It looks like I'm having a seizure in slow motion
Its a far cry from the intended result
Showing posts with label ridiculous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ridiculous. Show all posts
Monday, 26 March 2012
Saturday, 17 March 2012
Musical Tumours
This may sound like a bizarre topic of conversation, but I swear it makes perfect sense and has nothing to do with real tumours. It could quite easily have been called 'Musical Fungal Infections' or 'Musical Tapeworms'.
In order to properly explain what a musical tumour is, first the 'Scale of Music' needs to be discussed. The Scale of Music is a simple way of classifying popular song and is comprised of two extremes. At one end you have your high brow thinking man's music; James Blake, The Knife, Bjork, Postal Service, anything by Laurie Anderson. The sort of bands you quote at people when you're desperately trying to impress them.
At the other you have your gratuitously cheesy bubblegum pop. The Venga Boys, Blue, The Glee Soundtrack. The sort of stuff you sing along to at weddings and when your doing housework. Stuff at this end is hardcore guilty pleasure, you love it, but that love is tinged with self loathing.
In the middle lies the Twilight Zone, Top 40 bands which in no way are going to alter your perception of the Universe, but are a far cry from Gina G. Bands like Coldplay, Maroon 5 and the Arctic Monkeys. Inoffensive 'four chords and the truth' set-ups. It's within THIS zone that the musical tumour is born.
A musical tumour is an artist, band, or even a song that you DESPERATELY don't want to like but eventually do. They grow on you against your will; like a tumour. My most recent encounter with this phenomenon at the hands of the ginger haired guitar swinger Ed Sheeran. When he first began gracing the airwaves of British popular radio stations I was all like:
Three Short Months Later......
In order to properly explain what a musical tumour is, first the 'Scale of Music' needs to be discussed. The Scale of Music is a simple way of classifying popular song and is comprised of two extremes. At one end you have your high brow thinking man's music; James Blake, The Knife, Bjork, Postal Service, anything by Laurie Anderson. The sort of bands you quote at people when you're desperately trying to impress them.
At the other you have your gratuitously cheesy bubblegum pop. The Venga Boys, Blue, The Glee Soundtrack. The sort of stuff you sing along to at weddings and when your doing housework. Stuff at this end is hardcore guilty pleasure, you love it, but that love is tinged with self loathing.
In the middle lies the Twilight Zone, Top 40 bands which in no way are going to alter your perception of the Universe, but are a far cry from Gina G. Bands like Coldplay, Maroon 5 and the Arctic Monkeys. Inoffensive 'four chords and the truth' set-ups. It's within THIS zone that the musical tumour is born.
A musical tumour is an artist, band, or even a song that you DESPERATELY don't want to like but eventually do. They grow on you against your will; like a tumour. My most recent encounter with this phenomenon at the hands of the ginger haired guitar swinger Ed Sheeran. When he first began gracing the airwaves of British popular radio stations I was all like:
Three Short Months Later......
This pattern has repeated itself many times. Over the Summer I had to begrudgingly accept that I did like Coldplay, after a long period of solid scorn.
The most bitter pill to swallow was my emerging love of The Smiths. For years I had hated the Smiths, and I had not been quiet about it.You could almost define me as a person by my hatred of The Smiths. You know how some people are good listeners, or enjoy painting? I hated The Smiths. It was universal and all encompassing. It's what I did.
Not anymore......
It is a hell unlike any other.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Over Education
Human beings have a natural academic limit, and I have definitely reached the end of mine. Three and a half years of university is more than enough and studying is no longer enjoyable or exciting. You know what sunlight looks like? Because I don't. I've transformed into one of those creatures from the Descent. All blind and pale and covered in mucus. The fact that I am no longer having fun is not the main issue I take with realising I've bitten off more than I can chew. There is a far more dangerous consequence to my decisions.
It is my belief that all people have a natural capacity for knowledge retention after which no more information can fit into their brain. What happens when new information is presented to the affected person? Something else, something important, gets pushed out.
At first it starts with the names of acquaintances, or Professors you don't see all that often. After that it moves onto general social skills and the ability to converse with people outside you particular area of expertise. Finally most of the basic functionality leaves your system, and your motor neuron ability begins to fail. In three short years you go from this:
It is my belief that all people have a natural capacity for knowledge retention after which no more information can fit into their brain. What happens when new information is presented to the affected person? Something else, something important, gets pushed out.
At first it starts with the names of acquaintances, or Professors you don't see all that often. After that it moves onto general social skills and the ability to converse with people outside you particular area of expertise. Finally most of the basic functionality leaves your system, and your motor neuron ability begins to fail. In three short years you go from this:
To this:
Most people would agree that this is the OPPOSITE of what you want from an advanced education, however it's incredibly easy to overdo it. Your brain just overloads. The sad thing is, that when I'm in a grown up job with taxes and two weeks holiday a year, I'll really miss this.
Until then though, Fuck You Uni Work.
Sunday, 19 February 2012
The Ballad of Jack and Ennis
This a faithful recounting of the most beautiful love I have ever witnessed. And it's devastating effects upon my neighbourhood.
In my second year of University, I lived in a two up two down student house that was built by the landlord, which all in all, didn't have a lot going for it:
The main redeeming feature was a large garden with table and chairs, and in the Summer Term of my tenancy, the garden was frequented by two cats. They were never seen without each other, and there was a pained aura to their relationship which lead my house mates and I to believe they were living a secret. We decided they were gay and called them Jack and Ennis.
Many a day I'd see them cavorting round our garden, engaging in whatever activities gay cats who live in secret do. Hopping from fence to fence and wandering into our house whenever we left the back door open. It was cute.
However, one day the relationship took a dramatic turn. Jack went missing. And Ennis started to Meow.
At first it was sweet, though tinged with sadness. Ennis would walk around our gardens and the gardens that backed on calling for Jack. Always calling. We all felt sorry for Ennis. He'd finally found love, only to have it cruelly ripped away by the hands of fate (we never DID find out what happened to Jack).
After a couple of weeks though, our sympathy started to wane. It wasn't like the meowing was occasional, it was CONSTANT. On top of this, the Summer exams were coming up and we were all on edge. my bedroom backed onto the garden and the majority of Ennis' pained outbursts occurred right outside my window. People turned up at our door assuming that the cats were ours. This just compounded my resentment towards Ennis. All sympathy for his plight had completely evaporated and his constant noise was beginning to wear away my sanity.
The lowest point was nightime. Ennis would come into our garden (we presumed that was the spot were Jack evaporated). And meow outside my window. The cat had a vendetta against me. He probably thought I killed Jack and made him into stew. He woke me up, stopped me going to sleep, and acted as a handy alarm clock if you wanted to get up at 5:30 every morning. I had had a very stressful few months, and had been looking exceedingly forward to spending a couple of days relaxing before I went on a five week field trip to northern Scotland. Ennis wasn't having any of that though.
Around this point, I started to plot against the cat. I won't go into the details of what I was planning, but it would not have been pleasant for Ennis. Fortunately for him though, cats are fast and I am slow, not none of my ideas ever came to fruition. Around this time as well, I heard one of my neighbours down the street yelling demented profanities at Ennis. He sounded like a broken man. It comforted me to know that I was not alone.
Eventually one day I cracked. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I had been out the night before. Ennis decided that I needed to know more about his plight, and began to meow. I flipped. I opened my window and screamed like a banshee.
I don't think I've ever lost control like that before or since. I ran out into the garden, but Ennis has the presence of mind to bolt before I could grab him. I sat on one of the garden chairs and thought I was going to cry. I had been out manoeuvred by a cat.
Eventually Ennis stopped frequenting our garden and meowing outside my window, and the murderous rage inside me started to ebb.The sun came out and I got some sleep. We all began to heal.
Next year I moved house and never saw Ennis again. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but like so many individuals who have a brief but profound impact on you, he has sailed out my life forever. This is the only time in my life I had seen what I knew to be genuine true love; and it almost killed us all. I hope I never feel the way I felt for Ennis about anything again, but that remains to be seen. I live at the back of the house this year too, and there is a very conversational dog nearby.........
In my second year of University, I lived in a two up two down student house that was built by the landlord, which all in all, didn't have a lot going for it:
The main redeeming feature was a large garden with table and chairs, and in the Summer Term of my tenancy, the garden was frequented by two cats. They were never seen without each other, and there was a pained aura to their relationship which lead my house mates and I to believe they were living a secret. We decided they were gay and called them Jack and Ennis.
Many a day I'd see them cavorting round our garden, engaging in whatever activities gay cats who live in secret do. Hopping from fence to fence and wandering into our house whenever we left the back door open. It was cute.
However, one day the relationship took a dramatic turn. Jack went missing. And Ennis started to Meow.
At first it was sweet, though tinged with sadness. Ennis would walk around our gardens and the gardens that backed on calling for Jack. Always calling. We all felt sorry for Ennis. He'd finally found love, only to have it cruelly ripped away by the hands of fate (we never DID find out what happened to Jack).
After a couple of weeks though, our sympathy started to wane. It wasn't like the meowing was occasional, it was CONSTANT. On top of this, the Summer exams were coming up and we were all on edge. my bedroom backed onto the garden and the majority of Ennis' pained outbursts occurred right outside my window. People turned up at our door assuming that the cats were ours. This just compounded my resentment towards Ennis. All sympathy for his plight had completely evaporated and his constant noise was beginning to wear away my sanity.
The lowest point was nightime. Ennis would come into our garden (we presumed that was the spot were Jack evaporated). And meow outside my window. The cat had a vendetta against me. He probably thought I killed Jack and made him into stew. He woke me up, stopped me going to sleep, and acted as a handy alarm clock if you wanted to get up at 5:30 every morning. I had had a very stressful few months, and had been looking exceedingly forward to spending a couple of days relaxing before I went on a five week field trip to northern Scotland. Ennis wasn't having any of that though.
Around this point, I started to plot against the cat. I won't go into the details of what I was planning, but it would not have been pleasant for Ennis. Fortunately for him though, cats are fast and I am slow, not none of my ideas ever came to fruition. Around this time as well, I heard one of my neighbours down the street yelling demented profanities at Ennis. He sounded like a broken man. It comforted me to know that I was not alone.
Eventually one day I cracked. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I had been out the night before. Ennis decided that I needed to know more about his plight, and began to meow. I flipped. I opened my window and screamed like a banshee.
I don't think I've ever lost control like that before or since. I ran out into the garden, but Ennis has the presence of mind to bolt before I could grab him. I sat on one of the garden chairs and thought I was going to cry. I had been out manoeuvred by a cat.
Eventually Ennis stopped frequenting our garden and meowing outside my window, and the murderous rage inside me started to ebb.The sun came out and I got some sleep. We all began to heal.
Next year I moved house and never saw Ennis again. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but like so many individuals who have a brief but profound impact on you, he has sailed out my life forever. This is the only time in my life I had seen what I knew to be genuine true love; and it almost killed us all. I hope I never feel the way I felt for Ennis about anything again, but that remains to be seen. I live at the back of the house this year too, and there is a very conversational dog nearby.........
HIT
Friday, 27 January 2012
Kurt From Glee's Knitwear Choices
Due largely to the influence of a person who looks like this:
I have become addicted to knitwear that befits the elderly. To this end I have purchased and collected a variety of 'bold' knitted jumpers. I'm wearing one right now. This transition has made me very knit 'aware' and I now tend to notice other people who have a colourful choice in knitwear. I feel I have an affinity with them. In the case I describe below though, I truly do not.
For those of you who don't watch the hit T.V. show 'Glee!' it is a programme about a bunch of sexually repressed quazi-adults who are in real life about 28 years old. This makes it sound like the O.C. or One Tree Hill, but the reality is different for three reasons
1) They all sing and sometimes dance
2) They take the piss out of themselves and each other.
3) Jane Lynch makes EVERYTHING good
In this show there is a character called Kurt. He looks like this:
and in another life I feel that him and I could have been knitwear soulmates. Sadly, he took it too far.
Below is a selection of images that I found in an attempt to document how fucking ridiculous what this boy wears is. The full impacted can only truly be acheived by watching all of the shows with his over arching story lines and bizarre lady-voice, but in the interests of time management, I will summarise as much as can:
Bold zip-across-front sleeveless man-cowl
Bedouin city dweller (add leather braids for additional fierceness)
Women look good on everything
Pale hand print covering imaginary boobs. For those days when you feel like dressing like a slapper from the early 90's.
Turtle necks add drama to any situation
W.T.F.
This is only a passing glimpse at the full horror and majesty of this boy's knitwear collection. Beholding it in it's entirety would be like looking directly at the Sun; terrifying and beautiful, but ultimately you'll go blind.
But it is always imperative to remember that although I may not agree with the fashion choices Kurt makes, it is obviously having a positive impact on his life. The photo below proves it!!!
Huzzar for hideous clothes?????
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