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

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.

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.

London, you make me sick.

01/03/08

Went to a house party last night. It was okay barring the fact that I turned up at half midnight. The empty vodka bottles, king size Rizzla stuck to the floor and conspicuous trails all over the table lead into the understanding that I was not really going to get into the vibe here. I should have turned up earlier and gone rum raiding.

So Sober Larry gets to integrate with all manner of weird creatures for few hours. So when the guy harping on about his dysfunctional sexuality issues was finally distracted by a frisbee, and that tall ugly girl stopped chatting about her project to promote diarrhea (“Its not its fault its a virus!”) I decided to call it a night. Greedy bisexual boy was on the prowl anyway, the eject button had to be pushed.

Diarrhea girl found me at the door and asked if I could walk her to bus stop. i obliged, and she took her fucking time walking up the street asking some of the most bizzare questions. It seemed that everyone at this party had ulterior motives, or I shouldn’t wear so much John Paul Gautier.

I pushed her onto a bus, gave her a big thumbs up and legged it.

Walworth road was absolute bedlam. I saw a massive police raid on this house where they stuffed multiple dudes into multiple vans, women were crying, men were pushing each other. Horrible sights and sounds, sensory violation.

I was near home. 500 meters left.

Two women are walking in front of me, probably been out to the pub or something. Women. Harmless.

One of them turned around and glanced at me before carrying on walking and talking to her accomplice.

I continue walking when the woman turns around again and makes a bee line right for me.

“You got a spare cigarette mate?”

I fumbled around foolishly, and replied with the obvious answer ‘I dont smoke’. What a bloody idiot.

“Its alright. Where you been tonight? You walking this way?”

I obliged, told her I went to a house party too late and needed to pass out. Her other friend stood on the other side of me and started walking in stride with us.

“This is Aisha, and we want to do you a deal.”

Drugs? I thought. I wanted to go to bed. Never mind drugs. I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“You can take us home with you, tenner each. You can fuck me with a condom and she will suck you without.”

I was mortified. Absolutely fucking mortified. I blurted something that was crossed with hilarity, surprise and utter disgust. They offered me a crack head threesome for twenty quid. Oh god. Good God. I shook my head wildly. “No”

“Okay, well how about we stay until the morning at yours for twenty each, and…”

“No thankyou. Thanks. But…”

“Is it because we are black?”

Oh great. Now you pull THAT card. I just slouched over. I had spent all night avoiding these disasters only to be caught up standing between two cheap and desperate hookers. This was awful. I tried to make excuses, and told them that they were very pretty, and that I like black people, and I wanted to go.

“Oh, come on! Coming home from a party without a girl?” She had stood in my path. I was blocked. “I have a pimp you know, he burns me!” She showed me the back of her arm. Low and behold around 20 cigarette burns. I remember turning white. I was in Sin City.

There was a Mexican stand off of glances. The silent girl glanced at my watch, they noticed me glancing aver their shoulders at my doorway, 250 meters away, and then I noticed her glance at the bus shelter over the road. Two of the biggest black dudes I had ever seen were sitting motionless on the bench. No glancing this time, they were full on staring, cold staring at me.

“We ain’t kidding now, give us your money.”

There was probably someone behind me too. Someone was shot on this street a week ago. Shit. Mugged by a pair of fucking Hookers.

I had sixty in my pocket, my phone and some coins that were jangling in my coat. If they could give it all up for a tenner then I was pretty sure they would give me up to the dudes over the road for less.

I delved into my pocket as I could see no better option. I grabbed the notes, pulled them out letting one fall to the floor, I handed the rest to her and as they rushed to grab the note that had blown between silent girls legs I made my escape. I ran wide of the corner, right to my door. As I got inside, just over the road through the glass doors was another shifty character who made sure to get a good look at my face before running the other way.

London. You make me sick.

(Turns out I only released fifty quid, the other tenner was in my rear pocket. Huzzah

‘The Great Fire of Camden’ and other stories

11/03/08

Imagine. You get up to the gates of heaven and St Peter removes the top of your skull (kind of like Sylar does but with less blood) and inspects your brain to see what kind of life you had. He mulches it up in his hands like mincemeat all the time nodding to himself or tutting as he decides what kind of life you had, the fibrous pulp gives away everything as his fingers intrude into each and every defining moment of your life.

Yeah, well I suppose its nothing like that…

Well, it was like I was ascending into some other imagined pseudo world this Saturday as I was on the steady incline of the Camden underground escalators.

It was 8PM, and expecting to emerge onto the bustling streets of Camden on a typical Saturday, we ended up in the center of a great inferno. If you failed to see the photographs on the news…

And I tell you what, the sight of these 30ft flames seemed to instill some kind of deluded mischief in everyone in Camden. People were buying drinks from the pubs and running out to marvel at the spectacle before being pushed away from the blaze by the police. Dealers came out from everywhere, mingling with the expanding crowd. Businessmen were whistling them down like dogs. One guy was rubbing his fingers together, lured a dealer into a phone box by shouting ‘anyone got whizz?’ over and over again. The fire got even bigger. People were screaming, the traffic had stopped and there were countless fire vehicles. Policemen were climbing onto the roof tops and all I wanted was cheap chinese food.

Anyway, it was getting too much and we had a gig to get to, so after tootling over to mornington crescent and meeting the band in some pub there, it was all over the news. The weirdest thing was watching sky news reporting from where you were standing five minutes ago. Some poor reporter was asking passers by what they had seen when some pissed guys jumped into frame and told her that she smelled like fish. I spat my beer everywhere.

Anyway, so, im in this pub, Camden is burning to shit about 200 meters from where I was sat and I manage some free tickets to see Envy and Other Sins, those brummy dudes that won the channel four unsigned competition. They are playing a gig called the festival of sins just over the road at the purple turtle.

It was disturbing.

They had porn from the 1940′s being projected onto the wall, I mean like an eight foot tall fanny just…there. Scaring me. Like a toothless wolverine. This was the first thing that struck me, even before I managed to notice the gimp on stilts that was lurking behind me. Shit. I needed a beer, but not before I was flanked with quite beautiful Burlesque women. Corsets and tattoo’s and all that. And then, in the squeeze for the bar a man wearing nothing but a leather spiky collar brushed his dick against my hand as I was going for my change. I felt it. His wrinkly hood VS. the top of my hand. I went green.

A Japanese midget burlesque thing took to the stage and started singing a song about how badly she wanted to be fucked. You know, she was a midget. nobody wants to sleep with a midget. Awesome tattoos though. I never saw rocket fish and a pug dog chest piece before in my life (incidentally the pug dog was her pet, incorporated into her song as another male who refuses to sleep with her).

i went to the toilet. Another naked man was there, and a dude wearing a really good suit. how I noticed the suit before his Mexican wrestling mask, I have no idea. Like a Ray Mysterio Jr kinda one. He made a point of staring at me whilst I did my wee, just as long as he kept his bits away from my pockets I was going to be okay.

I ran out of the toilets into the middle of some weird photo shoot and banged my head off the chest of some buxom model who growled at me. I froze to the spot.

Camden was burning down, sex people are everywhere and all I can see is this monster fanny jangling about in the sky. The Japanese midget had been replaced by these people who were putting sterilized needles through this womans face and cheeks whist another pretended to bleed to death. What the fuck is happening to you Shep? If my phone had battery, I would have called my mother and apologized for what I had become.

Envy played next and were introduced by some wide eyed gay dude with a walking stick who mocked them for being from Birmingham. I laughed loudest unfortunately, and lots of eyes fell on me. All of a sudden, wearing nothing but a leather crotch pouch might have been a good idea. Even the monster fanny scowled.

I escaped after Envy finished, I paid my respects to them as they played up to the whole experience a treat.

Good news. My accomplice, josh, who is quite used to these ordeals has got us invites to an all night pub lock in. he wanted to stay and look at Burlesque women, but I said no, and drinking was more important.

So, we went to this bar on the Holloway road called Nambuka. They put curtains all up the Windows and people were smoking and drinking and all sorts. I got wasted quickly. Talking to some band manager at the bar who told me about a guy he saw swallow an 8 ball and a light bulb, only to regurgitate them whole again. The dude also took five womens rings, swallowed them all and regurgitated the rings back to their rightful owners.

This was an amazing story. I told it to some other guy later on. He told me that I was lying.

Peaches Geldof was there…apparently. I was oblivious to it, plus I don’t really know what she looks like.

At 8AM, we went back to an old friends house and drank whiskey.

I woke up at 6PM on Sunday and ate lots of fried chicken and found a portrait someone did of me on a piece of wood.

I think if St Peter was to mash about with my brain, he would get to this point in my life and just put the brain back and boot me down to Hades. Hades would only be dismayed because I wouldn’t wear his leather spiky collar and would send me back in dismay.

I think Hades has already seen my cock anyway. I’m sure that was him standing next to me at the urinal…

Someones Nan dishes out unprovoked pedestrian pain

02/12/09

Yesterday I was punched in the street.

Unprovoked. Out of the blue.

The attacker was an aged ogress, decorated in pearls and plastic headgear, hastily marching a rigid line down Piccadilly circus. She was probably clocking 70. I’m talking age and speed.

I did all I could to avoid her advance, I stretched my body into an inept shape and dodged. As I cleared her path, I felt her ivory knuckles connect with my shoulder.

I stood back aghast, completely dehumanized. The harpy was speeding on, and the oncoming human traffic were all fleeing her wicked fists.

I spun on my feet and blurted ‘grow up!’ at the vile crone.

Alas, she never heard.

I was half expecting this…

Vile Crone

Christmas Blues

17/11/07

I am on antibiotics you see. God, its all boring. I am not allowed to ‘beer’ for a whole week, and i am already getting the shakes and contemplating how to spend my times of leisure. If not with a beverage, how else can I whittle away the minutes not occupied by the toilet or the computer?

I think, instead, I will spend this week on concentrating on getting fat. How fat can I get (will I get) with a week of no intoxicants? I am hoping to put on a stone.

Dreary days, bonfires are all extinguished and now we have that insufferable time of the year where everything gets cold, and we all quietly wait for Christmas. Advent calenders never helped. My advent calender would be the reason I used to wake up in December when I was a wee Tom. Nevermind the fact I had a cupboard full of good chocolate downstairs, It would just be to free that pathetic Christmas pudding shaped morsel from behind the foil wall, marking the all important fact that it was the third of December. Great. This made it all go far slower, enduring this task for a whole month proved more taxing than it is fun, and weighs heavier on your child brain that Christmas was going to come at a slower pace than it would if you had never had the calender in the first place.

Although, my family were never part of the Christmas numpty group that meet once a year (mid November) and decide when they will strike. They smear shit all over Christmas cheer by erecting thier Christmas trees and house lights weeks before they should, ruining the whole illusion. Dont be that penis, only put the wreath up when it is SAFE to do so.

Oh, and then there are the Chrismas traditionalists and Christmas Wilkinsons tacky Santa’s grotto seasons greeting terrorists. The latter are the kind who go out and nail one of those light up Santas to the roof, get one of those inflatable snowmen, wear socks that play jingle bells and put up so many fairy lights, the national grid have to throw thousands more trees and animals into the giant furnace to account for their terrible energy consumption.

Jesus weeps. Happy birthday and thanks for making me miserable. Talk about gate crashing, seems everyone celebrating don’t seem to give a shit who’s birthday it is anyway, they’re just here for the liquor and the buffet.

Ey, but lets pay the big J his dues right? He sure puts on a better spread than Allah ever did. I wouldn’t like to be at that party, all seems a bit close knit down there. I don’t think they drink either.

I think with this beard, this miserable face and being on antibiotics with no alcohol in my system at all, I might actually fit just right in.

A message to StooB0t

17/07/07

“ETA on my BLT? shut your mouth you SOB!”

American situation comedy script writers are special people. I never knew they had Heinz over there. I thought Heinz was a British thing? Oh great, now they dressed up the dog in a feather boa and a furry hat, this results in a good ’9′ on the American canned laughter scale. Cue fat American father figure stereotype who blames the dog for his missing toothbrush. Dog looks at the camera like ‘aww, I am a Dog, I know no better’ , but really he is longing over the ‘bono-bite’ that the rich bastard behind the camera is waving around.

Bit why ABC-1 is the choice channel of our afternoon household viewing, I do not know.

Roll on this evening.

I’m not a lad either, and nothing farts out my candle quite like the idea of spending two weeks with ten under sexed males and the culturally inept Turkish, all bathing together in a warm macho competitive climate, where the trophy is some scanty Mancunian with reesty breath, swarming with STI’s that she has collected from assorted cheapo holidays. You get to spend a night with her for a lifetime of itchy dickie, and somewhere in your tiny brain you don’t really regret it because you can still memorise quite vividly her perky tits bobbling up and down, and you like it because it makes you feel like the man your father always wished you were…

fucking hell.

Don’t repeat that Stoo, It might not bode well with the Lads ; )

What time you getting there tonight?

Cheer Up : Kanye West

15/07/07

That’s Right Kanye, give us a smile, why so sullen when we all know that you have shimmering teeth that could dazzle the most distressed of damsels. I used to like you Kanye, but whats the point in wealth and fame when you cant celebrate it and instead you do things like this…

Jesus...is that YOU?

Bugger me backwards batman…

I have never been a massive fan of either you or Jesus, but If you were both in a bar, I would have plenty more to ask little J, son of G, sorry man, but its the truth. I would ask him, “why is that sad Black bloke over there dressed like you Jesus dude? Does he want to be you?”
“No”, Jesus would reply, “He just wants someone to think that he was born of immaculate conception, that he has the power to save all humanity from their sins, but to me, he just looks like a miserable prick.”
At this point Kanye would twist around on his swivel chair, half spilling his WKD blue all over his toga. “Savior breath Jesus! I know your pain. I was stabbed…erm…shot too! I was stabbed and shot and everything. Do you know how much that hurt Jesus?”
“They nailed me to a sodding cross you ungrateful sod. Now cheer up and give us a smile”
Kanye would take this opportunity to look even more displeased, getting burned is bad enough when you are Kanye West, but getting burned by a semi naked 2000 year old God stung little deeper.
I would pipe up between them to voice my opinion. “Calm down gentlemen! Jesus, you are quite right, Kanye is a miserable twat but…”
“You’ve got a trifling friend indeed” blurts Kanye, as he leaps across the bar, squeezing Jesus by the gullet.
At this point I would leave, crossing paths with the Sheilas wheels women on the way out, who distract Kanye ith thier large breasts and blonde hair, giving Jesus enough time to zap him to the floor with his laser beam eyes. All four of them would proceed to feast on Kanye’s well cooked corpse.

On the walk home, I realize now that I would be far better off without any of these people in my life.

PS: In other news, the radio 2 news presenter just belched part way through a report on the Darfur Crisis. This is the kind of spirit that Kanye needs, not the holy spirit.