tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23215478324734050412024-03-05T01:15:38.604-08:00Everything Deserves A ReviewFrom Termites To Tundras; Signposts To Stigmatisms; Paintings To The Concept Of Pugilism, A Review Of Absolutely Anything.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-85480513280010858702014-02-19T09:25:00.003-08:002014-02-19T09:25:39.270-08:00Test 2Second test integrating google+. Again, comments on reception duly noted/desired!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-61552168595887331652014-02-19T09:16:00.003-08:002014-02-19T09:16:29.488-08:00TestThis is a test. Edar is coming back. If you receive knowledge of this via google or other means please let me know in the comments below. Thanks.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-6746369938405353842012-10-26T15:48:00.000-07:002012-10-26T15:48:10.775-07:00Quills<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Hello dear reader. It pains me to break from the norm of this site but I feel a need to address you formally as the loyal, consistent members of 'edardaily' that you have been. You may have noticed a change in this site's policies as of late, one that stems towards everything my original aim directed against. For those of you new to my humble area of the internet, 'Edar' was set up as a way of backlashing against the typical review structure of our modern periodicals, to give credence and substance to the life which is exerted in everything around us, not just the typical forms of media. In that way I thought it best to give to you tongue-in-cheek situational reviews of the most mundane aspects of the World I perceived around me. Recently, these have devolved into my giving over to members of the Horse-Twattersley family members' theatrical reviews which have become nothing more than ridiculously immoral and peverse characterised satirisations of the English upper classes. </i></div>
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<i>Well, I can't do it anymore. I need to claw this blog back from the dark depths it has been dragged to, these preposterous facsimiles of human subject must be reigned in to regain me some level of resp...hnnnngkkkurrrgh.....skkkrrruuuughhhnkk...</i>Neiighhhhhh..<i>skkkrrruuueeergghh...familiarity with my own, wait....what?</i> <i>What the sh...skkkrruuuggg....</i>Brrrrggghhhh.....Hello reader! Welcome to 'Quills'. A play written about the Marquis De Sade, Produced by Stoke Newington's very own Second Skin Theatre. The owner of this blog doesn't know it yet, but I, Night's Rapture, am pleased to present to you my very own review , one that aims to finally set to rest...<i>noooo, no please, I look ridiculous enough already, please, I can't have a horse doing a review. They don't even make keyboards big enough to accommodate hooves. This is just ridicu...</i>Brrrrgghhhhgh...I think you'll find, Mr Reviewer, that I was personally invited along to give my esteemed opinion on this production, and I shall not be swayed on this. My relationship with Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly has been the subject of much conversation these past few months, and I must be allowed my voice. Dearest reader, enjoy!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night's Rapture, in his glory days.</td></tr>
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It's not easy being a horse. <i>Oh my God, that is the singularly worst start to a review ever...</i>Ahem, as I said, it isn't easy being a horse. For all our brute strength, speed and tenacity of spirit, we have allowed you humans to enslave us as tools of your own progression. In the past we towed your farming equipment and conquered the Wild West for your personal gains, now we jump over little hedges, chase down foxes and prance about like little ninnies for your entertainment. We've shaped the modern World as you know it from Mongolia to Montreal and how do you repay us? Bales of hay and the odd sugar-lump here and there. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's not entirely fair is it? You refer to dogs as 'Man's best friend', but what have they ever actually done for you? Those yappy little bastards get all the credit for...<i>right, a whole paragraph and you haven't mentioned the play once...</i>I'm getting round to that. Hold your horses mate. Heh heh<i> </i>heh.<br />
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So it was with great pleasure that I received my invitation to The White Rabbit's basement production of Second Skin Theatre's 'Quills' on that drizzly October night in Stoke Newington's famous Church Street. I trotted down the steps and settled myself into one of the the cosily positioned pews almost within the stage. This wasn't the first play I had attended, in my mortal life Lady Cytherea had dragged me along to various Women's Institute performances of Anne Yearsley and Adrienne Kennedy productions in spacious yet for the most part empty Church halls. For the first time I realised the ability of Fringe theatre to accommodate the smallest area into a thriving venue, contorting the restrictions of space into an intimate evening wherein the audience feels more a part of the action than ever. Also, the fact that it's been nearly two decades since my death means I possess no earthly body and was able to float ephemerally above the other audience members, causing no actual discomfort to myself or others around me.<br />
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As the lights rose the stage was revealed and it has to be said, the limitations of space did nothing to sway the stage design's ability to place the audience within the office of the head of the Chanterem Asylum as he discusses with the Marquis de Sade's wife the suggestion of silencing his blasphemous works to retain her own honour. On a personal level, the actress playing the part of the wife gave one of the most stellar performances I have ever seen, perfectly representing in the most humourus way these ladies of supposed high-class who would so shamelessly use her own husband's wealth to protect their image. Oh, Lady Cytherea, I could almost envisage your own twisted features on that actresses head; utilising your womanly wiles to contort and betray the ugly truth of what lay beneath your own reserved and haughty exterior. But, in the immortal words of her own son and heir, Terrence, I digress.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This totally doesn't even happen in the play</td></tr>
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The performances of the entire cast continued in an equally memorable and wonderful fashion, but especially prominent was that of the actor playing the Marquis de Sade. With all the passion and natural exuberance of a roaring steed he burst onto the stage and so began the play's diatribe to the injustice and torment suffered by the protagonists real life counterpart. But not only was his performance so well devised, due in no small part to the writing and direction of the production, because of its pertinence to the real life story of the Marquis de Sade, but also for the memories it invoked within my ethereal being. Now, reader, I must confess two things to your good selves. Firstly, my life was one of torment almost tantamount to that of this play's hero. My true desires, as to those of the Marquis' with that of the seductress maid played by the fantastic 'Nika Khitrova', were usurped and denied by a bitter, twisted old hag such as the Marquis' wife. Secondly, Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersley is a lying, deceitful, selfish, murderous whore of a...<i>this had better not be going where I think it's going. Please, my mum reads this stuff...</i>Silence! I will have my say.<br />
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For you must understand, dear reader, that for all the sordid although ultimately reticent deeds I was forced to perform with that old hag, it was my only wish that it was the man of the house, Sergeant Edmund, who showed me such tenderness. Witnessing that actor's fully fronted nakedness brought back such wondrous images of lonely nights, grazing the Twattersly ground's pastures and casting my fleeting glimpses towards the manor windows, where he would be stood at the window of their bedroom, resplendent in all his glory. If you could only understand the pain and longing that pervaded the days at the stables with her, stroking my mane and playing with my fetlocks as I wished her husband would do. The final insult, when I thought my eventual death could finally lead me to rest, was her last unscrupulous deed. She cut off my horsehood and kept it safe in a jar on her own private mantle piece, using it to her own terrible deeds and entrenching me within this infinite hell.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I put a Jimmy Saville joke in here it would<br />be obsolete in a few weeks, so I won't.</td></tr>
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Her actions kept my spirit in this World, bound to the jar of formaldehyde that held my prominent prowess, I was forced to watch the lives of the Twattersly's evolve and continue. Oh how I sobbed as I saw her convince that poor man his yearly offerings to her were enough to produce a son as perfect and brilliant as Terrence , how I wept as I saw her conspire to protect her own falsehood as she sent Terrence away to that asylum for witnessing her facetious and blasphemous acts upon my own member. Terrence, my son, how I regret being just a dead horse and not being able to reveal to you your true father, or my love for the one that Lady Cytherea convinced was your own. How I...<i>Right. That's it. Thats enough. I am not having this shit anymore. You are not telling me that a human being can be produced through a woman copulating with a horse. No fucking way. If you want to see the kind of play that invokes these sorts of mental images, do it, it's showing at the White Rabbit bar in Stoke Newington Church Street from now until the 4th of November, shows begin at 19:30. Otherwise watch the fucking X Factor or some bollocks like that.</i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-55694332159750056892012-09-09T18:59:00.000-07:002012-09-09T19:02:51.281-07:004:48 Psychosis (Guest Review)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>As is tradition here at edardaily, I've gone and got another guest reviewer for today's new theatre write-up. And who better to explore Crooked Piece's production of </i>4:48 Psychosis<i> than son and heir to the Twattersly throne, released for one day only from St Andrews Mental Asylum, The Right Honourable Terrence Twattersly. It took a ton of bribery, extortion and hired goons to convince the administration to let him out for this, so you'd better like it. Enjoy!</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Neuron' to a winner with this design guys</td></tr>
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Hello. They said I could come out today if I promised to be good. Mum and Dad asked the wardens if it would be ok for me to come review a play for their friends blog. The wardens didn't like it at first. Warden Graham especially felt I didn't deserve this because of what I done to his testicles two weeks ago. He said I was still too much of a danger to the general public. Their lobbying meant nothing in the end though, the administrative staff said it would be good for me to experience modern culture after all these years of years of solitary incarceration. There was a distinctly tangible note of duress however, one that I couldn't help but feel showed a humanist aspect to their otherwise conservatively by-the-book approach to my personal torture. They locked me up, you see, the FUCKING lot of them, they locked me up because of what I saw. They subjected me to - sorry. The review. We, you, me, I, I must review. </div>
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So the van pulls up after a long journey outside this beautifully decadent pub/theatre in South Kensington. The fading evening sunlight nearly blinded me as the wardens pulled open the van doors and dragged me out. My eyes hadn't been subjected to natural light for longer than I can try to remember, but I could still make out the happy, normal people stood out the front, smoking, drinking and staring worriedly at me, this straight-jacketed, lank haired mental patient surrounded by clinical wardens and doctors ready with coshes and ketamine filled syringes designed to knock me out should I make one false move. I was led through the bar area and taken upstairs to the theatre space, forced into a back row seat so as not to disturb the other press members and manacled to the bars riveted behind me. As was au fait with every other press member in attendance I was offered a free glass of Pimms and lemonade, one which I readily accepted and had Graham pour into my mouth as and when I felt like it, fruit and all. </div>
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The auditorium lights faded and the minimal set was revealed by bare bulbs hanging over a stage decorated with three stacks of boxes and a lady stood on centre stage. Due to the supposed nature of my incarceration every doctor, nurse, warden and administrative staff I had come into contact for the past quarter century had been male and this was my first time seeing a female since not long after my puberty had begun. As she began monologuing several more ladies and one gent burst from the boxes to provide further narration to her internal diatribe. I was reminded of my fourth year of solitary confinement in St Andrews, when the voices started, when the past, present, alternative and future versions of myself began whispering into my ears. Their was a kinship felt at that moment, one which my fading memories of childhood visits to major productions in the West End could never hope to recreate, one that touched me deep within my internal psyche and awoke the Terrance that had once been. Here was a competent array of actors who were able to express the workings of the mind which mainstream theatre dares not to tread. The supposed thoughts and feelings which make us human yet which must be quashed and silenced by your rotting World were laid bare for the tiny closed minds of South Kensington. I knew what knew what must be done, but onwards with the play.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The resemblance to childhood sweets<br />
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A common misjudgement within the outside World is that places such as St Andrews operate on a therapeutic, reformative approach to rehabilitating patients as propagated in your major Hollywood films. The actual truth could be nothing further from this, we live in a confinement warehouse fed on a diet of drugs and belittlement. This production of <i>4:48 Psychosis</i> truly managed to get this unfortunate truth across through not only clever set design which lighted the numerous amount of medicinal bottles surrounding the protagonist at appropriate times but the interaction between doctor and patient. I was reminded again of my own specialists who feed me a regular diet of all sorts of medications washed down with a liquid supplement of natural proteins who couldn't be further away from the actual requirements my disintegrating brain needs. This was mirrored almost perfectly by the therapists portrayed on stage, who seemed more concerned with the female protagonists realignment of character through medicinal intake than getting to the root cause of her mental state, a residual problem within not only my personal experiences of St Andrews but I'm sure throughout the psycho-analytical field.</div>
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The interesting and almost unique aspect of a play such as this is that without a clearly defined narrative structure, with no austere antagonist, story arc or even placement of time or causality the audience is given, even required, space to really analyse how the the production reflects on their own experiences. In the absence of what we normally expect from a story, we are left with filling in the gaps with our own interpretations. I cannot begin to express what lurking horrific memories this ignited within me. Believe this, they almost won. They were so close to convincing me I was wrong and the lies they fed me since the original incident were true. I entered <i>4:48 Psychosis</i> an almost broken man. The years of solitary confinement, the constant mental and physical abuse from the staff, the scattered diet of downers and protein supplements had begun to take their toll and I was ready to accept I was in the wrong, just to be released from this living nightmare. </div>
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It was a clear, autumnal afternoon, back in the old family estate, almost 20 years ago now. I'd returned from prep school early, a fellow student had started a fire in the chemistry lab as a prank with the old bunsen burner sets. The gas had pulled back in unexpectedly and caused an explosion, meaning we were to all be evacuated. With no one else being contactable at home our chauffeur was asked to collect me and take me back home. Havig dropped me off he went to park the old Bentley in the garage, whilst I entered to explain to my mother my mother what had happened. She was in the drawing room, a place me and my father were told to never enter and usually obeyed due to her formidable nature. I walked in because I felt it necessary to explain my early return from school, and witnessed what no child ever wants to see their own mother doing. There was an open jar on her wooden desk filled with some kind of viscous liquid, and she was performing some unspeakable acts to the contents within. Upon noticing myself she turned and viciously screamed for me to leave, shouting that I should never have entered. Nobody, not even my own father believed my story afterwards. She denied it to the last of course. My final memory of that house was being strapped up and taken to St Andrews because of the supposed lies I tried to explain to him, and of my mother's final fleeting glance to me through the barred windows of the van. A mixture of remorse, guilt and relief, as her own son was taken away to hide her disgusting secret.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terrence Twattersley</td></tr>
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If I told you the full story of what happened to me in the years following in that damned asylum you wouldn't believe me, as much as every therapist refused to believe my own story. How pathetic, how weak willed of my own father to pay these people to hide me and the shameful truths I possessed about mother. They told me I was schizophrenic, that I suffered from acute Oedipal fantasies and was an embarrassment to the good name Twattersley. And it had almost worked dear reader, they were so close to breaking me and getting me to confess to my sinful lies I almost believed their lies. Nietzsche's famous line of staring into the abyss and the abyss staring back? True to a point. What he failed to expand on was the horrifying extent to which the abyss stares back at everyone you've ever known, how it's empty void infiltrates their minds as well. It was only having witnessed the female lead's struggle in this play against her own internal doubts and the institutional degradation of the spirit that I was reminded of my past inner strength and was able to formulate my escape.</div>
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Once the play had ended and I was being escorted back to the van, I put my plan into action. As Graham turned me round to place me inside I spat the concealed lemon pips from the Pimms I had been given earlier straight into his eye. In the ensuing panic this created I was able to slide the saved cucumber rinds from under my tongue and use them as makeshift lockpicks on my handcuffs, years of rolling on the floor of my padded cell had given my body the extra suppleness to complete this task. They came at me with everything, but I was ready for them. As I tore apart my straightjacket I grabbed at a handful of promotional flyers one of the other wardens was holding and executed two perfectly timed paper cuts to the faces of the other oncoming nurses. As the flailed back in shock and pain I made good my escape through South Kensington, over the spiked fences of several inner city mansions and off into the vast expanse of London.</div>
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Freedom, finally I taste her nourishing flavour. Dear reader, words fail me as to the bounteous beauty of what it means to finally be freed from that terrible torment. I've travelled far now, although I know they search for me. Don't worry, I've found a safe place. It's warm here, nicely furnished. There's an inhabitant, sat in front of their computer, reading a review in the pale glow of their screen. Ignore that flicker in the reflection of your monitor, it's nothing. No, please, don't...turn...around...</div>
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<i>Thanks Terrence for that lovely review, we hope to hear from you again soon. If you too would like to awake the twisted repressed memories in your internal psyche, Crooked Pieces production of </i>4:48 Psychosis <i>is showing at the Drayton Arms Theatre in South Kensington until the 29th September 2012, 8-10pm, tickets £7-10 and available from box office number </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #111111; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21px;">0844 8700 887</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-38590762175855521022012-05-19T12:23:00.000-07:002012-05-20T13:17:47.631-07:00I Have No Timeline And I Must Scream<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMhu7tvnX-Mb47Ez5HBLfqloaOEeSEcmiBpHjcoUVxdTEk41nIXDGJRidQJgZtbkjVz3vJw-WPthyphenhyphenqlo-EdspMekaICq07TWkNTTtfC7WfOtG_KWeiGxUUgnWVLedPfuQUogvF9rvZbI-/s1600/Zukkerz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMhu7tvnX-Mb47Ez5HBLfqloaOEeSEcmiBpHjcoUVxdTEk41nIXDGJRidQJgZtbkjVz3vJw-WPthyphenhyphenqlo-EdspMekaICq07TWkNTTtfC7WfOtG_KWeiGxUUgnWVLedPfuQUogvF9rvZbI-/s320/Zukkerz.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grr! Zack meet rub.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Facebook. We all have it. If we don't we're living under some clandestine rock as a societal pariah or we're my mum. But we're neither of those; we are the living, breathing, active members of a race that thrives on societal interactions. Every event that happens in our lives is now glorified on our walls, if it isn't it almost seems like it never happened. We have entered a new realm, one that needs to be documented and contrived to present a picture to our friends and family of our relationship status, our job title and our most base desires and preferences revolving around films, television and music. For years we were indoctrinated into presenting ourselves in a certain way to the World, one that felt safe and unintrusive. We could cocoon ourselves within this presentation and never physically speak about our online personas whilst always knowing that those we were closest to had at some point viewed the shared experiences and knowledge we had gained through status updates, video links and profound quotations hastily searched on brainyquote.com.</div>
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On Thursday October 6 2011, Facebook evolved. It was no longer a tool we humans used to interact with each other. Sentience had begun to formulate itself within the combined consciousness of more than two billion online subscribers. Without warning a new era unfolded amongst the social media generation, one that demanded placement of time, causality and predication. A timeline appeared, splitting the walls of many of these personas apart and breaking them up into well versed topics of activity, friends and utilisation. We were given the illusion of choice; stick within the confinements of our known boundaries or join the new age of Timeline, one that promised a new way of proffering our fleeting glimpses of reality to our nearest and dearest. This new Book gained preference by appeasing to our vanity. We were no longer only able to portray our most treasured photo to the masses, we were allowed to present a cover. This cover was at least six time the size of our previous instalment, it was presented in glorious widescreen Technicolor, it was possible to drag and fix to the utmost specifications of the user and those long forgotten holiday snaps of beaches and temples were finally given a usage. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS29UNYeTteKB2YZrGGP2CqBdHGuJl9jAbvtfYdB-9W_581U7COF6ehFpCkNp5ZhULPf8S22wuP_RgTdQOuAxEup-RlmQolbh7jfbetdc0-jcE6eKYaOZ1yyXabRjBgZdcaImCHiaexhQm/s1600/evolution-of-internet-marketing-social-media.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS29UNYeTteKB2YZrGGP2CqBdHGuJl9jAbvtfYdB-9W_581U7COF6ehFpCkNp5ZhULPf8S22wuP_RgTdQOuAxEup-RlmQolbh7jfbetdc0-jcE6eKYaOZ1yyXabRjBgZdcaImCHiaexhQm/s320/evolution-of-internet-marketing-social-media.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who doesn't sit at their computer naked?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Those that chose to remain luddites of the previous Facebook era were shunned by the purveyors of the glossy new hierarchy of the Timeline feature. The tentacles of Artificial Intelligence had spread across most peoples sinewy jaws and cemented them shut in an attempt to suture Facebook's new law, that everyone and everything should be placed within an implementation of time and space; the Greatest Event ever Told. Those content to thrive in the new Facebook domain of popular culture looked down on the old ones, silent in their physical dominion but omnipresent in their internet sub-culture. And thus was the law of the new Facebook: Divide and Conquer. We remained as long as humanly possible, clinging onto our singular walls and accessible information, defiant in our last stand against the tides of change as palm trees buffeted by the storms of a tropical monsoon. One by one we fell as Facebook's determination strode on, sweeping us up in a torrent of inevitable newspaper articles and pertinent videos that required submission by viewing. </div>
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Gone. Are we truly gone? The wind that passes over our tired husks breathes the hope of a new generation. Those of us that have switched to the new regime have no mirror, no opportunity to return to the solace of our previous virtual lives. Even this reviewer, in a semblance of martyrdom, has switched to the brutal tyranny of Timelime's monotheism to create this piece as a warning to those remaining few. But there is hope in those that have stayed true to the old ways. They that still uphold the values and meaningfulness of the neo-socialist movement of the pre-Timeline era remind of those simpler times. And hey, Maybe Mark Zuckerberg and his army of marketing executive goonies will realise that this time they really fucked up. Or we'll get used to it, like we always do.<br />
<br />
Timeline gets a 3 out of 10 because I kind of really like the ability to make Dr. Rowan "Flinty Badman" Williams the Archbishop of Canterbury's face massive now, something which will become very useful in the upcoming months. You have been warned.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-41473111618208706342012-02-10T08:18:00.000-08:002012-02-10T08:18:06.484-08:00La Chunga<div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thanks to the huge popularity of Sergeant Edmond Horse-Twattersley's guest review on the Edgar Allen Poe stage play I am delighted to welcome to the pages of this blog his charming and noble wife, Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly. She specially requested being allowed to review a play from the same theatre group and I have to admit it was pretty hard to say no. She was, let's say, very forceful in her persuasions. Bon appetite ladies and gentlemen.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br />
</i></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3231QaoAGS_Qejxl_NPGbKTp5WJmQOW9C1myuCy_zFL-EefWWyeE8DDlFVwdtVh8po3bzYjaBpP4CfjhzAENYaIesprdqV9DpNdr5qmLAvC_yDPZHigKy2ORBryJPHy0GAEkTg9YjjsB/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3231QaoAGS_Qejxl_NPGbKTp5WJmQOW9C1myuCy_zFL-EefWWyeE8DDlFVwdtVh8po3bzYjaBpP4CfjhzAENYaIesprdqV9DpNdr5qmLAvC_yDPZHigKy2ORBryJPHy0GAEkTg9YjjsB/s320/14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It is often stated that the foibles of men are relinquished through the generous and kind-hearted nature of the fairer sex. Utter tosh of course. Having been wedded to my pitiful excuse of a husband for almost thirty years now I have learnt that kindness and generosity have done nothing to quell the tenacity and ferocity of his spirit. Instead, one must learn to treat ones husband as a form of pet, or to a lesser extent, one of the servant class. These simple beings understand only one language, and that is the language of strict discipline. A short, sharp thwack with a cold tablespoon did wonders for my Edmond when he used to get frisky, promiscuous thoughts after watching 'Eurotrash' on a Thursday night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Men are nothing more than beasts driven only by the desires of their throbbing members. It is our duty to remind them of their places in this World, to utilise their brute forces to create and provide for us a comfortable standard of living. I must say I read my husband's review of the previous production with great amusement. To hear poor, deluded Edmond so worked up and overwrought by a mere stage show, he certainly was the laughing stock of the Thursday night bridge 'n' bitch meeting when I showed it to the other ladies. From the moment he blustered into the house that night in November, red-faced and panting at what he had witnessed, I knew I had to see first hand the troupe who could so easily reduce my husband to a gibbering wreck.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So it came to be I reserved myself a seat for the Wednesday showing of <i>La Chunga </i>at the Phoenix Artists Club in Leicester Square. A squalid little bar cum impromptu theatre space and a well known haunt for the technical oiks of the theatre district, it had all the charm and rustic appeal of a Devonshire Bordello. I ordered myself a vermouth and bitter lemon with extra slice from the bar and was promptly ushered next door into the stage area. Some effort had gone into the design of that room I must say, with it's torn bamboo rugs hanging from the walls and assorted South American decorations it certainly resembled my great-niece's holiday photos of her travels in Central America last Spring, minus the various scenes of topless debauchery, I hasten to add.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SKA8UuiAwpgJQt-zgYhT321bzOCtaduc6LTQMfz5fuice7QSPfTNT7zYQ10_Nxve4517iGl3Jqmsp09TMRFOVbvPFteMnVcBUGaGzn6wmrWApO3wpIEgwrn2ZaKUd7bDXhIWSoa5CwCW/s1600/lachunga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SKA8UuiAwpgJQt-zgYhT321bzOCtaduc6LTQMfz5fuice7QSPfTNT7zYQ10_Nxve4517iGl3Jqmsp09TMRFOVbvPFteMnVcBUGaGzn6wmrWApO3wpIEgwrn2ZaKUd7bDXhIWSoa5CwCW/s320/lachunga.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is where a fart joke would go if I was so purile.<br />
Which I'm not.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">And thus, seated between some brutish Italians, I settled into my chair and prepared myself for the imminent show by draining the last of my vermouth. The lights dimmed, the music rose and the liquor flooded my brain with it's warming sensuality as I witnessed my first vision of the evening in the shape of the comely actress playing the titular Chunga. As she strode onto the stage masterfully portraying the embittered bar owner, memories of The Buckinghamshire Little Ladies Equestrian Training Acadamy came flooding back. There was something almost tangible about her purposeful stride, that long flowing mane, the husky purr of her voice and that strong, prominent upper jaw which instantly reminded me of my first riding mistress, Ms. Regina Higgenbottom. She, that powerfully handsome woman, first taught me the forbidden pleasures of the love that dare not speak its name.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, I digress. Next onto the stage came the four men who played the gambling reprobates of Chunga's bar. Typical of men, their conversation revolved around bawdy subjects shouted at each other over a table of alcohol and dice. It put me in mind of the time I accompanied Edmond to The Bullingdon Club for one of his Oxford graduate reunions. Much like walking a dog on Hampstead Heath, one has to let one's man off the lead every now and then to allow him some sense of empowerment, so that he is even more malleable and willing to obey when one calls him back. I watched with some amusement as these men talked themselves up in front of each other, only to be crushed by Chunga's icily sardonic reproaches. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was then that they began singing a rousing chorus with the attempt to glorify their stations and the second vision began. No sooner had the first line been uttered, "We are the Superstuds, we don't wanna work..." that I closed my eyes and allowed sweet nostalgia to again permeate my senses. With that one word, 'Superstuds' echoing around my mind I was transported back to the rolling hills of my formative years. It was Autumn, on a mist-laden field in the Cotswalds where Ms. Higgenbottom had insisted I came accompanied by my beloved stud-colt 'Night's Rapture'<i>. </i>It was her that first taught me how to fully appreciate the magnificent strength of this wonderful beast. The feel of his locks between my hands, the gentle buck of his haunches as we cleared fence after fence together and the sweet scent of straw as we would lay together in the stables for hours on end all returned in a maelstrom of synaethsesia as I remembered the nickname I had given him, my own 'Superstud'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbptjy4G4NRb0OSLMoX2qcWC7T0RGUY4LETNfuqeubfb4FLXtXe4O_qKHfIW2K6xgDpOEYZvGHhIvFKikZ6uYhU8PMNTiGm_M8lGMUAaOIPjGdrKPb7gKEpeRr-IUBe6NTOL8joVE_4if/s1600/horsey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbptjy4G4NRb0OSLMoX2qcWC7T0RGUY4LETNfuqeubfb4FLXtXe4O_qKHfIW2K6xgDpOEYZvGHhIvFKikZ6uYhU8PMNTiGm_M8lGMUAaOIPjGdrKPb7gKEpeRr-IUBe6NTOL8joVE_4if/s400/horsey.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Horse-Twattersly by name, Horse-Twattersly<br />
by nature. Wait...what?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Again, I digress. Following a short interval where I ordered several more vermouths, it was time for act two. Returning to my seat I resolved to put those torrid thoughts away from my mind and try and concentrate on the play. I was able to hold back those desires which my own father had spent many years exorcising from my soul for a short while as the fantastical imagined scenes of what became of the beautiful Meche unfolded, until one of the men alluded to cutting the genitals off another. Oh glorious Rapture, taken from me too young because daddy found out about our sinful trysts, buried and left to rot in the family cemetery. How glad I was father never knew about the night before his burial, where I happened upon a large jar of formaldehyde from the local chemists and snuck down in the middle of the night, armed with the kitchen maid's bacon scissors to relieve the poor beast of his most precious endowment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That crowning glory holds a special place in my private quarters, amongst my other most precious jewels and trinkets, where not even my personal maid-servant may enter. Though the rest of them have gathered an exorbitant amount of dust over the decades, that particular jar has remained as clean as a whistle. I would like to extend my thanks and gratitude to the entire Second Skin Theatre crew for showing me that my natural love for such wild and untamed beasts is not as sacrilegious as the rest of the family would have me believe. At least, that's what I took from it anyway.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Thank you Lady Cytherea, we look forward to hearing more theatre reviews from you and your family soon. If you would like to see La Chunga for yourself, it's playing</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #a5a5a5; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i>at the Phoenix Artist Club, 1 Phoenix Street off Charing Cross Road, near Leicester Square. </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i>January 24<sup style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">th</sup> to February 19<sup style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">th</sup>, 2012. Tuesday to Thursday evenings at 7:30pm and Sunday matinees at 3pm. Tickets £12.</i></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-14550314604585365452011-11-25T18:05:00.000-08:002011-11-25T18:05:37.484-08:00Poe: Macabre Resurrections in 3D<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CbnT51_AkquSGy7mPUa6sYGd2ZhIHwvyazyauJR7nZASKoYfsopjZXOXQ08oN0CLLJk6Dtwk3HcDiddt0fAJyXgA9IX9KyjkkWq-qCCzugw_C5MJ-AOZrrr03M9tDv1VDz9duP4OcPI7/s1600/aaaapoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CbnT51_AkquSGy7mPUa6sYGd2ZhIHwvyazyauJR7nZASKoYfsopjZXOXQ08oN0CLLJk6Dtwk3HcDiddt0fAJyXgA9IX9KyjkkWq-qCCzugw_C5MJ-AOZrrr03M9tDv1VDz9duP4OcPI7/s320/aaaapoe.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quoth the raven, "Get me a better resolution image"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not very often often I go to the cinema these days. The thought of spending so much money to drag myself from my comfort zone and sit in the same room as those I spend my life avoiding seems contentious at best, and is one I often allow to rest somewhere between my opinion on the latest football results and whether or not brussels sprouts actually come from Brussels. Although I would never willingly admit to downloading or streaming pirated copies of films on the internet, suffice to say between the possibility of such an occurrence and the existence of Kermode and Mayo's Friday film review (which everybody should listen to, if not just to casually eavesdrop on two married men flirting outrageously with each other) I find myself happy to peruse the latest films from the comfort of my home computer. However, there comes a point when one feels they should at least give the arts a sporting chance on their home territory, especially if one is offered a free ticket to such an event. Well, it would be rude not to wouldn't it?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so it was I found myself venturing out of my house last Friday to St Mary's Church in Stoke Newington and let me tell you, deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing; "Jesus Christ it's freezing out here, I hope they've got some fucking heaters in there." Now I don't know about you lot, but last time I went to a cinema it was a nice, warm, welcoming building. There was neon lights out the front with big letters reminding me what I was going in to see and the smell of hot buttery popcorn floated from the inside charioted by the winged angels of overpriced hotdogs. For those of you expecting the same treatment, I can only say, don't bother. In a bizarre twist of seasonal brodcasting this screening is only being shown in a rundown old church in the middle of November. Luckily, they have a bar inside where esteemed reviewers such as myself are handed out stomach-warming glasses of plonk and ale for free, although I do believe the plebs are expected to pay a cursory amount.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0P_gmqwFTPxiEEib0caA5XCXk_mJE7TVlgYPvW8xEWK115dLCEvv15KBkcGTSh3foxt9oiWskpV6XsMJjV7Cxuinf_zfmwzAlAGrp0ykTl9zpacfTFv6VmL_yEY3gMmOXwr8AG140vjn/s1600/aaaapoe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0P_gmqwFTPxiEEib0caA5XCXk_mJE7TVlgYPvW8xEWK115dLCEvv15KBkcGTSh3foxt9oiWskpV6XsMJjV7Cxuinf_zfmwzAlAGrp0ykTl9zpacfTFv6VmL_yEY3gMmOXwr8AG140vjn/s320/aaaapoe2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3D makes everything better</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">First impressions on entering the church ranged from mild discomfort at the prospect of sitting on a wooden pew for the entirety of the showing to confused bewilderment at the lack of a screen on which I have come to expect films to be projected onto. How surprised I was then when the show started to actually see a man characterising a priest beginning the show. Of course, I realised, this must be that new-fangled 3D technology I have heard so much about, although I was sure one required special glasses for the effect to work. How times must have changed! It was almost as if the actor were physically there on stage, so real did he seem. The screen must have been some specially woven poly-fibres undetectable by the human eye covering the entirety of the space I was sat in, for I almost believed this same man walked right down the aisle past me on more than one occasion.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And thus the show began. What a shock I received when from the dark pulpit emerged a bald vulture like figure interrupting the priest's speech to recite one of my favourite of Poe's works, <i>The Raven</i>, perfectly represented in the true Edgar Allen Poe style. This, unfortunately, was the high point of the evenings proceedings. From there, it descended into a modern reworking of the <i>Cask of Amontillado</i>, where I was actually expected to rise from my seat and follow the screen around to the entrance. Now, I may be regarded as an old fuddy duddy by some of you younger readers, but I believe that if I am expected to pay to enter a premises to watch a film (which, incidentally, I didn't) I should not have to suffer the indignity of having to get off my arse and actively partake in the viewing. Although the more 'hip' individuals with which I was having to find myself in close proximity to seemed to find this a novel and exciting interactive experience I most certainly did not. I didn't share the damp and cold trenches of Versailles fighting off those damn Krauts to be shepherded around like common cattle in a place of entertainment 60 years later.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQdpqtHlFaA8A_NUjuIEu9o8Jo2I3p_prPFFR8gXn_7FNF7c1DCg3TLuSduQQK04qGiOZKK7-sQNShgI0vzkNOUsgPZLyHH5MAt6h3CKMXMAFSpH_m8rL0o99fuiBP_ra7hDmJuEAi0sl/s1600/aaapoe4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQdpqtHlFaA8A_NUjuIEu9o8Jo2I3p_prPFFR8gXn_7FNF7c1DCg3TLuSduQQK04qGiOZKK7-sQNShgI0vzkNOUsgPZLyHH5MAt6h3CKMXMAFSpH_m8rL0o99fuiBP_ra7hDmJuEAi0sl/s320/aaapoe4.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sergeant Edmund Horse-Twattersly</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The final blow for me was the 're-imagining' of <i>The Pit And The Pendulum</i>. The bare-faced cheek of that young upstart of a director to allow some young ruffian to destroy Poe's masterpiece was more than I could take, and by golly did I let my feelings be known. I stormed past the audience and loudly muttered "I didn't come here to watch some filthy Arab ruin my hero's work", at the top of my lungs, which admittedly was no more than a hoarse mutter after years of shouting my overblown opinions at the crass commercialised rubbish that passes for television these days. Hah! Modern masterpiece my left foot. Let me tell you I stormed straight home and wrote a strongly worded letter of reproach to the Daily Mail.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Editors Note: The feelings and words expressed above are not those of mine. They are of the right honourable local Tory councillor Sergeant Edmund Horse-Twattersly who heard of my blog and asked me if I would allow him to write a piece on it. I was at the exact same show he was and had a great time; superb acting all round, brilliant writing and incredibly innovative uses of space came together to provide a perfect night of entertainment. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>If you want to see the show for yourself, tickets are available at www.churchstreettheatre.com and showings are Tuesdays - Sundays, 8pm till later, </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>St. Mary's Old Church, Church St. </i><i>Stoke Newington N16 9ES</i></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-33558923821854314962011-02-11T09:08:00.000-08:002011-02-11T13:49:52.418-08:00Davina Fit<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkbqpdu5Ja8HH5BuuTTWt12CtWBLu8vgTGLT1lRs3iIClbsyZ91cpbbJJjhk6JI-Q4ZxM_BkHExqFrPZ9tZK3D6aEZIJMuJ5ZaFEOtkxcFf53YSzZXwmkteu5RzfTBy-zB4d_efwX0Cz3/s1600/aaaadavina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkbqpdu5Ja8HH5BuuTTWt12CtWBLu8vgTGLT1lRs3iIClbsyZ91cpbbJJjhk6JI-Q4ZxM_BkHExqFrPZ9tZK3D6aEZIJMuJ5ZaFEOtkxcFf53YSzZXwmkteu5RzfTBy-zB4d_efwX0Cz3/s320/aaaadavina.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Will pose as teapot for money"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Hey fatty. Is it becoming a struggle to lift yourself off the sofa? Are children starting to point and laugh at you in the street? Has your gym membership got lost in the rolls of your belly flab? It's OK, I don't blame you because I understand it's not entirely your fault. Modern living has made you lazy; your television keeps you entertained whilst you force factory bred chicken wings down your bloated throat with podgy, grease-smeared fingers that you don't even have to leave the house for because someone gets paid less than minimum wage to deliver it straight to your door. You have everything you need right where you are, technological advancements at affordable prices have made it possible for anyone and everyone to enjoy the sedentary lifestyle which was once the sole luxury of the Royalty. Luckily for you, someone out there cares. Not just one person either, a veritable army of celebrities have rallied up in droves, abandoning their jungle camps and glittery ice skating tournaments to help you; Fatty McFattson, sort your life out via the visual medium of Celebrity Fitness Workout DVDs. It's time to dust off those jogging bottoms, crack out the rice cakes and warm ourselves up for an in-depth analysis of THE Super Celebrity Fitness Workout DVD of 2010: <i>Davina Fit.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
The box art is fairly self explanatory; there's Davina McCall, the ex-Big Brother presenter and inexplicably popular loudmouthed British household name, dressed in sporty gear and leaning against what appears to be some white structure, probably the pyramid of cocaine she bought from her last DVD sales. She's got the kind of body that you only get from having a personal trainer, following a strict dietary routine and access to all sorts of fancy gym equipment, but don't let that put you off buying the DVD, because it's Davina, the voice of the people and if she deserves to look that good then so do you girlfriend. Let's pop this sucker in and see what all the fuss is about.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMNDkUx7UKbcthLje5yfXvCEuUwIEAlOiA1AKQwi4-0iBevj6pgPyuy6vG7JQ1wI0hra81mHrpVaFZ4wBbzvtyyaLFvADmerA0NjdeUuaVwib3y7UkqWkHlWQyk7MgfbIRPbErK_lBv6N/s1600/aaaaadavina2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMNDkUx7UKbcthLje5yfXvCEuUwIEAlOiA1AKQwi4-0iBevj6pgPyuy6vG7JQ1wI0hra81mHrpVaFZ4wBbzvtyyaLFvADmerA0NjdeUuaVwib3y7UkqWkHlWQyk7MgfbIRPbErK_lBv6N/s320/aaaaadavina2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's in yellow, in case you forget who the queen bee is</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Yeah! Title menu's! I always judge a good DVD by it's ability to have title menu's. And where is it more important to have title menu's than on a Super Celebrity Heavyweight Fitness Workout DVD? OK, let's start with 'Introduction'. There's Davina, looking nice and toned and the camera's zooming towards here and she's saying stuff but I can't concentrate because it's all happening so fast and now she's gurning and what was that I don't even but it's OK because that's over now and we're moving onto the next topic and she's predictably fluffed her lines but she's carrying on because she's a professional and where the hell is the fitness this is just like some presenter trying out her half-assed comedy routine but no she's clapping her hands so it must be business time oh yeah quick transition of fitness montages and straight back to Davina for more gurning and predictable line fluffing and now it's over but wait did I learn anything it's not important because Davina McCall spoke personally to me. Well, I imagined 'Introduction' would be a basic rundown of some warm-ups and stretching exercises, but instead it's a rather bizarre story from Davina about how much she loves exercising. Now Davina, I have no problem with people being passionate about their work, but that's twenty minutes you just spent talking about it, by which time your audience have sat down and started stuffing themselves stupid with the nearest fatty food they can lay their hands on to quell the maddening disappointment at never being able to be as enthusiastic about loving their own children as you are about keeping fit.<br />
<br />
The next title selection is of the four 30 minute workouts; 'Aerobic Fit', 'Top Fit', 'Bottom Fit' and 'Kick Fit' and the bonus 'Yoga Stretch'. I went straight for 'Top Fit' because it sounded the most manly as there was no way I was about to watch the choreographed school disco which was undoubtedly going to be the premise of 'Aerobic Fit'. Finally we get to some actual workout routines. We're introduced to Davina's dopplegangers; ex-marine Mark who looks like a camp Jason Statham and ex-dinner lady Jackie who looks like she still is a dinner lady. Mark is the one who barks the orders for the two woman and yourself to follow, and from his constantly bitter expression you can tell he's only getting paid a fraction of what Davina gets despite this being his carefully planned routine as her fitness instructor. Tough luck buster because that's the way the fitness world works, you spend hours training up some high-profile celebrity only for them to put their name to your technique and reap the rewards.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7a8mH_bPTHGOKuwQIuL1fVk05tTVmLPZ-37YCkxQdG2pUF_yrSRhvEe06lGKFp57G50-SUdDFp3T1S1KP3_67a6G2AjSeNUy-WziYTs744wv00GlLYpB7R380yRU-Fqo2btvwXsIsXmB/s1600/aaaadavina3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7a8mH_bPTHGOKuwQIuL1fVk05tTVmLPZ-37YCkxQdG2pUF_yrSRhvEe06lGKFp57G50-SUdDFp3T1S1KP3_67a6G2AjSeNUy-WziYTs744wv00GlLYpB7R380yRU-Fqo2btvwXsIsXmB/s320/aaaadavina3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, probably best to leave the old one out for this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So we start with our warm-ups for five minutes and they're actually really good, I can feel my limbs stretching and toning already. I'm finding it a bit hard to try and not disturb the people living below me as much as possible so I lay some cushions on the floor as a noise dampener which works pretty well, (that's a protip for you lard bags living in shared accommodation. Write it down). Then, just as I'm feeling great about the whole thing and planning my next 6 months around doing this routine every day, Mark announces it's time to go and get the weights. I stare dumbfounded as they actually stop the routine to go and get their weights while I think; hang on, I don't have any weights, if I had weights I wouldn't need this stupid Super Celebrity Heavyweight Maximum Fitness Workout DVD. If I had <i>weights</i> Mark I would be doing some curls and dead-lifts right now without your stupid guidance, Davina's constant gurning or that tinny rendition of "I Feel Free" by Belinda Carlisle. I suppose for the 'Bottom Fit' they ask you to get your exercise bike out, and woe betide anyone who failed to buy a James Corden calender as target practice for 'Kick Fit'.<br />
<br />
I don't know, I didn't check. I realised after the weight fiasco that I had left the front door on the latch, and my neighbours had more than likely walked past and seen my sliding around in my jogging bottoms on cushions whilst Davina McCall shouted at me to think of how good I would look in a bikini all year round. I don't care how good I was going to look in my bikini, I am not in the habit of making a fool of myself. 4 out of 10, because I at least learnt that gurning counts as exercise now.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-73659926184975699762011-02-03T09:55:00.000-08:002011-02-03T09:56:46.309-08:00Other Blogs: A Descent Into Madness<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before we begin today's review, we're going to try a little experiment. What I want you to do is click that little link at the top of the page which says 'Next Blog' and see where it takes you. Make sure you come back here afterwards and we'll discuss your findings. Go on, I'll wait here, you go and have a little explore, I dare you. You back? Okay, well I'm Sorry. I really didn't want to have to do that, but sometimes we hurt the ones we love in order to teach them valuable life lessons. Think of it as an immunisation, now you've had a little taste of what lies out there, you'll never be tempted to try it again. So what did you get? Poems about dead cats? Tips and tricks for keeping your 'shakra' in line with your convertible? Recipe's for colour-blind lepers? Most likely you stumbled upon the most common of all, the smug middle class family from America documenting every single day of their lives on-line because their friends, families and local Samaritans have all threatened them with restraining orders.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEigWWLZFR7oljMXcx-c0fe4nK0N3WJcoV6JeSdcURjBnuEN16YU36bNUIzP-oGLpB4BTuqCFzV1oJOz7afUSk8JLfs9tqxMprjUg9Xe2ANiaz6Lp55Uyslyq5t2yCBgZLc6ADG-Y41y1/s1600/aaaamooseantics2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCEigWWLZFR7oljMXcx-c0fe4nK0N3WJcoV6JeSdcURjBnuEN16YU36bNUIzP-oGLpB4BTuqCFzV1oJOz7afUSk8JLfs9tqxMprjUg9Xe2ANiaz6Lp55Uyslyq5t2yCBgZLc6ADG-Y41y1/s320/aaaamooseantics2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is what happens when you use the internet as a<br />
dumping ground for your wasted thoughts</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This review takes a close look at one of those in particular, entitled 'Moose Antics'. Click <a href="http://mooseantics.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00:00:00-06:00&updated-max=2011-01-01T00:00:00-06:00&max-results=50" style="text-decoration: underline;">Here</a> to have a look for yourselves if you want, but you really don't need to because I have intrepidly braved that particular frontier for you, bringing back the choicest samples for your visual delectation. 'Moose Antics' is a blog written by this lady on the right, who calls herself 'The Moose'. I don't know why, she doesn't seem particularly large or ugly, it probably all stems from some traumatic childhood encounter in the Canadian Rockies that the rest of the family try to ignore. She lists her interests as "My family, learning the Bible, SINGING(sic), gardening and dancing like a pathetic white girl." In her 'About Me' she just writes moose noises and them makes a lame joke about chickens crossing roads. Buckle up tight 'cos this is going to be one bumpy ride into a very dark psyche. Let's roll.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before I begin; this is NOT a personal attack on 'The Moose'. I have never met 'The Moose' and therefore have no opinions based on her or her family. This is a review of her blog, which she has laid bare for criticism on an open source website. She knew what she was doing, so stop feeling sorry for her. She lives somewhere in North America with her husband Jon who is rarely mentioned, and her son William, who is mentioned so many times you start to wonder whether he really exists at all and she isn't just making him up because her husband's impotent and allergic to dogs. Here's one of the more recent posts she has written about her adorable little kin "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #424242; line-height: 20px;">William and I made 9 huge snowflakes last week and then wrote bible passages on the backsides of each one of them. We hung them up over our kitchen table and at night it warms my heart to see William standing on a chair to look at the backs of them to pick out the passage that he wants to read from his bible before bedtime."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #424242; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLG2jrSAuI8R429D4gEetV9VJqUu2g0Fcd9ShHaa7umByAfIxyl-vtg24hexlQ-5FpEI1VpfQM1jHbn_tuIwe6igD3RkvSmVd5PnD2KH_nv1vgp5x8eBj9ZQ2Boly1sS-L3o-h7Ya_3OR/s1600/aaaamoosechild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLG2jrSAuI8R429D4gEetV9VJqUu2g0Fcd9ShHaa7umByAfIxyl-vtg24hexlQ-5FpEI1VpfQM1jHbn_tuIwe6igD3RkvSmVd5PnD2KH_nv1vgp5x8eBj9ZQ2Boly1sS-L3o-h7Ya_3OR/s320/aaaamoosechild.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William being forced to work in 'The Mooses'<br />
underground salt mines</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey Moose, if you're reading this and that scene is true I think you may have misjudged the situation a little there. Here's what I think was really happening that night. What you thought of as being a tender moment between you and your child, William actually saw as his opportunity to escape. See, those weren't just Bible passages written on the back of those snowflakes, they were cleverly coded messages to your husband with whom he is clearly in cahoots. When you walked in on him, he was checking to see what your husband had updated them to, leaving plans for how to reach the escape tunnel he has been burrowing out of your basement. I think they're both getting a little sick and tired of your constant documentation of every facet of their lives via your personal blog.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">That isn't a one off case either, once I noticed it the first time, examples started popping up everywhere, like this one written a few months before the first quote, "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #424242; line-height: 20px;">Almost every day that Jon isn't home with us, William has been known to come flying down the stairs and say, "Where's daddy?" He doesn't like for Jon to be out of his sight for more than 5 minutes at a time</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #424242; line-height: 20px;">." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Lady, one day you're going to have to wake up and smell the roses. Have you ever noticed how your families eye's twitch when you ask them to tell you what they want for dinner via the comments section in that day's blog post? Your child does not want to be alone with you and your husband spends as much time away from you as possible. No wonder you spend so much time with your pretend on-line family, at least they don't stop talking when you walk into a room or occasionally break down crying when you gleefully tell them you've spent the life savings hiring a professional photographer to follow you all around every day, so not one precious moment is missed or forgotten.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuFLsl2n_YJF0k9SVnmcDePCHakTwLzsLcjw-Gpd1UAc6Wlb8mOP612tvvDq2dic6az7JqKABFqJILI6Y1nEfIpapTFl-kGztsy4vOw2gDUItqQ9ui19MwZe6er5EzKjWHxKoCtAmRbe8/s1600/aaaaamoose4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuFLsl2n_YJF0k9SVnmcDePCHakTwLzsLcjw-Gpd1UAc6Wlb8mOP612tvvDq2dic6az7JqKABFqJILI6Y1nEfIpapTFl-kGztsy4vOw2gDUItqQ9ui19MwZe6er5EzKjWHxKoCtAmRbe8/s320/aaaaamoose4.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, you're in a wood, I still don't get why it's Moose</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes the posts are open letters to one of the family. Hey Moose, you know every time someone posts a passive-aggressive open letter to someone who has slighted them that day a puppy dies right? You've single handedly killed enough young dogs to end rabies. Here's one for you; and I personally know the puppy this one will be killing. Believe me, it's an act of mercy.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Moose,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one gives a shit about you or your problems.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Sincerely,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuck Off</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aesthetically I must say the blog is presented fairly tastefully. The colour scheme is a warm dusky orange hue for the background and I quite like the picture at the top for it's the rustic charm, a hastily scrapped together montage of bow-ties and picture of a moose with random font types. It's such a shame about every single other aspect of the blog. The little 'Moose'-isms everywhere, the picture of William titled "My Smoochie", the consistent use of the word 'Bloggity' and the general God-awful smugness of the posts only possible from a rich, American middle aged housewife with more time on her hands than sense. I hope one day when William is much older and 'The Moose' develops some form of mental retardation brought on by the inevitability of old age, he starts his own blog about her 'wacky' exploits. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's face it, to be constantly amazed that your child doesn't quite see the World from the same mature perspective that you do is a bit like getting angry at someone who suffers from Alzheimer's disease for forgetting where they put your keys, both pointless and quite uncomfortable for anyone else involved. For these reasons 'Moose Antics' earns itself 2 out of 10, and that 2 is for the colour scheme, because I really do like that orange.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-22464731512231149662011-02-01T13:47:00.000-08:002011-02-01T13:47:58.486-08:00Slender Man<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRyTJPi5FXC9siS261moZIhWNE9yTGnQmD292Xq7K7xJQssCCYhQ2QHTlH-BLIsBY-xNvyOHyBVxVi1Q8T18S8-9uZT8RR3_6yeP6zTVjfHA96VfUfytSLj2nAMdahRBYn3UAPwFyYjC8/s1600/aaaaaaaaaaaaslender2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRyTJPi5FXC9siS261moZIhWNE9yTGnQmD292Xq7K7xJQssCCYhQ2QHTlH-BLIsBY-xNvyOHyBVxVi1Q8T18S8-9uZT8RR3_6yeP6zTVjfHA96VfUfytSLj2nAMdahRBYn3UAPwFyYjC8/s400/aaaaaaaaaaaaslender2.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I would make a stupid joke here, but He won't let me</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was a young child, I only ever really wanted two things. One was a massive aquarium which could house a colossal squid and a sperm whale because I thought it would be amazing to see the two fight, and the other was to be able to live in the middle of some deep forest far away from the strains and disappointment of grown up life I found myself hurtling closer and closer towards. My affinity with woods started from a very early age, where I grew up they were fairly plentiful and there was nothing I liked more than climbing their trees and exploring as much of them as possible. Their sheltering comfort and collection of woodland creatures symbolised a world just beyond human comprehension, each wood represented a self sufficient organic city where the only rules were those which pertained to the laws of the jungle. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They were simpler times but undoubtedly good times. Those days are gone now. Now I know of the lurking terror within even the smallest copse, watching and waiting for me to dare to try and live out that childhood dream. What could possibly cause such a drastic upheaval in logically fuzzy yet morally sound ideals? Slender Man, that's what. He's big, he's mean and he wont be happy until everyone is dead. He wears a suit because he means business and has tentacles for arms, all the better to wrap around your throat my dear. Never heard of him? Lucky for you, but I aim to change that. For your own sake of course.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The uncomfortable story behind this sinister figure came into the public eye a relatively short time ago, when the above picture appeared on an internet forum from an anonymous poster. The story which accompanied was that it was taken in 1983 in the American town of Stirling, and shortly afterwards there was a huge fire in the same local school which killed every one of the children inside. The fire was supposedly started by Mary Thomas, the same person who took the photo, who has been missing since the event. Like the snarling beast that it is, the collective consciousness of the internet took the Slender Man mythos to its blackened heart and suddenly supposed sightings were cropping up everywhere, from Japan to Norway and every country in between. Thousands of people had their own Slender Man story to tell, mostly involving a dark suited figure emerging from surrounding forests, with unusually long limbs and no memorable facial features. The 'bogeyman' had been reborn with a terrifyingly new persona, a modern day fairytale for the cynical Nintendo generation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaA5CC11yu1E0uanK5hyphenhyphenOGr3FTbne0S9XdLXg1LIJP4gWnZZTboECknWkQgPGlxtR556kEtDeoJtZMHsHDJhSfAS_at2U37pr4dLopBS4vHS1ovj1jG3mszCHAJztAWBY094oIFrAyXil/s1600/aaaaaaaaaaaslender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaA5CC11yu1E0uanK5hyphenhyphenOGr3FTbne0S9XdLXg1LIJP4gWnZZTboECknWkQgPGlxtR556kEtDeoJtZMHsHDJhSfAS_at2U37pr4dLopBS4vHS1ovj1jG3mszCHAJztAWBY094oIFrAyXil/s320/aaaaaaaaaaaslender.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My, My, Whiskey. How you have grown.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the most creative iterations of the Slender Man legend is that of the YouTube channel known as <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/marblehornets?blend=2&ob=4">Marble Hornets</a>. If you follow that link, have a few hours to spare and don't mind wasting the precious little time you have on this Earth, you can watch all 33 episodes, back to back, whilst you also slowly watch your sanity slipping away. The videos are a supposed documentation of an American graduate going through a friends forgotten rushes for a film he was supposed to make. As he delves further into the tapes, he realises his friend was being stalked by a mysterious figure dressed in a black suit of indiscernible features, sort of like a burns victim James Bond. The series is brilliantly made, relying mostly on the viewers imagination to fill in most of the gaps as all of the greatest horror stories do and is a work in progress, being updated with new posts sporadically.<br />
<br />
Whether you choose to believe in the Slender Man or not is of course up to you, I'm not here to preach the words of any creeping ancient evil just like I wouldn't preach the words of any shining triumphant deity. I'm just laying down the facts as I hear them, and you're free to take from it what you will. Part of the thrill of watching the Marble Hornets videos is the underlying uncertainty as to it's validity, and it's far more fun to suspend your disbelief whilst watching than it is to scorn it for being a poorly produced sequence of films.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oHvY0QYpfMAuBzObUKhXCUqLgYnMrvJRWz9jJNzJ6ACkFOlmf26De4dBA6GKIxW94q91yPiQdJGOjrRz1aOc8uozqORYIcLU8e9t4A52BIsUN1v01HXAsu-2oJaTdMs0SX7n0b0b28e8/s1600/aaaaaaaaaaaaslennder3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oHvY0QYpfMAuBzObUKhXCUqLgYnMrvJRWz9jJNzJ6ACkFOlmf26De4dBA6GKIxW94q91yPiQdJGOjrRz1aOc8uozqORYIcLU8e9t4A52BIsUN1v01HXAsu-2oJaTdMs0SX7n0b0b28e8/s400/aaaaaaaaaaaaslennder3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We didn't want to go, but its persistent silence and outstretched arms <br />
horrified and comforted us all at once </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I suppose through the willingness of the collective internet to keep him alive and further his presence through spurious photographic evidence and scant recollections, Slender Man represents a need in society to have an ambiguous mystical ubiquity haunting the general psyche. It's much easier for us to anthropomorphise death as a skeletal Grim Reaper figure or a Yeti or a blurry faced businessman than it is for us to admit death as being the far scarier unknown that it is. Either that, or it's a very clever marketing ploy by the logging companies to make people more willing to the idea of decimating every rainforest on the planet in the hope of ridding ourselves of his omnipresent terror once and for all.<br />
<br />
I've decided to give Slender Man a very middle of the road 5 out 10, because my respect for him is perfectly counter balanced by my fear of him. Sleep Well.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-60682534406419577042011-01-31T13:26:00.000-08:002011-02-01T10:12:38.062-08:00The Archbishop Of Canterbury Dr Rowan Williams' Face<div style="text-align: justify;">Today as I was walking through town to pick up a new tub of hair wax and cancel a lost debit card I invented a new game to keep my mind off the numbing banality that sometimes occurs within my 24 year old existence. The game was simple in premise; guess the position of employment held by the random stranger judged by their appearance and snatches of overheard conversations. This soon gave rise to an interesting question as to whether people take on the personality required to fulfil their job role, or if it is their original demeanour which dictates the position they eventually end up with.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuPr-TsWBbuZfZ-9mWa5TO1zEjpw8B0BBUFcqIKtbIA5GJGFpK7dvMAizwZFWKWGvn0yzNUh4aATjxFMlNecGboctOZB-7CZOMwvBaS0ev3xm3wKZVSujHgxjHaFKvsow7stVSEYF0Egg/s1600/floating-head-of-canterbury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinuPr-TsWBbuZfZ-9mWa5TO1zEjpw8B0BBUFcqIKtbIA5GJGFpK7dvMAizwZFWKWGvn0yzNUh4aATjxFMlNecGboctOZB-7CZOMwvBaS0ev3xm3wKZVSujHgxjHaFKvsow7stVSEYF0Egg/s320/floating-head-of-canterbury.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing says you're all going to hell in a hand basket<br />
better than this face</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Consequentially I began to link certain key aspects to different industries; orange skin and perroxide hair led me to believe the owner worked either in beauticians or tanning salons, flabby bellies and sunburnt right arms belonged to truck drivers and Australian accents were the sole requirement of people in the service industry. These findings caused me to begin thinking about more famous figures, and whether they too showed similar signs of having their appearance tailor made to their role. Piers Morgan came first to mind as an obvious choice, for what better person could wholeheartedly fill the position of the most loathed and detested ex-tabloid editing, vomit-inducing, pointless waste of fully functioning kidneys than that testicle faced cretin? The answer is no one, because only Piers has <b>that</b> particular face, the kind of face that makes any normal person want to train in Ju-Jitsu for twenty years just so they could land the perfect falcon punch right into his squishy visage.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so to the topic of today's review; the spiritual leader of the Anglican church, the representative worldwide of the C of E, Dr Rowan Williams' face. Religion is what some may call a 'hot' topic and so I should probably advise those of you who are easily offended by radical points of view towards beliefs based on ideas over two millennia old to swiftly exit the same way you came in. Not that I will be touching on any of these topics, I just really want you to go away. Most of you will have already looked at the picture above without my telling you, but for those of you who read the words first and look at the pictures later, look at the picture above. That is the face in question. It is not always in that position, sometimes the mouth is open, sometimes it is blinking or even winking. It is capable of a host of different expressions including ecumenical, pious, thoughtful, diplomatic and vengeful.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZZjVfKTpsu3rx6fuCPPc9KQmNQ8EfjMWLohKsxhiYC0YogaWp-S-SgXkgYnjwmn3Jl6ty4jOywRpv8UJAx3QNtz8_df7_MMiyunn8M5PtCYGJ0ttyLAk8XE7LNa48uwEZ_A5ZRuXkF5D/s1600/archbish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZZjVfKTpsu3rx6fuCPPc9KQmNQ8EfjMWLohKsxhiYC0YogaWp-S-SgXkgYnjwmn3Jl6ty4jOywRpv8UJAx3QNtz8_df7_MMiyunn8M5PtCYGJ0ttyLAk8XE7LNa48uwEZ_A5ZRuXkF5D/s320/archbish.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Viva la Reformation!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's take a moment to explore the features of this ecclesiastical ambassador to see how well they fit within the role of one who acts as a spiritual revolutionist to many, and as a role model and leader to even more. Thanks to the power of PhotoShop we can compare Williams to that of a figure well known for leading a revolutionary band of rebels to overthrow the authority figure of the time in the same way the protestant church was set up to challenge the Roman Catholic principles. At least to the extent the Henry VIII could get his end away with more then one woman. I do not think it is mere coincidence that Dr Rowan's face superimposes so perfectly onto Che Guevara's as it is the epitome of one which shows all of the characteristics of being a strong commandant.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The strength mostly lies in the far-off distant gaze. It suggests a higher state of mind, one not content to stare directly at the person straight in front of them, but over the left shoulder as if waiting for someone more important to arrive, leaving the viewer in a constant state of inadequacy. This is further exemplified by the down-turned mouth, suggesting a relentless disapproval of the individual in front of him causing said individual to feel that they must improve in whatever it is that they are doing. It is not a face which leaves the viewer completely disenfranchised however, the upward spiralling eyebrows suggest a slightly audacious side to the personality and therein lies the true power, indicating a deeply human side to what is on the whole an otherworldly countenance allowing for the possibility of acceptance provided you follow exactly what he dictates.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5-DYD1k_1FES60UarwqwDnzZ2dacYzxsKJiDOkGg7PBFAIJqu6laQJUe8wnca1c_CnBPPmYRlv0i75Z0v8mdbsXDjBn3RFNOSFlY8_SC-uF1p9FHnmwEBZ696KW5VP5XU7yhBrKl95sJ/s1600/archy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5-DYD1k_1FES60UarwqwDnzZ2dacYzxsKJiDOkGg7PBFAIJqu6laQJUe8wnca1c_CnBPPmYRlv0i75Z0v8mdbsXDjBn3RFNOSFlY8_SC-uF1p9FHnmwEBZ696KW5VP5XU7yhBrKl95sJ/s320/archy.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What has been seen can <b>never</b> be unseen</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Conversely, it is not the face of a fifties sex icon in any way shape or form, thus leading me to further believe my original theory that we fit into our working roles based on our appearance. You don't have to imagine what Marilyn Monroe would have looked like if she had Rowan Williams' face because I have provided that image for you, and you may thank me for any childhood infatuations destroyed later, preferably in the form of a cheque. He possesses none of the coquettishness of the young Norma Jean, and brings nothing to the image other than an instinctual feeling to bleach ones eyes out with lava. If Elton John were writing a song about this figure, it would be less 'Candle in the Wind', and more 'Burn it with Fire'. Thankfully it is a face which we never have to see in any dress other than the all covering purple papal robes, because it is a face designed for the sole purpose of being the symbolic head of the Anglican Communion, not a sexy fifties starlet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hereby award the face a spiritual 8 out of 10, because despite it's perfect ability to fit the role of Archbishop it is long overdue a trim.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-50397937552632150242011-01-17T14:38:00.000-08:002011-01-18T08:52:38.204-08:00The Argee Bhajee, 88-90 George Street, Walford<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6Y0KtvWl3FgRFgOCDg9Qho-vUyZwc3dJW-pegVpdWGSbJBzQ4CzNaspAMLJE4vlO4VqdVB5oSUX3AhdDITBjibK-OgSArfLNHk2MSYiw88CfP5UayvYGc_0JIjqoku7BYB5ML4oywSEU/s1600/Argee_Bhajee_EastEnders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6Y0KtvWl3FgRFgOCDg9Qho-vUyZwc3dJW-pegVpdWGSbJBzQ4CzNaspAMLJE4vlO4VqdVB5oSUX3AhdDITBjibK-OgSArfLNHk2MSYiw88CfP5UayvYGc_0JIjqoku7BYB5ML4oywSEU/s320/Argee_Bhajee_EastEnders.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing says fine Indian cuisine like blue wrought-iron lattice</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Before I begin, I would like to apologise to you all for my three day hiatus. I know many of you have come to depend on this blog as a mini-guide to understanding the World around you, and for that you have nothing but my unreserved pity and a vague feeling of disgust. However, I have in my absence prepared for you a delectable review of one of England's least understood and oft-forgotten stalwarts of Indian culinary delights; The Argee Bhajee.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Firstly, a brief history of this fine establishment. Originally owned by the Di Marco family and operating as an Italian pizzaria under the name 'Giuseppe's', it was eventually taken over in 2000 by an elusive restaurateur who refuses to disclose any information as to his or her personal life. In late 2010 Walford's leading Indian restaurant briefly became the subject of much debate between rivalling entrepreneurs when it mysteriously appeared on the market, resulting in a fierce auctioning war eventually won by a local family known as the Masoods. Is it possible that these previous market stall traders have the ability to maintain and preserve the Argee Bhajee's reputation? Let's tighten our napkins, ask politely for a jug of tap water and prepare to delve into this three course meal of a review. I hope you've saved room, because this one's super-sized.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">My excitement at being one of the first people to experience the newly revamped Argee Bhajee was immediately quelled on walking through the door. Part of the secret to delivering the perfect evening to one's customers as a restaurateur is to create an ambience which not only makes your guests feel relaxed and at ease, but also displays the restaurants own character, which should be instantly recognisable through the decorations and layout. It was obvious that the new owners were in a rush to open as soon as possible, because on walking in I was greeted with what I can best describe as a half finished building, in the most literal of senses. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbI5NTFwikM78-cJe7dzSIM1a6TwWTUL_3dQA2qz_suLTkPUpTvZZc8NOB9noF5S05iTak7pMr78hEJ8f9Rd7fasasIqVZ2hCkFt9SqkffzcjVlT6jHJRu5e3rR-8egLosUsMIRc4drQg/s1600/argyricky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbI5NTFwikM78-cJe7dzSIM1a6TwWTUL_3dQA2qz_suLTkPUpTvZZc8NOB9noF5S05iTak7pMr78hEJ8f9Rd7fasasIqVZ2hCkFt9SqkffzcjVlT6jHJRu5e3rR-8egLosUsMIRc4drQg/s320/argyricky.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're right Sir, she <b>does</b> look like a tandoori chicken</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">There was only three walls in the building, leaving a gaping hole in one side which led to what appeared to be a local production company. This sharing of workspace was obviously not working fairly in the Masood's favour, as what appeared to be an entire film crew had spilled through the wall and were taking up most of the paltry space in the restaurant. I noticed there was only one other couple in the entire place, who for good reason seemed slightly agitated with the various cameramen and sound people who for some reason had clustered around them. </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Unnoticed by any apparent Maitre d' I decided to quietly seat myself in a far corner and wait to see how long it would take to be served. After a final glance at the couple in the centre of the room continuing to argue with each other amidst the bizarre collection of production crew around them I decided to see what the menu had to offer. I could not believe it when I picked up the orange backed laminate only to discover a single shet of A4 inside it with absolutely nothing printed on it. As I reached for another menu to see if this was just a single mistake, a piercing shriek wailed out from the middle of the room; "RICKAAAAAAAY", and I turned to see the flame-haired female, understandably upset with her boyfriend for taking her to this bombshell of a restaurant, dousing the spade-faced cretin with her glass of Pinot Grigio.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">At this point I decided I had had enough, and stood up to seek out someone who would be able to provide me with some sort of menu, that I could finally eat something, anything. I went over to one of the crew and asked him if he knew where the waiter was, as I was absolutley starving. "Waiter's not in this scene mate" came his gruff reply, "buffet's over there if you're hungry, but I didn't think we had any extras in this scene." Ignoring his other comments as he seemed a bit simple, I noticed the buffet he had pointed out laid out on the other side, comprising of some poorly slapped together triangular sandwiches, minature pork pies and a few bowls of crisps. I nibbled on what I thought was a breaded onion bhajii, doubtless part of the nouveau-cuisine style I expected the Masoods were going for, but immediatly spat it out when I realised it was nothing more than a scotch-egg.</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a_lyWoWxT_pN7I0zOiqxAmBIe2XYpQEDfC2OwAlK-kHN-11Wd_Hya7yedWJmEG-mQBlWZhi64_tP7VCqBuV7I7mkvbZVnK1CCkpCXE8ID9W6X_a9KdEBaxDxixaQlD7uXlQBNTDK0kHH/s1600/argy3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1a_lyWoWxT_pN7I0zOiqxAmBIe2XYpQEDfC2OwAlK-kHN-11Wd_Hya7yedWJmEG-mQBlWZhi64_tP7VCqBuV7I7mkvbZVnK1CCkpCXE8ID9W6X_a9KdEBaxDxixaQlD7uXlQBNTDK0kHH/s320/argy3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can almost see those smiles melting off their faces</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Having been subjected to enough unpleasantness, I prepared to leave but was stopped as I approached the door by a man with a clipboard. "Hey, where are you going? Extras are supposd to wait in the room back there." "Sir," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster at this point "I assure you I have no idea to what you are talking about, but you can be certain I will not be staying here a moment longer. I came here expecting to have my taste-buds tantalised and my senses overloaded with East London's premier Indian culinary prowess. Instead I have witnessed a third rate circus act performed by shouting monkeys which seems to be being filmed for some unexplained reason by an inept crew in one of the most unconvincing excuses for a restaurant setting." "Shit," he said, "that's probably the best review Eastenders has ever had."</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">A tasteless 2 out of 10, because they at least had cheese and Marmite sandwiches, and I love cheese and Marmite sandwiches.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-79124570414008127362011-01-13T13:22:00.000-08:002011-01-18T08:53:36.781-08:00Alpha 60 Silk Rhino Print Sweat<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtKweMfyGuyUwe8pzMn5qvgTyHwsCOZfJIjP6xw9jraFu_VXWsSntqJPqwKcPE6HOzyX5zo2bThvm5eCZX9yryysX09TrlV_DDv0IDRJxx11h8tN7kBkyFP5Yokc0bBcCWU55f4IvH9xs/s1600/hipster2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtKweMfyGuyUwe8pzMn5qvgTyHwsCOZfJIjP6xw9jraFu_VXWsSntqJPqwKcPE6HOzyX5zo2bThvm5eCZX9yryysX09TrlV_DDv0IDRJxx11h8tN7kBkyFP5Yokc0bBcCWU55f4IvH9xs/s320/hipster2.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jurgen VanTramp - The glittering career begins</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Look at this photo. I mean really look at it. Take a few minutes to completely scrutinise every facet of this image, then try to think what the glaring mistake may be; bearing in mind that this is a photo designed to promote a sweater, the defining feature of which is that it has the head of a rhino on the front of it. Keep pondering over that as you read this review, and at the end we'll see if you got it right or not. (No cheating by scrolling down now, Remember: winners never cheat; unless they're Tiger Woods at a golf tournament sponsored by Playboy Magazine)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">First things first, if you really wanted to look like half a rhino's face had charged through your torso and stopped just short of actually breaking through your stomach's epidermis, you would be required to pay ASOS a whopping £170. If you have a hard time grasping the concept of numerical currency, that's the equivalent of 22.31 35cl bottles of Bell's whiskey from behind the counter of the Tesco Metro on Whiteladies Road in Bristol. This in turn adds up to a grand total of 780.85cl, roughly 7.8 litres of the cheapest mid-quality blended scotch whiskey. If you laid each of those litres end to end it would probably work out to be around the length of a Citroen Zsara Estate. Now that's a meaty length of the true amber nectar by anyone's standards, yet that is honestly how much ASOS equate the price of one of their wearable boulder-scrotums.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fuck you ASOS, how much money do you think the average Joe spends on clothes? I myself own a fairly snazzy suit that I bring out only for special occasions, and it cost £140. That's including every-fucking-thing; shoes, trousers, black shirt, waistcoat, red tie (hells yeah) and the crowning glory of the fitted blazer. Don't you dare try and suggest that there exist people stupid enough to spend this much money on a jumper that looks like an Easter Island statue's arse after it's sat on one of the Muppets.</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOoWwsdTVWMKGofYjLkuXQJbNLhWMlwt3aEvdOOTgXWFTC46Bi_V3umTRbkpuOmJ-7WI6bx_uJwmOFztwKgG55G0xam9h-qJI8Wcl8dhwuINVg2wT98sXcAOCNztuxEiO_-DaX6LXvegt/s1600/hipstertrash2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOoWwsdTVWMKGofYjLkuXQJbNLhWMlwt3aEvdOOTgXWFTC46Bi_V3umTRbkpuOmJ-7WI6bx_uJwmOFztwKgG55G0xam9h-qJI8Wcl8dhwuINVg2wT98sXcAOCNztuxEiO_-DaX6LXvegt/s320/hipstertrash2.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes Jurgan, you <b>are</b> earning your three pounds an hour</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">This here is the moment the photographer obviously asked his model to turn around to flaunt the awesome two-way mirage this design portrays. As Jurgan VanTramp clearly shows, the back is the best feature of the sweatshirt because it in no way tries to emulate the skin of a rhino and thus leads to zero disappointment. According to my own private sources, the story behind old Jurgan VanTramp here is that the designer was auditioning for models to show off this tour de force of an upper garment, when in shuffled this guy towards the end of the proceedings. He was supposed to be carrying out part of his community service by cleaning up the graffiti behind the disused Anderson shelter from where the interviews were being conducted and had only briefly crawled inside to sneak a crafty cigarette away from his watchful probation officer. He wasn't exactly the epitome of what one seeks in a male model, but was hired on the spot as he'd been the only person to show up that day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Notice how elegantly the cuff's trim matches that of the waistband, stopping dead in it's tracks any passing resemblance this jumper has of an actual rhino. This is an obvious attempt by the designer to diffuse the amount of people who would, upon bearing witness to an aficionado of animal-wear such as this on any given high street leaping head-first into the nearest shop window in a futile attempt to avoid the oncoming onslaught of what they may perceive to be a charging rhinoceros protecting its young.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1GG4CNpIAklVj2eI6KrWzI7AaY21cLHiAmehWnGcaSnSEPuDEZYgST997V59jLqOVUQ9Uq-tSDASUWqr8l5oTZgeZPs5i4GsNe6SX26VIe_xpRQA7qM-swxPPp5QG_qa1OdSdD5Ssg83/s1600/god.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1GG4CNpIAklVj2eI6KrWzI7AaY21cLHiAmehWnGcaSnSEPuDEZYgST997V59jLqOVUQ9Uq-tSDASUWqr8l5oTZgeZPs5i4GsNe6SX26VIe_xpRQA7qM-swxPPp5QG_qa1OdSdD5Ssg83/s320/god.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did you guess it? Probably not. Sucks to be you. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Now I don't pretend to possess many Photoshop abilities, everything I know of that particular Adobe program is self taught. Yet even I can turn the original photo into something that better shows off the sweaters' capabilities. Simply by having asked Jurgan to pump his right arm, the photographer could have given the impression of this 'Silk Rhino Print Sweat' as actually having a horn. I mean seriously, who wants a photo-realistic print of a rhino's left eye and nostril? If I wear a t-shirt with a rhino print on it, I want to be making up for something. I want to prove my manliness to the whole world. I want to be able to walk into any bar in Glasgow and scream "I've got a rhino on my t-shirt, and if any of you try to fuck with me I will destroy everything you've ever seen!" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And you can be sure it is never, ever, going to be capable of that unless it has on it the rhino's pinnacle of evolutionary manhood, the same kind of defensive organic horn that middle aged men the World over crush into little blue pills in the vague hope of emulating the same structures' constant virility. I hereby award it a paltry 3 out of 10, and that is just because ASOS managed to find a model as pathetically dishevelled looking as the actual piece of clothing they were trying to sell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-77959704350257616462011-01-12T13:50:00.000-08:002011-01-12T13:54:31.100-08:00Similes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpdKSlr0s8bwcv6IDaERDd95gmr4SqkR_kCwNdOBwS9APu1gNGPAtTvuP88d1uSoVRoiIPf_zmtZddGz5Bt_mwu0d6I-K0HwcnBnjXwvzp3ZZImsAp2XTi6rXDzvWj8gMRgb6KEZcW8oM/s1600/smiley-face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpdKSlr0s8bwcv6IDaERDd95gmr4SqkR_kCwNdOBwS9APu1gNGPAtTvuP88d1uSoVRoiIPf_zmtZddGz5Bt_mwu0d6I-K0HwcnBnjXwvzp3ZZImsAp2XTi6rXDzvWj8gMRgb6KEZcW8oM/s320/smiley-face.jpg" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They even sound like this, that's how amazing they are</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Similes are as sweet as sugar coated cherry pie dripping with amaretto, floating in a swimming pool filled with treacle and high-class hookers. They are like waking up on a sunny day, sandwiched between Angelina Jolie and Carmen Electra in 2005, before the wrinkles set in and the economy collapsed. They have the ability to transform the most mundane of sentences into a piece of art similar to Monet screwing Van Gogh and splurging the resultant man-dew over every wall, canvas and instillation in the Louvre. Similes rock the literary World so hard that listening to them is like bearing witness to the greatest festival on Earth, resplendent with exploding pyrotechnics, free-floating inflatable pigs and every greatest band ever; all performing at the same time. They conduct themselves with as much dignity as Ghandi visiting a brothel. In this review, they receive as many points out of ten as the cloud I am on just thinking about them.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-83722008257527886852011-01-11T13:33:00.000-08:002011-01-11T13:35:47.953-08:00Arachnophiles: Lovers Of The Unlovable<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPqknwOtMD0koJqvjb6YApBkX2XtItyQzxeujpho_LBnSpIMG2vFnsWQmqEq5lE0o0AGOyUMprHi5FWjo85GF8nW4QDExwpsBtmZrK5tiQ0BLXr4cpDK89Atip-2uTW6zMlA9txz20mzV/s1600/Girl+with+Spider+on+Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPqknwOtMD0koJqvjb6YApBkX2XtItyQzxeujpho_LBnSpIMG2vFnsWQmqEq5lE0o0AGOyUMprHi5FWjo85GF8nW4QDExwpsBtmZrK5tiQ0BLXr4cpDK89Atip-2uTW6zMlA9txz20mzV/s1600/Girl+with+Spider+on+Face.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone else in this room is backed up against the wall<br />
pissing themselves with pure fear</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">It is estimated that every room in every house in England contains on average ten spiders. In Australia this number is multiplied by 6 and at least 90 percent of them have the capacity to either kill you or turn you into a mumbling excrement factory for the rest of your life. Most spiders catch their prey by spinning webs, which in themselves are terrifying concepts; structures built from the strongest material known to man by shooting it out of their arseholes for the sole intent of capturing flying insects to torture and starve until the spider deems fit to end the poor soul's misery by sucking their inside's out. Those that can't spin webs have their own equally evil means of trapping unsuspecting ground based animals via holes in the ground which act as trapdoors , and failing that can run at the human equivalent of 120 mph to attack and destroy anything that moves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Understandably, the vast majority of us humans are born with an instinctive revulsion and hatred of these scummy invertebrates, naturally fearful of their evolutionary superpowers and content to either stay as far away from them as possible, or at least destroy every one of them on sight. The focus of today's review however, is on the small minority of us who actively enjoy the presence of these hell-spawn, technically referred to as 'arachnophiles'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGg-k-SEg2IktqmHABPZ9saEqnz1l9vlgqNcpfnCcaXKpgNe7qF3wf9VndUlxMbmytdncjbbVJXw2tKebL6GaTK6UJ-rNVU42twPhdkdJS2fhYFlq3BJ6K7nUl8FPceLRE4wnNtLHbdbI/s1600/aaaaspider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGg-k-SEg2IktqmHABPZ9saEqnz1l9vlgqNcpfnCcaXKpgNe7qF3wf9VndUlxMbmytdncjbbVJXw2tKebL6GaTK6UJ-rNVU42twPhdkdJS2fhYFlq3BJ6K7nUl8FPceLRE4wnNtLHbdbI/s320/aaaaspider.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you see a happy face here, you may be an 'arachnophile'</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Aesthetically, the very name 'arachnophile' brings to mind sordid scenes of balding, bespectacled, middle-aged men hanging around tarantula enclosures in unmarked vans, clutching a bag of dead flies and waiting for the last bell to ring. Honestly, it would be much easier for me to believe that these sorts of people would be the only ones sick enough to want to be near spiders. Yet 'arachnophiles' actually come in all shapes and sizes, walking among us pretty much unnoticed. They generally only give themselves away by being the only person in a room rushing to get a piece of A4 paper and a glass, pleading everyone else perched on the furniture not to throw their shoes at it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In order to better understand the subject of today's review, I decided to track down a willing member of the spider-hugging community and find out exactly where they should rank on my definitive rating system. One particular volunteer piqued my interest more than the others. He introduced himself as Chris LeSuavier and told me he owned a small hut in the woods surrounding the Medway section of Kent, in a little known village called Snodland. I travelled there with camera and notebook packed nice and snug in my rucksack, and arrived at his shack at around 10 pm GMT. I knocked and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Instead, I noticed by my feet a small wrapped parcel with my name hastily scrawled on the top. To cut a long story short, the parcel contained a video-tape, I took it home, found a working VHS recorder yada-yada-yada obvious set up to a crappy scary story. Oh how I wish this were just a story.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggH1-f_RdpFs_VEGbdfL5WC5-NpuyFduvAKYQR-XcoG9xHZfURNmRrX-Nd5VmNv43Aped_YR8vNqBHadFeQh1oAtRgKO3RntpBMXR4Dpl3BiMRKfvLj0Txp9yYh4-6tTqBx6TzrbkiI6_/s1600/aaaaaaskeleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggH1-f_RdpFs_VEGbdfL5WC5-NpuyFduvAKYQR-XcoG9xHZfURNmRrX-Nd5VmNv43Aped_YR8vNqBHadFeQh1oAtRgKO3RntpBMXR4Dpl3BiMRKfvLj0Txp9yYh4-6tTqBx6TzrbkiI6_/s320/aaaaaaskeleton.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this, only much much worse</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The footage on the tape seemed to be the inside of what must have been Chris's hut. It was fairly sparse, just a desk on one side and a bed on the other. The cam-corder was positioned just next to the bed, possibly on some form of night-stand. The events began with Chris sat at his desk, writing something illegible on bits of yellowed paper. This ended quickly, as Chris put his pencil down and crawled into bed, fully clothed. No sooner had Chris closed his eyes, than any number of species of arachnids scuttled out from their myriad of hidey-holes and climbed down from their webs to throw what appeared to be an illegal spider rave on Chris's head. The ensuing scene was much like one found in any nightclub or party venue over the World, only hideously deranged and completely batshit insane. The hairy bad boy tarantulas with the legs of pure hate skulked around his chin, nodding back and forth and hastily puffing on minuscule spider joints. The slender ones with the tiny bodies performed the YMCA on his eyebrows whilst the smaller ones raved to their own beat, tripping their mandibles off on fly wings and space-aphids. Whenever any of these individuals took too much moth dust or whatever they were snorting up their tiny noses, they would go round back for some fresh air and be pounced upon by the horny females of the species, who would have quick unsatisfying sex with them in the alleyways of his neck, biting their heads off then lay the eggs in his ear. As I began to claw my eyes out in terror, Chris's own eyes opened. He looked straight at the camera, winked at me, and said, "You have no idea what you're missing." The tape ended there. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, in conclusion; spiders: bad, everything to do with spiders: bad, and people who like spiders? Fuck 'em. Fuck them all to hell. A resounding 0 out of 10.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-25361341644553859282011-01-10T11:25:00.000-08:002011-01-10T14:37:44.077-08:00Coming Of Age: A Comedy Of Requirement<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrsTLCJfPEIHEhj9LPOowz3FxLS5JMItF2E1Fpkatu2wZYtIjYPEAPQKHoakGbIDZ8pvso4S4HCOQtfrRLMEzi4wwFQzEGs8BXakMYG5g0jvxKFwr0RTejWg6E__XMy5v8UoX4c51dwQ2/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrsTLCJfPEIHEhj9LPOowz3FxLS5JMItF2E1Fpkatu2wZYtIjYPEAPQKHoakGbIDZ8pvso4S4HCOQtfrRLMEzi4wwFQzEGs8BXakMYG5g0jvxKFwr0RTejWg6E__XMy5v8UoX4c51dwQ2/s320/images+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young people like graffiti and numbers no bigger than six, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Since the dawn of mankind there have existed a huge variety of different tribes and cultures on this curious planet of ours, each adapting to their own specific natural habitats and environments in order to eke out as prolonged and satisfactory existence as possible. Different though a large proportion of them may be to one another and despite having never met, certain similarities appear in the study of the preserved traditions and values of these ancient sects. One of the most prolific of these similarities is that of the 'Coming of Age' ritual, wherein a young boy or girl is put through a series of rigorous tests and trials to prove that they have truly entered into adulthood. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For some it is a relatively simple transition; for example the Japanese are not recognised as adults until the age of twenty, where they are required to attend a conference hosted by various speakers and afterwards are given their first taste of adulthood; a nice fat tax-free cheque from the government. Hah! I had you going there didn't I? Of course, it being Japan, they must enter the super-fun-happy-rampage-rollercoaster dome dressed in the traditional neon-sumo-squid outfit and enter a glorious battle to the death between 80 foot high spinning flowers that shoot lasers from their grinding vortex petals and 'TechnoBaby', who is every bit as demented and cruel as he sounds. For others it is an altogether simpler affair. A little bar mitzvah here, a sleep in the wilderness there, top it all off with a little sprinkling of the first taste of alcohol or the first smoke of a cigarette and you've got the perfect recipe for a dignified initiation into a World of maturity, responsibility and inconsequential sex. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8t4IVd4kQq2bG6YauTJC-7sQSXuAZr2glrktm-5Pv3JjGabesbqrk5wuj2rRco6rJZh_Emgj4n7wnFvg79Mfbrny02Iw3TQSFF_PDr4BHiFkLgRx12gxo3Prfc6Ldo1M2Mb-B9VfQzvk/s1600/comingofage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8t4IVd4kQq2bG6YauTJC-7sQSXuAZr2glrktm-5Pv3JjGabesbqrk5wuj2rRco6rJZh_Emgj4n7wnFvg79Mfbrny02Iw3TQSFF_PDr4BHiFkLgRx12gxo3Prfc6Ldo1M2Mb-B9VfQzvk/s320/comingofage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guess who plays the stupidest character. Yeah, all of them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The passage into adulthood here in England is one of the cruellest and most bizarre rituals found in the modern world; the ability to sit through one episode of BBC 3's situational comedy entitled 'Coming of Age'. Every child when reaching their thirteenth birthday is taken to a top secret location, forced into a straight-jacket and strapped to a chair in a theatre facing a 20'x6' projection screen. They are then observed from a separate room by four impartial judges (hand-picked by the current prime minister) for the entire thirty minutes. They are monitored via neural signal transmitters attached to their foreheads for any sign of positive reaction to the onslaught of crass innuendos, predictable set-ups and tasteless jokes which ensue. Those that display characteristics of having their intelligence insulted and a general feeling of disgust and horror are immediately released, handed a two litre bottle of ridiculously strong cider and released into the nearest park for a night of projectile vomiting and unprotected sex with their peers, having successfully relinquished their final stages of immaturity. Any of the subjects who show any form of mirth, be it even the slightest of smiles are released, but must repeat the process every year until they display the emotional maturity required to be fully accepted as an adult.</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR2YeYrMaz1WqOSbO7G9XwN_rlWqhrmjOIlJUa5EFXKT1XvtLr5lftPm26InxhIs6DEaV-w_HC5-xnPypGL4L6qkf0z4vbiluR3LNYcL528NClJz2hnUByG4kbTKzCfzD2EGSlWWQYSiA/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR2YeYrMaz1WqOSbO7G9XwN_rlWqhrmjOIlJUa5EFXKT1XvtLr5lftPm26InxhIs6DEaV-w_HC5-xnPypGL4L6qkf0z4vbiluR3LNYcL528NClJz2hnUByG4kbTKzCfzD2EGSlWWQYSiA/s320/images.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's so stupid he can't even grasp the concept of gravity.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It is for this reason I feel privileged to be the only reviewer to give this BBC3 sitcom a perfect 10 out of 10. For whilst many may have lambasted this atrocity of British comedy for a script including lines such as "Could you try and stick it up my fru-fru [sic] instead of up my poo-poo?" and "She's big, she's fat and she's minging...I can't wait to stick my jam in her doughnut," they have missed the point entirely. Long live 'Coming of Age', and it's rigorous societal placement regimes.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-26045696752153561282011-01-09T07:48:00.000-08:002011-01-10T04:22:04.926-08:00Voodoo Doll Vending Machines<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKG-M9IsBHGhWDxNHLLbx0BObZqHfXcZMgx1MjGy41lVweunK0mF2T55L2lcx0eapOhiGkU_OXHPUPcW588g2AAuOCkuM9oIzN2_Z1_ae8Fza0PWB18WnC1B90dhpjYSHaGqNOs_LG3KH2/s1600/aaaaaaaaa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKG-M9IsBHGhWDxNHLLbx0BObZqHfXcZMgx1MjGy41lVweunK0mF2T55L2lcx0eapOhiGkU_OXHPUPcW588g2AAuOCkuM9oIzN2_Z1_ae8Fza0PWB18WnC1B90dhpjYSHaGqNOs_LG3KH2/s200/aaaaaaaaa.jpg" width="157" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baron Samedi must be spinning in his grave.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Outside my local supermarket is a series of vending machines offering the usual array of child-based products; colourful sweets, bouncy rubber balls and various plastic nic-nacs. I'd never really paid too much attention to them until today, when a small skittering child ran past me and fell almost head-first into the collection of them, his raging mother chasing behind him. It was then that I noticed one of the machines seemed slightly different to the others, it had a green glowing interior and the word VOODOO printed in huge letters across its front. Inside of this machine are a variety of coloured balls, which each contain their own personal voodoo doll. They cost a single pound each, and the only instruction to come with them is the ominous sentence written at the bottom of the machine: <i>What Will You Do With Yours?</i></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35gthRrCcHl8J30YPVQiInyHXezvRZdX8l0tpeLLXkbC5UISbcj4tQmpoZctp50tGb1uzcVeQ_ZXda9IVZmTkDO1M6gF8LPrAGB3eev5kRiku-LlSKxLqyV__BM5KIttDe2V-qlTnfHj0/s1600/IMAG0032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35gthRrCcHl8J30YPVQiInyHXezvRZdX8l0tpeLLXkbC5UISbcj4tQmpoZctp50tGb1uzcVeQ_ZXda9IVZmTkDO1M6gF8LPrAGB3eev5kRiku-LlSKxLqyV__BM5KIttDe2V-qlTnfHj0/s200/IMAG0032.jpg" width="150" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Whiskey McRabies' - My new best friend</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Thus, todays review will be on this cheeky little chappy right here. It's my very own personal voodoo doll whom I immediately named 'Whiskey McRabies' on account of his whimsical yet strangely sinister appearance, like a drunk tramp in a park who's hilarious to watch from a distance, but would probably bite you if you got too close. My favourite aspect of Whiskey is the little stitch sewing his mouth closed. That innocent grin and raised arm at first give the impression that if he could talk he would probably say "Why wuv woo vewwy much," but then you look a little closer and you realise that Whiskey <b>can</b> talk, but what he actually is able to say is so soul-tearingly awful that his creators had to sew his dirty little mouth up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well so much for the aesthetics review, it's time to see my Haitian hell-child in action. Having gone to the supermarket for the sole purpose of buying some beans, and it being a Sunday and thus having very little to do, I decided to target one unsuspecting shopper and subject them to various tests which would determine Whiskey's voodoo abilities. In order to keep this study fair, I chose one male subject whom I felt represented the hegemony of society which reside in my city; a white, middle-class student. I also felt that if I was to be found out for my experiments, this subject would be least likely to either press charges or punch me in the face.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before I release my findings, I would like to point out that I am not the sort of person to stalk people around shopping centres. However, in the interests of science and product reviews, one must sometimes step outside the boundaries of what is deemed socially acceptable. You also must understand prior to these events I had already stared into the inky blackness of Whiskey's eyes for a good solid twenty minutes and by this point was beginning to question whether my actions were truly guided by myself alone. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_4IeBhbe9IowgwiKOuRK1eJuI-uWjImt3kXt34cbOsHa-iefGQxQzL6FMRGi499cOXQOoWme8yFUD_xDmyxFt4pQXibjxm7Weu9u2rchZqqoYZ-EnTnpsxP2tgKzjspyDp-gOpWimJSe/s1600/IMAG0030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_4IeBhbe9IowgwiKOuRK1eJuI-uWjImt3kXt34cbOsHa-iefGQxQzL6FMRGi499cOXQOoWme8yFUD_xDmyxFt4pQXibjxm7Weu9u2rchZqqoYZ-EnTnpsxP2tgKzjspyDp-gOpWimJSe/s200/IMAG0030.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Subject A - A Study in Terror'</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">So; onto 'Subject A', an average guy in his mid-twenties, largely unshaven and wearing a hat in a supermarket. The blurriness of the photo is due to the fact it was taken hastily on my phone, as one must never let ones subjects know that they are being tested on, for skewed results and restraining orders all too often hamper scientific progress. My vague recollection of voodoo practice (based solely on one James Bond film and an early nineties graphic adventure game called Gabriel Knight) was that in order for a voodoo doll to work, one needed something of the person you wanted to enchant. Luckily, 'Subject A' was a rather scruffy individual and his clothes didn't seem to have been washed in a while, so I believe by merely standing close to him and holding whiskey I was able to collect a few free-floating skin cells.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I decided for my first test to determine whether I could force 'Subject A' to remove his hat. As he moved closer to the delicatessen I hung around the bakery section and held Whiskey next to a freshly baked tiger loaf which had just been prepared. My heart skipped a beat as his hand almost immediately moved to his head, but only lingered long enough to result in a vague scratching movement, which could have been construed as his automatic response to deciding over which cold meat to buy. However, I saw it as a sign that my totem did indeed posses magical powers, and was determined to discover how else I could manipulate my new puppet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For my next experiment, I rubbed Whiskeys belly in a clockwise circular motion. Success! No sooner had I applied pressure to Whiskey's midriff than I noticed 'Subject A' respond by picking up what appeared to to be a medium sized jar of pickled eggs and place them in his bag. It was at this point I realised I held in my hand an object far beyond human comprehension. No mere mortal choice could possibly be the impetus behind buying a jar of vinegar soaked eggs, and I decided to end my experiments there and then, content that I had for a few minutes played the hand of God on an unwitting member of the public.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have since deeply cleansed Whiskey in a herbal mixture of rosary beads and various Herbs de Provence, a time honoured ritual which 'Wikipedia' assures me is the only way to remove a person's soul from an authentically vended Voodoo Doll. I hereby award Whiskey McRabies a very respectable nine out of ten, for both aesthetic qualities and practical application, no mean feat for a toy which can be bought for one pound from most high street shopping centres. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i><br />
<i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i><br />
<i></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321547832473405041.post-18844567118953573172011-01-08T15:20:00.000-08:002011-01-08T15:37:08.949-08:00The Bagger 288<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihz7iy7Ez-YEG2KBXO_4BsmlxU_Ws3jYpPIZLlNZKtfZbl1LEx_8KEuwpsCaVWLBJdeyTeqS34P1E7yMAehbwj5OrmjF9HsRN8nj7D_mICJUvm69dHl4_iMXj_Zx1XR1e1nffEn_sU1G0/s1600/bagger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihz7iy7Ez-YEG2KBXO_4BsmlxU_Ws3jYpPIZLlNZKtfZbl1LEx_8KEuwpsCaVWLBJdeyTeqS34P1E7yMAehbwj5OrmjF9HsRN8nj7D_mICJUvm69dHl4_iMXj_Zx1XR1e1nffEn_sU1G0/s320/bagger.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why? Because it fucking says so, that's why.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What better way to begin a blog which aims to review everything than with this monstrosity of pure destructive decadence? What we are looking at here is a German-built strip-mining machine created for the purpose of shredding the arsehole out of anything that gets in its way. It's so aesthetically hardcore it would make Satan tremble in fear at the thought of standing next to it to piss at a urinal.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's vital statistics show it to be 220 metres</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"> long and 96 metres high with a rotating saw weighing in at a hefty 21.6 metres in diameter. In 2001, when it was last used for its purpose of displacing excess earth prior to coal-mining, it could move at a lumbering ten metres per minute when supplied with a staggering 16.56 megawatts of electricity. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Luckily for mankind, this power hungry beast is no longer in practical application having been put out to stud over a decade ago involving an epic transportation of 22 kilometres away from its mining stronghold, costing the German economy over 150 million Deutsch marks. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">So how does one begin to review a leviathan of such epic proportions without being bogged down in phallic imagery and pure testosterone fuelled panting? Well, let us begin by studying the first and most notable segment of this machine, the mounted circular saw. Both practically and aesthetically this is the crowning glory of the Bagger 288. Not only was it capable of shredding through 240,000 cubic metres of overburden in one day, it has the physical presence of an atomic bomb at a World Peace convention. It doesn't just do exactly what it says on the tin, it probably had those same tins queuing up round the block to be melted down and allowed to be part of its awesome being.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAln47Emp4XusoRUOhIu_-rK4TPzPpwg3lXL8hka-aRU28CBsLmv1hIdMWDQ7UjY5s8wQJNeBONP9-HZsdfS3h-CRKd6TyZYun9l8MBSmn-nMgzFASgpVt_hhnlWThEkQ5aj1eIC7Vq_KI/s1600/bagger2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAln47Emp4XusoRUOhIu_-rK4TPzPpwg3lXL8hka-aRU28CBsLmv1hIdMWDQ7UjY5s8wQJNeBONP9-HZsdfS3h-CRKd6TyZYun9l8MBSmn-nMgzFASgpVt_hhnlWThEkQ5aj1eIC7Vq_KI/s320/bagger2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesus Christ Stefan, what will it take for you to admit we're lost?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">However, avert your gaze from the destructo-section of the Bagger for a moment, and take a longer look at the structure holding that saw up. It looks exactly like the helicopter I tried to construct from the meccano set I was given when I was six. You'd think for the world's largest circular powered saw the designers would at least try to spice up the structure a bit. Maybe some kick-ass flames spray-painted on the side or a half-naked lady straddling a dragon, you know, something subtly more impressive. To be fair, this is the same country which gave us the Volvo, one of the least physically appealing cars ever invented, unless you have a box fetish. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Minor aesthetic gripes aside, let's take a look at the Bagger's efficiency. I've already mentioned the massive amounts of power needed to put this mechanism in motion, but if there's one thing the Germans do get right, it is efficiency. For every megawatt the Bagger consumed, it revealed and mined over twenty times that in coal. The reason it's no longer used is because the moment it stopped working to maximum efficiency, it was hauled away to await its next calling. Let's hope North Korea never hear about this.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Finally, I find it pertinent within any review to study ones subject from the general ambiance and pleasurable satisfaction it exudes from not just my own personal perspective but from a societal aspect as well. In this instance however, I think it would suffice to merely bow down to the Bagger 288 as our new overlord and give it whatever it demands.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09675645292824447657noreply@blogger.com0