Posts Tagged ‘Tin Foil Hat’

Even though, oddly, I’ve come to love blogging it always seems that this blog of my random thoughts goes by the wayside in favour of other pursuits. What other pursuits? Well, with the downswing in real work of late, those have mainly involved focusing on my writing of everything but my blog. I’ve started to write reviews for a local music magazine, OMS, and I’ve been putting a lot of energy into my screenwriting, though it’s currently getting me nowhere.

I guess I should do my usual thing of looking back on events since my last post. Let’s see…

Oh, right. Bin Laden. Yeah, apparently the Americans got him. I mean, they haven’t got a body to produce, nor pictures of him (the one above is fake) either before or after they allegedly shot him. Oh, and it came at a startlingly convenient time, just as Trump was starting to mount his campaign against Obama. But it’s okay, because Bin Laden is dead. Really. *wink, wink*

I’m not saying I’m not happy about it if Bin Laden really is dead – the guy is/was a monster – I’m just saying show us some proof. The public can handle pictures of him shot to pieces. Really. I mean, we’re talking about people who enjoy Keeping Up With The Kardashians, so it’s about time we showed them that something – anything – in life isn’t fake.

There was a Royal Wedding, too. Wills and Kate finally got married. Yay for our (maybe) future king. Here’s the deal: I like Wills. I’m not a royalist by any means, but the guy seems like a solid, down to Earth guy. With a shitload of money. Yes, I’m a little pissed off that I had to pay for the multi-millionaire’s multi-million pound wedding but, you know what? I’ll let him off. Why? Two reasons:

1. Kate Middleton. Or Princess Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge as we’re now supposed to call her, is a stone fox. With just two words – “I will” – she immediately took Zara’s place as the fittest member of the Royal family ever. The second reason?

Pippa Middleton’s arse. Seriously, though Kate is a beautiful lady in her own right, it was Pippa who stole the show on the day. And not just because of her tremendous, perfectly-formed arse in that tight-fitting dress. but because she’s arguably the best looking of the two sisters. But if Harry taps that before I do, I’m officially a republican.

Oh, the other thing grinding my gears?

Gerry and Kate McCann. These two shameless media whores have been polluting the daily papers every day for the last week, and on a regular basis since they killed their daughter Madeline five years ago. Yes, you read that right. You see, they refuse to admit it, but there seems to be a lot of evidence to support it. Her blood was found in the boot of their car, for fuck’s sake. You’re telling me she skinned her knee so they loaded her up in the boot? Bullshit.

Kate, Gerry… Just confess. Then get the fuck out of my daily newspapers. And even if you didn’t do it, the shit you do admit to amounts to child abandonment you evil, evil twats.

Yeah, I’m going to stop there. A short one at just over six-hundred words. Grab your copy of OMS this month to read my reviews of The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band and Katy B. Oh, and if screenwriting is something that interests you, haul your arse over to my new blog, Failing Writer, and bookmark that bad boy. Or subscribe in the same way you should’ve done to this one.

Until next time,

Peace x

Christmas Tree

Different people have different benchmarks for what makes Christmas ‘begin’ for them. For some, it’s the decorating of the tree, for others it’s the first Christmas card. When I was a kid (and even now) it was only officially Christmas when I first saw the Coca-Cola ad on TV, which just goes to demonstrate what a corporate whore I really am. Except, this year, that all changed because I saw the damn advert in OCTOBER. Damn youse Coca-Cola. Damn youse all to hell.

Santa + Coke = Child molestation. Fact.

As a result of this, I needed a new benchmark for the beginning of Christmas because I absolutely refuse to believe it begins in October. Yesterday I had the misfortune of visiting the Vodafone store in Oxford to witness the arrival of my very first slice of Christmas crazy: A member of the tinfoil hat brigade was in there complaining that his phone was ‘echoing.’ Despite being told that it was just his phone feeding back on itself, he proceeded to weave this elaborate story about how it was only on a few numbers and one of those guys had told him it meant his phone was being bugged by MI5. I shit you not.

It wasn't this guy. That'd be epic.

This, naturally, led to the standard nutbar meandering bullshit about how it was an infringement of his rights and that he wants to change his number so they can’t do it and ‘could they have bugged his phone?’

I couldn’t help wondering as Crazy McNutterface rambled on at the top of his voice… that, if you have nothing to hide, why the hell would you care? If David Cameron and his assembly of idiots want to know the exciting inner workings of this guy’s mind, he’s either up to some seriously illegal shit… or they’re too cheap to hire a DJ for the Christmas party, so this guy is unwittingly becoming the entertainment.

It’s safe to say, though, that the coup de grace was when he turned to everyone else in the line and said ‘they’re bugging my phone, they could be bugging yours too!’

You mean to say that, somewhere out there, there’s a government agency that wants to listen to my phone calls? Can I get their number? Maybe we can do a deal, because I don’t want to listen to most of my phone calls, so maybe they can just answer my phone and provide me with the highlights of my day:

“Well, you had a call from a debt collector, you owe them twenty quid.”

“Okay”

“Your mother called, asked if you’ve remembered your Nan’s birthday?”

“Right”

“Oh, and some girl… Gemma, was it? She called to ask about Friday.”

“Did she say what she was wearing?”

“No, but she left a phone number.”

“Great.”

See, that’s a government agency I’m behind. The ministry of call screening. They’d have special powers to raid and brutally torture cold callers who try to sell me shit I don’t need. It’d be a little rough on the PR front at first, but people would get used to it. And I’d stop getting calls on my mobile from morons trying to sell me mobiles.

“Hi, do you have a mobile phone?”

“No, please tell me more. But first, look at your screen. What number have you dialled?”

“077749… Oh.”

“Yeah. How’s about you check that next time you ask a stupid question?”

Okay, I’ve descended into crazy anarchistic ranting again. It’s the season. Christmas crazy: The new benchmark for the beginning of Christmas.

If I don’t get a chance to update before, have a good’un. Merry Christmukkah to one and all.