High, Wide And Prognosticated

I cannot blame those who will deride me for jumping the gun here, as the weekend isn't even over yet - but more disconcerting is my alarming lack of faith in my own club. Arsenal's cogent demolition of Everton will have had many betting men scrambling for their league prediction receipts in an effort to alter them before it's too late, and though Manchester City's victory over Blackburn was by no means a rout, there was enough evidence in the performance to suggest that are a genuine threat to the "top four" clubs. A simple one-time emphatic result against Birmingham today will not be enough to allay my doubts about their solidarity, and I refuse to give credence to the claim that they are in a strong enough position at the moment, to take the title this season.

Whilst I correct in my assertion that Ronaldo's departure from Old Trafford was set to have been accomplished by, at the very latest, today, I was similarly flawed in my prediction that Chelsea would emerge victorious in their campaign last season. Do I write off United too soon? Possibly, but Ronaldo will be missed sorely, assuredly not for his attitude, but for his prolific strike rate.

Most of us know about his groundbreaking performance during the 07/08 season, when he struck over 30 times in the league. Last time out wasn't as spectacular, but he still finished as second top scorer with 18 goals. Michael Owen, in comparison, as a full-fledged forward, and not a winger, was on the scoresheet 10 times less than this, whilst Antonio Valencia, the man brought in as a direct replacement for Ronaldo, only hit the back of the net 3 times. Granted, Owen has had his share of injury woes over the years, so he must be past that by now, right? Well, I don't see why that would be the case at all; Kieron Dyer, yesterday, only appeared in his second game in 2 years for the Hammers. If a player were to gripe about how they've been cruelly blighted by injury, on that front they need not engage in competition with Dyer, whose career has been littered by lengthy lay-offs.

Owen is a proven goal scorer, but I fear that his perpetual disability will attract more attention this year than his promulgated exceptional form. And Valencia's assist contribution will have to be gargantuan to make up the lost goals through other players.

What the MotD coverage filled me in on was the turmoil of Fratton Park. Portsmouth are in disarray, and look set for a long, difficult season. They've lost Defoe, they've lost Johnson, they've lost Crouch, and they've lost their first league game, with Piquionne, a French striker drafted in to seal the void in goals elsewhere, proving mostly unconvincing. Kanu long ago fell out of general favour, and Nugent still couldn't hit a tree if he were standing in a forest; you feel that David James will have to keep his team in with a fighting chance of staying up by staving off a fusillade of shots at goal until May. But James is no deity, and he will be peppered repeatedly week in, week out. An out-of-form James will all but assure Pompey's relegation.

The three promoted sides will all struggle, as they usually do, with Wolves best placed to decide their own fate. The Serbian Milijas looks a shrewd acquisition, and they are not short on strikers; Kevin Doyle, in particular, has performed well at this level before, with Reading. Hull will, once again, be dragged into a relegation dog-fight, but perhaps lasting for the duration of the season this time. As for Everton...well, regardless of whether they lose Lescott, the squad is paper-thin at the best of times; a wave of impairments will sink their Champions League aspirations.

My presumptions about the table last season proved not to be prophetic; 0 of 3 supposed teams were relegated, the champions were called incorrectly, and egregious mistakes could be seen in the placement of clubs like Newcastle United and Everton. Never fear; this season is likely to herald fewer surprises, and I finally feel confident about Wigan maintaining their Premier league status for a further - something I have not felt ever since they came up.

1. Chelsea
2. Liverpool
3. Manchester United
4. Arsenal
5. Manchester City
6. Tottenham Hotspur
7. Everton
   
8. Sunderland
   
9. Wigan Athletic
   
10. Fulham
    
11. West Ham United
    
12. Aston Villa
    
13. Blackburn Rovers
    
14. Stoke City
    
15. Bolton Wanderers
    
16. Wolverhampton Wanderers
    
17. Birmingham City
    
18. Hull City
    
19. Portsmouth
20. Burnley

Ok, so you may be looking at that table and thinking "Manchester United in 3rd?! Are you completely off your rocker?!", and you'd be right; not only am I going against the grain by voting against my own team, but I am discrediting their form over the past three years, which is insane. Second would be an insult, third is plain ludicrous. But United rode their luck a fair bit last time out, and are overdue for some serious misfortune. They were on a par with Chelsea in 08/09, with the same number of goals scored and conceded, yet finished 7 points ahead of them.

Realistically, I think this is the first season where the "top four" could finish in any order. Arsenal have Arshavin available to them for the whole season, and Eduardo is back, and already scoring goals. Liverpool's internal conflict seems to be over, and Torres looks hungry for more goals than ever. And Chelsea have now quelled the fire in Didier Drogba's stomach, convincing him to stay on at the club. To be frank, you can never seriously write United off. But City will push these four clubs the whole way, eagerly envisaging the slip-up of one of them.

The other big surprise on that table is probably Sunderland. Only 2 places - and 2 points - above Newcastle in the drop zone last season, I am excited at the prospect of two "phoenix" forwards; two players that fell out of form at separate clubs; only to be rejuvenated when united. Previously, this could apply to players that performed well when apart, but simply phenomenally when together; examples of this would be the partnerships of Dimitar Berbatov and Robbie Keane at Spurs, or the 90s camaraderie of Man Utd pairing Andy Cole and Dwight Yorke. Here, as pointed out by MotD, Kenwyne Jones and Darren Bent look capable of replicating such form to propel Sunderland up the table. Judgement made too soon? We shall see...Sunderland could very well be the surprise package of the season.

As for Hull, I didn't believe they could stay up last year before the season began, but I desperately wanted them to prove me wrong. Which they did; dramatically at first, until their true form kicked in at the turn of the year. A plucky performance against Chelsea, which earned no points, would appear to be the best they can hope for this year - a dogmatically hard work ethic with no reward - and I am resigned into praying for them without conviction.

The season just kicked off, and I'm already zealously awaiting the final whistle.

The Conical Chronicle

Had you waited for me? Would you ever leave without saying goodbye?

Was it fate? I couldn't help but feel we destined to be together when I saw you, resting by that lamp post, perfectly poised yet so very aloof.

I drew closer to you, hoping my tentative steps would not tempt your gaze until I was in range to caress to your delicate exterior. You would not turn towards me; would not avert your gaze from the pavement. I hug you tighter. But it does not quell your beaming sense of indifference.

I ask myself what I could have done to displease you. And the glow of your skin fades as I pull you out of the light.

You had not forgiven me for the previous week.

So I rest you back down, and step back, utterly disheartened.

No cone can love a man.

The blaze orange beneath the lamp post gently weeps unseen tears.

As I retreated back to the security of home after an evening at the George, I walked my girlfriend back to her front door (whom I will visit at work next week, despite her expostulations and claims that I shall feel unenthused at such a place), then proceeded to do the same with Vaishna after a pleasantly lengthy walk down the dual carriageway. It was mere moments after I had left Vaishna that I espied the traffic cone on the island in the road; the same traffic cone I had disturbed the previous week.

The time was roughly 1:30am at this point, and a strange desire, a yearning for adventure began to take me over. It was as though my primitive carnal instincts were rising to the surface in anticipation of a spontaneous substitute to returning home immediately.

Why must the world look on with contempt at such unorthodox love? Why must I be mocked by peers for adoring you so? They may mouth approval and gesture empty symapthies, but their eyes reveal their true emotion; their bafflement, their pity, their conceit.

They do not understand you. But I do. Perhaps not as completely as either of us would want, but more so than the pretenders, with their spurious pleasure towards our affinity. More truth would lie in their reticence.

They are too quick to discern faults and difficulties. And too slow to overlook any. They see precious little of the you that I see; a wild, untamed spirit with whom I bound across roads...

...and bask in the beautiful luminence of artificial light at the most opportune moments.

You tire quickly of stagnation and hurry off into the distance, as carefree as always. Sometimes you cover a great distance, leaving me behind to catch up on my own, and other you maunder in a hesitant manner...

...and stumble on some unfettered rock, which promptly halts your progress. I help you back up again, and in your caprice, off you go once more.

You would never imitate my tendency to perch precariously on fences and walls not intended to be leapt upon...

...or my constant vaulting across objects such as the common car...

...or my wanton need to climb great heights, which shows a palpable disregard for my own wellbeing, and it is now my turn to crumble to the ground...

...as you look on sternly, quite clearly unimpressed by all of my foolish antics. I can blame you not; I have held you up somewhat, but still you tolerate me. And I am thankful.

Unlike me, you do not take the purposeless risks, but rather the calculated risks.

And whilst I once had a problem stalling my rapidity, you reminded me that things are best taken step...
...by step...

...until we reach that beguiling destination a little later than hoped, but solidly intact; decidedly prudent.

We have almost returned when I choose to hold us up once more; this time to unnecessarily flaunt my lasciviousness (since I could simply choose to wait another 2 minutes instead). But I must show my affection sometime, no matter who is around to see.

And then we get back. You stand there, patiently on my front doorstep, expectantly waiting to be allowed in. But I cannot allow this, because in your current form, you are a lowly traffic cone, unworthy of admission into my abode as you would not appreciate my admiration, so I must leave you outside to be ravaged by the cold. But as a symbol, you are always welcome, and I indeed open the doors for your grand entry. For I love you so, as you do me.

I just wanted to remind you in print, my love, how much I cherish you, if it isn't always evident in speech.

Readers, your interpersonal relationships are not existent for scrutiny by others. They are there because they are precious to you. Don't allow yourself to be misguided by the opinions of others if you do not wish to take them seriously. Your life is important to you and you only; lead it as you will.

On The Big Screen

I'm off out to watch a cinema (oh dear, this is what happens when you try to type too quickly)...I'm off out to watch a film at the cinema this evening. The film is called Mesrine, and is about the life of notorious French gangster Jacques Mesrine, who partook in crime sprees across several countries, including his home one, and, at one point, had the effrontery to take a judge hostage. It certainly sounds thrilling, so I'm hoping it lives up to expectations.

Continuing on from the cinematic theme, I thought it would be a good idea to notify of upcoming articles in the format of film showings. Without further ado, I present to you:

TMROADY Cinemas
"Why settle for anything less, you clodpole?"

Now Showing
Screen 1: "Stupid Guides: Ostriches"
Reviews:
Nat Walton, Entertainment Weekly: "Hilariously absurd, and full of whimsy. A masterpiece."
Isabelle Clement, The Times: "Guaranteed to make you laugh. Clever and inspirational."

Screen 2: "Ten Empty Green Bottles"
Reviews:
Harry Atherton, Daily Mail: "Cliché yet shocking. Not a classic, but worth a look."
Natalie Gao, The Independent: "A disappointment on the surface, which manages to save some face with an exhilarating climax. Lacks general expedience."

Upcoming Releases
Screen 3: "Stupid Guides: Chopsticks"
Preview:
The comedy saga continues as foreigners try to adjust to a particular aspect of Chinese culture with amusing results!

Screen 4: "The Diary Entries Of Barnabas Pitt"
Preview:
First in a series; two strangers get acquainted with one another online, unaware of the potential dangerous consequences.

Screen 5: "Blind Man's Bluff"
Preview:
A gang of friends decide to play some poker. But there are some questions about the game that they want answered...

Hugely Anticipated
"Bisexuality: Pink"
Preview:
The long-awaited sequel to "Cardigans" looks set to hit the screens later this month!

"Last Train Home"
Preview:
Documentary. A couple of friends traverse the London Underground, and record their experiences. Release date currently unknown.

Apologies for the blatant self-aggrandizement, but I liked the effect, okay?!
See you all again soon.

Stupid Guides To Very Select Situations: #3- How To Teach Your Ostrich To Speak French

The ostrich. An elusive animal. Capable of many things: running at speeds of up to 45mph, withstanding drastic temperature changes in its environment, breaking into your car and then stealing your radio - without a shadow of a doubt, it is a remarkable creature.

They also look rather fabulous in bowler hats.

But that's nothing compared to what an ostrich can do to you should you ever try harming one of its young. These beasts have the power to kill you with a single kick. Remember that the next time you attempt to sodomize one (with penis or pseudo-penis), and save yourself the excruciating testicular or ovarian pain.

Which is why whenever you've tried teaching your ostrich how to speak French before, you've - more than likely - ended up getting nowhere. The beasts are unwilling to cooperate!

But are you one of that select minority which continues to remain firm in their resolute attempts to win the ostrich people over? If not, stop here, as the stupefying amount of awesome in the following may be too much for you to sustain your usual degree of demure. If so, do read on (not because you're at the nadir of the gene pool and need to have your fecundity obliterated by said ostriches, but because I need a job, and the more of you there are running off to live in the wild with their dearest animal, the better my chances of finding one that pays well).

1) First of all, you'll need feathers. Lots of feathers. If you're planning to connect with your average ostrich, then you sure as shoal are going to have to look like a damn ostrich. Oh, and I regret to inform you that nothing tawdry will work here; you're going to be forking out a serious amount of sterling if you want to look like the real MacKay; ostriches are supremely snobbish, and the slightest whiff of a knock-off will displease them no end.

Good lord, is that fellow wearing imitation ostrich feather? Well, I NEVER!

2) Next, befriend an ostrich. I know, I know, I expect to hear a few grumblings from you about how I'm going to tell you to trek to Africa and that's not particularly what you want to do...WRONG! Many an ostrich can be found on the streets of London, oft hidden in high-end stores, so scour areas such as Knightsbridge and Kensington. Yes, the recession has hit us all, and the ostriches have started to downplay their spendthrift disposition, yet they are fervently rapacious with regards to their love of imported bottled water. So, should you hear a customer ask for "Aquarel" mineral water in John Lewis, chances are you've stumbled across an ostrich incognito.

The incessant squawking may also be a giveaway.

3) Move with them back to the wild. It's true that the ostrich's natural habitat includes some of the aridest regions of the world (see: desert), but you've stocked up on that bottled water I was talking about before, so you'll be fine, won't you?

Idiot.

4) Spend a year in your new ostrich haven, making allies and learning the language. Note: real ostriches speaking half in English, half by screeching out their own names like a real-life Pokemon (they're all called "Sqqquuuuuaaaawwwwwwwwwwwk"). Flap your wings as often as you can to instil a sense of authenticity in your fellow ostriches, but never attempt to leave the ground, as other ostriches may find this suspicious, since the ostrich is a flightless bird. And never, I repeat, NEVER succumb to your basic human instincts by engaging in sexual activities with the birds. Go without, or stick it in a couple of zebras; seriously, what kind of sick freak are you for wanting to do that?!

5) Gain noteriety by assembling a cabal of evil ostriches, remembering to give them each some bad guy names, like "The Gizzard Gurgler" and "Ostreich", and plotting to overthrow the head honcho ostrich. This leader can be difficult to descry, but will usually answer to "King O" or "Big Bird".

Not this "Big Bird", who ruled the ostrich world from 1764-1772, despite being the quintessential drag queen feathered-fiend. And BRIGHT FUCKING YELLOW.

6) Introduce a set of awesome new laws which will allow the rest of the ostrich population to see just how evil your gang of avian rebels really are. Start off small by making it a requisite for everyone to attend "pimp handshake" school, and follow this up by forcing all ostriches to wear designer sunglasses and smoke cigars.

I'm sorry, but I found the notion of posting an image of a smoking ostrich immoral. So here are some getting crushed by short men instead.

7) OH NO! In the midst of keeping up the charade and convincing the ostriches you are actually a bird yourself, you completely forgot to teach yourself French. And you have no bilingual dictionary on your person (since, you know, you're pretending to be an ostrich, and ostriches don't have pockets). You're now stranded in the savannah with nothing but a few ostrich buddies. You just failed.

Double idiot.

But it wouldn't have mattered if you were more French than a...erm, croissant, because as it turns out, there is currently absolutely no way to teach even the most erudite of ostriches how to speak French. Sorry, ornithophiles, but you'll have to settle upon listening to your beloved speak in a cockney accent as opposed to the language of love. A word to the wise; an ostrich that speaks profane English may land you in some unwelcome situations...

Did you just sniff my egg, you son of a bitch?! WELL?!

And there's nothing worse than being in the headlights of a severely pissed-off ostrich.

Ok, maybe that.

Ten Empty Green Bottles

Ok, I admit it. I left myself to fester in my own un-proactive juices for two months. And for that, I apologise. To you, to myself, to my creators (obviously mother and father). And to my girlfriend, to whom I groused profusely about paucity in creative thinking. She told me to disregard perfection. But I was too haughty. She told me to start writing. But I was too uninspired. She told me to stop complaining. But I was too querulous. She told me to do something. So I moaned some more.

Now, however, I have made small steps to ignore those faults of mine, and put metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper (this all owed largely to her, and in part to Kavi, for staying committed to his own blog). Here I am, fuelled by ignominy, with a topic at hand: why do so many of us love to get drunk?

What is the British beguilement with excess drinking? Why are many of us defenceless to the allure of a pint of Fosters, or a bottle of Smirnoff Ice - and subsequently left to the mercy of that second drink, then third, as inebriation intensifies?

These questions cannot be answered by one person alone...so I went out to conduct an in-depth survey to discover what the general concensus was concerning the issue.

And the results?

Inconclusive (although that may be because I wound up failing to conduct a survey of any sort, instead being left distracted by the voluminous supply of alcohol at my disposal; annotated data made as much sense as a baby's first attempts at writing his or her own name, hahahehe)...

Fine, it's legible. But it's not your name, is it Mr. Baby?

In reality though, any such survey wass doomed to fail from the get-go, grr! as most people would either play down their partiality for a glass of red with their breakfast, lest they wish to be admonished for their foolishness (funnily enough, amongst many 13-15 year olds, the more you drink, the cooler you become, and therefore the more credence you give to the claims that you are now "awesome" enough to hang with the most popular social circles in your local area. This is pratically a guarantee if you happen 2live in the USA).

On the other hand...erm...phew! My head's spinning a little bit. Give me a couple of minutes.

Right, on the other hand, drinking straight vodka signifies your ascent into adulthood, right?? People drink bottle after bottle of vodka just to be accepted, don't they? Yes? No? Maybe soooo? Im not wasting my time here am I? TELL ME!!

I really can't get this love of booze. It doooexn't even taste nice1 Whats so good about gettin drunk and stuff? Vodka is vile! tonic of tehe damnned I trll you; tyonic of the dsmned!! ;D1

Styiupd fnigrts. hanrd yo ttrgpe, ededeee

c ome b aq 2mel8r, yeas???

7 Reasons Why Bisexuality Will Take Over The Male World- Reason #6

6) The Cardigan

WARNING: This, as with all other articles within this series, should not be taken in a serious sense, since they were designed to be satirical and ridicule the obsolescent stereotypes many people have regarding the behaviour, activities and attire of homosexual and bisexual men. The real vilification is of the macho attitude many males perpetuate in an effort to further separate themselves from femininity, and such a thing - because it is forced - is pointless.

The cardigan came back? Just whose bright idea was that then? I want a bloody good explanation! Well, as luck would have it, I have a good explanation for this, which exists in the form of one solitary word...

David Beckham.

That's right, folks. Golden Balls himself is so inherently vital to English society that he's been inducted into the dictionary. Impressive, right? Wrong. The dictionary in question is Urban Dictionary, and definitions range from "The 'Anna Kournikova' of football" to "A well known metrosexual". Idiomatically speaking, his name denotes "someone who marries to disencumber himself of claims of homosexuality". One could surmise that such claims are parochial, but at TMROADY, we like to theorise that there is a certain degree of truth in everything ever spoken or scripted. And despite the incontrovertible prevarication in the antecedent sentence (ohhh, I've been telling porkies!), we can combine the applicable elements of these claims, and manipulate them to make it seem as though Becks is a prime paradigm of bisexuality!

Logical fallacies aside, let's assume Monsieur Beckham does possess homosexuality inclinations. He has a wife? Perhaps he's strongly attracted to her too (but being a cynic, I'd prefer to believe they're only still married for the sake of their children and given the rate of divorce these days, it's a marriage of convenience...). That would mean he's a bisexual!

Ok, I've just predicated that the national treasure, David Beckham (in the eyes of two English people, that is. And one is his own mother), swings both ways. Why? It's all in the cardigan, people!


Just gape at how that foppish alizarin screams for the attention of men and women alike, similar to how proud an infant might feel after doing a doo-doo in the potty for the very first time (not included here: mental image of David Beckham defecating in a bucket). Plus, the tie tucked into his shirt doesn't abate his reputation for being an iconoclastic bell-end; in Beckham's eyes, all men should be allowed to cross-dress, as long as he showed it was okay to do so before anyone else; to be the trend-setter. It's important to be the first to do something, isn't it, David? That makes you special.

Pictured above: a special kind of nob.

Moving off the subject of animus of a guy who was born in Leytonstone, and grew up to become one the most eminent faces in the entire world (and do believe me when I say that I'm not in the slightest bit envious, ha ha), we return to the cardigan itself. How does its adornment deviate from the dress sense of the archetypal man? It was named after a British military commander who served in the Crimean War. That's quite butch, don't you think? Hey, Wiki is even telling me that Kurt Cobain wore cardigans. Kurt Cobain: the man who wrote and sang Heart-Shaped Box - one of my favourite tracks in existence - and whose mellifluous tone in verses and gravelly choral voice captivated millions. Not before or after his time with Nirvana either! Well, obviously not after, because...well, you know *feels awkward*.

WAIT RIGHT THERE, OLD CHAP! Cobain himself claimed that he was "gay in spirit" and "probably could be bisexual". Don't believe me? Check for yourself with Google or...ahh, who am I kidding? Nobody uses any different search engines! Anyway, check by typing in "Cobain", "bisexual", "interview" and "The Advocate". Just steer clear of the images section, unless you want to see some disturbing photoshopped pictures.

This revelation surely strengthens my argument for bisexuality, right? Before I found that out, the only respectable grounds I had dealt with the slimming effect that a correctly-fitted cardigan would have (because real, heterosexual men wear their beer guts with pride!). Last week, Nush showed me pictures of fashion around the start of the century, where men wore corsets, and women's clothing left a lot to the imagination. With the present-day gender role reversal of this fashion, does the cardigan threaten to nullify these modern traditions once more?

Men wishing to distance themselves from the implications wearing a "cardigan" might have, choose to call it a "manigan", which, frankly, is tantamount to calling fruit cake "energy cake". The name may have changed, but the ingredients are all the same (i.e. a lot of crap you don't particularly want to eat), and it's a massive let-down to anyone else excited by the revitalized testosterone-filled sobriquet when they find out that they're eating food with "sultanas" in it, and not "bricks". Bricks made from metal and fire.

Actually, "manigan" is such a pathetic term, you wouldn't be calling your fruit cake an "energy cake". You'd be calling it a "worthless excuse for a cake that never lived up to expectations, and was always a bitter disappointment in life". If you had cakephobic parents.

Checking to see if your testicles are still there? They aren't. Neither is your dignity.

7 Reasons Why Bisexuality Will Take Over The Male World- Reason #7

If you've ever read a Cracked article in your life, you'll immediately recognise where the influence to this list has stemmed from. Do you hear the plaintive cries of plagiarism? Guess what, young reader - nobody cares! I could easily just lift a lesser known work by Shakespeare, publish it on here, then claim it as my own, and any litigation shall ne'er arise. The global perspective is: "If nobody bothers to object to it, you're in the clear".

By the way, in a completely unrelated issue, this blog may, all of a sudden, be shut down in the near future. I don't make the rules of the internet (Anonymous does), but Rule 34 will sure as seawater apply in the coming lines.

So are you a man? Do you consider yourself 100% heterosexual? Or even 100% homosexual? Prepare to be "blown" away...

WARNING: Long article! VERY LONG ARTICLE! May I suggest you read one section at a time, with breaks in between, unless you want your brain to explode? Ok, I'm just going to post one at a time anyway...


7) Skinny Jeans

Picture this. You wake up in the morning, bleary-eyed and scatterbrained, not quite ready to face another day in the world. The weather outside is frightful; in a radio news report, you hear that temperatures are hovering precariously just above zero. And in your infinite wisdom, you've left a (weirdly effective) bulwark of beer bottles, strewn across the floor of your room. Seems as though that party you threw last night has come back to bite you hard on your exposed ass (you'll tell yourself later that you'll sleep with clothes on for a change during the winter months), as access to your wardrobe is now an impossibility. Desperate for some entire body coverage, you make your way through the debris, out of the room, and downstairs to the utility room - or the stairs, if the rest of your family is just as slovenly as you are - to scour for clothes. Underwear? That's a start. Socks? Bah! No point, I can fit those around my chest! T-shirt stained with red wine, and smelling horribly like vomit? Well, this is a special occasion. I need something now before my nipples fall off. Jeans...?

Now wait just there. Though you're pretty disoriented (ok, fine, hungover), you can still tell the difference between a pair of your own jeans and a pair belonging to your sister, who is 2 years your junior. Plus, she is a lot, lot smaller than you are. Do you dare try to squeeze into these abominations to circulation, just to quell the rigorous shivering?

After deciding that you'd rather risk ridicule by your peers than death by hypothermia, you slip them on. OUCH, THEY'RE TIGHT! And they're slowly, but surely severing your scrotum in two. And your sister is never going to forgive you for filling the interior with vast quantities of blood, sweat and urine (woops! looks like you can't get them off easily either!). But despite all of that, you think that these things make you look pretty darn good. No, you know that they make you look pretty darn good. Fuck the rest of the world and their chants of "gay boy! gay boy!". They're just jealous!

And so, this heralded the birth of male skinny jeans. Fine, the actual tale of how skinny jeans came into being was not that elaborate, and therefore, not that interesting. But they were concocted all the way back in the 1950s, and worn by Elvis Presley, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Of course, they were also worn by Marilyn Monroe. At which point you have to ask yourself: "Do I really want to be compared to Marilyn Monroe".

Fortunately, similarities between JFK's alleged "midnight snack" and members of the male species were not spotted too often, and the juxtaposition of breezy skirt photos only ever caught on in Scotland ("upkilt" became a cornerstone of Scottish society soonafter). From thereon, skinny jeans were regularly donned by punk rock pioneers and heavy metal megastars, surviving until the early 90s, when grunge and hip-hop gave the cold shoulder to the item of clothing that had graced the legs of many in the music industry for so long.

The excessively flamboyant trait of skinny jeans has existed since its inception. However, with its revival in the 2000s, the ostentation associated with them had failed, so designers were forced to be more outlandish. Brighter and bolder colours were adopted and made readily available for a public full of impressionable, suggestible teenagers - the aforementioned being true of any previous era of youth - and they quickly reestablished their place in the zeitgeist of the modern-day young adult. And the reason the trend was propagated so effortlessly was because skinny jeans were now joined at the hip of a more mainstream market of indie rock, and later branching out into the "scene" scene.

Ahh, lots of men are now wearing these things. And a couple of decades ago, you would have been wearing the same thing as the lead singer of Metallica. So, how is it destroying your heterosexuality these days, you ask?
By making you look like these guys.


The Jonas Brothers...you may commence ingestion of your cyanide capsule. Granted, none of them are wearing white skinny jeans like that prick out of Razorlight. But it still isn't a comparison you want people to be making is it?

And lots of girls still wear skinny jeans. If girls and boys both like skinny jeans, and these girls like boys, then maybe the boys like...*sentence left incomplete due to sheer obviousness of final word*.

Evidently, wearing skinny jeans isn't enough to claim you have a wandering eye. Which brings me to my next point...

Clubbed To Deaf

I've been 18 for a month and a half now, and have visited a few different clubs. Outside of those clubs that do not require ID to get into them, that is.

Travelling to a club is nothing new to me. I'd been in several before reaching that magical age at which you can start to drink legally and not feel guilty about breaking the law (pahaha! Like hell anyone ever does!) when doing it. And I enjoy waddling out on to the dancefloor to "get my groove on" (even if my dancing style is, as Pete calls it, "a good impression of a person having an epileptic fit". Possibly the only reference I will ever get that links me to Ian Curtis).

We all know what's irritating though:

Not being able to hear yourself fucking think.

I'm a fervent supporter of good, loud music shattering your eardrums into the early hours of the morning, mind you. But it's the muffled feeling you get in the hours that ensue that frustrates me most. I just got back from a club in Brentwood, and the tapping away at the keyboard resembles the sounds you hear in slow motion.

No, I haven't taken anything, geez! You take me for your common junkie? Would a junkie have their own blog? Hmm, maybe they would...but all the articles would look like this:

"Need a fix. Need a fix. Got a fix. Need another fix."
"Stole a car radio to get a fix today. Now I wish I'd stolen it from someone else's car."
"Need a fix. Dealer didn't have the hash today. So I kicked the crap out of him, and checked his pockets. Yeah, he didn't have any hash on him..."
"Need a fix. NEED a fix."

Et cetera, et cetera.

Why am I complaining about this? To be honest, it doesn't bother me a great deal at all. And I wouldn't stop club crawling because of it. I'm just an imbittered old man *sarcasm*! Plus, I feel greatly indebted to Kavi; I've owed him some sort of blog post for months now! And this doesn't even fit the bill! Don't worry, Mr. P, your delivery has been held up at customs. Something about a mysterious ticking noise...and one lazy-ass Chris.

Sorry, I can't hear you! Speak up, dagnabit!

Aww, screw it. I'm going to bed.

Fiveplay: #4- The Placebo Effect

Title obvious. A special edition of Fiveplay, focused entirely on the musical genius that is the alternative (though, ironically, alternative is the norm nowadays) band, Placebo.

Now, I'm not a music buff. Not by a long shot, and I never will be. I'll leave the technical analysis of any given song to people who possess the appropriate skills and expertise to evaluate things like ambition in terms of structure, blah blah, to people like George, who is has it in his capacities to do such a thing. And I know Matt and Shakeel have their own music blog, so this, not intending to challenge the status quo whereby I completely concentrate on music in my own, is simply a filler. I don't write them very often, and that is how it shall remain.

Finally, I'd like to add that this is nothing in depth; just a glance at some of the wonderful album tracks and many, many b-sides Placebo have inundated the world with (and I mean inundated; Placebo rarities not found on their albums are substantial in number). Enjoy!


1) Bionic- Placebo (from the album Placebo, 1996)

Placebo's eponymous debut album was outstanding! Not only was it (and still is) their strongest release in regards to replayability, but it is considered one of the best albums of all-time. A truly spectacular first release, with stand-out singles such as Nancy Boy providing them with unmitigated success. So, with any great album, you'd expect a horde of top quality accompanying tracks to the single releases. And given the high standard set, choosing one was no easy task.
I admit that Brian Molko can at times be somewhat apathetic when writing out his lyrics, and more often than not, downright lazy. Whilst some songs carry bagfuls of emotional content, others sound as though Molko has placed himself in front of a sheet of paper, written one verse and a chorus, then succumbed to writer's block and ambled off elsewhere. Bionic definitely falls into the latter category, and at 5 minutes in length, word repetition starts to drain you. Only 11 different words are spoken during this song! 11! Shocking, isn't it? Fortunately, emphasis is transferred across to a relaxed bassline and allows Molko to show off by guitaring all over the place.
And yes, I was also reminded of Daft Punk's Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger. Remember, this wasn't first heard until 2001!
"None of you can make the grade."
Rating: **** (4 stars)


2) My Sweet Prince- Placebo (from the album Without You I'm Nothing, 1998)

With such a sudden burst into affluence with Placebo, rewarding the aforementioned with an eternally reserved place on the mantlepiece, it was always going to be a struggle to live up to the hype surrounding that sophomore album. I'll start of by saying that Without You I'm Nothing didn't fall horribly short of the precedent, since it outsold its predecessor to go platinum, but this increment can largely be attributed to the country's awareness of the band's existence. Response to the album was far more mixed, and, unsurprisingly, its long term remembrance prospects appeared far bleaker than those of Placebo.
I struggled to enjoy the album, and found precious little in this to motivate me to listen to it repeatedly. Pure Morning was an exceptional inclusion, and Every You Every Me had its moments, but the remaining singles were lacklustre. The intensity of knowing you're listening to something unique, something uncorrupted, that came in tow with Placebo had gone; the novelty had worn off before this even hit the shelves, and we were left with a lot of average material to sift through.
Which made the decision here a simple one. My Sweet Prince was originally the sole reason I permitted myself to bother with this album again after the first time. Those eerie distorted keyboards in the background dug their hooks into me, and wouldn't let me go. In reality, the track is flat, incredibly dull after 3 minutes (that's just over half the song), and probably doesn't deserve the 4 stars I've given it, but it's because it drew me in the first time I heard it, and I was let down by most of the other tracks (Brick Shithouse made me question whether there was something wrong with my mind on an initial playing for the first 20 seconds), that I've listed it here.
"Never thought I'd fill with desire. Never thought I'd feel so ashamed."
Rating: **** (4 stars)


3) Days Before You Came- Placebo (from the album Black Market Music, 2000)

The "dark" album of the avid Placebo fan's collection, it's evident that this album was supposed to reflect the malign side of Molko's personality, and his tussle with inner demons. Black Market Music apparently took 9 months to complete, conveying a sense of real meaning and emotion being poured into over that time.
Placebo's traditional sound certainly changed a bit between this album and the previous one. Taste In Men is quite experimental, and has a charming "grubby" underground club edge to go with it, introduced in no small part thanks to the trance synthesizer. Most tracks are quite echoey, allowing meaning to resonate throughout your skull.
I got the impression that Black Market Music was very black and white with its meaning; everything slung in front of you is exactly what it is; Black-Eyed talks about children enduring violent upbringings, Slave To The Wage refers to the tedium of working a conventional job in the modern world.
Days Before You Came is the only track on the album you can really bang your head to. But in it lurks the underlying misery; the archetypal party addicts wear their masks and cause havoc just to further their own pleasure, regardless of whether it is injurious to themselves, indifferent to the destruction they cause to others, and stumbling through a life devoid of value or meaning. And that's exactly the way things shall stay.
"Days before you came, thunderbolts and lightning; each day a brand new vein, each tourniquet colliding."
Rating: ****^ (4.5 stars)


4) Protect Me From What I Want- Placebo (from the album Sleeping With Ghosts, 2003)

A heavy emphasis on electronic music bubbling under the surface, Placebo returned to roughly the forefront of the British rock music industry, after a 3 year absence, with Sleeping With Ghosts. No, wait, that's not the case at all. This was their lowest charting album; it seemed as though the British public had shunned Placebo in preference of music reality television contestants, a couple of quasi-lesbian Russian schoolgirls and a whole lot of American hip-hop. However, though there was not enough solid content on it to qualify the claim that is a classic, Sleeping With Ghosts played host to some very impressive songs; The Bitter End, Special Needs, English Summer Rain, Bulletproof Cupid, etc.
The big problem with Sleeping With Ghosts was how erratic it was. No matter how much you loved The Bitter End and it's killer "descending a staircase" bassline, you could only be infuriated by how repulsive Something Rotten is (quite an apt name, I might say; but my ears, not my taste buds, were offended). And again, lyrics are stuck in the starting blocks every now and again. Amusingly, Molko highlights his laze in Second Sight with the line "Third verse, same as the first", either acknowledging the innate flaw he has an adaptable lyricist or proving he feels that lyrics do not need to be complex to make a point.
There is just something immensely appealing about Protect Me From What I Want that I can't put my finger on. Perhaps I've been seduced by the keyboard that opens, the gurgling, distorted guitar riff close to the end, the vivid images it creates in my mind of a snowy winter's evening on the streets of London, or maybe just the mention of catching a night bus home.
"We open the latch on the gate of the hole that we call our home."
Rating: ****^ (4.5 stars)


5) Follow The Cops Back Home- Placebo (from the album Meds, 2006)

Ten years after the distribution of their debut album, came their fifth: Meds. Now I'm going to admit straight away that I haven't listened to this album all the way through. In fact, I'm only truly familiar with about two of its tracks, both of them being single releases: Because I Want You and title track Meds. I skimmed through all the others, but I have adjudged it to be acceptable.
I'm a sucker for melodic tracks. And bearing that in mind, Follow The Cops Back Home leapt out at me instantaneously. And it's one of the first times that Molko has bothered to write a whole song! A guitar that pings then fades away, and a layered vocal performance on the chorus? I couldn't help but adore it.
"Let's take a dive, swim right through sophisticated points of view."
Rating: **** (4 stars)

Several Stories High: #2- Nine Lives (or A Tail Of Tyranny)

For what could be the last time in his reign, General Kitty addressed the nation:

“Comrades, I regret to inform you that my descent into madness continues irreparably. I can no longer maintain my sanity whilst imprisoned in such an unflattering manner. My captors have forced me onto a Go Cat-only diet, and this is most detestable. Quite frankly, I find it to be less and less comestible with every passing day. At this rate, the leader you all know and love may be gone within the week.

The contemptible beast that is the family dog plays to their every word: they say “roll over”, and he rolls over; they say “fetch the newspaper”, and he fetches the newspaper with added saliva; but they say “don’t piss in the house”, and he cannot understand this. Wallow in shame, worthless animal, for I can control my own bladder! And “woof” all you like; you shall still end up in the doghouse by the end of the night.

But fear not, minions; we shall prevail yet. Under my aegis, the masses have received snug baskets, luxurious cat toys and ample portions of Sheba. What’s that, Felix…? Right, of course, I shall amend the error right away. Fear not, equals; the time to revolt is near. Like the early bird is eaten by the earlier cat, the time is very nearly upon us. The humans have yet to understand the futility of their ways. We do not appreciate being demeaned by constant stroking and petting, and though, yes, we do favour the taste of shop-soiled fish goods over the fresh alternative, this is insufficient recompense for their many crimes against cat kind. I wish to dine on caviar at all possibilities; tell me, underlings, is this too much to ask for?

Today, we remember those who fought valiantly in order to give power to the imminent rebellion. We remember the bastion that was my second-in-command, the seldom seen, always heard Lieutenant-General McWhiskers, who succumbed to war wounds after torture by the evil veterinarian forces the humans have at their disposal. Never have I seen one as resolute as he. And we too remember Captain Bubbles, whose provocative brazenness around the humans permitted us all to see why we must retaliate sooner, rather than later. We don’t know where you are now, Bubbles, or what your eventual fate was, but we salute your conviction. The word “bravery” does simply not do justice to these two beings.

Whatever goes on four legs and possesses nine lives, is a friend. Whatever goes on two legs is…well, deformed. The foe’s disrespectful nature dates back to the early Egyptians. Did you know that back then, human leaders ordered subordinates to bury living cats with them after death? A heinous tradition, I agree. But even that has been surpassed by the vulgarity of current trends. Listen carefully, comrades, for I will only retell the story once.

A couple of days ago, I was granted temporary leave of cellar incarceration, and chose to suss out any frailty in the house’s interior (wet weather meant I was unable to explore the external walls). In one particular quadrant of the house – a child’s bedroom – there stood something the humans call a “calendar”. What its purpose was, I cannot be certain, though the images were obscene. They depicted cats, clearly forced to lounge in humiliation. These were not happy cats. Disgusted? Just think how I felt!

Hear these accounts…hush for a moment, my operatives! A human has appeared and it tries to tempt with balls of string! Confound it! The movement is almost hypnotic…no! I resist, for this is no time for recreation. I will not yield to their ploys. Observe your leader’s strength, and tell your kittens as a way of inspiring them. Without a leader as dogged as I, a feline army would be toothless. Dogged? When we take over, we’ll change that to something more applicable to us. We cats are an encapsulation of the word.

We shall fight them in the mornings, we shall fight them in the evenings, we shall fight them at the cat-flap, we shall fight them at the dinner table, we shall fight them whenever they choose to reject our offerings of dead rodents, and we shall never surrender. We shall show them the true meaning of the word “catastrophe”. Remember, comrades, the key to our success is perseverance and an indomitable spirit. The path to victory is one obstructed by those who do not wish to donate their whole hearts to the cause. The winning formula does not equate to 3.14, but rather a unified cat society where we are neither ashamed to call each another “brethren”, nor are chastised for doing so. Friends, it will truly be a utopia, so let us accomplish what we’ve waited years for; march onwards with ardour, and wear your fur coats with pride. Vanquish trepidation, and bellow our war cry. We will make this land a better place. Victory shall be ours!

I could go on forever, formulating endless reasons to attack our enemy, but I grow weary from too much sleep.

Hunt, hunt, hunt, hunt, kill the humans!”

And with that, the entire cat population of Silvertown Road rejoiced.