The boards are back up and running after a brief break. Everything looks exactly as it was before I took them offline, so don’t worry, I haven’t drawn little cocks on all your posts. Love you, bye, bye, missing you already.
Naomi Campbell went mental on a plane. On the one hand, I think this is awesome, as I love to watch celebrities breaking down. Fabulous stuff.
On the other hand, I think she should be locked up, as she’s a massive nutter.
Here’s the story, via the BBC.
One of the headlines I saw on one of the tabloid rags this morning made claims that she spat in a copper’s face. She should be put down, like the rabid dog she is.
BYE BYE.
“Where’s Bud?” I hear you crying, as your impotent tears cascade into your cornflakes.
“We need his bile and hatred for spiritual guidance!”
“Our lives are nothing without his words!”
“I’m not getting my sexy-quotient when I’m on the internet!”
These are all genuine quotes from imaginary emails I just made up.
I bought an Xbox 360. That’s where I’ve been. I do apologise for being a massively slack bastard… actually, no I don’t. I’ve been having fun. Live with it.
This morning, I had a bit of a moment. It was quite unnerving and made me feel a bit weird.
I forgot who I was.
Well, not who, as such, but many details, such as where I lived, where I worked… all gone. It took me five minutes of head-scratching and mild panic to remember everything. I was lying in bed, piecing together everything I knew to be fact. Sadly, I felt great elation when I was able to remember where I worked.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not mental or anything. Far from it. In the last two years, I have attained a level of mental clarity and stability not seen for a long time. It’s probably because I don’t do many drugs anymore. But, for some reason, I had this amnesiac moment and it really scared me. For a few minutes. Could this be the early onset of Alzheimers? I certainly hope not.
Though, to be fair, I’m better than Terry Pratchett, so it won’t affect me as badly.
Hello fatties and sun-dodgers.
The ithinkmybrainisfull forums are on holiday for an as yet unknown amount of time. They’re not being used much anyway, so it shouldn’t worry you too much.
They’ll probably be back within a week or so, once I’ve sorted a few things out over there.
BYE.
I really don’t like the idea of some Scottish midget rifling through my shit.
Gillian McKeith, nutritionist to the stars (and the criminally fat) is not someone that is deserving of the celebrity status she now commands. This poisonous dwarf is making life a misery for those of us that like a good munch.
Look at her. She’s been shot in a comedy photo-shoot, in her nightwear. I hate her. I hate her little face, her little twisted body and most of all, I hate her war on food.
This horrible woman has taken it upon herself to wage war on all of the fatties that currently think nothing of yamming back a burger or two in the quest to be fulfilled. I have nothing against fat people, really, despite them being a constant source of amusement for my oh-so childish mind. I’m on the large side myself, which means I’m fully entitled to point, stare and mock.
Seen most recently on Supersize Vs Superskinny, McKeith has been trying to reduce the size of fat women’s fat arses. Not such a big deal, you might think, but this horrendous little hag is so ugly and deformed herself that every word that comes out of her mouth about self improvement sounds hollow and misguided. Sure, she’s concerned about the state of people’s health and, sure, she’s trying to do something about it, but the way she does this is so offensive to my very core that were I to see her in the street, I would shove her to the ground by her stupid little face. That’s known as a “Handsome Gav”.
However, her self-appointed crusade isn’t what really bugs me. No. It’s the fact that this disgusting old crone has been known to play with other people’s poo, in order to tell them what’s wrong with their diet. Yeah, you read that right. The woman is a faecal freak and likes to poke around in human waste. I’m sure she feels there’s some scientific benefit to pulling apart turds in order to work out what they’ve been eating but… well… come on. They’re fat. Surely it doesn’t matter what they’ve been eating? Surely the important thing here is how much they’ve been eating? I don’t need some withered little bitch yanking my stool apart to tell me that!
If you should happen to see a five foot tall Scottish trot roaming your town, possibly waving some sort of anti-corpulence banner around, do yourself and your nation a favour and kick her to the ground. Stamp on her face. Lay a nice steamer next to her head and tell her to inspect it.
This is very important.
I need someone to compete against. I want to engage in man-on-man competition. I want to pummel someone’s pudgy face like dough, then bake it into a loaf of YOU LOSE. I want to run a lap of honour around your lumpen body as you sit on the floor, weeping in failure, as I victoriously circle your sweating, deafeated mess of an existence, chanting your name and making it rhyme with various synonyms for faecal matter. I want to beat you.
Yes, I’ve been watching too much Kenny Vs Spenny. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. Raw male competition in its purest form. For those of you that aren’t fortunate enough to have ever seen it, here’s what it’s all about:
2 Men. Spenny, a neurotic, hapless yet conscientious buffoon. Kenny, a complete piss-taker. They devise a competition .The loser of the competition is humilated by the winner, often in disgusting and obscene ways. Competition have ranged from who can blow the biggest fart, to who can wear a dead octupus on their head for the longest. Spenny abides by the rules… Kenny doesn’t. In this particular episode, Kenny cheats by spiking his good friend with LSD.
Here’s a taster.
Awesome, I’m sure you’ll agree.
The protagonsits are so compelling to watch quite simply because they are so different. Kenny, despite being a joker that clearly has no respect for his ‘friend’, is a surprisingly accomplished man. Looking over his Wikipedia record, you can see that he has done quite a lot. A talented photo-journalist, documentary maker and… writer on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Hey, we all have to work. I’m sure that last gig was particularly lucrative. If anyone can hook me up with a copy of his film about the homeless dwarf, let me know. Kenny is basically the worst person you could live with, in as much as you would constantly find him either slipping his genitals into your burger meat in the fridge, or sticking your toothbrush up his bottom - these are actual events that have transpired throughout the show, I might add. Yet, somehow, he’s endearing and entertaining, despite being a foul-mouthed antagonist.
Spenny, also quite an accomplished man, is exactly the opposite. An earnest, paranoid mess that falls foul of Kenny’s every move. His attempts to stick to the rules, no matter how ill-defined they are, by consulting specialists and experts leave him looking like a lost little boy that can barely manage to wipe his own snotty nose. Yet, somehow, he’s managed to garner himself various awards for his film and TV ventures. Spenny is the one we’re all secretly rooting for, despite the incessant whining and moaning about Kenny’s cheating.
I’m not normally a fan of reality TV, but there’s something about this show that works. It’s part reality TV, part game show, part documentary on human nature and the foibles of man. Pitching two mental and physical opposites into battle after battle, in order to prove… well, I’m not entirely sure what they’re trying to prove. But they’re proving something. Maybe it’s just that Kenny is proving that Spenny is a massive loser. Regardless of their intention, the show perfectly captures how two men interact when pushing against each other.
Inspired by watching 4 seasons of this in the past month, I find myself desperate to engage in competition, in any form. This is what being a man is all about. Beating other men. I wouldn’t want to bother with being followed around by a camera crew. I just want to duel.
Who is man enough to take me on?
Discuss this further in the forums.
Ghosts I - Nine Inch Nails. I’m going to just come right out and say this: Trent Reznor is a pretentious pervert twat. There we go, any last Emos that might be reading the site have just packed up their diamond-encrusted self-harm sets, provided by their psychoanalyst parents and fucked off. Good times. After the tedious, long-winded nonsense of The Downward Spiral, I’ve pretty much ignored Nine Inch Nails’ output and got on with my life. Pretty Hate Machine was a bland album, but the Broken and Fixed EPs were quite good, in places. Fixed could be described (look, I’m doing it now) as an example of what we now know as Breakcore and pounded my head for a couple of months, many years ago. However, after that, the Spiral album was just trite, contrived, semi-industrial, self-indulgent wank-rock, put out by a man that does a great act of being affected, twisted and weird. It’s all pretention and it’s all caused by too many rubbish drugs.
His pretention has reached critical mass with the four volume Ghosts (I-IV), a collection of 36 instrumentals. These are available via the internet, at a sliding price scale. I’ve only got volume I to review, as I refuse to pay money for it. You can only have the first volume if you’re a blackhearted freeloader like myself. I’m assuming that all of the good tracks are on volumes II-IV, as everything on volume I is dull and boring. As you’ve probably come to expect from Reznor by now, it’s a lot of clicks, pops and distortion, with some electro-drums thrown in. There are a lot of bands that are doing what he’s doing, only they’re doing it much better, probably inspired by his earlier works, to some degree or another.
Perhaps what I mean to say is that this album is so incredibly dated and out-of-whack with contemporary examples of this particular type of music, that it bores me to tears. At one point, track 3 (they don’t appear to have any track names, just numbers) sounded like it was about to lurch into a really good track. There was a flash of awesome bassline that dissipated into the air, never to be heard again. To put it in the simplest terms, Ghosts, or what I’ve heard of it, seems to be 36 tracks of sombre pianos, distorted bass and an ever present feeling of licking the crumbs up off the cutting room floor. To put it in even simpler than the simplest terms: This sounds like an album full of stuff that Reznor never quite finished. Whilst it is said that the album was recorded in 2007, I get a feeling it’s just a load of stuff he’s had sitting on a hard drive for the last ten years.
If I had a star rating system, it would be out of 5. Ghosts would get a less than fair 1, as I can only rate what I’ve heard. And there’s very little chance that I’m going to fork over $5 for 27 more tracks and a PDF.
Discuss this further in the forums
This morning, I saw a man in a wheelchair, careening towards me at great speed. He had a guide dog. I don’t know what that’s all about, as not only did he have wheels, but he quite clearly also had full sight.
Yesterday, I saw a rather butch girl with a pair of dungarees on. The front flap, y’know, the bib, was folded down. She was walking hand in hand with a young lad. Does that mean she’s bisexual?
I also saw a news item on the telly yesterday, about a band formed entirely of people with ’special needs’. They’re called Heavy Load. I really want to see them play live.
BYE.
OK, faithful readers, the discussion forums are now BACK ONLINE!
In case you were wondering what was going on, I had to do a bit of basic maintenance and some general housekeeping. It’s all back up and working again.
Friendly advice to creators of forum themes: Make your themes more attractive. I’d like a more attractive theme on my forum.
The few of you that use the forums will have noticed that they’re currently offline.
Fear not, it’s just a temporary thing.
Alright?
I’ve just been thinking about my trip to London and the rather lacklustre reportage I delivered. Key elements of the night were missed out and I feel like I’ve swindled you all. Really, I do.
Asides from all the chucking up, there was an incident in a lift where four of us got in and one had to get out. Now, I’m not a massively fat bloke and, to be fair, neither were any of the people I was with, but when the alarm rang and we observed that the four of us weighed more than 525kg, or the equivalent of 7 people, I began to question whether or not an evening of Caribbean cuisine was such a good idea. Turns out it would have saved me at least an inch of stomach lining if I hadn’t bothered. Which, in turn, would have made subsequent lift journeys all the more easy. There’s a definite structure to life.
Sitting on a bus next to an old Rastafarian that breathes loudly through his nose is not entirely pleasant. The irony of a white girl in thick rimmed spectacles that knows the location of all the best West Indian food shops, eating a saltfish and ackee pattie, whilst said Rastafarian munches down on a dull, dry ham roll was not lost on me. By god, I wanted to give the man a tissue and make him blow his nose. One of the things I miss most about living in London is the public transport. It may not be comfortable or reliable, but it’s entertaining.
I’ve run out of things to say.
Hello, people of the internet. No doubt you’ve stumbled across this page because you’re either:
A) A well read and intelligent person.
B) Searching for pictures of Britney Spears in a straight jacket.
C) Not very good at clicking the right link.
Either way, you’re here now and you’re getting in the way. Stand in the corner and listen intently until I am finished.
There are too many people with children. Yeah, I just came right out and said it. I don’t particularly care about over-population, because where I live isn’t really affected by it and my time on this planet is finite. So, as the problem increases and space runs out, I’ll be lying in a box surrounded by dirt, not giving a shit. However, there are too many people with children, pushing them around in prams, when I’m out for a walk.
For some reason, when a woman (and indeed, in some cases, some even have a partner) has a child, she suddenly awards herself with a license to stand in my way. Or to move into my way. Or to gang up with like-minded breeders and block the pavement, whilst walking incredibly slowly. This means I have to risk life and limb by walking into traffic in order to pass them. Just because you managed to carry out one of the easiest of life’s processes, doesn’t mean you’re special. No. You’re very far from special. Those of us that manage to not have kids are the ones that should be allowed street freedom. Simply because we’re not subjecting some poor pathetic life-form to the pain of existence. We’re doing our bit for society and hastening its long overdue end.
Women with pushchairs also seem to think that walking out of a shop and stopping, in the way of the door, to check their change, is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Not so. In fact, you should be getting out of the doorway, as that’s how people move in and out of buildings, you thick bitches. Pardon me, I appear to be getting excited.
Worse than this, some couples like to push the empty pram around, while one or the other parent carries the child around. THANKS. Now I have to get around even more of you. I’m far from patient at the best of times but in recent years have found myself shouting “for fucks sake” in the face of young parents more and more frequently. Now, I’m not a bad person, but these people seem to think that by squeezing out some dribbling fat puppy, they’re suddenly the owners of the streets and can use the pavements as they wish. Of course they can’t. The pavements are mine.
Here is what I propose:
1) New parents pay a council tax surcharge. Of 20%. That means they’re paying more for the pavement, as they’re using it more. I get a reduction on my bill.
2) New parents are shown how to use a pushchair or pram efficiently. This basically comes down to smacking them about the face, neck and chest area with it.
3) New parents are forced to stay in their homes between 8am and 1am. The early morning is their’s to use as they please. Failure to comply with the curfue results in child-loss.
Simple solutions for the modern world. If a parent can’t willingly conform to these three requirements, their child will be taken from them, put down and sold for glue. If you feel that, as a prospective parent, you won’t be able to manage this, I’m willing to come and help out with some sort of preventative measure, such as sterilisation.
BYE.
Big up all LDN crew and other such youth talk.
I spent the weekend up in London. It was aces. I was supposed to be there in the capacity of investigative journalist, in order to top up the work on the other channel. I failed bigtime, by not getting up to London until the evening, making trampspotting a hopeless pursuit, as it was dark and all the parks were locked up. Sad faces all round.
However, I did manage to have some fun, including sloshing around in an inch of many other people’s piss with my pants around my ankles in a train’s tiny toilet cubicle, whilst brown stew mutton and jerk chicken flew out of my neck at high speeds. Good times.
I have learnt many things this weekend.
Not only is Mr Jerk of Wardour Street an over-priced and completely inauthentic Caribbean dining experience, but it is also situated right next door to a much more friendly and better priced Caribbean cafe that sells better food. Whilst waiting for our food to arrive (fourty minutes, after being told 5), my girlfriend went next door to the smaller, splinter group faction Jerk City and bought some saltfish and ackee patties that blew everything I ate at Mr Jerk out of the water. Hopefully, this was not what blew it out of both of our gullets at various stages of the night.
I also learnt that visiting old friends is something I should do more often. I caught up with someone I hadn’t spoken to, for more than 30 seconds, in over 10 years. I learnt one of his brothers is currently doing rather well in Hot Chip, meaning he’d blown out a free gig at the Brixton Academy to come and see me. That meant a lot. Even the slightly uncomfortable hugging at the end of the night wasn’t enough to tarnish the situation. Gus, blood, it was awesome to see you.
Finally, the most important thing I have learnt this weekend is that you should never, ever, regardless of your abilities, attempt to put up a flat pack bed when you have food poisoning. Or eat Caribbean food. When you have food poisoning, that is.
I think it was a dodgy tuna roll.
I dislike cars. Which is odd, because I love Pimp My Ride. Where else can you watch a useful, albeit near-destroyed car carcass turned into a useless, yet attractive living room-on-wheels? Nowhere. Below is an image of a car that parks up near where I live. I see it most days. It’s an abomination, to be sure. Metallic sky blue with silver flames. The owner might as well write “mine’s tiny” on it. It’s got bird shit on it, if you look carefully. How bad is that? All that trouble making this hunk of junk look “attractive” and he leaves a great big birdy-turdy lying on the front of it.
I think the thing about Pimp My Ride that I enjoy the most is the expectant anticipation generated by the question “where will they put a useless monitor this week?”. I’ve seen one episode where they put tiny little monitors on the bumpers. On the bumpers! That’s incredible! I can watch TV as you run me over!
Better than that, there was an episode where the pimpee, also the owner of a small snake, had a vivarium built into her boot. I shit you not. Not only that, but the infinitely wise ride-pimps put a small, lifelike plastic rock in the vivarium, with a three inch monitor built into it. Because, as we all know, snakes love to watch TV. At this exact moment in time, I have a mental image of a corn snake, writhing around, watching Xzibit videos and thinking “Hey! All his songs sound the same!”. When not screwing a monitor to every available square inch of the car, the pimpers are seen mugging for the camera and performing in terrible filler clips where they embarass themselves in synchronicity with a camera man moving the camera at an odd angle. Why oh why do we need lopsided crash zooms in TV? We don’t. So stop it.
The first four seasons of the show were incredibly entertaining as the mugging crew were from West Coast Customs (now appearing in the intricately-worded-to-avoid-a-lawsuit show Custom My Ride). Genius work there, boys. The WCC crew were funny and charismatic and you always got a sense that most of them had actually stolen a car and pimped it at some point in their lives. However, from season 5, they were replaced by the foks at GAS, who look like a bunch of over privileged frat boys that went to college to learn their trade. Having failed at their respective trades, they went into ride pimping.
Making an already hideous car even more ridiculous by adding gaudy colouring, TVs and oversized chrome wheels can only serve one purpose: Instant sale. For the most part, the kids about to get their rides pimped are generally a little down on their luck, studying and holding down a menial job and being shunned by their shallow, so-called friends who spurn them for owning an old, shit car. I don’t even own a car, so I dread to think what my friends think of me. In some episodes, up to $30000 has been spent on cleaning up someone’s hunk of junk. In others, an entirely new car was purchased and then pimped, so the owner, himself an aspiring mechanic could have his old car back to work on himself. And in others, a young woman had to practically slam the door of her house to stop her blatantly crackhead mother from staring out of the door, wearing only a t-shirt and frizzy hair. They’ve enabled kids to look after their aging grandparents, by souping up a car, meaning Granny gets to ride to the mall in a turbo-charged muscle car with day-glo pink skulls daubed on the side. Won’t she look just amazing turning up to the bingo in her lime green pimp suit, with her diamond encrusted bitch-stick walking cane swishing through the air to clear the way? Best of all, an aspiring Ice Cream man (hey, we all have to have a dream) was given a robotic arm on the side of his new truck to dispense ice-cream safely whilst ducking bullets and handbrake turning in the ghetto.
So far, I’ve only heard of one sale after the pimping. One girl sold her land cruiser for over $18000. She got done. I’m sure the combined electronics in the car were worth more than that. What a fool. Does this mean that these people actually continue to drive these cars? How embarrassing. Is it not enough to have been seen on international television as someone that can’t even keep their car in shape? One pimpee crashed his car the day he received it. Yeah. I know. Clearly, the man should not be in charge of a car. Or a body. You’re bound to be recognised by someone and if your car isn’t gleaming and shaking their spine about because you’re playing the sound system at top volume, whilst using your gadgets, they’re going to question you.
Most of you will have seen Pimp My Ride, I’ll wager. I’m guessing less of you will have seen Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The concept is the same, but with houses and incredibly needy people. I mean people in need. Not really clingy women that attempt to smother you with unwanted affection and who don’t understand you when you say “I no longer find you attractive and have found a younger, more attractive girl to be with”. I mean people in poverty. To give you an example, in one episode, a family was whisked away on holiday after a teary door-step surprise, only to return a month later to find that the ramshackle old tin shed they used to live in was gone. In its place there now stood a ten bedroom mansion with a swimming pool, games room and home cinema. The family ran into the house and wept loudly, while exclaiming over and over “Thank you Jesus!”. Now, don’t get me wrong, Jesus was probably a very good carpenter, but I don’t think his skills with a circular saw and faux-Edwardian architecture were ever brought up to par before his third and final death. Thank the producers for building you a massive house that you’re not going to be able to afford to heat. After all, you did only live in a shack a month ago. While you were sunning yourself by the hotel pool, were you offered your dream job by a rich man with a red suit and white beard? No.
Home Edition is too earnest a show and Pimp My Ride, too garish and cartoony. I feel the perfect way to rectify this is to combine the two. Instead of a bunch of happy-clapping do-gooders turning up with a film crew to fix your house, Xzibit shows up with a bunch of sledge-hammer wielding ex-cons to beat the shit out of your house. When you get back from a two month road-trip (available as a DVD extra) with a gang of bikers, your two-bed semi will have been replaced by a four floor minaret with a solid gold onion on top that also doubles up as a speaker. Every single wall in the house will be constructed from monitors so everywhere you go, the sound of fifteen thousand 32 inch TVs bark out at you in unison. In the bathroom, a robotic arm will lower down from the ceiling, clutching the finest luxury silk toilet sheets, which will automatically wipe your bottom for you, whilst comforting motivational quotes are piped in to remind you of how fresh and clean you feel.
In the bedroom, your bed will have been replaced with a pick up truck, which will have had its flatbed replaced with a bed that feels like clouds. The pick up still works and has been donated by a company that wanted to get their name aired on TV for free, whilst appearing to be upstanding charitable souls. A panel in the bedroom wall slides open at the push of a button, that reveals a ramp that heads straight into the fourty acres of land you now have in the fifteen square feet of yard you used to have. That’s reparations. You’ve got your own off road circuit! In the kitchen, a team of Mexicans awaits you, who you can shout at, aggravate and impregnate at your will. You never have to lift another finger. Unless it’s to go bowling in your very own bowling alley! Take a peek in the basement!
BYE.