Excuse Me For Laughing
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
  Animal-related (as per appropos Ricky Gervais)

From The Filth, the quite astonishingly filthy graphic novel by Grant Morrison (makes you feel dirty, with scenes of bogey-eating and background pornofun):

Some guy: "They all came out acting like children shitting themselves, spouting gibberish and generally letting the side down. We're leading them into the quarantine tent by playing early '90s Techno. They follow that old skool beat like drugged rats chasing the pied piper."
Our nominal hero: "My backup is YOU and a talking chimpanzee with a sniper rifle, am I right?"
Talking chimpanzee: "Comrade 9, the World's Greatest Asssasin, you radioactive lump of turd."

Go buy it. Probably filthier than Irvine Welsh's Filth. Definitely filthier than Julien Temple's documentary The Filth and the Fury.

Excerpt from an Onion column (try and say that fast. TRY AND SAY IT NOW.)
After dinner, I will hit you doggy-style. This doggy-style sexing will last all night long. I remember that this is the way that you like it."

Veganism gone mad
Ariel, a Los Angeles waitress and vegan who seems to be channeling Jessica Simpson, confronts her housemates about their eating habits. Eggs are "chicken abortions," she informs them, dairy products are "cow pus" and cattle likely are space aliens.

Love the Bears

Thursday, July 22, 2004
  Holiday: It will be alright
There is something truly disturbing about getting up at 2.30pm every day. I have realised - it's just not normal. People who work sure have it right. I never used to wake up with a headache either. Perhaps, I shouldn't have taken up smoking again (damn music festivals with their periods of complete nothingness and sitting on chairs in general smelliness and fieldiness). But I couldn't resist buying that racing edition of Marlboros. It was soooo red.

Okay, that thread of thought is going nowhere.

Last night, as I have turned into nocturnal boy and my hair has turned into a anti-gravity ball of flaming black, I went to Tescos at 10.30pm and bought the new Modest Mouse album - Good News for People Who Love Bad News for £7.97. All I can say is that it's boring. Utterly boring. If anyone has any sense they will ignore the Epic records campaign (as evidenced by high profile interview slots in Entertainment Weekly) and go buy The Lonesome Crowded West. Granted it has madness in its veins, but why did they have to cut their quirky cloth to get some major attention. They sold their souls and went a grey shade of bland. Please, go back to your asylum roots. Your newie has nothing a third as good as Teeth Like God's Shoeshine or Convenient Parking. Listen to me!!!!

As for Krissi Murrison saying they were the third indie-ist band in history in the NME (hey, I was at a festival and bored and realised I had to read it before I burned it), you suck, your whole operation sucks, you probably sucked something to get your job, and I hope you realise anybody who has an opinion about music probably knows ten times more about it than you do. However, you're still not as irredeemably shit as Imran Ahmed.

I also watched City of God again and Dragnet. Again. Who says I don't have a completely balanced diet of cinema nutritional goodness and poisonous junk. Always keep your feet on the ground that's what I say.

Now I think I will have some of that salmon. I swear it goes well with an orange and dill dressing. And think of all those Omega-3 oils oozing in my body. Is it possible to have a hangover from sleeping too much? My brother has put on Schindler's List. That scene with the kid in the toilet still makes me want to hurl: Bleauaarrrghhh.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
  Random thoughts: A shade more random than the usual randomness
My beloved audience, I admit it, I treat you so badly. (What's this? Has Blogger improved yet more? Why can't they just let some of us alone in our stone ages?). But that's only because I am chasing rainbows. Shit. Now that is a terrible Shed Seven reference. I am on holiday. I haven't felt this restless and bored since the last time I posted at 2am on a weekday, which was when I had no job, all those blissful, formless days long ago. Granted I do have work to do, some album reviews and my bloody book, now encroaching on the 85,000 word mark, which for a remarkably unkempt and unfinished work, say like the church of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, means that it is already OUT OF CONTROL. But even so, I feel compelled to do absolutely fuck-all, every single hour of the day. What is the matter with me? I should go to bed. Yes, I will.
Yet, let's look at the art of putting-off which I have perfected today: eat some Chinese, watch Scary Movie 3 (the true sign that American civilisation is crumbling before our very eyes) and Starsky and Hutch (woah, chicks in Daisy Duke shorts, luauargaaggghhhh...), read 10 pages of The Sound and the Fury (is it just me or do I not understand a bloody word of it), listen to The Futureheads (brilliant, crunchy, urgent, GO BUY IT NOW AND SAVE THE WORLD) and The Cure's The End of the World (it's that guitar thing: I swear it's in my DNA), eat a packet of Skittles Sours and wonder why it has the effect of bad sugary sweat, return The Shape of Things (great and punchy, though the twist is all to see, and makes me want to be more superficial), eat some Tesco Cauliflower Cheese and Hot Wings selected by a hungover self yesterday morning on the way back from somewhere, read the introduction to Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia, wonder how my brother can sleep 21 of the 24 hours in the day, despair at every little thing that gets in my way, piece together book notes I must have been mad when I wrote them down, then marvel at my complete inability to finish something I've started, play keepy-upy with a large inflated balloon football thus knocking over everything that isn't nailed down, wave goodbye to my youth fading into the distance, play 2 games on Who Wants to be a Millionaire in a Wetherspoons and win fuck all, stare at my shelf of unwatched foreign film DVDs (including Les Enfants du Paradis, Partie de Campagne, Jules et Jim, The Son's Room, Three Colours White) and wonder why I can't hack watching subtitles when I hypocritically evangelise them to all and sundry who say 'I can't be bothered with bloody subtitles', suffer an existential crisis on the hour every hour, wondered at the very Alan Partridge tic of Richard Madeley talking to someone in a German accent (but that should be no surprise; only a validation), realised I did get caught stealing Three Men in a Boat from someone's flat the other night, and that I am a very naughty person and a thief of classic literature, am constantly afraid that drunkenness makes me into this obvious bastard with contempt for practically everything, AND still haven't listened to my latest Amazon delivery of TV on the Radio, The National, Richmond Fontaine and Wilco, because I fear that doing so - even for one song - will get me back onto the damned site and make me order more to feed my dual insecurity and pop culture materialist addiction.
So I have cause to worry. I think.
Going to see Clinic tomorrow night. Well, it is something to do.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
  The Nose-Laughter must cease; the backtits must be mocked
I don't really hate Scottish people. In fact we met a lovely bunch from Largs, who we spent much time shocking with our array of jokes (let's not go there: to the darkest side of all; stuff to make Bernard Manning want to puke his own pelvis bone up).And no, we do not have any kids, only a beautifully intact clutching of our adolescence. But what I meant was, when you're a dafty softy southerner your sense of alienation - which is bad enough as far north as Leeds - explodes into this weird sense of them and us, heightened by continuous and might renditions of Flow'r of Scotland and sightings of steak baguette stalls. Cow is a very popular food item up there. Slimfast is not. Oh and: PIXIES RULE. The Strokes are metronomic.

Have to run, will be going to see Will Self and Iain Sinclair discuss, oh yes, LONDON in Old Street in a mo. Naas (That's my version of nice for clarification)

I have also just bought a Grey Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, my first in 9 years, to wipe some of the quiz-related pain I have felt only last night and a few days before. My advice is: Never go to a music festival via a Citroen to Southampton Airport Parkway train station to Brocklehurst train station to Christchurch train station to taxi to Bournemouth airport to plane to Glasgow Prestwick to train to Glasgow Central to a run across the city centre to Buchanan bus station to a bus (where I was burnt with a cigarette three times such was the rowdiness and crap Oasis renditions that were prevalent upon it) which went to Balado near Kinross for the fest. Then spend three days up, with 7 snatched hours of sleep, then repeat on the way back, spend 16 hours in bed, then get up and expect to perform like Good Will Fucking Hunting. Well, at least I tried. Bastard.

For some odd reason, I have the phrase 'ride Kylie Minogue like Seabiscuit' in my head.

Also just naughtily bought Spiderman 2 off a Triad henchman in Regent's Street, having just watched Fahrenheit 9/11 (made me laugh, but simplification was rampant and bad). 
Another go. How time flies. "It ain't like it used to be, but it'll do"

03/01/2004 - 04/01/2004 / 04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004 / 05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004 / 06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004 / 07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004 / 08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004 / 09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004 / 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004 / 11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004 / 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005 / 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005 / 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005 / 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005 / 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005 / 05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005 / 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005 / 07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005 / 08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005 / 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005 / 10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005 / 11/01/2005 - 12/01/2005 / 12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006 / 01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006 / 02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006 /

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