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May 17 A Queer and Curious matter...It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? I mean, you can not hear from someone for ages and ages and even longer still, and your mind will wander to them just before the phone rings telling you that they, seemingly, had the very same idea, if slightly before your own. (Either that or their brain works marginally quicker, which you have to count, if we’re honest.) That makes me think of a time when I rang up a friend to ask if they’d like to join my elite pub quiz team at which point they informed me they were busy, though if I’d like to join their elite pub quiz team, I’d be quite welcome to. Not that the story has much significance, I just find it somewhat amusing.
So people can walk down the roads, safe in the knowledge that if they ever want something or someone to appear, all they have to do is to not think about them for a bit, suddenly pontificate to the desired extent and the wished article will appear right before their very eyes? ‘I really wish I could see the butcher’s again, it’s been so long… What’s this? The butchers?’ Bollocks.
Why, only today I thought of a friend I haven’t seen for nigh-on seven years now, and how it would be cool if we could meet up again. I then thought of the saying that started this little entry off, and about how quaint it would be if it was him on the other end. Surprise, surprise, the phone didn’t ring and, before you ask, it wasn’t him.
Morons. You actually thought that this was going somewhere?
Gaz out. May 04 It's a blue-wash.Alright, so I've edited this text after the full results have come out. Like it matters. So what does it all mean? Well, for starters, it's an embarassment for Labour, who have become the third largest party behind the Lib Dems in terms of numbers of councillors, and also puts them at a measly 35.3% the number of the Tories'. It also means that the Tories have almost three times the number of controlled councils as the other parties put together, (which can only be a good thing,) and heralds very promising results in the coming general election. The question is - will Brown be able to pull Labour back from the brink of total collapse? This tory says no.
Oh, and today is international Star Wars day, so May the 4th be with you all. October 07 It's a large coffee, not a fecking 'grandé' one...Good day my fine feathered (and not so feathered) friends, and welcome to my little vent for all the anger that has accumulated over my new job in Caffè Nero. In essence, this was meant to be a complimentary job to supplement my Burton wage, though after Burton finished me via text last night in a very dismissive statement, it has become my primary source of income. Do not worry, though, loyal fans - I shall ensure that Burton (or, rather, Lloyd Shoes) get their comeuppance - a large bill for all the money owed to me thus far - somewhere in the region of £400 in total. Hoorah. Anyway, even though I've worked a grand total of 19 hours in the café, I have already began to isolate certain aspects of the clientelle that infuriate me to the point of refusing to serve them and going to do the washing up. Here we go;
1. "I'll have a grande, please."
Now, to make this one really annoying, you have to pronounce the word 'grande' like some sort of psuedo-intellectual, scarf-wearing ponce who just got his money from the dole office. Many of them go for the French accent (which, as we all know, is the default accent for any foreign language) and pronounce it with a distinct é sound (like at the end of café). This stressing is only the start of it, mind. (It should be pronounced as if in passing, with a muted 'eh' syllable.) When I ask someone if they want their selected coffee 'regular or large', I do so for a reason - to ascertain what cup to use. Any normal person would reply with one of the two options, but it is the type of person who replies with 'grande' that I just cannot abide. I also make sure to correct them - "the big one, then."
2. Decaf
Ah, the wonders of decaf - showing that we truly live in a world of customisable beverage consumption. It also irritates me to the back teeth. Allow me to spell it out for you - you do not like the taste or after-effects (or both) of coffee for whatever reasons and so you come into a coffee shop and order a cup of coffee. (If anyone gets the logic therein, please tell me, as I seem to be missing something.) Some will opt for the now-fashionable soy milk option as well, which gets a collective groan from all the baristas on duty, though that's not the point up for discussion here. If you do not like caffeine, do not order a cup of coffee. Simple as.
3. Old people
I'm sorry, but old people should be banned from coffee shops altogether, unless they distinctively advertise 'jerriatric' in their title. Here follows a standard conversation between myself and a random old people in the coffee shop. (They start, as it happens.)
"I'd like a coffee please."
"Yes, sir. Which kind?"
"A Coffee."
"I gathered as much. Might I offer the Americano? It's a simple coffee..."
"I just want a coffee."
"Fine, an Americano."
"No, a coffee."
"Okay."
*Makes an Americano*
"Do you have a loyalty card?"
"No."
"Do you want one?"
"No."
"You sure? You get your tenth drink free."
"Free?"
"Thought that'd get your attention. Yes, you get a stamp when you buy a drink, and when the card is full, you get a free drink."
"Sounds too complex to me. I'll leave it."
How the feck can a loyalty card be complex? Oooooh... they annoy me so. Gaz out.
September 06 Blair - on his "final lap"?I was just stood in the queue at Morrison's, waiting to pay for my four bottles of milk and a bag of frozen chips, when I spied that the old dear in front of me was buying a copy of the Sun. On it's cover, it brandishes the fact that Blair will go by November 2009 - and I have decided to put this delluded opinion to rights. Over the course of the four minute ride home, the argument began to form, and I thought back to an article from the Times that was published in this week's copy of 'the week' about this very same subject. (Mainly, my opinions may be identical to that of the journalist thereof, and so do not wish to be sued for plagarism.) And, above all, I must stress that everything said in here is countrary to my wishes, as I was secretly hoping he'd be gone by Christmas.
Firstly, the Sun states that he'll be gone by November 2009 - and there are immediate problems with the date. Firstly, November has no significance in the political calendar - elections usually take place in May and the party conferences in September and October. To resign in November 2009 would be within the 5 year deadline Blair has in a single term, though by that time, he would probably be so unpopular as to make Labour (like in the 1980s, though for different reasons) unelectable. Also, to resign in November would be to cause chaos, as parties usually vote for their new leaders at the conference, and so the grassroot members of the party would have little say in who was to succeed Blair in his premier activities. This would, in turn, mean a divide in the party between the pro- and anti-Brown camps, which would lead to a split, and a dissolution of the Labour majority, and probably even a vote of no confidence, triggering an election out of nowhere and with little real planning by either the Tories or Labour. It would be sensible on Blair's party to resign in September for the above reasons - that is, if he intends Labour to stand a fighting chance of winning the next election.
Nextly, the focus of the papers, according to the Times, should not be 'when will he go?' but 'how in the name of Satan's fetted foreskin has he survived so long?' The Times, ever ready, suggested that Labour has been "blinded with political wizardry" - which, to be fair, is bollocks. In 1997, Labour won because Major had made the Conservatives unelectable and split them over the issue of Europe due to a inability to reach a consensus. Though, that said, Blair won with a landslide of 13.5 million and some 400 seats in the commons. In 2001, this figure had slumped to 10.7 million, which was less than Neil Kinnock managed when he lost to Major in 1992, and in 2005, he actually lost to the Tories in England (according to my General Studies pre-release booklet), gaining an overal 55% of seats with 35% of the vote - more a sign of a buggered political system than political wizardry. Essentially, Blair needs to stop kidding himself that he will last to the end of his third term - there is already serious revolt amongst the party to that extent, the Sun needs to stop broadcasting loudly when Blair will go because, to be frank, they have't a clue, and perhaps people need to wise up to the fact that our Prime Ministers do not have a popular mandate as they claim, as not one has been elected with over 50% of the vote since before the second world war. Gaz out. August 26 A brief history of a brief snapshot of timeIt's a funny thing, time. Whilst it can make fools of us all, it remains one of the most simple concepts that one could ever imagine - a continuous line stretching the very boundaries of existance. It can be linear, tangeanticular or spherical (depending on the theory you ascribe to) but, put simply, it has a beginning, a middle and an end - as do many things in life. It just so happens that, at this very moment, I have all three existing simultaneously. To keep things simple, though, I'm going to them in a vague chronological order - doing the beginning first, middle second and, predictably, the last third. (Good lord, I am helpful, am I not?)
Firstly - a beginning. Yesterday marked the beginning of my ownership of two tortoises - gotten completely free from a friend of my mum's and currently sat in a large tank behind me. Though nameless at the moment, I am leaning towards a number of great duos for inspiration, though have to bear in mind the horrific circumstances of their gender. We know for a fact that they are both the same sex, though we don't know which one. Apparently, one can tell from the shape and size of their shells, though, with no control, it's quite hard, as one can imagine. Undeterred, the following were suggested as great combinations;
Fry & Laurie
Adolf & Eva
Churchill & Thatcher
Roger DeFleur & Engelbert II
I'm quite taken with the lattermost pair at the moment, though my mum is launching something of a blanket campaign to have them renamed 'Meat and Potato', due to some deluded notion that they resemble pasties in some way, shape and/or form. And, whilst we're loosely on the subject of good ol' 'dolf, I invite everyone to check out this link to see Nazis getting on down to that 70s favourite, the YMCA. It honestly does look like they're singing it.
Anyway - to the middle. Due to financial restraints, Gaz's Blog™ will not be moving to London in September. With any luck, it should be relocating to Manchester, keeping the pride of Bolton up north where it belongs. Though, things are still up in the air at the moment, as KCL need to get their collective finger out before Manchester can start throwing spiel at me all in time for the start of term. Lucky me. Finally - an end (as described above, not the actual end of the Blog™. Not yet, anyway). After 10 hours stretching over several months, I finally completed my Civ4 game. For those that don't know it, I suggest you get it, and for those that do, a big bravo all round. Gaz's Blog™, for those that are interested at all, has surpassed 29,500 views, rendering it a small push away from the end of the month target of 30,000. (It's nice to dream, isn't it?) Gaz out. August 21 Soirée and Lord OxlongMy, my, it has been a little while, hasn’t it? Mind, what with all the celebrating I’ve been doing it’s surprising I found any time to drink at all – if that happens to make anything vaguely congruent to sense. What with my birthday, results day (at which I received the rather fantastic additions to my résumé of 4 A grades and a C in French – not that I expected an A, but it just serves to add fuel to the fire, one would guess,) and my fantastic party (details ensuing) I have let the Blog™ slide into something of a neglected state, but no longer. It also seems right at this point to mention that Gaz’s Blog™, as of October, will be coming live from the heart of London as the genius pulling the strings (read: moi) heads to King’s College. Anyway, I’ve dragged this introduction on for far too long, and so let’s get down to the details of my 18th birthday soirée (id est; to celebrate my 18th birthday, not the 18th party) with photos to follow shortly when they have been compiled from several sources. Here we go; From what I’ve heard, the party was nothing but a success – praise, thanks and appreciation galore and, as can be guessed from the huge piles of used glasses and bottles – lots of sore heads on Sunday morning. The night started off somewhat stigmatised, with the DJ choosing to itinerate every little detail. So much so, in fact, that myself and Joe had visions of him running round because the pasties threw the entire schedule off course. As the guests, presents, cards and drinks began to flow in, the music slowly changed from unidentifiable 40s jive to the more welcome domain of 70s cheesy classics. All too soon, it was time for pasties and, with it, my state of the union address – my birthday speech as it were, followed by my expert rendition of ‘Sit on my face’ by Monty Python to get the Karaoke off to a bang. Over the following hour, Bohemian Rhapsody, Paradise by the Dashboard light, Rock DJ and dead ringer for Love would be systematically slaughtered in the name of inebriated inhibitionlessness. No dance was safe – the Time Warp, Cha-cha slide and YMCA would be put to death at great length and before we all knew it, it was over – or at least officially it was. Until half three in the morning, the party continued at the Gazi Citadel. Today was a day of larks, mind – myself, Joe, Madeleine, Chris and Lou all went to the Trafford Centre, for no other purpose than I wanted to spend my £60 worth of WH Smith vouchers. Joe, who still wasn’t feeling too well from his bout of spewing up into bowls at the party, my neighbours drive and by the side of his own bed, bravely sat by my side in Subway whilst I battled with a Meatball sandwich, before meeting up with the rest and discovering we had 50 minutes to kill – and so we went to the museum, at which both Madeleine and Lou were appalled at the mass taxidermy on show therein, but, curiously enough, didn’t bat an eyelid at the topless Egyptian coffin, complete with skeleton. After enough morbidity, we headed to the Trafford centre, wherein we frequented the various shops without buying much, and dined briefly on Sushi – I figured I wanted to try it before I went to London, so sampled the Sake (Rice wine) and Salmon and Cucumber Make wraps - before resigning to the food court and, completely by accident, spotting a visit for the bear factory, where one can create a teddy bear. Ideas started to form, then brew, ferment and, finally, corrupt. Eventually, we had a name – Mike Oxlong. (Inspired by an entry in the Edgworth cricket club the previous day, and for those that don’t find the name amusing, I would invite them to read it again, perhaps then out loud to get the joke in its entirety.) Chris picked the colour – a lovely vanilla, Lou stuffed the bear, Madeleine added the heart, Joe selected an accessory and I officially named him on the computer, rendering Lord Oxlong (as he came to be known via the grand inquisition that was the naming programme) a group effort. Hilarity came when I requested Mike’s birth certificate, and then realised that we had perhaps inserted a rude name into complete context. At the bottom of the certificate came the comment; “Stuffed full of hugs by Lord Oxlong.” Oh dear. Lord Oxlong shall tour round the country, visiting his rather unconventional family and give us a rather personal alternative for ‘penis’. In other news, Gaz’s Blog™ should bypass the 29,500 viewer mark by the time of the next entry, meaning that we are growing ever closer to the much-fabled 3rd 10,000th viewer celebration. Let’s make it happen – Gaz out. July 27 StormbrokenYes, yes, yes, it's been a week. I realise. I just figured that, since you were all having such fun debating the finer points of moral dilemmas (or, in the case of Ste, pointing out the non-existence of such) that I'd leave you for a little bit to see if anything developed. Anyway; the week that was for Gaz. Not much happened - quite a lot of drinking and venturing out in the car (not in the same time frame of course, that would be irresponsible and reckless,) with the usual Wednesday day trip out to Rileys, the Cotton Kier and then to the cinemas to catch the latest pap that happens to be screening. In this week's case, it happened to be 'Stormbreaker', which I was originally reluctant to see on accounts of it having the second worst leading male actor in history, (closely following Star Wars' Hayden Christensen, who was so wooden he had a logging contract took out on him in the middle of filming episode three - much to Mr Lucas' dismay,) but then I thought ' 'Why not?'. Anyway, the next film that I hadn't yet seen was another hour afterwards, and I'm not known for my patience at the best of times. Thus - Stormbreaker it was. Though, before I divulge the discrepancies therein, allow me to shock and horrify you all to the very bone. I was queuing up in the Cotton Kier for my banana split (which was excellent, if a little liquefied on the ice cream front and commandeered on the Amy front,) when I spotted the following sign, to which [sic] applies for its entirety;
June 06 What more of an omen can you wish for?Today is what is being dubbed 'devil's day' on account of it being the 6/6/06, thus forming the number of the beast. I'd just like to clear this up for those swallowed by urban myth, that 666 is the number of the beast, not the devil. 'Barking up the wrong tree there, Gaz - the bible means the devil when it says the beast,' one might say, in psuedo-witty riposte. Allow me to once more prove you poor saps wrong. The following is an extract from the book of Revalations in the Bible (right at the end) and goes something like this;
"Here is wisdom Let him who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for the number is that of a man; and his number is six hundred and sixty-six." Revelations 17:9
But that doesn't prove anything, I know. But it might be worth noting that the Devil is called by name earlier on in the bible, particularly during the books of the gospels. You might not care much for the bible as a source of factual information, and so turn to popular music, to which I point out the famed Iron Maiden song;
"six-six-six, the number of the beast,"
So there. There's no way that the Bible, Iron Maiden and I can all be wrong. Anyway, it would seem that God is not without a sense of humour, assuming that today he is fulfilling his role as the divine overseer of all creation - today was my politics exam - an omen in itself considering the date and the common premenition that the antichrist will rise today. Upon getting into the exam room and turning over the paper (despite my momentary simultaneous decisions to both cry and declare war on Oxbridge anew,) I was confronted with a large (40 mark) question on the election of the leader of the conservative party. Smiling with glee and rubbing my hands together, I set about writing perhaps the most biased piece of writing I have ever embarked on.
Anyway, it was in the final 10 minutes of the exam that I spent looking around and wondering why I had managed to get 100 marks down in 45 minutes (minus 5 minutes for planning purposes) I was struck by the sudden thought - why bother to get abused on MSN for being far too clever for the intellectually stunted people that might come across the blog™ (every offence intended - it just proves my maxim that everyone is stupid until they prove you wrong,) and so have opened Gaz's Blog™ Worldwide to discuss far more taxing issues of the day, such as linguistics, politics, world affairs and current debates, so have a look on there from time to time if you're feeling brainy. In the absence of posts for the past 4 days, however, viewing figures have slipped; I only managed to poll 300 between the 2nd and today thus far, but I'm sure it'll buck up. Until next time, then, Gaz out. May 02 A Classical BingeAs 'twere. For the moment, anyway, I've managed to ditch all the rock, the roll and both the metal and the classics and revel in the joy that can only be brought on by that false sense of superiority over the average prole by listening to a bit of classical music and, what is more (besides being a man, my son,) actually being able to hum along and sound like you've known this sort of thing your entire life. Despite the fact I actually have. Whilst we're on the subject - the phrasing of the musical as classical music is technically incorrect as only music written between 1750 and 1820 can be officially classified as 'Classical'. (Predating that by 100 years is 'baroquial' and for 80 years proceeding 'romantic'.) Nothing can beat the drama and emotion of a fantastic overture or reprise, and nothing soothes quite like Pachabel's "Canon in D". But, anyway, aside from all this culture, allow me to bestow upon you my current thoughts for the past few days - and it doesn't involve shooting poor or stupid people, as per many of my recent in-person utterings;
It has occured to me time and time again (and the past few days have been but no exception to that self-perpetuating belief) that the British political system is a complete shambles and, by extension, mess. Well, for starters we have a supposedly labour government giving out peerages to the good, bad and filthy rich, contrary to their supposedly socialist ideals, we have the blues voting green on most matters, the Liberal Democrats sacking all the liberal people for being 'not what they invisage a party member to be like', the BNP attracting the Asian and popular, to an extent, vote, the Respect Coalition with nothing of the sort, the Greens not living up to their name unless it implies jealousy and a Monster Raving Loony Party attaining as many votes as the British Communist Party and British Socialists put together. Honestly - I'm not quite sure what can be done to fix the current political hokey-kokey save from forcing Labour back to the left, myself as Tory leader and forcing the Lib Dems to vote in an alcoholic leader... again.
Also in the news would be the new position that Burton have offered me and I have gladly accepted. This has affirmed my belief that the Arcadia group are on my side when faced with the threat of a declaration of war on the Blog™, and have offered me the oh-so-reasonable £5.15 an hour. Thus I managed to get in 5 hours of work on the Sunday and a further 6 hours yesterday though, owing to the fact it was a bank holiday, I was officially on £10.30 an hour, which rules so much it's practically untrue. It has also occured that I should really start revising for my exams, though the impetus for such an ideal is yet to kick in and so I remain a faithful obedient of apathy and sloth. With any luck, I shall post tomorrow before I go off on the other sort of Binge that is a lot more appealing to the proles of today. Until then, then, I bid you arrivederchi.
April 23 Goodbye to RomanceWell, not to romance as such - it was more the first song that came into my head that contained something to do with goodbyes and farewells (that hasn't already been used,) for, as you may or may not know, today is the last day of the easter holidays for myself and numerous others up and down the country - a holiday that would have been a damned sight better had it not been polluted by work, infected by Frenchies and overshadowed by the only remaining 5 weeks of college ever. But, far it be from a date in the near future to take precedence over a contemporary excuse for jingoism - Today is also St. George's Day; The patron Saint of England for those who have no idea who he is which, I hasten to add, make up a fair proportion of our fair population. St. George was fabled as the man who slayed a dragon to save a damsel in distress or something along those lines, though this begs the question - "Why saint George?" According to the Vatican - the top men on this matter, well, the only men on the matter, sainthood is guaranteed by the completion of two feats;
As far as I'm aware, Georgie didn't die for his faith. In fact, I don't know how he died at all, I'm merely pointing out discrepancies in the Holy See's logic - infallible though it may be. Also, at this point, it might be worth adding another ego-inflating review for Cardinal Saviour, who performed last night at the Horwich leisure centre. Their second gig, the band performed far better than their three preceedants, who strutted around on stage missing notes, screaming abuse at the crowd and otherwise into the microphone and just looking like a randomly-selected trilogy of itinerates. Cardinal Saviour, by contrast were as good as last time (probably owing to the fact it was the exact same set,) performing to what I can only assume to be their high standards. The following band, ASBO, were of the same high standards, though their music was slightly more generic, but the crowd seemed to eat it up so no harm there. Do feel to join me next time on the Blog™, where I shall probably discuss the nature of dimensions if nothing interesting happens, as I suddenly struck upon the idea that it is quite a plausible fact that I am simultaneously a three, four and five-dimensional being. (Chew on that one, physicists.) It is also worth commenting that Gaz's Blog™ has reached 23,500 and carried on like some sort of stampeding wilderbeast being chased by a rampant welshman, and has been able to add Herzegovina to the viewing countries list. Until next time, then, Gaz out. April 21 So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehn, Bog off.England is safe once more. The streets are cleaner than they were for the previous two weeks, and its now completely secure for men to let their women and children out into the streets without fear of Continental European reprisal. Yes, the Frenchies have gone home. To say it was a teary goodbye would be a vast lie, spanning several levels of implausibility and just generally untrue (as most lies are.) To counter, to say that it was a Goodbye will suffice, as the words were probably spoken at one point or another, though it was far too early for me to remember the fine details of the brief conversation as we were home and in our respective beds before they has taken off at the ridiculous time of 7:15. Presently, Lord Warman popped round in the afternoon and we did some biology revision before I went off to a party in the evening at the British Legion. (Not the actual British legion, I'll point out, but a small pub called 'The British Legion'.)
So, suitably Frenchie-free for 24 hours, I awoke this morning once more at the atrocity of a time that is ridiculous o'clock to go driving along long roads at high speeds and then throwing myself around roundabouts at high speeds. Only just beginning to recover from the adrenaline rush, I was home, changed and on my way back to town before I knew what was happening. The thing is, I had a job offer at Burton in Bolton to work 4 hours on a sunday on the shoe part - not too thrilling I know, but it's easy money I suppose. However, someone else needs to be interviewed, and so if that person happens to read this - I know who you are, where you are and I will come and get you if you dare to take my job. (And if you believe that, you don't deserve to have a place at Burton. I'm so clearly superior anyway, but that just proves it.) It was also an observation of mine that there appears to be an unnaturally large number of communists in Bolton town centre today. Well, by Communists I actually mean Russians, though I think it's a fair assumption to make that all Russians are Communists - just like all Germans are efficient and that anyone who falls into a minority demograph is far more qualified to do a job than someone who is an expert in that particular field. Stupid quotas. I also caught glimpse of an elderly lady with Purple hair. Reason escapes me, but I must say she was the first sectogenarian I have ever seen with hair colour anything other than white or beige so Kudos to her.
And, speaking of elderly ladies, I would like to take this opportunity to with Her Majesty a very happy 80th Birthday. By the looks of things, she has a good 20 years left in her, and so long may she reign. For those of you out there that don't believe the Queen to be of any official use to society and a drain on the Government, I would invite you to look at yourselves in the mirror and you would probably fall under the same indiscriminate categories as her. The only difference is that she is known worldwide, you aren't. Thus, you may believe she sucks but that implies you suck even more. Bwaha. Personally, I love the woman and would hope that Gaz's Blog™ would one day be made by royal appointment.[/Subtle Hint] It might also be of worth to note that the Blog™ has smashed through the 23,000 viewer boundary and is steadily climbing towards 30,000 at a rate of at least 500 viewers per week. Gaz out. April 06 Eat biscuits; Give blood.Yes, it's been a few days - I know. I am fully spatially and chronologically aware, and so don't need your bitching about not putting an update up - this update is specifically for those who nagged me to do so. Actually, on second thoughts - it's not. If i did that then it would suggest that I operate on the whims of the public and not the public bowing to my points of view, as many cite is the right way round. As such, this blog™ is purposely dedicated to making all those that incessantly moan about there not being any new updates even more desperate for the very next blog™ - feeding an obsession, and all that. Anyway, we shall start our three day racount with Tuesday, being three days ago and all. Tuesday was the day that Gaz gave blood - despite the fact he has been eligible to give blood, he was denied the ability last time due to being on eye drops, proving once more, it seems, the incompetence of the NHS, though that's not the point. Also, Gaz has no idea why he is talking in third person, and so shall promptly switch back to first person. Giving blood itself was fine as was the waiting afterwards and the noshing on biscuits and orange juice, however the problem came afterwards, it seems, when the lack of blood hit me. I went a bit dizzy, so followed the instructions of the nurse and put my head between my legs, though was more concerning with stopping the floor from spinning than listen to the silly nurse saying my name. When I finally responded to her third (and, by this time, slightly concerned) request, I was apparently as white as a sheet. I was offered a bed to lie down on - I declined. I was recommended such - I declined again. Then, I was forcibly put on the bed and carried to the side, enveloped in a screen and recieved some sort of foam block under my feet and a flannel on my head. When asked some five minutes later if I was okay to which I replied, "I feel like a prat, but fine, yes." Other such witticisms were inherrant within my time giving blood, and featured many of the following:
Otherwise, nothing much happened on Tuesday - apart from eating the piles of free biscuits and drinking the small reserves of orange juice that came from a little over-reacting. Christ, I'm good. The day after (Wednesday - do try and keep up,) I frequented the trafford centre and managed to bag myself a new book The man in the high castle before I found the magazine section and laughed at the array of pointlessly and hopelessly sad magazines on show - Bus Weekly, Tractoring times and Shotguns, UK featuring strongly within their numbers. My theory as to how these magazines manage to keep themselves running is due to the innundation of requests from dental surgeries and waiting rooms up and down the country to fill up the rather battered coffee table they recieved from Mrs Smith down the road for a fiver. As for today? Nothing much happened, except for the absence of Mr Read and so two hours of free periods in the afternoon within which I managed to get a Biology paper done, so at least it's out the way. Oh, and before I resign for the evening, I might as well plug the new link I've managed to bung up on the right, linking to Cardinal Saviour's website. On there, you can listen to their music, browse information about them and whatnot, though one needs a Myspace.com profile to access the entire gallery of photos. And, on that note, ladies and male sentients, I bid you a fond Quin 'ec. (Goodbye, should you not understand Guatamalan. As I expected - you uncouth yobs.) April 03 Vi veri veniversum vivus vici"I, whilst living, have conquered the Universe." So said Marlowe in The Tragic History of Doctor Faustus, which I think has so much fantastic relevance to the Blog™ itself. Not only that, it was on the film I went to see last night - V for Vendetta. Whilst the lack of actual story direction was annoying at times, the on-screen presentation was fantastic, portraying Britain in a typical 1984-stylee dictatorship a mere 20 years in the future. The actor who played the character simply known as V was nothing but fantastic playing the initial baddie-turned-goodie with all the charm and panache of Zorro. In addition, it was also fantastic to see the Old Bailey blown to bits - not that I'm a terrorist or an anarchist, it was just rather spectacular and unexpected so early in the film.
Anyway, this set me on a rather fantastic political chain of thought concerning the pivotal role of any person over the age of 18 in this country as a voter. Technically, every vote has the ability to change an election for better of for worse - Bush won his first term by a mere 3,000 votes. (Exactly 12 less than those had gone to Nader, the candidate who took voters away from the Democrat Al Gore's camp.) Thus, Bush got in by a simple dozen more votes than his opponent(s) and, as a result, we've had two wars and an increase in racial tensions in both this country and the states. What does this have to do with anything, though? A fair question indeed. The turnout for that election was around the 60% mark, meaning that millions of Americans didn't vote for a President that they don't necessarily like. Back to this country now, and Labour got in in 2005 by 30% of the electoral population's votes, meaning that the majority that they rule with is, in fact, a clear minority - And yet people complain. People complain when the Government does something they don't agree with, but yet they don't take their frustration out on the ballot box, do they? People complain that there isn't a party for them out there - I'm sure there is, you're just not looking hard enough. If all else fails, put yourself up as a candidate - you're most welcome to so long as you're over 21 and not in direct employ of the monarch (Forces, Judiciary, Peers etc.) Women campaigned for the vote for over 20 years - and now female turnout is lower than that of the men, despite all the work the suffragettes and suffragists put in.
Some would say that they don't vote because they don't know anything about or don't have an interest in politics. To this, I say: Bollocks. Politics for electoral purposes is simple - you don't need to know every constituency - just the one you reside in - you don't need to know all the parties' stances on every little detail - just the ones that matter to you -- and you don't even need to know the names of your candidate - just the party you want to vote for. And if all fails, just vote the way your class dictates - If you're working class, vote labour; If you're middle class, vote Conservative and if you like to sit on the fence on issues or are recently embourgoiséed, then vote Lib Dem. If it were up to me, those that don't vote for two elections on the trot - regardless of reason (bar electoral disqualification through national service of one form or another) shouldn't be allowed to vote and stricken from the electoral register. I'm not saying voting should be compulsary, but that people should choose which option they want to take - enfranchised or not. In Belgium, voting is comulsary save a hefty fine for not having a valid excuse and as a result the far right parties do exceedingly well due to general ignorance - and I'm not advocating this for one moment, all I'm saying is a simple fact of British society and thus a decree to the unenlightened proles out there that squander their most powerful political right - you have a vote. Use it. March 10 Unopened. (Well, nearly.)Results day was today. Despite the fact that results day was yesterday for most people, tensions were running high to say the very least. Form tutors had time enough to gaze over the results on the paper before handing them over into the ululating, seething body of students (for we were diverted to the arts theatre in the main school due to an alarm fault. Of all the times to pack 250 people into a small auditorium,) from which varied shouts of happiness and despair were heard, and a net influx of students out of the hall to phone their loved ones and tell them the varied news meant that the arts theatre remained nice and quiet. Subject teachers were pestered for previous points and people with calculators were merrily bashing buttons and coming up with encouragingly large numbers. For most subjects, this meant that the totals were topped up to a mark out of 400, however some still remain out of 300. Rather guttedly for me, I got two exams within four collective points of two a's, however my points are still sufficient enough to play with come June. In case you were wondering, here're my marks thus far:
Biology (/400): 334 (A)
Politics (/400): 308 (Two marks off an A)
French (/300): 215 (B)
History (/300): 271 (A)
Oh, and...
General Studies (/300): 263 (A)
It looks like AQA gave in on the French front, then, and I'm primed to pick up oodles and oodles of points when I resit the oral exam in June. I'm also thinking about resitting the 2596 politics paper to get a few more marks with which I may well triumphantly emerge with four A grades. Or perhaps not. But its nice to dream, eh?
And now, with that little announcement out of the way, an amusing and immature little game. I actually picked this up from Sir Patch, so don't think I was insightful enough to make it up. I was, however, the one to introduce it to the college, and has been warmly recieved, I might add. It's known as the 'between my legs' game, and works simply by people reading out the name of the song they're listening to and insert the suffix of 'between my legs'. Some examples, and their accreditions:
Goldeneye between my legs - Monsieur Bergs
Tainted love between my legs - Bobby
Smells like teen spirit between my legs - George
Sexual healing between my legs - Cap'n Jess
And so it goes on. Though, as a note, this game is only for the immature. There is a certain amount of maturity that comes with fitting a German song title into the phrase, such as 'Zwitter' or 'Mutter', though that's as far as it reaches. To prove it; something like 'Chopin's Piano Concerto no.5 in F between my legs' doesn't really work. Feel free to post your own ideas below, and spread the game - though remember to attribute a link to Gaz's Blog™. February 28 McChicken Sandwich please. Oh, and hold the H5N1.Well, here I am - back in good ol' blighty after the wonders of France for an entire week to be faced with an Inbox practically burgeoning with unread messages (24, if you must know, and that's with an incredibly fantastic anti-spam filtering device. I should know, I made it.) unheard gossip and news of a new and fantastic event coming to manchester this very late spring/early summer. But, more details on that later. Time, I think, to cram lots and lots of details about the last few days in France into a single paragraph by ignoring the principle of detail that has made Gaz's Blog™ simultaneously adored and ignored the world over. Here we go, then. (Just as a note, it should be classified under 'Le Blog™', however I can't be arsed divvying it up to go into two seperate categories, so you'll have to make do.)
After the fun and larks of venturing into Bordeaux and getting desperately and hopelessly lost on Friday, we decided to try it again on Saturday, this time with a local escort. (By which I mean we were accompanied by some of the local people - namely the Frenchies with which we lived for the week, not some sleezy prostitutes that some people seem to associate with the term 'escort'. Twirps.) Needless to say - though I say it anyway - the trip was much more successful, this time with me emerging with CDs of Both Mr Loaf and Mr Manson for, combined, less than the price of a single album in the UK. (It is also interesting to note that only four artists have ever achieved the lofty rank of being addressed as 'Mr' on Gaz's Blog™; Mr Loaf, Mr Manson, Mr Cooper and, most recently, Mr Joel.) Ego and Body size inflated due to the huge meal I inadvertently ordered through a combination of an unwillingness on my part to say the menu items in a French accent and the part of the cashier who kept doleing out tomato ketchup despite I was trying to tell her to not give me any further ketchup, only to be met with a barrage of more tomato sauce with added crap, I managed to return to Bordeaux a third (Or was it fourth?) time on the Monday, to come away with some rather great vestments, the nature of which I shall divulge in further blogs™, I'm sure and having said the title to one of the cashiers at McDonalds, despite the fact I knew full well that neither she nor any of the other saps in the grease-soaked establishment would get it.
And, on that bombshell, I shall divert frantically to the next item of business - Pancake Tuesday. (Commonly known to the rest of the English-speaking world as 'Shrove Tuesday', but that's besides the point.) Is it just me, or does it somehow take the magic away from this otherwise quasi-magical event by spending a week in France and being force-fed Crêpes at every available interval of the sodding day? Not that you'd know of course, I'm merely talking in rhetoric as it makes the Blog™ seem much more direct and to-the-point, as I intend it to be. Despite that, I still managed to have a nice pancake with strawberries and cream - a clash of events, and even seasons, there, but I felt it works - thought I'm not sure what abomination college will try to pass of as pancakes tomorrow, though I should be fun and potentially dangerous to find out. Tomorrow (Or today, depending on when you read this fine apostle) is also Ash Wednesday; so called because of the ancient tradition of eating Potato (h)Ash upon this very day- a dish very much like meat and potato pie but without the pastry bit - and if you believe that, I feel sorry for you.
Now, I would say something about the fanastic and, dare I say, mind-bendingly superb specatcle that's coming to Manchester some time this year, though I feel it's much more cruel to leave you in suspense until tomorrow. Also, as an alterior motive (not to be confused with an ulterior motive, which is an ultimatum of sorts) I get to whore views, by pretending to have a new and [potentially] exciting entry up. Until then, then. February 14 Rest In Peace, Sanity.Bollocks. Not literal ones, though they might as well be for the amount of shit that emanates from nearby. Anyway - Overromanticised, overexaggerated, idiotic bollocks.
Yes, in case you haven't guessed, I'm talking about the most momentous day of days, festival of festivals and event of events; Valentine's Day. In case you also couldn't guess; I'm being incredibly sarcastic. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I hate Valentine's Day. Why? You might very well ask and I shall elaborate over the course of the Blogette™, though firstly an apology and then a little background. I know I should have put the true acronym of R.I.P. (Requiescat in Pace), though I felt the joke might have been lost in translation. Now, the notion of having a day for lovers on February 14th is not a new one. It was celebrated by the Pagans of Latinium (The Romans) and was essentially a day with an excuse for excessive soppiness and practicing the rather crude practice of Hieros Gamos. With the introduction of Christianity to the Roman Empire in the 4th century, the pagan celebrations were abandoned and alternatives were instated that were tolerant of the new religion. It is also worthy of note that the Saint - named in popular culture as Valentine - was not a great lover, but a Christian (Hence the title of saint - in that he died for his cause, not his love,) adulterer who died in a roman amphitheatre doing battle with a couple of disgruntled lions. We don't even know when he died, as there were three similar sounding men, all of whom were made saints and died in the same way between the 1st and the 3rd centuries AD. (Valens, Valentin and Valentino - One notes that not one is called 'Valentine'.) So why name the day after this nobody? That would be because, whilst in jail for Christianity, he passed notes to the gaoler’s (Jailor's) daughter, and signed them "From your Valentine." Rumour also has it that this is where we get the red heart as the symbol from, though that's somewhat speculative. So, why don't I believe in Valentine's Day? Firstly, it's for the same reasons that I'm growing to despise Christmas. Setting aside my being single at this particular moment in time and receiving absolutely no Valentines cards ever, the commercialism of the entire thing just knocks me sick - shops displaying hearts and roses (The colours of each having different meanings, apparently - see here,) but then people actually go out of their way to buy chocolates and presents and balloons and other such nauseously sweet items. Allow me to point out now that the only presents I would happily accept on Valentine's day would be a packet of love hearts, or an 8p card from ASDA. Such would signal a vague reference to the celebration but not be too mushy and committal, without being overly flamboyant or naive. To demonstrate this point, one only need have seen the common room today - practically burgeoning with red hearts, balloons, wall decorations, hanging hearts, hearts suspended from the ceiling, windows, doorframes - everywhere. However, I must take off my cap to Lord Warman, who managed to stage an exact replica of himself using a balloon for a head and various vestments for, well, vestments and managing to fool most of the common room. Though, anyway, stunned, disheartened and horrified by the show of utter gullibility, I resorted to wearing an armband, bearing the slogan 'R.I.P. Sanity.' whilst joining with a large majority of our corner in wearing black to boycott, as it were, this soppy occasion. Still, I haven't put across much of an argument. Whilst I'm no romantic (In fact, I refuse to believe that love exists outside of a purely platonic plane - oooh, alliteration.) and, in addition, male - meaning I am inhibited by some gift-buying defect - I, and, no doubt the rest of the population, still struggle to find any sort of romanticism to buying a large red heart shaped balloon - or handing out prickly flowers to the people that we like. First of all it goes against the secretive nature of Valentine's day, and secondly it's not really tantamount to any form of sexual expression or display of love. I do believe that I would be somewhat offended, in fact, if someone bought me a red balloon, unless it was all in jest. In which case, I might be able to find the humorous side of things. So, in conclusion, why should we give out ridiculously unrealistic hearts (As Hearts look nothing like the Valentine's hearts, as anyone above a simpleton will rightly tell you,) to celebrate the death of some Christian dude that wasn't anything to do with love outside flirting? Does that mean that, simply because I flirt from time to time, that I should have a holiday named after me? Moreover, if it does, then why don't we celebrate it? I guess it only fair, then, to declare February the 15th "Gaz's Day,” and for everyone to do bugger all to show their gratitude that valentine's day is done and dusted for another year, at least. February 04 Oh, I do apologise. I had no idea you wanted to be ignored so badly.Old people really do possess a certain talent that makes you want to lamp them one. I mean, who else could manage to make a standard counter monkey as myself feel anger, hate, anger again and then come up with a fantastic scheme for revenge within a few seconds of one another. Thus, I responded negatively (and perhaps slightly immaturely) towards the customer who bellowed that there were "a lot of people in this [the chemist's'] queue." I subsequently served the people before and after her before serving grumpy old wench, making her endure a further 20 minutes of waiting. Upon finally reaching her, I recieved part of an earful, until I pointed out I didn't have to serve her, nor was I obliged to. In other work-related news, Vincent returned upon receiving news that the Chemist was shutting at 1 o'clock sharp (Well, 10 minutes before, and we all just claimed it was time,) and there was a certain feeling of satisfaction after sneaking past a group of old people crowded around the door and running out of distance. Actually, it was really more of a brisk walk - they still didn't notice me.
Before making my merry way into town, I recieved news of a certain collection of mix-ups about my holiday arrangements, and their relative solutions, much to my relief. It turns out that, for our 5 day trip to Poland we didn't have a hotel until this morning and for our week excursion to Ireland we did have a hotel, though we (Parents) couldn't remember the name for the life of them. Anyway, in town, I met up with the Baron von Collingwood and then Ms Collins (Kirsty, to give her her proper name.), before launching ourselves upon Caffè Nero. (I keep pointing out to them that they spell 'Café' wrong and that they might want to think again the next time they want to name a coffee chain after the most savage Roman emperor of all history. I've actually been close to recommending the likes of 'Café Pol Pot' or 'Café Franco', though they don't seem to speedy to recognise my evidently superior wit and intellect.) Anyway, within the caffè shop, I saw a sign advertising a new drink known as the 'Chai Latte', which would, it seems, turn out to be fantastic, though one thing confused me - what in the name of various deities was 'Black tea'? A special brand of Penicillin? Bemused, I asked the cashier, who then with the same look of anti-eureka looked to her college, who fetched the manager, who returned with the bag which the tea came in. It turns out it's a midly spiced version. Nothing that special then. Much unlike the Chai Latte - it was like Christmas in a cup - except without sprouts and all those family relatives you pretend not to know the other 364 days of the year.
Thus, one new brand of tea, some jelly babies and an emptier wallet later, I returned home to write this blog™. It may well be of note that by the time you read this, the viewer count will be well into the 17,000s, making the time in which 1,000 have visited a little over 2 weeks, which is pretty damned good, I think. Also, I really need to add Cyprus to the list at the side, however I don't know what to say that won't offend either the Turks or the Greeks, being the sensistive and non-racist so-and-so I am. Thus, I shall insult both and claim it as my own. Everyone wins. Gaz out. February 02 Freedom of Expression or Protected Liberty?It seems that the world has gone absolutely bonkers. (This Blog™ could have been about my trip to London and my visit to Kings College.) Absolutely stark raving mad. (It also could have been about me getting lost on the tube or spending an entire day drinking.) Plain crazy. (But nope - that would take too much effort to type up, so suffice with this simple thought-provoking article on rights and liberties.) It seems that the people of the world are up in arms today over the slightest little depiction. I mean, honestly, you depict a prophet in a few cartoons and you get an entire Islamic backlash. Now, I can respect the Muslims and their wish not to have their prophet pictured or otherwise mentioned without several thousand adjectives in front of it, however what I do object to is to them pushing this belief upon people of different beliefs. Or even no beliefs at all. I mean, it might be offensive, however there is a simple remedy to this - don't buy the freaking paper. Get it? Evidently not.
Essentially, what you have here is a clash between two major rights that we all enjoy on a day to day basis. However, if people are going to start making a song and a dance about a little sodding cartoon, then one must suffer on account of the other. For example, should the Freedom of Liberty (A little antithesitic I realise, but the liberty of liberty just made me nauseous to even consider including,) be protected and even enforced - especially the liberty of a certain group of people, then other freedoms, such as the freedom of expression and the freedom of the press suffer as a result. Likewise, if no restraints are exercised on the latter, then the former suffers. It's a question of balance. Or good humour, perhaps. I mean, had it been Jesus is a completely different situation that would have made putting Jesus in a satirical cartoon comical then I'm sure there wouldn't have been as much offence. In fact, I think I would have found it funny provided it wasn't too offensive, however if I had, I wouldn't scream and shout about it.
I have just been informed that, in Palestine, there is now a parade of Danish flags with large crosses through them. Now this is bordering on psychotic, I should think. (Those silly Hamas people. I mean, come on - who names a terrorist group after a Greek dip?) People are threatening lashbacks against the west and whatnot (Despite the fact said people live here through choice) and even some extremists threatening bombings. All of a sudden it dissolves into perspective - Denmark publishes cartoon offensive to muslims; ergo Denmark gets terrorised. Talk about sensationalism.
Now, don't get me wrong here. I am not a racist. I am a fascist, however that is strictly racially harmonious as far as ideology is concerned, (It's the Nazis which are the racist fascists.) and so none of this is spoken with any particular bias towards any side. It may seem that way, but only because I don't know enough cartoons that challenge Christian values. Thus, I created my own. In the news today (Well, the metro, so tantamount to such,) I saw a picture of a fish that had the word 'Allah' inscribed on one side of it, and 'Mohammed' on the other in different coloured scales. Now, there is a certain amount of scepticism in me as to whether this is actually the work of God or the work of a man and a paintbrush, but I still decided to do a cartoon about it anyway. Gaz out. Technorati ProfileJanuary 24 Littledale Hall; The International House of PheasantsYou've no idea how tempting it was to miss out the 'h' from pheasant in the title. It was also tempting to go upstaits and revise Politics, hence why I'm now sat here doing this Blog™. I figured that, in light of a pleasant exam (Fatal last words, I fear) I should treat myself and have a night off. Of course, this will mean I have to work my proverbial socks off on wednesday and thursday, however I'm willing to make that sacrifice. My day was uninteresting, really, apart from spending half an hour telling a Frenchman why I hate French in french. It was bizarre to put it fondly, however at least I enjoyed myself whilst he sat there worriedly, glancing at his watch until the half-hour was up. Silly frenchies. Speaking of which, I'm off to France again quite soon as part of the second wave of the Turton High School French Invasion Task Force (All upper case due to their being a single noun. Also, if you understood that sentence, well done.), this time numbering 5. Élancam will be making a welcome return, with more hilarity and depravity featuring highly. Anyway, I believe I was about to talk about Littledale. This can be best approached in two paragraphs for the days I was there, briefly summarising the events and worthwhile points.
Saturday
Arriving slightly delayed due to attending two consecutive parties on Friday night, (Which, if one requires to know, were both very good,) I was, to say the least, breathtaken by what I saw before me. Imagine, if you will, a huge gothic mansion with several umpteen rooms and set in idyllic grounds. Now times that by about 5 and you'd be right. Shown to my quarters and given time to s'installer myself, I started with the first of the sessions. Granted that those before the walk were quite tame in character, and merely involved lots of talking and opening up about what you expected and such. Follwing lunch we had a lovely romp through the grounds, spying shot pheasants all over the place and several local folk, (In fact, I swear I heard the words "Ach. Poor People." muttered once or twice, but I won't make a big deal of it.) before resorting to charging, piggyback dueling and goosestepping to add to the amusement. After this came the construction of the Gazihedron (Picture hopefully coming soon) and its consequent re-construction, and then another bout of chronic noshing on the part of, well everyone. Presently, we dissolved into organised bedlam with several games and a few rounds of wink murder, the likes of which I shall entrust to someone to comment regarding.
Sunday
Traditionally held as a day of rest, though I guess no one told us that. Starting off with a fantastic murder mystery which not even the likes of a Magistrate Judge, Architect, Future Überlord of everything and several others could unravvel. Eventually, we came to a conclusion only to find that out preliminary guess was nearer to the truth. (By nearer to, I actually mean it was.) A few more sessions and bout of munchies later and a great deal of amusment in observing Lord Warman's bodily fluid-stained matress later, we were well on the road again, this time supposedly to Pizza Hut. A good old sing-song to such Christian classics as 'Run to the Hills' and 'Enter Sandman' later, and we were there, and quick chin-wag further with the waitress in charge sent us well on our way to Frankie and Benny's. I must admit that it was rather good, however I do think the platter of chicken wings got in the way of my pizza. In fact, I'll blame Mr Mini, as it was probably his fault. (It sure as hell wasn't mine.)
And there we have it - a weekend in brief. A weekend that could have been spent constructively revising for the upcoming exams, but sometimes, one must tweak the nose of terror, pour ice cubes down the vest of fear and give fate a great big kick in the bollocks whilst saying "Quite frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." (Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert. Should you happen to be Latin.) Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur - lingua speciem involutam praebet, sed sat cito eam comprehendes. (Atque memento, nulli adsunt Romanorum qui locutionem tuam corrigant.) Vah, et non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema. Gaz out. January 16 Can the music of yesteryear predict the events of today?There is a question that had baffled scientists, prophets and musicians of all natures for centuries and continues to this very day. Sure, it might not be a particularly academically acknowledged question, but ‘tis a question nonetheless. A question of perplexity and of certain dubiousness due to its lack of provability, assuming that time is linear. (The theory that states that time cannot be repeated nor changed outside a tangent timeline that simply creates a second timeline, instead of altering the first and that one cannot travel between the two point save travelling back to the point in time, thereby creating a duplicate self and lots of problems when you both enter a look-alike party.) Thus, if time is linear, one cannot prove the alternative, as there is no irreconcilable proof that the event would have happened a certain way without a certain involvement. A question of such magnitude it has the power to shake the very foundations of what we accept as past and, indeed, history. A question like; “Can the music of yesteryear predict the events of today?” (Well, when I say like I do, in fact, refer to that question exactly and decided to use a linguistic device because I’m a show-off like that.) Warning: The following blog™ utilises sweeping statements in an effort to prove a disenchanted theory. If you are easily offended or belong to any race, gender, religion or social class, look away now. One might also describe it as a bit taboo. If you want to get to the point without reading any of the bumph, feel free to skip to the last paragraph. If one is to look at music, one would think ‘What the hell is there to see. Music is an audio entertainment medium and, should we be able to see it, it is transformed somewhat magically into Visual.’ Now, if one wasn’t such a smart arse, one would conclude that there is nothing deeper than the words sung, and one would be essentially right. However, if one considers the general feel – the ethos – put forward by the song, especially in the title, a more sinister side occur to them. If we were to look at song names such as ‘2 out of 3 ain’t bad’ and then compare them to the events of 9/11 (The destruction of the twin towers, but not of the pentagon,) one cannot help but be shocked. Again, ‘Hit me baby one more time’ is almost an embodiment of the Second Gulf [Iraq] war; both in terms of sheer horror and the events occurring. Band names can also carry these warnings to the future, such as the chilling example presented in ‘Katrina and the Waves’ (The band behind a certain song involving someone walking on sunshine.) But then it begs the question: ‘Why?’ Do these bands know about the events that will unfold before the actually do so, or do they simply tempt fate by doing so? If I was to be truly honest, I would say neither, and would dismiss the entire theory as bollocks. Complete and utter. Firstly, if one thinks about the number of songs ever made and interpretations thereof, there’s a hell of a lot of things that might fit. Then, compare it to the number of events that have happened worldwide and, again, the differing views and interpretations of such events and you’ll realise that this sort of thing is neither fate nor some divine chance, but, in fact, a coincidence. I shall consult three theories on events in reality to sum up: 1. Reality is a figment of the imagination. In which case, I am sick and twisted. Do me a favour, and would those people that stick to their stupid coincidence theory like an old person in a wheelchair would stick to the roof of a train carriage had they been superglued there previously please either drop their stupid ideas and dismiss them, once and for all, as the attempts of a lame imagination to come to terms with some things that were not meant to be explained or understood and get a life. Like I advocated below, try and get two – you might get bulk discount and, whilst we’re at it, I’ll stick to reality, thank you very much. |
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