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.