A not so cunt-ish post..

 ...why don't we talk about flowers and shit?

 The last few days of December are contagiously nostalgic for me each time around.. And in a desperate attempt to trap the worthwhile events, I like to make lists in the hope all you wankstains realise I did do a bit more the whole year instead of liking everyone's statuses on Facebook.

My favourite moments of 2010:
Occupation of my secondary school library:
This was in no way a political occupation... I am questioning myself if it was an occupation at all. More like trespassing into forbidden grounds. It was an abandoned school library that someone found a way into and it acted a bit like the Room of Requirements for some 30-odd students, except our only requirements were smoking spliffs and some serious vandalising of the place. There were even brains at work behind a mastermind plan on robbing that abandoned building filled with printers, monitors that amounted upto at least £3000. I'm sure it sounds like I am bragging at any opportunity given about an event which doesn't quite deserve braggin, but there was something noble about the whole thing. Youth in revolt... And if you weren't part of it, you can shut up son.

Reading Fest. 2010:
Apart from this festival holding stage to the most pretentious people coming from all over U.K, it was pretty damn legendary. Particularly loved the gangly ambience the Lock Up Stage had. The certain elitism from the punk/alternative kids looking down on all the indies and others was quite inspiring, in a way... I spent ridiculously less money on food and other requirements than most my friends, mainly because a lot of the things I required was looted from Tesco and also because I wasn't cunt enough to spend £5 on chips from the arena. Hence coming back with a hefty £30 quid after it was over.
The Tesco Value tents were to us what the Paris cafes were to the French revolutionaries. We in our drunken stupefied states plotted our own revolutions. Also in the sense that I got fucked to bits in those, alcohol-wise.

22nd October 2010:
'Tis the date I reached 2 years with my beautiful chicka. It felt quite monumental. Though it wasn't the jubilee or nothing, it sure felt like it deserved a title other than '2 Year Anniversary'. Discovered some classy French place, courtesy of Time Out, tried some 'Kir Royale' and cousin that shit is tasty. Oh and deer meat, it turns out, is quite nice too. Go medium though.
I'm going a bit Hairy Bikers here with the food comments. It was really the journey with my girl that made the day beautiful. We've had a rollercoaster of a journey in our 2 years; and that's coming from a guy who hates that cliche. If the Irish did a really pissed-off Eastenders, we'd be sure to have a household in Albert Square.

Going to college:
This step from school to college was much in need for me halfway through the year as the whole education system had it's hands around my neck and was about to choke the shit out of me. I realised into the last year of secondary education that I much better suit independent learning. I realise the importance of the whole education system, but more importantly, I realised that the education system is more of a preliminary to further knowledge instead of being the ultimate institution to better oneself.
The stuff I am most knowledgable of didn't come out of syllabus textbooks, instead I like to credit it to my borderline insomnia problems, in result of which I stayed up late on Sunday nights reading up on Karl Marx but instantly regretting it the next school day as I was sent to inclusion to somehow 'fix up' on my sleeping problems. Something told me though, the stuff that I learned in my own time out of my own will will come to be more useful to me than what the shit that came out of the mouth of the teacher in front of me.
Kudos to whoever that did get great G.C.S.E results though.

Student protests:
2010- the year the word 'kettling' entered a teenager's dictionary.
How I love the politicized youth.

 Yours Truly

Cunt

Reductio Ad Absurdum

 They wear their trousers above their ankles, they swing their hips insolently. They listen to this thing called Rock 'N Roll. Prepare to meet the shocking, emerging generation: the teenager.

'Frape'.
That's a gross misuse of the word 'rape' ain't it?!
Ok, let's see. Rape:  force (someone/something) to have sex against their will; "The woman was raped on her way home at night." ('something'?! Oh Google, you worry me..)

Now, before we progress, let me introduce this 'frape' thing to you guys who are out of the loop with what the cool kids are getting up to these days, other than illicit carnal activites behind park benches. Frape is a status posted on your behalf, supposedly without your knowledge, intended to make you look like an utter, disgraceful twat. But it is a bit like a Blackberry phone in the sense that it doesn't quite do what it's meant to. My opinions on Blackberry phones and BBM will be revealed on later posts but a rough sketch of it would be that it is a 'phone' rarely used for calling or texting instead used to arrange a shag with a stranger at your local Sainsbury's disabled toilet. Reactions from friends to fraped statuses tend to be along the lines of such generic comments : ''OMG cool guy, cool guy'' or ''you got fraped nicely ;)'' followed with your choice of LOL, LMAO, ROFL.

Classic examples of frape include:
''Josh imabitofacunt McArthur - I love it when my mum bends over while hoovering, always look forward to that.''
''Stacy InmyprofilepictureIamsittingonatoiletseeminglytakingapiss Cox - disappointed the shop ran out of 12 inch dildos, gotta make do with a 10 inch one =[.''

Back to my point of how it is a such a gross misuse of the word 'rape'.
So we've established that rape is sex in which the victim didn't quite get the chance to say no. Of course she would've given the chance.. Frapes, my friends are completely intentional. The victims of such frape incidents could nearly convince you that they were part of a U.S Army Black Ops mission in Tehran some few years back. There is a precise protocol they are mastered at. Log on to Facebook. Make sure someone is glaring at the keyboard while you type your password in. Pretend you need to piss. Leave Facebook logged on...
Mission Accomplished.

So it isn't exactly rape.. Rather, its got more in similar with those office Christmas parties where you have sex with the blonde tart, who totally came onto you by the way, but you still get a call the next morning from the Metropolitan Police asking you to come down to the station.

Young boys and girls, I've never liked a single thing about you. But frape? Really?
Get the fuck out.

Yours Truly

Cunt

Jezebel, daughter of Ethbaal

 You just pick up a chord, go twang, and you've got music.

When the BBC or the Good Food Channel decide to put on a Nigella Lawson cook show on their channel, they should seriously consider muting out the audio and just leave the video on. Y'know.. For the sake of ratings at least. She is after all paving the way for the whole avant-garde culinary pornography movement. You need to actually know anything about food to be a food critic? PFFFT, this salient figure is showing women from Toronto to Tanzania that to cook a bloody good Christmas dinner, all you need are a pair of equally bloody good tits. Ginormous fucking tits. Bit like the Sid Vicious of the food industry ain't she?
Even that Lilliputian sign language man at the bottom right of the TV screen agrees with us on this one. That fucker will look northwards at every given chance to take a peek as Nigella bastes her Honeydew Melons; pun very much intended.

I seriously do question the experience she has ever had in an actual kitchen. Maybe that one time in the Jamie Oliver's pantry with all the 15 young apprentices of the Fifteen Foundation programme. She probably tossed a salad or two then.

As I am typing this, note that it is only 4:30 pm on a Sunday evening, Nigella is staring right through my TV set as she says in a worryingly slow pace : ''pleasure is something you should never feel guilty about.''
OFCOM time....

Nigella, you're a babe. But your 30 min. meals took me 2 hours.
2. Hours.

Yours Truly

Cunt

The philosophy of killing yourself slowly

I'll get a coffee and a paper and have my own conversations. The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit.

I am sat here in my room, a coffee-stained mug next to me. I am in one of those spinny secretary chairs and I have elevated it to unnecessary levels. I have grown a beard recently and I am starting to think I deserve a typewriter instead of this Dell in front of me. I'm a bit old school, like 1714 old school, not 'you just said LOL, that's like so old school. It's all about 'LULZ' now' old school. You'd think I was writing a dissertation on the Concave Optimization of Macroeconomics Theory, but no, I am sat here thinking about why I smoke.

Whilst growing up, a Miles Davis sorta character was the pinnacle of cool for me. Come on, it doesn't get cooler than some slick black shades in a dark jazz club, a fancy black coat, a shirt with the top button undone so to let a suitable amount of chest hair out and your gold chain. An empty whiskey shot glass next to you and finally; a cigarette on the tip of your right hand. Truth is, I could never down whiskey. Spirits are my vice. Class, as I discovered also, was not appreciated by the kids I grew up with. So my piggy bank which was saving up for my Ray Bans and the Italian shoes, was ultimately smashed as little me did his best to find a place in the social hierarchy. R.I.P.
Something stayed about the smoking though. You didn't go to no jazz club with 'friends', you went with a pack of twenty cigarettes tucked neatly in a smooth metal box. 'Cos with each puff you took, Mr. Marlboro himself would be telling you: ''Yup, you're the man.'' A girl in a red dress would come sit next to you, but you'd be stupid to say ''hi''. No. You'd offer her a light instead. And in that flicking of the cap of your black metal lighter, it'd be like bedding her, cooking her breakfast, then doing it again. Just within those few seconds. There would be no need for talking. You'd just listen to the jazz and look at the stage from the bar as far as the fog of smoke would allow you, and slowly, puff away. The solace...
Now Bam Margera...That is badass.

There was something dodgy about that coffee.

Yours Truly

Cunt

The Ultimate Showdown

 We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party.

Y'know that friend of yours, the one that punches you as a greeting? The overly masculine one promising you that he would've fucked this other cunt up if he was given the chance. The one who with you have these similar conversations:

Him: Yeah so he comes up to me and starts talking about it, and I'm like ''shut the fuck up mate'' and I proceed to K.O him with a punch to the face.
You: Did you really?
Him: Well I was thinking of it.

And then when you're waiting with this Macho Man mate of yours for another cunt of a mate, who swears he is on the bus right now but it seems that his mum is on the seat right next to him serving him dinner on the 243, and you get approached by ten Kidulthood legacies fucked sideways on two bottles of WKD in a desperate bid to become London's own Crips plus get a mobile phone or two in the process; he is bit of a letdown. After the general of the battalion proposes a duel as you deny their kind offers to commandeer your asses , you turn your head to the side, hoping to give Spartacus next to you a sort of a Batman-to-Robin nod before you commence in Mortal Kombatting their heads together, it finally sinks in that those running footsteps you heard a millisecond ago was in fact him as he was now probably somewhere in the Scottish Highlands and you were still in that piss-stenched alleyway, with the flickering street lamp, next to Stoke Newington Overground station, about to get Kung-Pao Chicken'd. Wishing that you weren't...

This catch-22 flow of events was repeated by my local library. You are now thinking, ''oh, another anti-cuts post from this twat. Get original.'' You are also probably asking how the above event has anything to do with this. It is a very bad comparison I know, but venting of frustration was due for both parties.) The scar this time, is much deeper. Oh yes, I am indeed talking about those 'self-checkout' machines that have infiltrated London libraries from Redbridge to Camden. To borrow a book, you now simply swipe your card, you swipe your book and you fuck off back to home. Drive-Thru Libraries; education for when you can't be fucked! It's like their has been a serious revamp in the Managerial Division of all London libraries and now ex-Tesco Managers who were sacked for their general shittiness in Tesco have now been pity-employed once again by the libraries, resulting in them bringing over their shittiness along from their shitty stores to the once not-so-shitty libraries. This shittiness I speak of have come in the form of these shitty machines.

I, even if the fact is that I am probably the very few, am one of those people that actually like that stick-it sheet at the front of a library book with the stamps of when the book was last borrowed. I like to give myself a self-congratulating pat on the back each time when I find that I am probably one of the most boring/coolest person in London Town (debatable), having borrowed a book that was last borrowed a near-millenia ago and concluding that person that did borrow it last was a filthy mongrel as I discover the yellowish stain on the 220th page of my copy of Meditations of Rene Descartes.

I also liked to please myself rather immorally from the fact that the hag of a librarian behind the desk, weighing up the pros and cons of each suggestion made by the '36 painless ways to die' post on the forum of  collectivesuicide.com website with each book she scans, is obliged under contract to greet me, come up with pretense conversation and dutifully answer my several queries on where a certain Encyclopedia is 'cos I simply couldn't be arsed to look. Those days are slowly vanishing. The little bits of social interaction mankind gets without achieving themselves a restraining order, is soon going to be locked up in a museum behind giant frames, where the kids of the future balancing on their hoverboards glare through their gas masks at a thing that once existed; 'talking'.

LONDON LIBRARIES; YOU HAVE DECEIVED ME.

Yours Truly

Cunt

Anti-evolutionary

..and I always dreamed of classics cars and movie screens.

''My fashion is my self-expression''. So if I guessed that lace top giving us lucky men an oh-so naughty peek at your mosquito bite of a tit was indicative of your crackwhore mum and those pseudo-shorts which I swear are meant to be some sort of exotic underwear expresses your urge to take it up the arse from the closest 6-incher in a grim pub toilet, I wouldn't be too far from the mark would I? I must've taken a dodgy pill or two the last time I was out 'cos I seem to have waken up to a world where dressing like an ultramundane slag is an aspiration for all.

Members of the male species are as much to blame in this matter for their philistine-like taste in subjects so divine. These 'jeggings'/lace top clad girls, who i'm pretty sure would be burned on a stake or thrown into a river left to drown/or/drown a few hundred years back, are now the ideal companion. I'm pretty sure if you wanted a girl dressed like that a mere 6 years back, you would have to go to the dodgiest back allies of London, not pay more than a tenner even though she begged for double and device a plan to make sure your mates NEVER found out. Now they are somewhat royalty, wined and dined to the highest standards.  Considering the nature of these men, I apologise, twats however, as indicated by their penchant for feline beings, it is very likely high standard dining  for them would be a MaccyD's meal; including the coupons.

Now don't get me wrong, I wouldn't be the quickest person ever to call the janitor if I found a peephole to Kim Kardashian's changing room in my toilet. No siree. But it's these little social codes, like actually putting on some clothes, that restrain us from being on par with Bonobo chimps who fuck members of their own family in, what sounds rather thrilling I'm sure, massive orgies.

Where my virgins at?

Yours Truly

    Cunt

A glimpse of the edge you've avoided

No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.

If God could create one last spectacle before he hangs up his boots, just to let the crowd have something to remember him by, he would create Google. But two mere mortals, often simply called 'The Google Guys', got to that before him. Ammo for the non-believers.. Forget those old fables of your mother getting leprosy and you praying right next to her for the Almighty to come down himself as if you really were that important. No, benevolence has now gone global and comes in a much more compact, somewhat more believable form. Brace yourself for the 21st century Zeus; Google.

Sharing a  little anecdote would perhaps get my point across best. Quite recently my girlfriend was cooking me a meal at hers where we came very close to reenacting the Great Fire of London. Bless her, she still thinks shoving Tesco Salmon Fillets into the oven is cooking. Hopeless thing. In result of the general hocus-pocus flow of events that happen in a kitchen, something touched another and a massive fire was formed, perfected with ash and a very, very dark smoke in the air. Whilst the woman, so typically, ran around the kitchen, hands on her head as if 2012 had come early, I of course retained my manlihood, keeping everyone cool, like a man does. Hercules must've done a bit more, as the bravado wasn't quite putting the fire out.  The kitchen now filled with echoes of her bellowing; ''what should we do?!'' It came to the point where I did have to ask myself, what should we do? Now, I wasn't the closest of buddies with the Socrates, Aristotle, Plato; the chaps I call them, but I can safely assume that the boys would come to an unanimous certainty that the advice I was just about to give, was in fact probably the best one. I swear I did feel a hand coming down from the skies, through the roof and onto my head for a little pat in the head from them all. I said; ''let's google it.''

Yours Truly

Cunt