The 222 test

Oh, it’s just a test to see if bus blogging is indeed a possibility. Yes, it still smells like a barrell of sick. I try not to think about the stains on the seats. Hope this works x

My Acoustic Dad

08/03/09

Sometimes, when alone in my room, it’s quiet. Clock ticks. I hear myself breathe. I crack my toes. Everything I hear reminds me of my own wretched mortality. It’s unnerving.

Then, I hear my dad.

He’s playing ‘love of my life’ by queen on his acoustic guitar. I know this isn’t one of my usual kind of bulletins, nothing flowery, no message, but when I hear him play I get an overwhelming sense of comfort and happiness.

He’s playing ‘vincent’ (starry starry night) now. I’m his audience, just me, behind a closed door.

There is nothing more beautiful to me.

The cat lying on my chest is purring really loud. I guess it’s an audience of two.

Admittance of Failure and Xbox Live

05/01/09

I have come here today to say nothing profound.

I have come here not to recommend putting ABBA’s Waterloo on your iPod and playing it at full volume with your headphones stuck up your nose. Although it feels good I think that its a bad idea and I am not condoning this action. Its not worth it it, and even though singing along at the same time is an even better buzz I just think that you should never do it.

I am also not telling you where you can buy Dweebs from. Yes. The boxed sweet of old is available, but I’m not going to tell you where because you will inevitably rot your teeth. If I told you I would only be doing you an injustice and you would no longer have a cause to call me ‘friend’ ever again, ever.

Its also not worth adding that I have a Stylophone. Yeah, you bunch of numptys, I said it, a fucking STYLOPHONE…and I can play Greensleeves on it and there is no way I’m gonna show you because I don’t recommend it because you will get one and and and and…then it wont be as cool anymore and I wasted most of my day for nothing.

but what I did come here to say is that I am now on xbox live, so if you want to play some games with me in this depressive period the tag is

‘tomsheptomshep’

and before you ask, I’ve been too busy sucking off the corporate money penis to have any epic adventures, hence no decent bulletins.

Tomlette

04/01/09

Tomlette

I also thought about making my own fast food chain. I mean, where can you get an Omlette from these days? yeah! I know. How about you come get one from me then eh? I might call it ‘Tomlette’. Yeah.

Eat my salmonella flavored dust you Dragons Den toss rags. Tomlette is gonna kick you in the pride place.

(Does it sound too much like ‘toilet?)

hmm

A good day for science, a bad day for Nick Jackson

08/11/08

A good day for science, a bad day for Nick Jackson

The art of the insult has been in hiding for some time now. The almost redundant English language has been done in the pooper repeatedly. The once tight sphincter of good proper English now resembles a burst teabag. Massive shame, I know. What, with text speak, white lower class people talking in some format / code that I have yet to decipher and people even talking in ‘Gornalish’ on Facebook…I just think that people depreciate this well worn tool at the back of the garage, the handy spanner that is a dictionary.

Nick Jackson today went one further than most, he took that tired old spanner and bolted together some fine insults that I found toe curlingly abrasive, said aloud it feels like a brillo pad to the balls. Liberating.

‘Smarmy, sleazy, slick-haired fuck-sticks’

‘you are a huge great dripping malignant cock.
‘

Incredible.

Oh, yeah. Science. So, ‘they’ think that there is a cure for that slight annoyance that goes by the name of AIDS. It was on Google current earlier. Apparently, some olden Gay dude who has the virus was also receiving bone marrow treatment for cancer. By some miracle the virus vanished. No idea why its not on the BBC news yet, but if you ask me that is some SERIOUS BUSINESS.

ALSO

After the scientists broke their new toy the LHC, a smaller particle collider in America has made a crazy discovery. Good grief! well, when you smash these charged particles at each other, it creates these things called muons. Well, what they didn’t realize is that the muons were not actually staying inside the collider pipe. Little fuckers passed right through the thing and existed for a fraction of a second before deteriorating. This unnerved me, I dunno about you.
Sub atomic particles that pretty much teleport?

I swear, one day these white coat men are going to go a bit too far and I’m going to wake up to a giant black abyss in the sky. The day of doom is upon us Humans, I’m glad that the damn thing is busted. A little more time before the four horsemen come and trample on me.

RIPigeon

30/06/08

Walking near Blackfriars today I saw a pigeon get 100% totaled by the 100 bus.

Geezer, I swear. It was devastating.

Poor bugger was doing that cute bird thing where he had a morsel of food and kept flicking it over his head and then turning around to go back after it for yet another futile peck, he flicked it off the pavement and into the gutter. He flapped over to retrieve it as the bus came along before realizing his futile mistake as his face grazed the tyre. He was completely dead central to the oncoming wheel. It was almost poetic. The bus was slowing down too, it wasn’t even going that fast when I heard the bone shattering crunch and the pigeon and wheel became one. Feathers everywhere, bits of smashed beak, a toe.

He kinda popped. Like a big gray zit with wings. It was like the way a water balloon smashes on impact. This bit was actually really cool.

As the bus carried on, you could see the carcass stuck to the treads at each rotation.

In a matter of seconds, the pigeon had become a spinning gray and maroon mulch.

In fairness, it was sad because I love birdies. Pigeons included. This one was sprightly devil, enjoying someones panini crust and admiring the sunshine. Pigeon was fucking loving it before God decided to take big God shit on him.

RIPigeon.

May the rain wash your lice ridden carcass pieces into the Thames and down the drain.

Tom Hates Dubstep

18/05/09

Sometimes I cannot help but poop the party.

After managing to sneak into festival hall using a very cunning ‘entry band swapping’ maneuver along with a bag chocked full of lukewarm beer cans, the night was looking really promising.

Yes, the Southbank looks like a concrete Christmas tree at night, and as per usual is inhabited by Guardian readers (the ones who indulge in the supplements anyway) vegans and men wearing sandals and woolly v-neck sweaters. Its like a casting call for the next British romantic comedy. Everyone listens to Billy Bragg and drinks half pints.

Nearby, a Dubstep gig is going on in an older venue on the Southbank nearer to the Hayward and further inland. The bass driven sounds were so intense that the ceiling started to give way and was called off when an innocent raver was clouted by a falling piece of metal. She was the first casualty of the night.

The vexed self important DJ’s who are pioneering this new music decided that the night must go on, and downstairs at Festival Hall was the solution. An entourage of strange creatures made their way along to the new venue, bringing their odious, abhorrent hullabaloo along with them. So when someone told me that we were sneaking into a dub gig I was pretty hyped. I later realized that I was led like a lamb to the slaughter; to a cesspit of ketamine fulled zombies all wondering who let them into this elitist constabulary. I have no idea which of the two parties was more confused.

I did my usual trick, displace myself and camouflage as best as I can whilst taking it all in for future pub tattle. I tried to emulate their movements and facial expressions. How do you enjoy listening to what sounds like a car starting over and over again? Everyone was in an odd trance except me, I felt like the Tin man did when he invaded the ranks of the Winkie soldiers in the Wizard of Oz. Everyone looked hypnotized just wobbling about, most without any notion of rhythm. Some people see it as an excuse to fight an invisible enemy, some people tr to be provocative in their snake like motions, others just point at everything and step from side to side. I was cold sober and a bright room watching lots of people making themselves look like complete idiots, the catch was that I had to do it too to fit in

Fuck you Dubstep for making me do that. Eventually I went up to Josh (who can dance, he does the pointy thing but it kinda works) and I told him that this music was making me angry, a middle aged man in a red leotard was swanning around me acting like an extra from Midsummer nights Dream and my last beer tasted like it had been cooked. He just called me ‘menstrual man’ and in his words said that the music was ‘badass’. I left them to it and went outside after pouring my beer into a used plastic receptacle so as the bouncers wouldn’t lynch me.

Outside were lots of Guardian people and lots of Dubstep hippies all mingling together.

There was some weird dude with short shorts, bald except for a square patch of hair on the back of his head taking photos of everything and some dude from Hereford who asked me the following:

“Hey, you. Man. Mate. You.”

(I was ignoring him)

“Oi! Mate! MATE! BEARD!”

(I had to acknowledge him now)
“Alright mate”

“You got a spare roll up mate?”

“I don’t sm…”

“You got any weed then? Go on, lets go and smoke some weed.

Where are you from?”

“Near Birmingham, why?”

“Ahh! I’m from Hereford.” Never trust anyone from Hereford.

You ain’t got any pills have you? Have you got any pills or coke?”

“Dude, I have none of those things”

“Maybe if I wait here long enough then some drugs will come along surely I reckon.”

I pointed at some angry looking black guy who was bigger than me and told him that he might have some drugs. He trundled towards the guy and made my exit as he was going. That guy was cruising for trouble, I was just steering him to it.

The guy with shorts took my photo. I did a shrugged shoulders pose, that was how I was feeling. Perplexed.

Dubstep, you are a terrible thing. As far as music goes I am putting you at the bottom of my list. I would prefer to be but in a cardboard box and dropped into a freezing ocean. I would prefer to brush my teeth using a Brillo pad. I would prefer cholera than to be in a room doing Parkinson’s impressions to your clumsy discordance again.

(Dear Greg. I know that you were in this story too but I decided to leave you out because of your stupid shoes and tasteless jumper.)

Pah.

Signing off.

Menstrual Man.

And the smiles fell off our faces, one by one.

23/04/09

British comedy shows are few and far between lately. Nothing strikes me as revered genius really. There is more comedy in a badly air conditioned morgue than there is in an episode of Katherine Tate’s plane crash of a television show. Three Non Blondes has been known to make children terminally ill, that Reeves and Mortimer sketch show was so bad my mind erased all memory of it including its name and the Boosh are starting to wear thin.

The kicks come from panel quiz/comedy shows. Buzzcocks with Simon Amstel was seminal brilliance and Have I got News for you is into its 20-something series. Shooting stars is still one of my all time favorites, I’ll take my Matt Lucas dressed as a baby playing the drums any day of the week, some of his latest incarnations have become lazy overused puns. The laughs are cheap.

I was watching the Young Ones today along with some Rick Mayall stand up. It just looks like we are devolving in the humor department. As time goes by, our comedy is becoming impotent. I’m not sure whether this is a reflection on the nation, we don’t mind a recycled gag. How many episodes of Little Britain can you differentiate from other epidoses* of Little Britain? Totally unlike the first series of The League of Gentlemen which was like someone married a Stephen King novel with a modern day brothers Grimm tale at the church of the uncanny. Each episode carried a narrative. I know which one I would have preferred to have written.

Shows like the Royale Family and Dinner Ladies were examples of incredibly well written shows that emerged in the late 90′s. Wood and Caroline Aherne are mavericks. Looking back at the tings like the Fast Show and Mrs Merton, it was all great until 2005 when things began to dry up.

It’s like when people say there will never be another Beatles, there will never be another Monty Python. Rowan Atkinson is (nearly) a legend. The sketches were really fresh and if you youtube the greatest of them (as long as its not political and of the time) you can still gleam something that has been lost in the turn of the century.

I think that we lost the ability to be subtle. Look how inoffensive the comedy was in the 70′s and 80′s and compare it to now. I think in an age where you can say anything you want and get away with it we don’t rely so much on the metaphors and smilies to encode the meaning, we just spit out the brazen ugly truths and laugh at how crude we have become. Its all very playground.

Ironically it has much to do with the loss of British and the diluting of our culture. On St Georges day we have people harping on about how good it is to be English, but what is being English exactly? I think that answer has been documented over the years in our comedy shows incredibly accurately

Man, we need the new pythons already, a bunch of finger on the pulse funny guys to come along and get the defibrillator on the slowly fading heartbeat of our raped culture, else its Family Guy season 15 for all of us followed by massive helpings of Def Jam and Home Improvement re runs. Bill Bailey will go bald soon folks and Mr J Ross will own the BBC. Might as well feed off the massive fruitful breast of Uncle Sam instead of waiting around here for nothing to happen.

PS: Oh, by the way. If anyone out there ever saw an episode of ’15 Storeys High’, that was the last ever amazing piece of English comedy. Think ‘The Streets’ crossed with Monkey Dust, leave them simmer for 7 minutes and add a good helping of solitude. I’m posting a you tube link that you should seriously follow, and remember what I said about our humor being best when it optimises what it is to live, walk and breathe in this country. I LOVE this show.

PPS: Seriously. I’m showing you something good here.

If you recommend any new comedy, please send me a message and let me know.

*What an amazing typo. Epidose. I love that.

Words that mean something is good.

22/05/09

Words that mean something is good

I think that there are more words to describe something that is pretty good than there are to describe something that is completely rubbish.

However, some of the words that people use to give praise to the better things are more often than not pretty rubbish in return.

I came to this conclusion whilst eavesdropping this morning.

“That phone is proper nang”

Nang.

Who made that one up? I guess it reminds me of running around the playground (I always ran like a bit of a knob and a bit slower than most) trying to avoid the ‘mang’. This is probably why I hate the word. I still had the mang when I got into class after break and my classmates still wouldn’t touch me.

I also heard that the new word for an attractive lady whom bare peeps are looking for is described as ‘peng’.

And get this! A ‘frrrooop’ is a tasty vagina!

Whatever next…

Although its not all bad. Mike Skinner describes almost anything that is blindingly awesome as ‘Big Dog’. Unfortunately I cannot adopt it into my own vocabulary as the last time I tried using it to describe how good my mother is to me, people just fell about laughing.

Asian Passions and Carnal restraints

04/04/09

I remember my dad talking to me about sex scenes in Bollywood cinema, and how they would depict the action by having the lovers disappear behind a bush which would shake vigorously while some high pitched female would harp on about family honor. Its all very well, but these people are meant to have invented sex and passion and all that…

My flatmate is from Bombay. He loves cars, action movies with guns and muscle. He has three phones, an array of colognes and fragrances and ALOT of porno which he likes to show me. He has two leather jackets that he never wears and all of his t-shirts are CK, Tommy Hilfiger or some other wasted 90′s brand. If it ain’t branded, he wont go anywhere near it.

Then there is the girl from Hong Kong. On our first meeting she spoke about her attempted suicide, how she wants to die before 26 and how she was nearly raped. All in broken English. She would write ‘death’ in Cantonese over and over again on a piece of paper and she cooks instant noodles with way too much water. She plays Evanescence and tries to sing along. This is brilliant however because it reminds me of Banzai or ‘Engrish’ and i love these things.

They are in love denial ville.

Hong Kong is shouting at India next door.

HK: WAAA! Why you do the cigarette onto the plate?

India: I will put it into the sink later with the other plates

HK: We eat off the plates! You eat with your fingers!

India: You eat with chopsticks!

HK: So?

India: So?

*silence*

Yesterday I caught them playing tug of war with a towel. because they both wanted to dry something at the same time.

Once he farted and she moved closer to him.

Once i watched him stare at her feet for more than a few minutes.

Really, she loves his brown hairy back and sticky red tika fingers and he loves the way the raw fish gets stuck in her braces.

He bangra dances to Justin Timberlake and she locks herself away in her room sulking to Linkin Park albums.

Its so sad to watch.