In 10 minutes I’m going to hand in my thesis! I may or may not have a pint. I’ll let you guess. Enjoy your weekend and enjoy this “popular music video” by orthodox Jewish reggae star Matisyahu.
Apologies for the short blogs of late, busy busy busy. Hopefully get some long meandering drivel of self-consciousness up here soon! Stay tuned!
Sometimes, you know, blog-entry titles can be misleading. My blog entry titles especially can be misleading. So, I wouldn’t hold it against you for reading that and thinking “oh, roosta, he’s conjured up another poorly constructed mess of words which have spewed unfiltered from his mind out onto the Internet likes some brain-dysentry”.
Alternatively, sometimes I come across things so amazing, so mind-bendingly poop-enducingly amazing that I think my fragile brain is going to drill down into my body and come bursting out my arse in excitement. I think you know where this is going.
Ladies and gentlemen, Michael Jackson wants Vegas robot
Michael Jackson is in discussions about creating a 50-foot robotic replica of himself to roam the Las Vegas desert, according to reports…..
….would feature the giant Jacko striding around the desert, firing laser beams.
If built, the metal monster would apparently be visible to aircraft as they come in to land in the casino capital.
LINK!
Hello , this is a cut-and-paste-and-link type post because I don’t have the time and/or resources to do much else. I am literally days from the thesis deadline and must finish it, polish it, gift wrap it then slam it furiosly down on the desk of somebody, loosen my tie and walk straight to the pub. I probably won’t wear a tie though. I am critically running out of words to use though, I think I only have 6 words left and one of those words is “poop”
Anyways, courtesy of Caeser Lopez in Glas Vegas, comes The Greatest Film Review of All Time!, Neill Cumpston on Grindhouse…
I hope he directs more movies. I would see them, burn down the theater, and then call the fire department so I could tell all the fireman about what a kick-ass movie it was. When they started to attack me with axes, I’d fly away because Quentin’s movie would have given me ninja flight.
Amazing! Also check out the same fella’s thoughts on 300…
I just saw a movie that’ll give your eyes boners, make your balls scream and make you poop DVD copies of THE TRANSPORTER. It’s called 300. I don’t know what the title has to do with the movie, but they could’ve called it KITTENS MAKING CANDLES and it’d still rule.
Haha…I hope that fills your heart with joy on this morn. I must now depart to the bowels of the Meatrack to tend to my infinite monkeys on their infinite typewriters.
From ze BBC’s website regards the Ireland team:
Keane does not seem to know where he is playing as he drifted out onto the flanks and retreated further and further into Ireland’s already overcrowded midfield.
Perhaps Steven Staunton is a coaching visionary and this unusual 4-6-0 formation will lead Ireland to unimaginable glories. But I can’t see it myself.
So writes a mister ‘Sean C’, Well, Mr. C. you are not a visionary. Only visionaries can foresee the greatness of their ways. That’s what makes them visionaries, and that is why you are doomed not to see it for yourself. Stan is the Gaffer, and if he thinks 4-6-0 is the way to go, who are we to disagree, he’s the Gaffer. Although, if the rumours are true these mystic new formations are coming straight from the head of Bobby Robson, whose brain is being stored in a jar deep below Merrion Square. I myself can’t wait for the unimaginable glories! All though I shudder to think what is beyond the reaches of my already stretched to breaking point imagination.
Postscript: A little digging reveals the mysterious ‘Sean C’ is a supporter of Drogheda. That explains it. Probably waiting for Gary Kelly to become manager. Which, let’s face it, could well happen.
Oh and the wikipedia page for Ian Harte currently proclaims that his nickname is ‘Fatty bumbarlard’. Have a good Monday.
Holy moly moses moo. Went to see ‘300′ last night, and sweet enola gay its a good film. It’s like Lord of the Rings if they had allowed a 14-year old PlayStation fiend to edit it; there’s fuck all exposition and talking: just straight to the action. You know the way in LOTR they spend a good 55 minutes of each film showing the wee bastards walking across the sweeping scenery? Well imagine that took 5 minutes and suddenly they were sitting at the gates waiting to get stuck into the billions of Orcs and the rest of the film was them getting stuck into the Orcs. The lads who made this probably questioned every young male who bleary eyed wandered out of the last LOTR movie about what was good and bad about it. Good: Fighting. Bad: Excessive talking, travelling scenes and pansy little hobbits jumping on beds in soft-focus. RIGHT LADS, TO THE MOVIE-MOBILE! 300′ they say, is xenophobic, homophobic, sexist and historically innaccurate. And you could probably argue some of them points, but God damn it its very entertaining. A non-shit Gladiator on Acid if you will. I wish I could rip the blood arm off a Persian and drive it right into my chest so I could give it 3-thumbs up. Plus i’d be able to wank whilst rubbing my nipples!
Moving swiftly on so that last sentence is forgotten about as soon as possible, I also saw on my cinematic escapade a trailer for the new Die Hard film. Now, in America the film is known as “Live Free or Die Hard!” (exclamation mark added in for effect) and the trailer features a long slo-mo shot of a giant American flag fluttering in the breeze whilst the movie trailer spiel goes on about “defending freedom” and whatnot. When I saw this I was slightly suspicious. I mean it is Die Hard so its going to be completely mega-awesome but I wondered how it would go down outside of the ‘ol US and A. It seems the movie producers where aware of this too, internationally the film is known as “Die Hard 4.0″ (I can’t wait for Die Hard 4.1 where they fix some of the bugs!) and the trailer has no mention of freedom and instead of a giant American flag? We get the House of Congress exploding into lots of little bits! Yay for suspicion of anything vaguely pro-American!
It was funny though, for the international trailer at the start you have no idea it’s for Die Hard, then it says on screen “blah blah blah… When we are threatened…..old habits…..DIE HARD”. With that, the cinema packed full with blood-thirsty young bucks who I think had no idea a new Die Hard film was coming drew in a giant collective breath that threatened to suck the cinema inside out. I also expected to hear a collective zipping down of flies once John MacClaine came battling onto the screen, but thankfully did not.
Does this blog entry look dauntingly long? Skip to the bottom for a handy one line summation, perfect for those of you on the go, or with short attention spans. Those of you dossing off work, continue.
Ah Bebo. Many an hour have been lost to the eternal ether of nothingness by pissing about on it. Some people in this world are indifferent to its charms, others seem to live their life so as to serve their page (and not vice versa). Others, (you know who you are) use it mainly as a stalking device, too oogle ladies and what not. One time I was in d’Ambuh and I heard a fella and a girl talking when I heard the immortal line “Do you have a Bebo page?” Of course that was a few months ago before Bebo like a tyranical super-computer from some 70s movie had got its electronic tentacles into everybodys brain. Everyone has a Bebo page, even people who don’t exist have a Bebo page. I use it, as I do alot of things including this blog, mainly as a way to distract myself from such follies as doing work, being productive etc. And it works.
Last night I was out and about on the town and managed to amazingly stick to my newly enforced post-Paddy’s day commitment known as the “5-Pint Maximum” rule. Well by stuck to a 5 pint maximum, I mean I had 6.5 pints, but regardless, the real point was I didn’t get drunk! (There’s a lost blog entry about the 5-pint rule. Also, there’s a lost blog entry about lost blog entry. Anyday now expect to see this entire website sucked up into a gaping whole of apathy) Anways, I was even able to navigate the interior of a night-club without the need to dive head first into a vat of Fat Frogs. Lucozades only for me! And amazingly it wasn’t a completely shit night, for once I kind of enjoyed being on the sober-side of the debate. Drunk people arn’t nearly as annoying as I imagine I am when I am drunk. Or maybe it’s just that i’m really annoying when drunk. Who knows?
When I got home, my head spinning with Lucozade and dream’s of being flown around in a robot’s papoose, I logged on the oul Internet to suitably stimulate my brain-box before it was time for bed. Apon reflecting on the ubiquitous nature of Bebo in a similar fashion to the first paragraph, I decided in my infinite wisdom to change my Bebo account into an account for my 4 year old nephew, the legendary rogue of the streets, Tomás. Tomas (and his evil alter-ego Somat) have delighted many a person with their exploits over the years and I only felt it right that he be celebrated on the web. The little scut had tasted a bit of internet celebrity already with the classic video his mother had put on YouTube on Tomas and his cousin putting cats into the front bucket of his toy digger and ruthlessly dumping them onto the ground, followed by the classic line from Tomas, “Get more cats”.
So I went about changing my page into a shrine to the little legend, stuff about Thomas the Tank Engine and SPIDERMAN! and such things. Then I went to change the date of birth to more accurately reflect the person who’s identity i was defrauding. And as I tried to claim to have been born but 4 years ago, alarm bells set off in Bebo HQ and as soon as you can say INTERNET-PAEDOPHILIA they had ruthlessly obliterated my page. A year of Bebo memories wiped out in an instant, not even a goodbye. ZAP. Gone. Well, all gone except for the fact that my girlfriends page now cheerfully claims that “her other half” is indeed little Tomas. I hope the FBI get her! So now I have to go about rebuilding all those careful Bebo friendship bonds and wait for my friends to fill up my pages with crudely drawn pictures of cocks and what not.
Quick-blog-recap: I went to the pub, didn’t get shit-faced came home and tried to pose as a 4-year old on the internet.
My lord, it’s been cold these last few days. Like sore-feet poking out of the bed cold. On Sunday it was like a God-forsaken blizzard out side. Now, I like snow, so the sight of millions of snows racing down from the heavens filled my heart with joy, but this being Ireland and the age of Global Warming the God-damned stuff wouldn’t stick to the ground. Well, it stuck to the ground up yonder on the mountains but only eagles and Paddy dares go there.
So we had Mother Nature giving us the old snow-cock-tease. As I gazed out the window, my eyes not daring to look at the blank screen on my laptop, transfixed by the swirling snow that was never going to stick,k my mind began wandering towards the summer. I like summer. Despite the fact that we get about 5 days of actual summer, I still look forward to it. Mainly I look forward to two things; bar-b-que’s and ice-lollys. But Bar-b-que’s being the most mythical endeavour man can indulge in, they deserve they’re own blog. Hell, they deserve some kind of book, a big book bound in leather with metal-locks. So, let’s talk ice-lollys.
Now when I say ice-lollys, it’s a catch all term for ice-cream’s and iced-lollys. Basically anything in the slidey-horizontal fridge. And when i say ice-lolly season I mean sunny-season. Now I know many of you will read the title of this blog and say “ice-lolly season is all the time!, for only yesterday whilst the wind-howled and the sleet fell I was tucking into a Magnum”. And to you I say “boo!”. People who enjoy ice-lolly’s during period of cold weather annoy me. Specially if they are eating them outside.
For me, ice-lolly’s are a seasonal thing. Like easter eggs and such. To see people shivering in our north Atlantic hell hole of wet and cold whilst enjoying a Wibbly Wobbly Wonder or Fat Frog is just wrong. They are kidding themselves. I wonder even why the good people at Hazelbrook Farm even make them this time of year, they can hardly be big sellers. But still they do, and some people still buy them in a vain attempt to rescue some ill-conceived visit to the beach in February. I don’t really know why it annoys me, I though in the course of writing this I might even discover why, but I’m none the wiser.
Still, not as bad as the twats who wander round Dublin in winter in flip-flops and shorts. I think we can all agree on that. One time my brother braved the cold of a Glasgow winter night to nip down the shops. On his way he passed a man dressed in a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. “Twat!” I thought as he told me, but my brother being infinitely more wise corrected me.
“Nah, he was probably a time traveller”.
Incidentally, Wibbly Wobble Wonder’s are now back on the market. I didn’t even know they were gone. Now, if they can only get the original formula for the stuff inside Loop-da-loops we’ll be set.
I don’t know what it is about my daily activities or my group of friends but I end up gathering a bunch of completely useless information. This is amassed through drunken conversations, random Instant Messages and via my trawling of the internet to help cobble together my thesis. So here, for no reason other than its Friday and I should be doing other things, and in no order and making no claims to truth or otherwise are a list of things I have learned this week.
Which all really begs the question, what did people do before questionnaires? Could they only ask one question at a time? I’ll let you ponder that over the St. Patricks weekend….
Fuck. Thesis. 3 weeks. 12,000 words. Fuck. Wake up, turn on computer, open Word. Blank screen. Change font. Blank screen. Logon to Gmail chat. Lots of people on, rude not to say hello. Chat. Chat some more. Back to Word. Shit, still blank screen. Check the news. Sport. Entertainment. Stock prices. Wikipedia. Google home page. Back to Word. Blank Screen.
Fuck. Type. Type some more. Type, type, type. Word count. Shit. Type, type, type. Shit. DELETE DELETE DELETE. Word Count. Shit. Type, type, type. Word count. Type, type. Word count. Type. Word count. Word count. Word count. Word count.
Fresh air? Walk to shop. No Lucozade. No onion-rings. Fuck. Starship’s “Nothing gonna stop us now” on the radio. Temporary repreive. Walk home. Open Word. Word count. Fuck. Hasn’t increased. Type.
Delete.
Log back into g-mail. Open Word. Blank. Research? Thesis about films. Watch films. 2 1/2 hours of Bladerunner later. Open Word. Bladerunner is……. Damn. Delete. Blank screen. Type, type, type. Word count. It’s gone down!? Type. Browse randomly.
Stare out window. Look at clock. Stare out window. FORTY FIVE FUCKING MINUTES? Shit. Type. NO! DELETE. Word count.Watch a bit of telly. Stare at screen. Word count. BEEP! BEEP! Text message. “Coming for a pint?”. Too fucking right. Close Word.
Write blog entry about not being able to write thesis.
Word count.
Now, let me begin by saying that I’m not a man of high-culture. Ballet? No thank you, I’d rather watch Beverly Hills Cop II myself. Opera? Psssh….give me CaddyShack any day. I have the same amount of love for classic cinema as I do for films about Vietnam vet’s who go on one-man rampages through sleepy American towns, If I likes it, I likes it. I’m no snob. But there is one bastion of low-brow culture that causes me to turn my nose up, the intelligence black hole that is Sky television. Their flag ship station Sky One is quite possibly the biggest concentration of recorded stupidity known to man. Sunday nights on Sky One usually feature a feast for the mind, with delights such as Ross Kemp’s expose of global gang culture to whatever bizarre Celebrity reality show they’ve concocted this week. Celebrity Barrel Making with Kate Thornton and some retard who came 7th on Big Brother. It’s always guff.
Well, the good folk at Sky outdid themselves this week. As I browsed their monthly listings magazine hoping to oogle some ladies I came across a sentence that sums up everything about Sky. I don’t think I even need to explain it any further than to just print it:
“Sky Arts launches this month with the documentary Kylie: Cultural Icon. It delves into her wardrobe and discovers the outfits that turned her from soap star to style siren”
Sky TV : Raping the Arts.
Here in Ireland I suppose we have the print equivalent of Sky One, in the Sunday Independent’s “LIFE” magazine. The Sunday Independent, it seems, thinks that “LIFE” for the masses consists of wanting to look at pictures of Glenda Gilson and numerous other Irish models whoring themselves out at the opening of an envelope. Never has a magazine been more worth of being shat upon. It seems to solely exist to feature pictures of Irish models showing off the latest revolutionary toaster bags or some such shit, or to facilitate the word-poo that is the work of Barry Egan, a man who’s only subject is himself. If it wasn’t glossy I’d wipe my arse with it.
Last week’s issue featured a cover story about “Bebo Babes”, aka brain-dead bimbos who post endless pictures of themselves being shitfaced on their Bebo pages. This kind of cutting edge journalism is so incendiary I’m surprised Michael McDowell hasn’t banned it for stirring up the proletariat. The story was ran with the following equally mind-blowing strap-line: “Two Weeks Ago, Rosanna Davison and her crew scandalised the nation with their online antics”. I don’t know how I managed to miss the entire nation being scandalised by some has-been model posting pics of herself on a fucking website. Must have been busy reading the real news…These ladies as it turns out are known as the “SoCoDu Bebo Queens”. At first I thought this meant they were some kind of masters of Japanese number games, but apparently means “South County Dublin”. I guess that makes me NoCoLo. Sound’s like an Arsenal player….
The less said about Arsenal the better though. Wednesday’s exit from the Champion’s League was one of the most disappointing sporting related moments in my life. For all the plaudits this team is rightly getting from neutrals (and rival fans who have a clue), it’ll all mean fuck all if they don’t start firing the trigger and taking home the Cups. Maybe Keegan was right, you don’t win anything with kids.
On the upside though, Dundalk FC roared back into action with a 3-2 win over Finn Harps. Dundalk in contrast to the Gunners, are nothing pretty to look at at all, but also have a knack of winning fuck all. Still though, Summer football in the pissing rain, long balls over the top going nowhere and mobile phone interference being blasted over the tannoy system. Its good to be back.
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