.
Actually, you're better off forgetting everything you've just read for it doesn't actually make sense, is incohesive and I don't feel like being taken away by people in white coats who've had an anonymous phone-call about fears for the state of my mental health. I can assure you I am perfectly sane with a firm grip on reality... until I get on the Internet, that is.
Monday, 28 February 2011
Everyone's Words, But Not In This Particular Order
This was pointed out to me earlier today, and now I done gone and stole it. I would like to point out that these are not my words (well, technically they're everyone's words, but not in this particular order). You may recognise them to some extent, in which case, feel free to sing along; it's only short.
I see you driving
round town with the girl I love,
and I'm like, "haiku".
round town with the girl I love,
and I'm like, "haiku".
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
"The 8-bit Adventures Of Theramin Barbie"
Well, about five hours ago I got in from a gig. Of course, as a drinker of the Creative and Contemporary Arts, what constitutes a "gig" is essentially any time I go to watch people belittle me with their far superior creative minds, ideas, attitudes and approaches to the world around me. Case in point, the Modified Toy Orchestra.
In case the name wasn't self-explanatory enough for you, the Modified Toy Orchestra is an electronic art-music group, who create sounds with... wait for it... modified toys.
This means that, rather than going to watch your favourite singer and chanting along to their raw, easy-going, coffee shop lyrics (or of course getting involved in a moshpit so much you smack you head on the moshing head of the person next to you and bleed profusely for hours long before you care to notice there's anything wrong, by which point you're most likely dead anyway), I was instead treated to a heavy-droning, bass-laden feat of magnificence that somewhat resembled the closest we're ever going to get to "The 8-bit Adventures of Theramin Barbie".
On come the group, led by a man looking and sounding somewhat like a similarly-aged Rufus Hound, dressed in black and each positioned at a table full of electrical sound-emitting equipment ready to let the magic happen; imagine Kraftwerk, except less German... and with a Speak'n'Spell.
The evening didn't go without its upsets, mind. The "gig" took a good 40 minutes to get started after one fuse decided not to work and the replacement fuse decided to interrupt the opening song Black Star with an impromptu bang. Still, we got to see the behind-the-scenes technical roadie magic happen, which informs us of how the real magic happens. Turns out it's not magic, but in fact three audio decks (or whatever they're called), 703 cables and a shit-a-watt of electricity. Luckily, we managed to get back on track and waited with baited breath for the next technical fuck-up; one which, fortunately, never came. (Actually, that's a lie. The projections of the screen froze during one of the songs so we never got to see the forbidden love story featuring a stuffed toy elephant.)
So in the end, the Black Star shone through, and a hella load more electro-tracks filled the ears of the full house, and even perforated a few eardrums (probably) when a wee volume-orientated oversight meant that, while the guy was trying to promote the album, we were presented with a delightfully brain-scraping squeal from something that was once probably a drum, xylophone, or even "the cow says 'moo'" button-pressy-educational-thing. Then prompted that the album we're here to plug was called Scream If You Wanna Go Faster, this was later revealed to be a lie, and that limited edition copies of Plastic Planet would be on sale straight after the show and, as a bonus for simply showing up, the price was lower than normal.
As a student with all of negative-fifty-two pounds to my name, and a hypothetical one-pound-sixty on my person, I remained cautiously optimistic that this "discount price for theatre-goers" would swing in my favour. Naturally I did not rest all hopes on this, and it's a damn good job I didn't when I saw the Arial Bold instructing people to part with £12. In scenes reminiscent of a bazaar in Eastern Morroco (except with better indoor facilities and Contemporary Arts), I did witness some haggling going on, where I'm sure one copy was let go for a tenner because nobody could be bothered working out change, as well as someone trying to pay half-cash half-Argos Gift Card, pointing out that there was probably at least a tenner on it.
Well, technical difficulties happen, heavy bass vibrates your every being, and LeapFrog pads can be customised to sing only the syllables of Mary Had A Little Lamb you want them to. I've embraced the sounds of the evening as I embrace all kinds of new and experimental music I hear for the first time. And once I have money to my name (or at least my bank account), I'll be another follower of the Birmingham science-geek-fest. I feel it's fitting to round this off with a quote, and who better than me himself:
"They're absolutely mad. I love it."
In case the name wasn't self-explanatory enough for you, the Modified Toy Orchestra is an electronic art-music group, who create sounds with... wait for it... modified toys.
This means that, rather than going to watch your favourite singer and chanting along to their raw, easy-going, coffee shop lyrics (or of course getting involved in a moshpit so much you smack you head on the moshing head of the person next to you and bleed profusely for hours long before you care to notice there's anything wrong, by which point you're most likely dead anyway), I was instead treated to a heavy-droning, bass-laden feat of magnificence that somewhat resembled the closest we're ever going to get to "The 8-bit Adventures of Theramin Barbie".
On come the group, led by a man looking and sounding somewhat like a similarly-aged Rufus Hound, dressed in black and each positioned at a table full of electrical sound-emitting equipment ready to let the magic happen; imagine Kraftwerk, except less German... and with a Speak'n'Spell.
The evening didn't go without its upsets, mind. The "gig" took a good 40 minutes to get started after one fuse decided not to work and the replacement fuse decided to interrupt the opening song Black Star with an impromptu bang. Still, we got to see the behind-the-scenes technical roadie magic happen, which informs us of how the real magic happens. Turns out it's not magic, but in fact three audio decks (or whatever they're called), 703 cables and a shit-a-watt of electricity. Luckily, we managed to get back on track and waited with baited breath for the next technical fuck-up; one which, fortunately, never came. (Actually, that's a lie. The projections of the screen froze during one of the songs so we never got to see the forbidden love story featuring a stuffed toy elephant.)
So in the end, the Black Star shone through, and a hella load more electro-tracks filled the ears of the full house, and even perforated a few eardrums (probably) when a wee volume-orientated oversight meant that, while the guy was trying to promote the album, we were presented with a delightfully brain-scraping squeal from something that was once probably a drum, xylophone, or even "the cow says 'moo'" button-pressy-educational-thing. Then prompted that the album we're here to plug was called Scream If You Wanna Go Faster, this was later revealed to be a lie, and that limited edition copies of Plastic Planet would be on sale straight after the show and, as a bonus for simply showing up, the price was lower than normal.
As a student with all of negative-fifty-two pounds to my name, and a hypothetical one-pound-sixty on my person, I remained cautiously optimistic that this "discount price for theatre-goers" would swing in my favour. Naturally I did not rest all hopes on this, and it's a damn good job I didn't when I saw the Arial Bold instructing people to part with £12. In scenes reminiscent of a bazaar in Eastern Morroco (except with better indoor facilities and Contemporary Arts), I did witness some haggling going on, where I'm sure one copy was let go for a tenner because nobody could be bothered working out change, as well as someone trying to pay half-cash half-Argos Gift Card, pointing out that there was probably at least a tenner on it.
Well, technical difficulties happen, heavy bass vibrates your every being, and LeapFrog pads can be customised to sing only the syllables of Mary Had A Little Lamb you want them to. I've embraced the sounds of the evening as I embrace all kinds of new and experimental music I hear for the first time. And once I have money to my name (or at least my bank account), I'll be another follower of the Birmingham science-geek-fest. I feel it's fitting to round this off with a quote, and who better than me himself:
"They're absolutely mad. I love it."
Saturday, 19 February 2011
I'm The Last Person I Wanna Be Angry With
OK I'm making a pledge to you now (which means I actually have to stick to it).
I currently have two ideas for short stories and one idea for a "series of chronicles"... if that it can be called, which I will gladly get started on from next Friday. Why then? Because I have the last of deadlines (well, the last until Easter) to focus on over the next week, and it doesn't help that these ideas keep wanting to burst out and take over my life at the current present, thereby ruining my focus for the stuff I actually have to do.
So here it is, my promise. And it's a promise mostly to myself, that way if I break that promise I'll be really pissed off at me and, trust me, I'm the last person I wanna be angry with. Seriously, I won't speak to me, I won't return my calls, I won't even want to be in the same room as me any more. So if I break this one, I certainly won't forgive myself for it.
I promise, I won't let me down.
I currently have two ideas for short stories and one idea for a "series of chronicles"... if that it can be called, which I will gladly get started on from next Friday. Why then? Because I have the last of deadlines (well, the last until Easter) to focus on over the next week, and it doesn't help that these ideas keep wanting to burst out and take over my life at the current present, thereby ruining my focus for the stuff I actually have to do.
So here it is, my promise. And it's a promise mostly to myself, that way if I break that promise I'll be really pissed off at me and, trust me, I'm the last person I wanna be angry with. Seriously, I won't speak to me, I won't return my calls, I won't even want to be in the same room as me any more. So if I break this one, I certainly won't forgive myself for it.
I promise, I won't let me down.
The Grand Proof-Read of 2011: I don't even remember what the short story ideas were, and I remember the idea for a bunch of "chronicles" being shit. I broke this promise to myself and I am very upset at me.
Friday, 11 February 2011
Highlight Of The Year So Far
Well, I finally feel as though I've made it as a student. I am officially in debt.
Of course, I was officially in debt three years ago thanks to my decision to take up degree studying and get someone else to pay the fees for me. However, the three-and-a-half grand of debts for my three-and-a-half months venturing into the world of Graphic Design, added to the six-thousand so far accumulated since the most recent of Septembers, don't seem to have phased me very much. Actually going thirty-two pounds overdrawn, however, is an entirely different matter.
Yes, I've finally plunged, for the first time in my life, into the non-existent depths of the overdraft. At the time of my monthly shop (because I find it much easier to get all my edibles in one fell swoop and haul it back to the flat by any means necessary [taxi, crowded bus, huskie-pulled sled]), I've finally seen sense in casting off the oppressing shackles of the biggies (Asda, Tesco) and fallen in with the Aldi crowd. It's very self satisfying roaming around collecting goodies that, in a typical supermarket environment, would total upwards of twenty pounds, having all of it bleeped through at lightning speed and being politely mugged for the princely sum of £15.11
Basically, what I just tried to say (in far too many words) is that I've actually hit the point in my life where spending a fiver less than I thought I would've has actually proved to be the highlight of the year so far (subject to change at any moment). However, I've not actually looked at any of it since I brought it home and organised it into relevant fridge, freezer or cupboard spaces. This is due the fact that I actually doubt the existance of such items having been obtained with what I'll be referring to as "hypothetical money".
To top off the crappy uneasy feeling of non-existence and insignificance and other such words found through the use of an online thesaurus, my television watching habits have betrayed me thanks to the fast growing obsession with popular daytime "not-actually-a-game-show" game-show Deal Or No Deal.
Resist as I might, I can't help but get sucked into what is essentially Schrödinger's cat theory remade with twenty-two boxes and, thus, twenty-two specified amounts of prize money (or in this analogy "cats") for the purposes of light entertainment. That, plus to give Noel Edmonds something to do... it has been a while since Noel's House Party to be fair. I've been drawn into the show so much that I've even developed my own strategy of watching it. See, the beginning is rubbish. People who jizz themselves over revealing lower amount early on always fail to realise the fact that only one of the potential prizes (or "cats") on the board is actually significant to them (or "dead"). Therefore, the first half of any episode essentially become background noise to accompany me during various endeavours, including (but not limited to) cooking, writing, tidying, colouring, eating, itching, sleeping, procrastinating, and locking cats in boxes along with unstable vials of arsenic.
Once a game is about half-way through, the game of chance begins to get interesting considering the reduced amount of potential prizes, which can range from a whopping quarter-of-a-million pounds (aka, the cat's alive) to a nice shiny penny (there was no cat in the box to begin with).
Anyway, in today's edition (or rather yesterday's since I'm now posting after midnight), the plucky young lady locked in an epic battle with Fate suffered immeasurable torment when faced with a simple few big money prizes alongside a bunch of lottery tickets with three matching numbers on. She ultimately left the game with a certainly-not-to-be-sniffed-at £7,000. However, on a more personal level, I did that thing that Joe-Public-sitting-at-home-watching-the-TV does and decided to play along as if it were actually me on the other side of the glass box in the corner. I would've continued and found myself facing around £13,000. Slightly more impressive, but the poor student in me took over my state of mind and any rational thinking vacated my body and spirit and various other parts I didn't know existed (they're usually chillin' with the overdrafts over at NatWest Towers). I decided to decline my imaginary £13,000 and got the woman to act as my puppet, eliminating all the rubbish prizes leaving two substantial sums of money... with a substantial gap in between. And that's whenthe banker the Endemol producer using the distorting voice box prominently featured in the Scream trilogy delivered the news that there would be a potential £107,000 up for grabs at this moment. Hypothetical me saw sense and dealt with this six figure sum and rejoiced that he no longer had to worry about debt. Unfortunately, due his hypothetical-ness, he was poisoned inside a enclosed space and tragically did not live to tell the tale.
So that's where I'm at: money woes. Money is the route of all evil, and evil squared is hypothetical (probably). The only thing that managed to save this day from the brink of oblivion was my (possibly hypothetical) jar of hot chocolate, which, when you have to pierce that little golden seal and rip it off from the inside outwards, managed to form itself into the symbol of Yin and Yang, only without the dots. In fact, I'd go as far to say it beats my shopping trip to the title of highlight of the year so far (still subject to change until 23:59, 31 December 2011). OBSERVE:
So, that's how you turn a simple, non-existant thirty-two quid into a fucking essay of a blog post. And for the record, I'm still convinced "The Banker" is actually Mr. Blobby, being the only person(?) to keep Noel's television career alive.
Of course, I was officially in debt three years ago thanks to my decision to take up degree studying and get someone else to pay the fees for me. However, the three-and-a-half grand of debts for my three-and-a-half months venturing into the world of Graphic Design, added to the six-thousand so far accumulated since the most recent of Septembers, don't seem to have phased me very much. Actually going thirty-two pounds overdrawn, however, is an entirely different matter.
Yes, I've finally plunged, for the first time in my life, into the non-existent depths of the overdraft. At the time of my monthly shop (because I find it much easier to get all my edibles in one fell swoop and haul it back to the flat by any means necessary [taxi, crowded bus, huskie-pulled sled]), I've finally seen sense in casting off the oppressing shackles of the biggies (Asda, Tesco) and fallen in with the Aldi crowd. It's very self satisfying roaming around collecting goodies that, in a typical supermarket environment, would total upwards of twenty pounds, having all of it bleeped through at lightning speed and being politely mugged for the princely sum of £15.11
Basically, what I just tried to say (in far too many words) is that I've actually hit the point in my life where spending a fiver less than I thought I would've has actually proved to be the highlight of the year so far (subject to change at any moment). However, I've not actually looked at any of it since I brought it home and organised it into relevant fridge, freezer or cupboard spaces. This is due the fact that I actually doubt the existance of such items having been obtained with what I'll be referring to as "hypothetical money".
To top off the crappy uneasy feeling of non-existence and insignificance and other such words found through the use of an online thesaurus, my television watching habits have betrayed me thanks to the fast growing obsession with popular daytime "not-actually-a-game-show" game-show Deal Or No Deal.
Resist as I might, I can't help but get sucked into what is essentially Schrödinger's cat theory remade with twenty-two boxes and, thus, twenty-two specified amounts of prize money (or in this analogy "cats") for the purposes of light entertainment. That, plus to give Noel Edmonds something to do... it has been a while since Noel's House Party to be fair. I've been drawn into the show so much that I've even developed my own strategy of watching it. See, the beginning is rubbish. People who jizz themselves over revealing lower amount early on always fail to realise the fact that only one of the potential prizes (or "cats") on the board is actually significant to them (or "dead"). Therefore, the first half of any episode essentially become background noise to accompany me during various endeavours, including (but not limited to) cooking, writing, tidying, colouring, eating, itching, sleeping, procrastinating, and locking cats in boxes along with unstable vials of arsenic.
Once a game is about half-way through, the game of chance begins to get interesting considering the reduced amount of potential prizes, which can range from a whopping quarter-of-a-million pounds (aka, the cat's alive) to a nice shiny penny (there was no cat in the box to begin with).
Anyway, in today's edition (or rather yesterday's since I'm now posting after midnight), the plucky young lady locked in an epic battle with Fate suffered immeasurable torment when faced with a simple few big money prizes alongside a bunch of lottery tickets with three matching numbers on. She ultimately left the game with a certainly-not-to-be-sniffed-at £7,000. However, on a more personal level, I did that thing that Joe-Public-sitting-at-home-watching-the-TV does and decided to play along as if it were actually me on the other side of the glass box in the corner. I would've continued and found myself facing around £13,000. Slightly more impressive, but the poor student in me took over my state of mind and any rational thinking vacated my body and spirit and various other parts I didn't know existed (they're usually chillin' with the overdrafts over at NatWest Towers). I decided to decline my imaginary £13,000 and got the woman to act as my puppet, eliminating all the rubbish prizes leaving two substantial sums of money... with a substantial gap in between. And that's when
So that's where I'm at: money woes. Money is the route of all evil, and evil squared is hypothetical (probably). The only thing that managed to save this day from the brink of oblivion was my (possibly hypothetical) jar of hot chocolate, which, when you have to pierce that little golden seal and rip it off from the inside outwards, managed to form itself into the symbol of Yin and Yang, only without the dots. In fact, I'd go as far to say it beats my shopping trip to the title of highlight of the year so far (still subject to change until 23:59, 31 December 2011). OBSERVE:
So, that's how you turn a simple, non-existant thirty-two quid into a fucking essay of a blog post. And for the record, I'm still convinced "The Banker" is actually Mr. Blobby, being the only person(?) to keep Noel's television career alive.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Life And Other Such Things
Well, in the time it's taken me to get back to this thing, an entire January has passed.
My reasoning for not appearing this period of deadage goes thus:
This discovery came about at least over a year ago now anyway, but in true "me"-style, it's taken me until now to act upon it. Hence why, as of about half an hour ago, a brand new place on this (probably) same server was created in honour of me and my "real" writings - which is essentially anything that isn't a rambling mess about how my life is boring, before going on to list a bunch of stuff that's actually occurred in it (see above).
On top of that, this new "serious" blog will be where I leave memos for myself with tips and inspiration from other writings I happen to find interesting, and possibly branch out to show the work of people I already know who write and feel like putting in some douchebag's blog... if they feel like it.
So sound the moderately-volumed fanfare and roll out the beige carpet with a red wine stain on it. For when the only way to write is to come alive at night... you run on lunar-powered energy.
http://lunarpowered.blogspot.com/
My reasoning for not appearing this period of deadage goes thus:
- Not being at a computer over the Christmas and New Year season
- Focussing on work-related studies or study-related work
- Super Mario Galaxy 2
- Infrequent disruptions brought about by excessive noise
- Television
- Attempts at finishing the big-ass book I started way back in November, and
- Cremating onions
This discovery came about at least over a year ago now anyway, but in true "me"-style, it's taken me until now to act upon it. Hence why, as of about half an hour ago, a brand new place on this (probably) same server was created in honour of me and my "real" writings - which is essentially anything that isn't a rambling mess about how my life is boring, before going on to list a bunch of stuff that's actually occurred in it (see above).
On top of that, this new "serious" blog will be where I leave memos for myself with tips and inspiration from other writings I happen to find interesting, and possibly branch out to show the work of people I already know who write and feel like putting in some douchebag's blog... if they feel like it.
So sound the moderately-volumed fanfare and roll out the beige carpet with a red wine stain on it. For when the only way to write is to come alive at night... you run on lunar-powered energy.
http://lunarpowered.blogspot.com/
The Grand Proof-Read of 2011: That blog got posted to three times, none of which were anything to do with writing or tips about writing or anything related to writing at all. It lasted approximately a week and a half before dying a miserable and lonely death, and now only really exists to clog up the Internet that teeniest little bit more.
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