It’s-a me! Mario!

February 25, 2010

“I come-a to rape-a da keeds!”

Found this on another blog where an artist makes real-life representations of cartoon characters. Mario might not be talking nonce-sense, but he’s certainly thinking it.


Arsenal’s Amazing Passing, And The Amazingness Thereof, Therein and Thereabouts

February 17, 2010

Arsenal vs Bolton: Emmanuel Eboue picks up the ball deep in his own half, and threads a pass out to the wing to a marauding Andrey Arshavin. The diminutive Russian knocks it first time to Samir Nasri, who utilises the ball’s orb shape by fashioning a primitive centrifugal device which is fundamental to the completion of Samir Nasri’s Time Machine, which has been the subject of high-brow dressing room banter for months.

Arsenal vs Stoke: Thomas Vermaelen intercepts a quick free-kick and distributes quickly to Theo Walcott, whose diagonal running creates space in the centre for Nicklas Bendtner. A Walcott backheel wrongfoots Rory Delap, allowing Abou Diaby the chance to play in Bendtner, who plays a transcontintental pass towards Haiti with enough force to reverse the burgeoning tectonic plate movements that threaten a second earthquake.

Arsenal vs Tottenham: A 92-pass move culminates in Tomas Rosicky beating the off-side trap to deliver a tantalising cross. The cross is so very tantalising in fact, that none other than Osama Bin Laden dashes in to the six-yard-box to finish with aplomb, making him easy prey for the authorities who want to try him for crimes against humanity. Rosicky tells a post-match press conference that he’d been practising the technique on the training ground by coaxing low-level offenders and petty thugs with the promise of easy goals.

Arsenal vs Wigan: A sliderule simultaneous nutmeg of Paul Scharner, Titus Bramble, Emmerson Boyce and Titus Bramble again by Bacary Sagna leaves the bizarrely-coiffed Ivorian quite convinced that a through-ball to Eduardo Da Silva might just cure cancer. It peters out, but Arsene Wenger remains convinced that such endeavour will achieve something one day.

Best trailer ever

February 13, 2010

Sorry, I meant worst trailer ever. Bear in mind that this is for a film that actually got made

Dispatches from jury service

February 10, 2010

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Guilty of talking in the jury box, making it hard for me to hear evidence.

Guilty of keeping people waiting with your constant toilet trips.

Guilty of slow and surly service in the over-priced, under-tasty canteen.

Guilty of excessive use of the word ‘obviously’ in your transcribed police interview.

Gulity of fouling the court room with your outdated and over-exposed Kings Of Leon ringtone when you should’ve switched your phone off, no matter how cool you think you are Grandad.

Guilty of vending machine misuse, resulting in hours of constant beeping in the Juror’s Assembly Room, just so you could get your precious bag of M&M’s.

Guilty of looking like Anton Ferdinand, minus the unnerving overbite.

Guilty of muttering ‘Holy Moly!’ every single time a piece of compelling evidence is presented.

Possibly guilty of massive murder, not sure yet.

Thinking Of Bastards

February 8, 2010

I hunch, thinking of bastards. Head in hands tucked between knees, I rock back and forth gently, such is the physical effort of exerting a weary mind.

It has become important to me that I list all the bastards I have so far encountered. Reasons can come later, but for now I am only trying to keep score. Bring order to chaos. Why this is so important to me remains a mystery, but what I do know is that the list is vital to me, whereas reasoning is not. So the bastards win.

Eighty-two seems like a plausible figure. This is what I have so far. Eighty-two bastards have crossed my path in life up to now. Do I measure the length of my life by the bastards, or do I measure the bastards with my life? The number begs a question…

I won’t tell you my age. Age is the whole point to this exercise in self-immolatory inventory, the whole process is an equation, with one number affecting another number, to make other numbers. Years / bastards = regrets.

This is the reason why I spend a day listing the manipulators, the bullies, the liars, the cheats, the hypocrites, the traitors, the oppressors, the shin-kickers, the condescenders, THE GOBSHITES.

I tally them up to see how much of my life has been wasted at the hands of the scum, a small investment to take stock of my life. How much time have I wasted thinking of these people? I need to know and I wish I knew why, but all I do know is that I have so far listed eighty-two bastards, safe in the knowledge that if they all made such a list of their own, I wouldn’t be on any of theirs, because I am most certainly not a bastard.

The Abbey Becraft Experiment

January 26, 2010

Yes, I certainly do have a Facebook, thanks for wondering. What better way of keeping in contact with people I would otherwise not wish to keep in contact with? What a time to be alive, in an age where I can see that someone I never spoke to at school has responded to a picture of someone else I never spoke to at school vomiting on someone else I never spoke to at school with a heart-felt ‘lol’.

But what is this I see, when logging in – a friend request? News of my blog has no doubt spread, like the sagging gutskin perpetuated by Vanessa Feltz’ fluctuating weight-gain-loss-gain. My readership no doubt has the same sallow, pasty quality that I would expect Feltz’ flab to have, but by no means would it span the same heft. But hark…

…hark indeed, at Abbey Becraft. What business could she possibly have with me, my brain asks, before my loins conjure all manner of possible scenarios, each one progressively more vulgar until it all culminates in an orgiastic frenzy where kitchen utensils are irretrievably soiled in filthy, filthy acts.

What foul temptress would attempt contact with an unknown internet user without good cause? No. I will not submit to her obvious charms.  Her upturned dimples would be ideal for the storage of paper clips, her bosom perfect for pens. Her coquettishly raised eyebrows imply an innate bookishness, her hair a hankering for postmodern non-linear cinematic narratives.

Perhaps we could be friends?  Perhaps we must be friends? With this, let the Abbey Becraft Experiment begin. I will accept her friend request, and will send her one question a day, as if I’ve known her all my life.  The only rule I will allow myself is that I will probably not ask one question a day. But from small, apathetic acorns grow mighty, enriching oaks.

What will I discover from Abbey Becraft? Will I learn about life, about love, about ‘lolz’? Let the great experiment begin~!

EDIT: Ten minutes in and I have already discovered that she has had a piercing in an “interestin place” that she “cannot show”, but if I follow the link to her website, I can see more (as long as I have a valid credit/debit card)!

So what did I learn from the Abbey Becraft Experiment? I learnt that you should judge a book by its cover, and that you should never eat before you swim, but most importantly I learnt to appreciate life, to embrace excitement and friendship and adventure. I never would’ve learnt this had I not met Abbey Becraft. Which I didn’t anyway. But maybe that’s the point?

Egypt. Summer. 2009.

December 4, 2009

A family, not actively recruiting for new members, plays volleyball. A woman, wearing a t-shirt proclaiming her a beach authority figure, interferes.

“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she shrieks with her mouth, wasting three exclamation marks. No-one on the beach interrupts their holiday to join in. The family, two versus two, want nobody to join their game.

“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she insists, loudly, intrusively.

She peels off her ‘I-work-here-so-my-rules’ t-shirt to reveal a tanned, lean torso that the German father’s eyes reveal he would gladly eat his buffet breakfast from, if only he knew the correct translation to ask.

“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she gobfarts, with a ‘yes, let’s go’ hand motion as she steps onto the sandy court. The boy serves towards her inclusively. The ball dances on a stiff sea breeze and hangs before arcing down to reach her hopelessly flapping limbs, which cannot agree on one direction. 

She slaps the ball as if flirting with it ineptly. The heads and hearts of her forced and now losing team mates sink as one, as good families are predisposed to react to such setbacks.

“VOLLEYBALL” she fucking shouts.