Eccentric Defilement

Make a decision. Decide what it is that you are leaving your grotty little Dickensian hovel for. Is it dine? To feast on the wealth of different food that's on offer around the country? Or is it, in fact, to dine on a feast of a very different kind, a visual feast offered by our theatres and cinemas of varying size and quality. Do not believe, as many do, that you can coincide both, entertain both ideas at the very same time in the very same place. This is because you can't, not without making me want to ferociously tear apart every morsel of your body in an atrocious yet eccentric defilement.

What is the appeal that leads to this tragic quandary? Let us take a forensic look at the truths. Popcorn has the texture of hollow bunions. It is an offensive, cardboard-esque affair which contains the complete lack of ability to impede hunger or fulfil the demands of your taste buds. It is, however, one of the noisiest pieces of fuck one could wish to eat during a film viewing, and to add to the monsoon of piss, it is abundant, lots of little bites each as noisy as the last. Once they have extorted all of the moisture from your trap, I'd imagine you'll want to wash it all down by slurping carelessly on a colossal vat of fizzy liquid until it resonates around the place. Well do carry on, don't mind me for I'm just some unreasonable character with the absurd notion that I could watch and a film in a cinema without people having their supper round me.

Cheap is it? Is it fuck. The mark up is literally outrageous, yet, to my bewilderment, horrendous plebs everywhere buy it up like its property on Southbank. What, are you some sort of cunt or something? Just start acting your age. No one wants to hear you crunching loudly, heavily breathing and swilling round mashed up corn and fanta in your trough mouth before forcing it down your dense, unintelligent throat, not even you.

Just try not to eat loud things in a place where ambience is everything, who knows, you might enjoy not destroying your own experience. Besides, you're ruining Batman for everyone else in this dark, humid, filthy battery farm of a room...

A Fart In a Slipper

Right, a little hit and run post for you. Not because it is a particularly quick ordeal, but because you'll come away from this with a great deal of  injustice and bewilderment.
There is probably, by which I mean almost certainly, less to me than meets the eye. What I lack in cultural nouse I do not make up for in any sophisticated or prudent endeavour. What I will do, however, is voice and  criticise what I find uncouth like I am some sort of authority on the matter, also known as a tit.


Now I see Japanese heritage as a rich and diverse tapestry, one that haemorrhages discipline, order and its fair share of bizarre behaviour and drawings. There is probably a lot of disagreeable facets to their culture, but one particular part I find most difficult to understand. Sushi. We're talking raw fish, cold rice, seaweed. We shouldn't be talking that, but we are. Fish is an already obnoxious flavour and odour, throwing itself round like its the Guv'nor. Before you know it it's up your nose, round your plate, over your utensils, lets not then take that sort of substance and serve it raw and cold. You wouldn't do that with duck would you? I mean, would you? No, because that's fucking odd. Raw fish and seaweed is  offensive to all five senses, and before you ask; squelchy, it sounds squelchy. It feels like poking a slimy, lifeless corpse, it smells like a badly beaten vagina, it looks like sick wrapped in rice and seaweed and it tastes just dreadful.


Least it's not harmful I suppose. That is until we begin slapping the raw fish on top of cold rice. Bacteria thrives in cold rice, it's a right fucker for a bit of chilled grain, that and causing unforgiving altercations in your bowels. Ok, so maybe it's cheap, given that rice is a ludicrously abundant commodity and we're skipping, unbelievably, the whole cooking side of things. Opposite. Sushi is really very expensive, never have I paid so much for so little, for such an underwhelming experience. It was akin to paying someone to just violate my senses, to massage my face with a fart in a slipper.


It would be short of me to deny that they do at least try and mask the ugly taste of sea dregs. They do so with pickled ginger, wasabi sauce and soy sauce, one of the most aggressive culinary entourages I've had to bear. Ginger harrases the tongue whilst the volatile mix of wasabi and soy sauces get to work on your throat and eyes.On reflection I think I'd just prefer the taste of sea water over the pungent, burning sensation these give.

Who, given these observations, could still like sushi? Well, not me. Maybe someone who has time and money to fritter away, but not me. 

Ten beers, 3 fishbowls and a week of torture.

It's easy to spot a Brit abroad. We're a virus, a bald-headed, tattooed virus. We spread throughout the world like an aggressive infection marking what we think is ours as we go. We do it just as dogs do; pissing on every surface, trying to fuck anything that moves and having a good old fashioned skirmish (more popularly referred to as casually kicking the fuck out of someone). Just look for the ill-mouthed, topless drunks with the enormous sense of entitlement and an undeserved sense of accomplishment.

In the last three years I've been on four 'lads holidays', you know the crack, the holidays that revolve around a  week of sun, booze, vaginas, booze, shit food, unbearable heat, booze, tits, acting like a fucknut, being an actual fucknut and a great deal of moisture falling out of your arsehole and mouth on a daily basis. Sounds fucking horrendous doesn't it? Well there's no twist at the end of this particular fable, it is fucking horrendous. The day will begin at around twelve o'clock whereby you receive a wake up call, a wake up call via the medium of teeth-grindingly bad amounts of restlessness due to the unnatural quantity of heat being applied to your body and the worryingly low quantity of water in the poor sod. From this rude awakening you'll move on to a cycle of beer, chips and pizza, swimming, vomiting, gawking at breasts and arses that could not be further out of your league and sunburn. If you come through this and are still conscious it's time to start drinking again, and I mean serious drinking where the aim is self-destruct and the booze is of sewer quality. If you make it out you can expect to spend the night trying to balance on the dance floor and passing it off as dancing, more vomiting, being rude to very good looking women, being successful with moose like women, trying not to collapse whilst throwing punches and being lost, alone.

Whilst I've lost a lot of my brain through these vacations, the remaining portion begs for the answer to the question, "why do you continue to put your body through this?". Why do I and many like me go to climates that are alien and harmful to our bodies, to eat food that is alien and harmful to our body, and drink alcohol that is alien and harmful to our body and to try to perform sexual acts that are, quite frankly, alien and harmful to our bodies? What's worse than going to a large, sweaty, dark, smoky room full of sexually motivated 'lads' (cunts) moving their shoulders to the beat and eye-balling every girl in sight? I'd say being one of those lads and picking one of these poor girls to rub your crotch against on the slight off chance she might turn around and do something other than tell you how much you look like John Merrick and slap your unorthodox, modern art face.

I'll tell you why I'm mad for holidays like this. Because it's an environment that is provided just so people can be fucking outrageous. I mean really outrageous, really silly for every hour in a whole week. An environment where being offensive, overstated, drunk, loud, naked and an all-round 'orrible little bastard is acceptable, encouraged in fact. Who doesn't want a bit of that to break up the otherwise middle-of-the road year?

There's something intrinsically British about causing a bit of alcohol fuelled chaos abroad, about letting the locals know exactly who we are and what we're about, about laughing when it looks like someone's been murdered in your toilet but it's actually only your rotting insides and shame that coat the bowl. When you're surrounded by nothing but this surrealism you forget about any worries in your life. There's no jobs, no results, no boredom, there's nothing but what you want to do and when you want to do it.

These weeks are some of the best, most unforgettable weeks of my life and it will take a force of nature to hold me back from signing up to more. Smash on summer 2013.

The Return of The King

I was sitting in my bed, a bed that lacked any sheets, cleanliness or dignity, and I decided to read the blog that I created several years ago, a time when my mind seemed to be rife with creativity. Two things came to my attention on reading back through it.

Firstly, I just don't know who I thought I was. I'm not saying this as some sort of metaphysical puzzle, but rather who on earth did I think I was to make the claims I was making? Beats me. Despite a year of abusing my brain with alcohol and despite undertaking first year Philosophy, exercises which are equally as detrimental to your cognitive well being, I can at least remember far enough back to recall the intentions of this self-absorbed webpage. It began as a place to vent my frustrations and perhaps even suggest answers to them but ultimately both aims were to transcend a playfulness, whimsy and all round jokeyness. It was designed to make people smile. In hindsight I may not even have got a smirk, or any emotion close to contentment. I can only assume that I am considered to be a very troubled little child to those that read my posts, one that couldn't spell and had a very basic grasp on grammar.

Now this brings me on to my second of the two observations, namely that no one actually does read this blog. I could have spent the last three years systematically posting pictures of me raping livestock or strangling a swan with my own optic nerve and yet less than one thousand people would know about these heinous crimes, and less than seven of them would actually care enough to do anything about it.

The first of these realisations (that I had a muddled writing style, consistent grammatical shortcomings and tended to make ridiculous, offensive and obtuse claims) I thought about rectifying. I thought that after a years break that I might be able to write something decent, something respectable and worth shouting about. A year hence and given the second of my realisations, I've decided that this would be fruitless. Why waste time trying to achieve anything of that level when no one even fucking reads this? Why put myself through the bother of writing insightful posts when I might as well write narcissistic, crude, nonsensical, out-spoken, unsupported, groundless and futile gibberish?

I'm back and I wish to offend people, I won't stop until I cause upset, even to you. Especially to you.

I'm off to get some goats, a swan and to tear out my optic nerve, I suggest you do the same before my next post.

Leaky Cornhole

We're like skirting board you know? We exist, but there's really no reason for us at all. We're just the sorry conclusion of evolution so far; four billion years worth. Four Billion years! Fuck me it's tragic.

After a length of time that is completely incomprehensible, you would have thought nature could muster together something, anything, better than us. We plod around; sour faced, self-absorbed shit tanks, crawling from one disappointment to another with nothing but abject piffle to fill the vast, black chasms between.

Talking of vast, black chasms, i saw an arse that could advertise scurvy this week. In fact, this is the kind of gruesome imagery that you can expect to enjoy every week, courtesy of Channel 4's "Embarrassing Bodies". Each episode focuses on ten or so people who have life-stalling problems with their bodies, and allows us to delve deep into the most graphic and personal of details....or their arse. They each come to the team of doctors to seek advice about the embarrassing illness which befalls them, and in the process, we, the vultures of misfortune, get to feed off their personal anguish. It's got everything we want, doesn't it? We get to gawp at illnesses that are as cruel as an assault in a piss stained alley, but we also get to rejoice as they embark on their remarkable yet inevitable recovery. It's a viewers dream; shocking but thrilling images, raising of your self esteem, and joyous closure; it's like sex with a leprechaun.

Often the patients tell us they are too embarrassed about their body to change in front of their partner, or to visit their doctor without a screwdriver in case they have to gauge his eyeballs out to stop him screaming at their grotesque disfigurement. Why then, do they see national TV as the most confidential, incognito path to a cure? If their abominable illness wasn't enough, and being paraded around on national TV didn't ensure full and categorical abasement, the juxtaposition between the repugnant illnesses and the fully made up, radiant doctors makes certain that they are the most embarrassed that they could possibly be, ever. The title lends itself to reinforcing the shame too, it should be renamed, how about 'shit bodies' or 'let's stare at people with really unfortunate anatomy'?

If i have a shitting problem, the last person i want poking around with my grey, leaky cornhole is an attractive female doctor who looks like she just fell out of heat magazine. I want a down-trodden, bearded old man whose face is on a similar level to that of my infected arse.

Another baffling notion is why it has taken so long for so many to get so much that was so desperately needed. Too often are my ears caressed with 'i've been shitting blood for 5 years now' or 'i've had a gargantuan puss head for 17 years now'. Why has it taken them so long to realise there is a broad misfire occurring?

The programme is positively graphic with very little filter for anything taboo, from arseholes to bellends, you'll witness it all. I'm not complaining though; i'm a misogynist just like the next man. Just like you. sicko.

I suppose i had better be thankful that i am one of those shit tanks, plodding around with my sour face; that's all that keeps me from being one of those poor bastards that you see on TV, you know, the ones with the shit bodies?

Word Search

I hate times like these. I'm sat in my boxers with cheap baked bean sauce plastered around the sides of my mouth, wondering what it is that keeps people watching 'The Jeremy Kyle Show'. The show is frustratingly consistent. There are only ever two types of willing participants; gaunt, weathered, anemic alcoholics who look like they've been startled by a fire alarm, or obscenely over-weight alcoholics that look like bits of old fart putty by the time they reach the stage. All of the livestock are northern, and they all have mouths like a diseased vagina. Surely people this ugly are bound within the confines of mythical fabrication?

These fine examples of non-sentient life have come to the oracle because they believe he can mop up the hurricane of piss that materialises itself as their life. What actually happens, is he jizzes their lives yet further up the wall of self perpetuating plight. Arguments ensue, hatred is bred and relations breakdown further until Kyle bravely brings things round to a well balanced and valuable conclusion in which he voices the reasons for why his life is worth living, whilst our contestant's lives are not. I dislike Jeremy Kyle as much as i presume he dislikes himself, the narcissistic, gormless little turd.

What's apocalyptically depressing is that 'The Jeremy Kyle Show' might only be the second most insufferable scheme in the history of the television. The last time i was left sitting in my boxers undergoing puzzlement of considerable magnitude, i had just witnessed the 'adopt a word' advert. The company auctions off words and then puts the proceeds into charities that help children with communication difficulties. A noble cause, i think we'd all agree. The notion behind this cause, however, is as disconcerting as handing over your child to Willy Wonka and his delightfully off beat yet sinister character. My already fractious nature battles hard against surrealism and confusion to understand what they are actually selling me here. Let's explore the series of problems that should have prevented such a well-intended yet tragic farce.

Words are not things you can own, store away from others and lock selfishly in your closet. To adopt a word is to adopt nothing at all, it gives you no rights concerning that word and makes it no more exclusive for others. It would be synonymous with adopting the colour yellow or adopting clouds or adopting something else that is out side material reality and common sense.

Also thrown upon the ever-growing pile of burning carcasses is the issue of who gave this company the right to auction off what is not theirs. Who gave them the right to deny the freedoms of literature and of speech, to wave the flag of linguistic oppression so freely? Even if you could break the chains of logic and adopt words, they are not the authority from which i would do so, they are merely cowboys, highwaymen, frauds; they have just stolen these words and are selling them back to the rightful owners through bribery!

Away from the hyperboley, there also seems to be a logical inconsistency within this companies blueprints. If they argue that there is some supplementary experience to be gained from adopting a word, that you have more rights over that words than anyone else, then they are making words exclusive and thus going violently off message; if i wanted to help a child communicate, the last thing i would do, short of tearing their eyes out, is adopt words and limit further their vocabulary. If they admit that this is not the case, that their intention is not to make words exclusive, then they implicitly admit that adopting words is a cavernous hollow, a vacuous black hole, negative matter. They accept that you gain nothing out of doing it and that this whole idea is a big pile of shit. Nothing more.

I do want to get dressed you know, it's just the thought of the Jeremy Kyle show, and now this advert, it tumbles me into immobilising despair...that and I've got a to-do list longer than a prog-rock song. Still, i'm off to wipe my arse on pictures of Kyle and slip into something more comfortable, preferably a coma.

Cult Fiction: The 30 Second Smackdown

Many think that the ancient conflict between science and religion cannot be solved and that any attempt to do so is a meaningless exercise. Not only is it not meaningless, but it is finite; there is a right answer. As reason continues to headbutt the wall, with not much more than a neck now after thousands of years, it is time to make it undeniably plain. Consider this the Atomic power. The smackdown.

If you have greater cognitive ability than a chimp, or Kerry Katona, the delivery of this series of logical facts should leave a Christian speechless and his beliefs groundless in about 30 seconds flat. Got your timer ready? Go.!

Jesus states in the Bible (the unquestionable word of God) that he will return for the second coming within the lifespan of his disciples. We know that they are dead and this has not happened. This leaves us with four possible options:

• One, the Bible recorded it wrong and thus can no longer be considered the infallible word of God. All within it must be disregarded. Christianity: Destroyed
• Two, Jesus was wrong about his second coming and therefore is not an infallible, perfect being. Christianity: Destroyed.
• Three, Jesus had the audacity to lie and therefore is not an infallible, perfect being. Christianity: Destroyed.
• Four, the entire claim is made up, and thus the Bible can no longer be regarded as the infallible word of God. Christianity: Destroyed.

This is the question has plagued reason for Milena. Within 30 seconds the opposition is forced onto the back foot and very almost onto the floor.

Whilst this should have convinced you, perhaps it did not. Let's try one more...Reset the timer for another round of 30 seconds yet? Go!

We know the speed of light; we can measure it exactly (299,792,458 metres per second), and we have measures such as redshift and parallax to know the approximate location of distant stars. We can then, from this, say it took a certain number of years for light from stars to reach the observing telescope (distance of the star divided by the distance light can transverse in one year).

If the Stars were created on the fourth day like the word of God profoundly states, making them about 6,000 years old, many of the stars that we are able see in the night's sky would not yet be visable to us since the light could not have possibly reached earth. Stars must be at least as old as the time it took their light to reach us from their previously measured distance. A star ten billion light years away would be ten billion years old. Christianity: Destroyed.

Remarkably, these obtuse blunders are riddled throughout God's divine word. Here i have ruthlessly dragged forth from the black just two, simply to show how easy it is to deconstruct the alleged 'good book' and it's readers beliefs. Whilst i could sit here are spill essays worth of these logical transgressions, i feel i should do something a little more challenging; such as playing a sock at battleships.

Whomping Willow

Whilst i knew 'bad things' are supposed to come in threes, i did not realise it applied to the diabolically shit also. At a time when music seems to be straight-jacketed down and banged up in a cellar somewhere, Will Smith's daughter seized the opportunity to break into the perpetual corruptness that came to replace it.

The song itself is nothing but exquisite agony. It's much like a fire alarm; piercing and unrelenting. The same seven words are sung in a high pitched synthetic cycle until you are left dribbling on the floor with your nerves destroyed. Strike one then; the song is terrible, even by 2011's depressingly low standards.

Perhaps it's lyrical prowess will make up for it, delivering poetry and beauty in equal measure. Then again perhaps not. What are those seven words then? "i whip my hair back and forth". Not only are seven words repeated over and over like an air raid siren, the words are completely meaningless. Quite frankly, i don't believe for one second she whips her hair back and forth, no one does, because it's mental. It's a mental thing to do. There are countless things she does, trivial as they may be, but at least if she sung about them she wouldn't be lying, or sound insane. strike two, the song is meaningless debris, not even worth singing for the sake of singing.

Her father, Will Smith, is as good as a household name. He has worked hard at everything he has achieved and has done it all himself. His career has been an inspirational journey, full of determination, and now he stands that bit taller than the rest. This song, however, is a big black mark against his otherwise faultless name. Firstly, Smith admits how meticulous he is about his work, with anything with his name on it. Why then has he allowed this musical disaster to be created, aired and branded with his name? For a man whose music career was below par, you might expect him to have some say in his daughter's, to make certain that this time, it was perfection. Secondly, she is ten. Ten years old. Ten years of age. I don't think it is particularly acceptable to have her dancing around 'whipping her hair back and forth', dressed like she's straight out of Compton to music that is associated with fat, sweaty buffoons rubbing their disgusting bodies up against some helpless girl. It's a mature sounding song, played in clubs, not discos.

It is not as if the Smith empire are struggling for money. I struggle to fathom why he didn't say no, not yet. Why not foster her singing for a few more years, until she reaches sixteen, and then unleash her? By that time she'll be a better singer, she'll understand more about life and music, and she won't be remembered for this monotonous offal.

Something Equally As Silly

After another installment of 'Cult Fiction', a post with a more straight faced expression, i think its high time i return to spilling my pretentious and miserable outlook onto a page, an outlook concerning how i disagree with the efficiency of how a dog drinks, or something equally as silly.

I'll tell you what's silly. A half ton human. That's what. 'Half a ton' should never, ever be an adjective for a human. Ever.

Channel 4 strikes again, unveiling this time Patrick Deuel, all 76 stone of him. Like all channel 4 documentaries, 'Half Ton Man' throws down facts, images and comparisons as if each were well calculated blows from an eloquently forged katana.

For some perspective, Deuel could not lie on his back because he would drown in himself. Again, 'drown' and 'himself' should never be separated by just the word 'in'. It was revealed that his best suited mode of transport (out of where his windows used to be) was a fork-lift truck designed for transporting killer whales. What took me back yet further was that for a man who was clearly a burden to society, who manifested his own transformation into sludge, he was amazingly stubborn, rude in fact. His poor wife....yes wife... was asked why she didn't just allow him access to healthy foods, or limited foods. Whilst she stood there like a simpering cocktail sausage, he threw himself into the question; "Oh I'll rip you to shreds if you don't let me do something, it's how i am". I found this remark similar to if a man with no legs threatened to 'hunt me down', i would fancy my chances, very much so. He later lectured the camera man about how his extra weight was product of a genetic disposition and not due to over-eating. As he said this, the camera scanned the background filled with pizza boxes, burger trays and sodas, food just hanging off every surface, it was like a man pleading for innocence whilst still bludgeoning his victim to death with his own daughter. Like many of today's bastard claims, science came riding in with its golden armour and slashed his odious lie to the ground; "he'd need to eat 15,000 calories a day in order to maintain the weight of 76 stone".

To lose weight you might expect an individual to be strong willed, sensible, organised and active. Deuel is none of these things and less, but he has lost over 40 stone. He's doing it with a finger up at all diets that have ever been thought of. He had an operation to vastly decrease the size of his stomach, and as a result, he can't not lose weight. After losing 9 stone (from 44 to 37), he came home and celebrated with a whole bucket of the colonels finest, chips, beans, chicken dippers, a packet of salt and vinegar and cheese bites.

This man is smiling at death, calling it a wanker with one hand whilst shovelling fistfuls of gruel into his mouth with the other. I'd describe the paradox as beauty. In fact I'll raise my 'beauty' to sumptuous. Human science providing a cure for the almost incurable in aid of a man who possesses less wit than a battered chicken leg. But since the last post focused on a paradox, i will turn this on its head. His body is quite simply a masterpiece. Despite the constant artillery of fried food smashing down upon it, the reoccurring blows of cholesterol on his arteries and the daily prospect of supplying an 8-foot wide human, his heart has still not given in. A biological miracle inside a biological disaster.

In recognition of the John Mclean of hearts.

Cult Fiction: Detox the Paradox

It was as if i had had a eureka! moment, but then realised my arms, legs and head had fallen off. There was illumination, but no celebration, instead it was a rather more solemn train of thought, a feeling of intellectual injustice was left festering inside of me. I studied at a school that is well regarded academically, and that will destroy anything that threatens the attainment of high grades from its disciples. It is an educational machine. People go in, they're formed into high achieving, well balanced people or they and their renegade nature are bundled out of the fast moving van and left to decay in the gutter, hog tied and beaten black. As such, it's most valued subjects are the sciences and mathematics. The curriculum reflects the age of reason, where science is the discipline that, broadly speaking, can identify what is true and false, with the use of evidence. The scientific method, whereby claims are made, researched, tested and then either accepted or rejected, is the modern way to think, the educated way to think, the only way to think if one seeks proofs, and of course, mathematics serves to bind all of this. To me then, the school is clearly stressing the importance of science, the aim being to keep up with the only real way in which we speak and know more about reality.

Running parallel with this programme of science, however, is the traditionalist side of things. The school was founded as a christian school, and it still tries to maintain this title. It persists to hold services in the cathedral where hymns are sung about Gods grace and prayers are read about giving thanks to God for all that he has provided, everything is bound by religious belief. At the recent Harvest festival celebration we were not taught to thank the farmers, to thank our agricultural scientists for advancing technology, but to thank God for providing crops and our intelligence.

For a school that encourages inquisition, not enough of its students are asking questions about this absurd paradox. On the one hand; science, reason, logic and truth. On the other, ancient, un-supported, wild and false claims. For me, there seems to be an overt intellectual conflict, for you cannot accept one side and also accept the other. It really is remarkable. I have never seen such reckless disregard for truths well-being. Suppose you learn about how evolution has occurred, how it has evidence chambers over-flowing with support, and how it has shaped nature and biodiversity. After this lesson, you have to attend the cathedral service that is full to the brim of stories of how God has given us life on this earth, and at the time he did, it was as it is now, and this was perfect. Though clearly inferior to Darwin's life works, it should not even be humoured anymore, no longer should we have to listen to such erroneous notions, for they embarrass my intellect.

What's really disgusting, is that children are subjected to this. They believe what they are told, because they're taught to learn from authority. To make these children decide who to believe, the teacher or the man in the cathedral, and to present it to them as if it is a choice between two credible paths of perceiving reality is professionally derelict of all teaching staff.

I don't know how the teachers and older, more thoroughly educated pupils accept such a contradiction, i suppose they just ignore it, think it's just tradition. But the true problem is the planting of out-dated, inaccurate claims in children's minds. It is simply not efficient and is entirely counter productive. It is exactly similar to teaching a child that 8 divided by 2 equals 4 but at the same time 8 divided by 2 equals 3.

Mainstream education should be kept completely separate from religious teaching, since their messages can not co-exist peacefully. Understanding religious belief, from a historical, demographic point of view, should be considered helpful, but grasping this, and managing to isolate its teachings from reality, along with grasping science is a process that only a fully matured brain can cope with.

It is time to plunge the sword deep into this paradox, it is time to make the inevitable and unavoidable move forward and to stop clinging desperately to tradition, tradition that actually adds nothing to furthering children's education. It is time to allow schools to fulfill their purpose.

Fubar Lunch

I now work, as part of a gap year, at the school that i have attended for around a decade of my life. Along this conduit of education, laden with hard work and out-dated traditions, there has been some decisions made by the governing body of the school that have created a confection of well spoken unrest. At GCSE, they introduced an ISA, a practical element to the sciences exams. At A-level, they made it the rule of thumb to do 4 A-levels and to move back the date of AS examinations to January of the second year of sixth form. Perhaps unsurprisingly, both these changes happened to our year as the experiment; we were the Guinea pig year. None of these announcements, however, conjured as much bemusement and misfiring of my senses as the latest debacle.

The school announced that for one day both staff and pupils alike, will have a limited lunch, a rationed meal, a bread roll and a cup of soup. For this, we are expected to crumble to our knees and not protest when we are stung to the tune of £3 for the remarkably underwhelming experience. Behind the lunacy, there is a cause, it is essentially a fund raiser for Pakistan. This is not the problem; i am not a miserly misogynist. The problem is that we can raise the same amount of money in a fashion that is not going to cause suffering, be it minor. Mufti days, wear a hat days, eat a normal lunch but just wear something slightly different days..

The reasoning behind it is that this 'frugal lunch' day, will allow us blessed, fortunate and privileged, to partially experience one of the major problems in Pakistan in order to gain greater insight into what they are going through and provoke enhanced empathy towards them. Perhaps if this scheme was adopted for a week, this might work. A day, however, will simply create protests, unrest, complaints and under-nourishment. When people are safe in the knowledge that the norm is being reinstated the next day, it is an excuse for a pessimistic outlook, unity in misery. The reason the week long rationing wouldn't ever be considered, is that the governing body realise what a truly ridiculous notion this is.

From a utilitarian perspective, the population of Pakistan is suffering already, let's not make more people suffer, even for a day. One might suggest that it could create more empathy and in turn result in higher levels of 'good'. It will not, for in 24 hours after the meagre offerings, the children will once more play with their frubes, dance amongst their crisps and skip fancifully amidst their confectionery of varying assortment.

If i were to raise money for Help the Heros, for the brave men who fought for their country and have been maimed in return, i would run a race, climb a mast, wear home clothes. What i wouldn't do, is blow my legs off so as to place my self in their position. If i were raising money for the poor individuals that live amongst an African shanty town, in squalor and poverty, i would host a sponsored rugby match, i would do a sponsored silence, i would provide a cake sale service. What i wouldn't do, is shit in my drinking water and inject cholera directly into my bowels. This idea of putting yourself in their boots doesn't work, it is just an excuse for not just failing to avoid wholly avoidable plight, but manifesting it in the first place.

The idea will prove itself to be a massively unsuccessful campaign and if the school has any sense left unabandoned, future charity ideas at the school will come under KGB-esque scrutiny, so as to not entertain a repeat of this mammoth disaster.

Poetic Justice

Where speaking in tongues and child gibberish fall short, poetry does an inspired job of making it certain that no sense is made, that the plot is entirely lost. It doesn't make sense when you read it, and it doesn't make sense that it is a continuing phenomena, once again, i am left confounded. Of course, with English GCSE still ringing in my ears, it is only right to say that many poems do make sense, and posses a tangible story or meaning; one that you don't have to dig until your fingernails are torn away for.

However, it occurs to me that much of what some poetry tries to say, convey or elude to could be said in a far shorter time and in a much less complicated and coded way. Its indirect illumination of topics is a middle man too far. Its closest comparison is giving me braille to read. Why make the message so confusing? I don't need the supplementary experience that arises from working out the meaning of the poem; predominantly rage.

I don't believe anyone actually finds their thoughts about the world floating around habitually in the whimsy of poetic surrealism; such detachment from reality would cause the body to irreversibly shut down. Bizarre, absurd surrealist poetry with incorrect grammar and spelling, and a disorderly structure can only be a form of salvation from writers' block; it can't be judged since it's logical errors are all intentional, the writer has written something, and that something is a fortress of defense against criticism.

It occurred to me that if a poem talks about nature, perhaps its beauty, then you are far better off wandering into the depths of a wood, and appreciating nature for yourself. Why appreciate a beautiful poem when you can appreciate the subject that the poem itself finds beautiful. Any beauty permeating through the poem can never be as beautiful as the thing it describes, it can only ever be superficial in this respect. A poem is a review of the subject matter or concept, an opinion or description of it...why not jump past all these things and just appeal to the subject matter or conceptual idea itself, for it is there that you will get the true 'message' that the poem is trying to deliver, one that is made of your cognitive thoughts that are stimulated by the concept rather than someone elses. If you prefer the poems illustrations of conceptual information, you should also wander into the depths of a wood, and end it all.

In conclusion, i see no real need for it. It has no place in the universe. To say it is an unnecessary evil is perhaps an unfair appraisal of this radical poetry, to say it is unnecessary however, is nothing but fair. It has no bearing on reality, and is inadequate when reviewed in the shadow cast over it by television, music or films.

Such poetic lunacy can be aligned with modern art in terms of its value to society; fuck all. Modern art is clearly a step made by those less able at painting, at sculpture, those that can't do. Instead they've tailored their very own style; interpretive art, art that expresses 'emotions', political discourse, world problems, etc. etc.

I recently visited the Sistine Chapel, just another one of those priceless artifacts that the Vatican hoards greedily. Anyway, it was astonishing, the level of artwork, commitment and genius required to turn this huge blank canvas into an apotheosis of design is enough to make me question my own existence through feelings of inadequacy. Micheal Angelo puts both modern art and poetry to shame. Through the chapel, he tells a poetic fable through the use of faultless art. Simultaneously he makes the modern art community and radical poetry communities look very small and worthless. He probably had great expectations for the evolution of design and writing. In most respects, these expectations should consider themselves fulfilled. However, if he bared witness to the unforgivable regression into modern art, i think he would have never have become an artist, rather, a campaigner to nip this shitstorm in the bud and deem all art as satanist work.

I will stress here at the close, that i find many poems appealing, and also moving, most particularly those written about warfare and loss. This post targets the newer, alternative style of writing, ones that perhaps i will find moving, but have yet to unravel and comprehend.

Cult Fiction: Religious Liberalism

For me, a religious liberal is someone who identifies themselves as a 'Christian', but does not necessarily subscribe to all of the religious dogma, especially some of the hard line beliefs. For the liberal, religion is not about literal interpretation of such scriptures as the Bible, but instead, about personal interpretation, about love, community and finding individual meaning from the words. Faith, for the moderate, is there for strength, to ensure a morally good life is being lead, and to comfort the 'believer'. I have encountered many who will call themselves 'Christians', but have not read the first paragraph of the Bible. Many that call themselves 'believers' but have not stepped foot in a church on a Sunday, instead, they gorge on their un-holy portions of roast. And they will say; "what is the problem? I like to think something is out there and that i can go somewhere when i snuff it. We are all free to think what we think, you can't tell me what to believe!"

Correct, i cannot bestow upon you what i think you should think, after all i am not a fascist, but what i will do is illuminate what you believe, and from the darkness drag up the problems i see with it.

The problem is that the liberal is cherry-picking from a fully documented religion. He chooses what he wants to believe from it, most likely the earliest taught and the easiest concepts to comprehend; Heaven, Hell and the ten commandments. He will also, however, disregard the religious claims that are harder to justify to the modern intelect; that God created the universe in 7 days but 6,000 years ago and put every living organism on the earth as we see it today.

This, much to the disappointment of many millions of liberals, can't be done due to both logical issues and the terms and conditions of subscribing to a religion. It is not logically consistent to accept distant and widely accepted parts of Christianity but reject the rest of the claims that are intrinsically linked to it. The Bible is either the word of God and thus infallible, or it is nothing; meaningless, a marvel comic. If one genuinely believes some part of Christian dogma is true but does not agree with it in its entirety, then they are not Christian, they are in fact, as atheistic and as blasphemous is i am.

Do not take my word for it of course, turn to Christianity itself. If you do not take Genesis seriously, you are not a Christian, and you will suffer the torments of Hell. If you do not believe that Jesus was resurrected and that he will be resurrected once more, you will suffer the torments of Hell. If you do not pray and if you do not go to church, you will suffer the torments of Hell. If you do not accept the every word of the Bible to be true, then you are not a Christian, you have adapted the original dogma for your own ends, and thus, if it is the ultimate reality, you will burn. If you thought my atheistic stance was blunt, now you know how the true Christian thinks of the liberal; that they are nothing but an example of false belief going through life making a mockery of true faith.

Any 'religious' man who stands before you and says this is incorrect, that the Bible is there for interpretation and to act as a guide to perfect morality is, in fact, wrong since this claim is entirely groundless, from whence has he made this conclusion? The Bible claims to be Gods word, to suggest that it is anything other than this is unfounded, he has simply made it up so as to; One, Justify his stance of not obeying the Bibles out of date and, frankly, ridiculous word, and two, to ensure the maintenance of his 'Faith' and his stairway to heaven.

We used to be more reliant on faith, the further you go back in time, the more reliant we were. It was the gap filler, the explanation for the unknown (of which we have an inherent fear of), and as time has progressed, as has our knowledge of the universe. This has meant at each generation, since the enlightenment, religion, as a whole, has been diminishing. Yes, the number of believers, but more importantly, the number of people who can legitimately be labelled, actually Christian, and who actually read the Bible and cling hopelessly to its every word. Instead, given the advancements in technology and knowledge, there has been an emergence of religious liberalism that is growing exponentially.

As belief becomes less devout in families, as a result of science's unforgiving assault upon religious claims, the true teachings of that religion find themselves un-taught. Each generation bases their faith on what they are told about their faith, not what they have read about it. Unless complete purist indoctrination occurs, based on the traditional scriptures, the only result for the modern religious community is Hell (if Christianity be true of course). If they believe because their family does, and they have not read the Bible for themselves, they will be thrown upon a firey stalagmite just like i will because they will not be carrying out the necessary actions, the actions that the Bible order, that God orders. Actual belief does not permeate through inheritance, through hymns or weekly murmurs of the lords prayer, but instead through reasoning, autonomic choice and the true understanding of what the dogma is proclaiming.

These people are religiously uneducated, they do not know what it means to be a Christian and thus live their lives under a false banner. If they actually took time to read the Bibles dangerous, ancient and absurd claims, they would spontaneously combust into an atheist, of that, i have no doubt.

The Meaning Of Life.

In its most basic form, life does not have the scope to fully satisfy the modern human. None of us would be happy to roam around with our spears and loin cloths, hunting down our Big Mac, yet we could survive; we did survive. At each advance in technological resources, we have gone through a conduit of novelty, acclimatization and dependence. This cycle meant every push, over the trench of modernisation, that would play a major role in the life of mankind, would be another irreversible notch forwards, a notch that we would soon be reliant upon. Though i am not eluding that we physically could not survive if plunged back into the dark ages, i am suggesting that none of us, that have experienced the obscenely hedonistic life of post-millennium, could be happy, not until we re-adjusted, and i could not see many of us, if any, making this transmogrification. I recently suffered the unimaginable plight of a power cut. Firstly, in this day and age, i shouldn't have to go through the ordeal, but apparently us country dwellers don't deserve the commodity of an efficient electricity rescue service.

The point is, that i nearly died that day, everything that my life relied upon was taken, just like that, light, tv, Internet, my phone went down and i couldn't charge it, i couldn't cook a meal, i couldn't even have a warm shower. My life had careened into the floor and it was then that i realised how much i rely on these commodities. I could go on about how pathetic it is that we rely on such appliances, and how we should submit to nature, but i won't, because frankly it's too late and it's our natural progression; the evolution of technology. I clench my jaw through existence as it is, let alone when stripped bare.

Life, according to my latest theory, is very simplistic; the ability to live on this diverse planet. What you see is what you get, it's a ronseal job. And as I've already said, we are not happy with this, the human mind requires stimulation to levels above that of any other life form. We need distractions to prevent us spiralling into hellish cognitive thoughts, i like to refer to them as 'rose tints'. Everything is a rose tint. Everything you buy, everything you desire, anything more complex than water, rudimentary food, and oxygen is a rose tint. Even flavoured water...it's there to make life happier, it serves the purpose of releasing us from the reality of how mundane life is, of making sure we are not ragged, loathsome and defeated animals by the time we are twelve. Life, for all of us, is shit. The depressed are the enlightened and the religious the insane. The media spoon to us fairy tales of other peoples lives, injected full of hyperboley, to show us how unbearable their lives are, thereby distracting us from our own life sentence. It further holds us in a cycle of fear and consumption; 'buy our cologne or women will hate you, you smelly, overweight fuck!', 'buy this car...that is unless you personally want to take down the environment...you want to murder more penguins do you? DO YOU?'. We buy rose tints because it keeps us distracted and because the media says we should.

Rose tints also materialise themselves as pass times, clearly pass times occupy the mind much more than just buying things as it normally involves buying things but also using them, often regularly. The more time that can be spent not thinking about your worthlessness in comparison to the the sheer complexity of the universe, that your existence is meaningless to the laws of nature and that life is actually one dimensional, the better off you are, so pass times prove themselves to be very popular. Humans have always turned to pass times, because we have always had the capacity to get bored, it's part of the factor that separates us from other animals, and being bored leads quickly to the realisation of how laboriously dull life is when considered without the glitter and packaging we coerce upon it. As part of our visceral disposition to grow tired of things, we grow desensitised to even our most favourite things, any one man will often have several pass times to juggle in order to weaken our boredom receptors.

What leaves me sat, cross-legged with utter bewilderment showering down upon me, is those pass times, so called 'rose tints', that couldn't possibly have the ability to free our lives from the shackles of Life because they are so insipid, irksome and platitudinous, they surely stop time dead and break the fabric of creation itself. One example of such a pass time presents itself to me above all the others. Vegetable shows...Showing vegetables...Putting vegetables in a show...a show, that is comprised mainly of vegetables...how despicable.

See the fatal error that has been made here, is that vegetable Fayres mix what is often a constituent of pass times; competition, with a basic element of life, the lowest form of nutrition, the earliest cultivated produce; vegetables. The word vegetable is as plain as they taste. I have scrutinized from the tip of the root to the top of the legume, and there is nothing to get excited about, we eat vegetables not because their taste is so irresistible, but because they are good for us, they are a necessary evil. The fayre revolves around being pedantic to the extent that it would make it onto the autistic spectrum, measuring size, straightness, regularity, presentation, weight, roundness, colour and texture of plant growths. Examining waves of the same looking vegetables in such fashions cannot be beneficial to the maintenance of a healthy and sane mind. Nor can the actual growing process, it happens over such a long time that even if the result was the highest reward and the planting stirred up days of excitement, it leaves months unaccounted for. This activity is one of an elite few, that are more dreadful than life itself.

The people who identify with this 'pass time' must, MUST do something else with themselves other than having an affair with their legumes. They could not survive on this alone since it would leave a vacuum in their heads, desolate and self-sustaining. My only salvation in this issue is to assume that whilst they are not planting, picking or showing their vegetables, they are sky-diving, bungee jumping and injecting adrenaline straight into their eyeballs. In fact, i quite fancy this prospect.

Cult Fiction: Spoilt For Choice

In the face of an overwhelming, ever growing religious audience, i thought I'd stop beating my head into the desk, take my fist out of my mouth and some time off the constant unhappiness i seem to feel towards some things, and offer a series of logical and rational arguments, each week, to deconstruct some of the more ill conceived theological arguments and claims. The main focus is on Christianity, it's scriptures and subscribers. Look out for the posts titled 'Cult fiction...'

These are not areas for debate or discussion, since ultimately, the evidence to discredit the Bible and the God of classical theism is copious, hard hitting and potentially devastating. After considering it, using reason as it should be used, there is no coherent argument left to assert that the Christian God is a reality.

Pascal was misinformed. He asserted that you are better off to gamble on the reality of Christianity and the existence of God ringing true than not gamble at all, for if it payed off, you are rewarded with eternal life and if not, you lived a morally sound life. He was wrong, for actually, you may find your self ball deep in an Islamic world of shiite, and eternal suffering for worshipping a false God. You may find the gamble has led into another ten thousand years of birth, death and rebirth through the wasting of a sacred life in the human form.

What is staggering is the Christian (and religious) ignorance towards probability. That actually, there is nothing distinct between their beliefs and the beliefs of others; they all share ill-supported, soft 'evidence' through prayer and miracle, and an astonishingly vacuous bank of real, empirical evidence. How they can say 'Christianity is the one true and infallible religion' and criticise others is beyond me. On what grounds can they elude to this? 'My beliefs are true but yours aren't because i believe them and that's all the counts lah lah lah'. Playground reasoning has never stood highly in my books...

I think what is worse is the similarity between Islam and Christianity. It makes them almost inseparable. Both are (or should be) irrational, unjustifiable and highly dangerous to the eyes of a scientist, but to each other, i don't know how they stand, how they could disagree with the exactly similar claims of the other religion without disagreeing with the claims of their own? After all, the differences in some places is as elementary as a changed name or place. With so many religions, promising eternal life and having a novel written by their God, we're almost spoilt for choice.

There is nothing to say the Gods of old; the Norse Deitys or the Roman divine are any less conceivable or any less a reality than any other God. Just as humankind made the advance from Paganism to the world religions as we know them, i am suggesting that we make the next advance, from the age of the world religions into the age of reason.

Every devout believer holds the same reasons for being a believer, no matter their faith. Yet a Christian will not see a Hindus or a Muslims reasons as legitimate. Despite the copious scripture and extensive writings that illuminate every last detail of their faith and God, their scripture is not infallible whilst the Christians is. Of course every religion's devout followers are guilty of this obscenity, but as i said, the most expansive religion in the world will serve as my rather fitting example.

In the same way the Christian will denounce other faiths beliefs as preposterous and find salvation in their teachings, i do the same with Christianity itself. Every religious believer knows the intense feeling of being an atheist, a non believer, with respect to the other all other religions, They must also, therefore, know well the feeling of frustration and how plainly obvious it is that what they believe is false.

As ever, if you care to show me the differences between the validity of Christian claims and the claims of Islam, the differences that show that one is the word of God whilst the other is the word of uneducated man, i will listen, intently.

Cameras, Maps and Backpacks

There is nothing I like about tourism. For all its benefits; the boosts on the cultural learning curve and the deeper understanding of other ways of life, it still cannot be justified to me as a worthy pastime. These 'benefits' are clearly just for the individual, so they can say "yes, I've been there, I've experienced it, me, ME!", and subsequently talk wine fuelled bollocks at a dinner party for the next quarter of an hour. In their own tiny, shoulder chipped minds they are suddenly authorities to speak about the places they've been, and it does not seem to occur to them that actually they are just like the millions of other people that visit tourist sites each year. More worthy is to travel deep into the bowels of somewhere like Borneo or African nations, places the common pleb do not know about or are uninterested about venturing into. I see two benefits; One, the 'tourist' has experienced something that few others have, the audience might actually care for the first 5 minutes of the dinner party monologue. And two; the risk of not returning is increased vastly.

It seems to me, after a visit to Rome, to its Colosseum and its Vatican, that these places and places like them are just breeding sites for ill mannered robots that feed off the principle of survival of the fittest. There is an element of dog eat dogness about tourism; you must be the first, the quickest, you must be the one to befriend the tour guide, to ask him questions and nod obsessively to make sure he knows that you understand and appreciate every single word and noise that spills from his lips and that you, his disciple for the day, have submitted entirely to him. If you plan to embark on a holiday to get away from it all, go somewhere with little to no cultural history.

I can't deny that i find the hottest tourist spots interesting and that i feel compelled to visit them before i dropkick the bucket; it's within us all that we desire fulfillment in out short lives, and touring the worlds' best shows is sure to deliver this on some level. But perhaps this level is a superficial one. One must ask whether I'm going to fulfill myself, or whether I'm going because everyone else does, to fit in, to say i "have." Perhaps there's an element of 'Wouldn't i look a dick if i came to Rome but didn't do the Colosseum.' or in other words; 'i might not come back.' That's almost the worst thing about this, the becoming of what you most hate about holidays, being uncontrollably caught up in the whirlpool of cameras, maps and backpacks.

The reason i ask the question of fulfillment is because i feared for my cultural side, whilst in Pisa, it was as if it had had a stroke. There it was, the leaning tower of Pisa, keeping it's promises of exhibiting both leaning and tower-like qualities, yet i felt unmoved, dare i say it, unimpressed. The cheek! Not only is it a tower that leans, but it was completed in the 1300's. The fact that it has lasted or that it was even designed and built then, should have done something for the stimulation of my awe senses.

There are two options then. One, the tourist has ruined it for me; the paintings, models, articles, comedy pictures, songs, on-site salesmen that they are responsible for fuelling and that have been shoved into my life from a small infant have successfully desensitised my awe receptors, and made these magnificent and triumphant feats of engineering and design a trivial matter. Or two, i am actually a carrot.

No human, no one with the power of reason, the crucial difference between humankind and the rest of the animal kingdom, could be left un-astonished when faced with sites of such historical, technological and engineering importance.

Perhaps it was the heaving masses, eating their lunches on the towers grass, perhaps it was the people trying to sell me tower shaped goods; key rings, magnets, models, perhaps it was the sheer amount of people taking the same comedy photograph that wasn't ever funny in the history of time, or perhaps i was just bored of hearing and knowing about it...perhaps, reader, i had false expectations built by the industry that surrounds and leeches off such a marvel. I am fairly sure when i say it is the tourist, me included, who has ruined such sites of human excellence - that's the worst thing about this.

The God, The Bad, And The Ugly

Every 4 years the world goes insane for just over a month. Temporarily, every country is gripped by football as a new world cup dawns. Countries that we didn't even know had teams begin pumping money into their futile campaigns and when they are inevitably knocked out they wonder why. Their eyes are blinded by the world cup fever, blinded to the reality that their country is cack and that the history of the world cup is the only rule that is important, the law that states that a list of around 7 countries have the capacity to win, always have, always will, and that all others will not become 'giant killers' or 'the dark horse surprise' but insignificant states once more.

Unlike previous blogs this isn't going to focus on the obvious issues raised by the madness of the world cup spirit and effects on the nation. The fake pride and patriotism that sweeps the cuntry like the plague but ends up evolving into bitterness, blame and incitement of national hatred. Patriotism was shown at Rorke's Drift by 139 who stood (successfully) in the face of 4000, not down the road in soccer city or Durban's stadiums. Nor will it focus on the exploiting of the world cup by the unstoppable and ruthless machine of advertising, the attachment of all non-football related products to the 'beautiful game'.

It occurred soon into my 4th world cup that the start, the group stages, were going to be wholly uninspiring. The tactic of defense took over like the plague and after every game, one was left numbed by the previous 90 minutes of mediocrity. So if the scorelines weren't going to impress me i had to look for something that did, for something that would keep me supporting a team other than their blissful skill. I didn't have to look far.

What caught my eye amongst a field of inadequacy was not so much the on field action, but instead, the off field happenings. Maradona, for the uninitiated, is best associated with (in order of appearance) footballing supremacy, cheating, drinking, rehab, drug abuse, rehab, obesity, I'd imagine some sort of rehab, political insensitivity and boldness, social insensitivity and firearm abuse. Maradona has all the qualifications of a bastard, of a once great sporting figure but now of someone worthless. It looked like the end for Diego, Maradona wouldn't ever Scrabble his way out of this hole....

Whats truly amazing is that not only did he, but has done so with unprecedented success. Maradona has fostered a personality cult similar only to the rise of Stalin whereby he is both untouchable and unrivaled. His status within the context of Argentina has reached absurd heights. All around the stadiums i looked for the faces of the players, of Messi, the worlds number one, but all i could see was the face of a legendary looking Maradona, he was being worshipped like a God. This bought me and my support and since I have an irrational hatred for all Argentinians; through natural selection its been bred into the British genotype since the Falklands, this was quite something.

Who'd have thought how accurate the phrase 'Hand of God' would play to be. Perhaps it was, through a eureka moment Maradona realised that he could nurture this phrase and from it become a national hero; it must have dawned on him that chasing the 'radical political activist' image would serve only to bump him up in some peoples estimations but isolate him in others, whereas if he led his county in a different sense, through what he used to be great at and was typically remembered for, he could sway the opinion of the whole nation.

Everything about him oozed superiority, his image, if devised by himself, is as cunning as it is lavish. His suit, his grey beard of wisdom, his black beard (every insane leader has some form of dodgey facial hair), his jewelry that pointed to the Persian king Xerxes, his surface camaraderie, his aggressive body language, his excessive public acts of religious belief; everything depicts a leader of the people. And they love him...the players hug him respect him, the crowds cheer for him, Maradona, through his very own guile, has managed to pull back from the brink of uselessness and has cultured a life of ultimate greatness, has cultured a life that is exactly similar to the great repressive leader Stalin, but in a modern and acceptable manner, he's fulfilled this image through football, he is as close as one could get to becoming a dictator with out becoming a dictator...after all everyone outside Argentina hates the man.

I fully respect the focus of Diego Armando Maradona, to achieve his ultimate potential before he inevitably becomes stardust and remembered for being a fat turd. I wont subscribe to his cult of personality, i wont regard him as my leader, but i respect what he has done for every man desires that same thing on some level, and i will thusly support Argentina in the 2010 world cup, if they win, who knows what bizarre heights Maradona will reach, my mouth salivates at the prospect.

It would be unfair to suggest Argentina weren't also a great footballing team, it was as much a joy to watch them as it was Maradona....that is until the quarter final stage where they were smashed into the ground by the Reich.

Allowing criminals to do-good.

Just below accidentally eating my own head in 'things i don't ever want to have to deal with in my short and futile existence'; is do-gooders. Well aren't they just a cunch of bunts. For people who strive for making life happier, better and more equal for others, they do a spectacular job at making me woefully unhappy. There are two types of do-gooder.

The first seem to be fairly easy to categorise, but more importantly spot; on clocking group of them heading in your direction, you'll almost certainly wish to hurl your self into the nearest shrubbery. The common 'category one' do-gooder is very much similar to the common church-goer. The boredom just oozes out of every aspect of their life. Their grey clothing, their lego-man like hair cuts, 'would you like tea or coffee?', 'just water thanks'. I gnaw violently on my fist at the thought of the conversation at the dinner table, or in the car, what do they talk about! Category one is a dangerous category in that a normal person, dropped into this life of cardboard-eating greyness, runs the risk of biting their own legs off in desperation. These are the kind responsible for the constant murdering, raping and general debauchery we see in society. Not them personally obviously, they couldn't wipe their own arses with out being offended, but their constant christian line of thinking; 'treat others as you would like to be treated'.

This has resulted in a state that once hung-drew and quartered people being watered down, to almost homeopathic levels, and that now gives an 8 year sentence for a fatal, 37 wound stabbing. Oh you bastards. Why are these psychopaths, that are clearly no good for society and are beyond mental rehabilitation not being either indefinitely locked away or alternatively given the death sentence. 'Well they are still a person', No! the minute the other persons life was taken in cold blood, he stopped being a rational minded person. Also it is a fallacy that we instantly become 'their level' if we killed them in the name of justice. It is not to be compared. It is not as if i am suggesting we hang innocent people for looking at us funny, only then would it be comparable.

I'm sure it is all well and good for a do-gooder to stand there and spout flowery bollocks about how we all do wrong and how we should forgive, up until the point where it is their husband being mutilated and spread up the walls, or his wife being brutally raped with a foot up her arse. We shouldn't lock him away for ever and the death penalty is completely out of the question? Ok, this repeat offending, hammer wielding nutcase will be living with you from now on.... i wouldn't look him in the eyes mind, that's when he starts trying to eat people...

It is only fair that those who don't want to see a return of the death penalty fund for the institutions in which we can safely install these no-good loonies, and stop just expecting the prison system to replicate like bacteria and for institutions just to fabricate out of nothingness.

Category two are the younger, Che Guevara-esque arsemonkeys that 'fight for rights' in a manner that is so hypocritical, every time it is exhibited, it gives me the knee-jerk reaction of very almost blowing my arsehole out in an unstoppable wave of fecal artillery. These are the ones responsible of campaigning against the making of armaments, on the grounds they cause harm, by violently attacking precautionary police. These are the band of wank-each-other-off brothers that campaign against animal cruelty by vandalising a persons house and using arson. As you can see in both cases, these unhinged, revolutionary minded psychopaths display irrational hypocrisy to get their all important 'message' out there. Do they have a message? Or are they just looking for a fight... It seems to me that these younger do-gooders are not do-gooders at all; they are hate-inciting, shoulder-chipped maniacs, looking for an excuse to be violent but not brought down.

When the British empire (the finest and most expansive seen by the world) was at it's peak, the policy was to send criminals abroad, even for thieving...to the front line. Well it is clear then what we should be doing! Stop qualifying teenagers as professional arseholes with ASBOs and ship them out to the front line. I suppose there is a problem in arming these already unstable, misbehaving youths with guns. Then we arm them with an assortment of rudimentary weaponry; swords, spears we can create a table-reversed Rawks Drift. Fuck it, you category two do-gooders can go with them as you're always looking for a fight! In fact anyone caught displaying testosterone filled violence in Britain can be shipped eastward to fight the front line war and show how hard they really are.... I'll sit here and watch your balls shrink and you plead for a weapon more substantial than a cocktail stick...or a ticket home. The Jeremy Kyle show can convert effortlessly into a recruiting service and no longer will our forces be suffering the drought. Crime rates would plummet because offenders are being shipped out to the east and potential offenders would begin to reconsider their actions, whilst all the while our gains in the middle east would be more fruitful than ever.

So we won't return to the death penalty, and our prison system is clogging like Johnny Vegas' arteries? Fine. The elite unit for special operations in the middle east can be made up of our finest, most insane repeat offending psychos. Apart from getting them out of our country and leaving us all the safer for it, i see two benefits. One, we are allowing them to reach their pinnacle, to fulfill their life's purpose for we are allowing them to do what they do best; murdering. And two, imagine the fear that would be installed into the enemy when they see the corpses of their comrades being eaten and their entrails thrown about by ' Psycho squadron'.... we'd be left with no opposition come Christmas 2010.