| i'm not ded |
[Aug. 19th, 2009|01:26 am] |
Hey kids,
as you may have noticed this journal has been rather... dead of late.
Well, the combination of work, moving house, no internet and indulging an impressive meth habit has admittedly slowed journal contributions somewhat- but that does not stop me from posting my random nonsense- a bit at least.
Check this: http://www.the-iss.com/2009/08/supervillain_blunders.php
JmC
Robot in disguise |
|
|
| Miss me? |
[Jun. 18th, 2009|08:27 am] |
Mornin',
as you have doubtless noticed work site-blocking and house hunting/moving pressures (to stay nothing of the sitting in the sun drinking factor) have rendered this journal a tad mute of late. Hopefully once I move house something approaching a regular service will resume.
In the meantime if you've been missing my inanity head over to The International Society of Supervillians for something I wrote in my more evil persona-
http://www.the-iss.com/2009/06/supervillain_motivation.php#more
Right, off to work. Loves yas.
JmC
Is TOTALLY out of the internet gossip loop |
|
|
| Chapmans got Talent! |
[May. 29th, 2009|10:20 am] |
Guess who's on Britain’s Got Talent?
No, not me. My talents, such as they are, are not suitable for a family audience. Or a mature audience. Or any audience at all, come to that. No, I talk of the awesome DCD Seniors, semi-finalists on Britain’s Got Talent. The DC, you see, in DCD stands for my aunt- Debbie Chapman, teacher, owner and choreographer of the Debbie Chapman Dancers. And not only that but one of the latter Ds (confused yet?) is my little cousin Anna Chapman.
That’s Anna in the subtle red ring there
Now getting to the semi-finals is impressive enough but if you consider the massive drag factor of sharing some genes with me- who’s dance style involves less the hitting beats and more the beating the randoms- then it’s quite the achievement. Anna is one of 21 girls and one boy (who I’ve never met but I can say with some confidence is either
a) gayer than the love child of Julian Clarey and Graham Norton
or b) the smartest motherfucker in the entire world.) in the DCD Seniors but Debbie’s dance school has over 500 students.
There’s been a lot of talk about some ugly troll with the voice of a person being the one to watch in Britain’s Got Talent but seriously- there’s been enough of that in the papers already. Do you really want some Scottish spinster winning the £100,000? She’ll only spend it on gin, cats and Billygoats to nosh on. Or do you want my aunt, cousin and hundreds of bright young dancers to get a spiffy new Dance Hall?
Debbie, 49, of Barry, told Wales on Sunday: “We’ve been here 25 years now and it’s falling apart and quite dilapidated. All the money we’ve raised in the past for our shows has gone to charity. Squirrels even ate through the heating system’s cables, so it used to get very cold.
"But the girls’ love of dance has carried them through – and there’s something lovely in that, even though the hall’s terribly run down. When you think about all the children that come in out of the school, it would be lovely to be able to buy our own place.”
See?! Charity! Squirrels! And what’s more it’s Auntie Debbie’s 50th Birthday today. (Happy Birthday, Auntie Debbie!) Seriously, they deserve to win MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE EVER, and I say that from a totally unbiased viewpoint.
The DCD are one of the acts in tonight’s semi-finals, so if you watch Britain’s Got Talent normally or if you’re just curious to see how someone with the surname Chapman can move with even a touch of grace then watch tonight! And vote DCD!!! Vote twice!!! Vote thrice!!!! Vote till your texting fingers are worn down into little bloody nubs!!!!
DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD! DCD!
JmC
Dance, suckka, you got nothing on me |
|
|
| Back from the pit |
[May. 28th, 2009|11:59 am] |
Greetings, Livejournalestas!
Did you miss me? I have certainly missed you. Why the thought of you bathed in electronic glow, fingers spastically twitching lol, lol, lol* over and over again for someone other then me actually makes me quite jealous.
*I know many of you have lost the ability to ACTUALLY laugh-out-loud or indeed to make any facial expression. Face locked in a deathmask with tears perpetually streaming down your face as you spew out emotions the only way you can- : ) ;-))) : / 8-! The sad thing is I don’t even know what half of them mean…
But in these harsh economic times my brutal paymasters demand that I dance to their tune, leaving little time for internet frivolity. Admittedly their tune has recently consisted of fun training-days with a nice lunch (to say nothing of my holiday) but you need not know that. Just think of me slaving away in my back-breaking middle-management NHS job, lifting phones, writing e-mails, filing files, drinking coffee and weep for the cruelty of man upon man.
But rejoice for I have broken free of these cruel shackles to bring you joy. My joy, in fact. For I have re-discovered one of my most favourite things- a thing that combines my love of violence with my love of helping people.
The lovely Gunel (along with Dan, Kat, Diana and ) took me to a Comibichrist gig yesterday- I must admit to being initially sceptical about it but it was awesome! Not the music, which was mainly incidental, but the moshpit. It has been far to long since I slammed around into other people, stopping occasionally to pick someone up or check that their blood-streaming nose isn’t serious. There is a wonderful simplistic joy in the half-dance-half-fight of the ‘pit, the constant movement whilst attempting to retain your balance, the exhilaration of meaty smacks of flesh as you bash or get bashed, the comradely as people swoop to pick up the fallen. Its cracking. Particularly if many of the participants are scrawny little teenagers who bounce off you like tennis balls. Hee.
That said true enjoyment does require one thing. No girls. Well, let me amend that: no girls that can’t take care of themselves. If a lassie bounces in and swiftly proves that she can take the rough and tumble without being flung about like a rag doll then fine. Ish. Personally even the brawniest lady curtails my own activities a tad- I’m less likely to blindly shoulder charge backwards if I know there’s a womb floating about the pit but that’s just my sexism; if she can deal, fine.
But what’s WORSE than a girl in a moshpit? A girlFRIEND in a moshpit. Particularly if your girlfriend weighs less than a sparrows fart and has no appreciable sense of fight-balance. Suddenly all your effort goes into protecting them, leaving vital areas on your own body vulnerable to flying elbows or lurching heads. Previously enjoyable attack becomes an exhausting defense. S’no good.
So when Gunel bounced next to me with a “Hey baby!” I was understandably less that chuffed, “You, ow,” I said as I blocked a ramming body, “can’t be here.”,
“It’s fine!” she trilled, little aware that her dancing space only existed on the whims of my weakening body. Fortunately (well, kinda) the moment was punctuated by a pit-surge throwing us both about with some force. Peeling herself off the back of a fellow dancer Gunel looked at me mildly appalled.
“It’s not a couple’s event, babe.” I yelled at her, bracing against bouncing bodies. She looked at me for a moment more before nodding and going off to find a less violent space.
Best thing all round, I feel.
JmC
I did get her a drumstick that was thrown into the crowd |
|
|
| Hows the weather your end? |
[May. 14th, 2009|01:31 pm] |
Hello, my British chums!
Yes, it is me- J’ames ( I have abandoned my English name whlst in these clement climes), here in sunny Tenerife with the lovely Guy’nel (she has abandoned her nonsense, heathen name). nshockingly we are having a lovely time:
lounging on the beach, arrogantly assuming that our dark hued skins, so effective at blocking out the weak, rubbishy English rays, would prove effective at shielding us from the harsher Tenerife sun. Foolish. I cannot hold a bag on my shoulder without a grimace of pain and Gy’nil has a red ass that has little to do with bedroom fun…
visiting a giant water park, shooting down tubes, being hit by giant generated waves and seeing some people who really shouldn’t wear skimpy swim-suits. Ever.
wandering found a wildlife park, Gn’evil cackling madly at the caged beasts whilst hurling stones at them “Who iz ze best climber NOW, eh, monkey? Eh?!”, “Whistle at me, vill you fish-bird? (they don’t have dolphins in Azerbaijan) I throw rock at you, ha!”
Fun times.
and both having a series of those odd holiday dreams that you get when in a strange place- the highlight of which involved Gore-neil waking me frantically with the news that I was bleeding out of my ears: some panicked clawing at my head later I looked over to see my beloved once again fast asleep. As she probably had been the whole time.
All sorts of fun. I trust back in Blighty all is fucking miserable without us, rain, hail and falling puppies ‘n’ moggies is well, we return on Friday. Meantime hear are some piccies to tide you over:
Fear my giant black man-nipples!!
Shortly before Gore'n'ell hurled a stone at the bird's head.
JmC
Happy like an incestuous pedophile (fun in the sun) |
|
|
| Where have you been, JmC? Where do you go? |
[May. 7th, 2009|08:23 pm] |
Hola, my virtual little friends,*
*you are all little to me over the internet, even those of you who are so corpulent that even the act of laughing causes rivers of sweat to pour down your spine, flow between your buttocks, sweeping up fluff and bits of stuck-on tissue paper to create a urea scented ocean on the reinforced chair beneath. Rejoice in your digitised slimness, porkies!
As the more awake of you may have noticed posts on this once bustling Livejournal have slowed to the crawl of a weak-lipped paraplegic. The reasons are distressingly pedestrian involving such thrilling topics as work, deadlines, staff shortage with a healthy mix of getting-shitfaced-of-a-weekend. Rubbish, innit?
Hopefully normal service will return soon and you can all join me in railing against the system, cursing the minor inconveniences of life and laughing uproariously at tales of thick people hurting themselves. Badly. With toenail clippers...
But not for a bit, for tomorrow I take the lovely Gunel with me to sunny Tenerife for a week! Sun, surf and sangria beckon!
Have fun without me!
JmC
As if THAT were even possible |
|
|
| Steven Fry in more than just Twitter shocker |
[Apr. 30th, 2009|02:54 pm] |
Here:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2009/apr/30/stephen-fry-letter-gay-rights
is a letter in which QI know-it-all and National Treasure Steven Fry writes to his 16 year old self. Impressive and well worth a read as it is, its rather more general than the information and advice I would probably impart:
Dear James,
cut your bloody hair.
Love James
_________________
Dear James,
It’s a come-on. Stop being an insecure twat and kiss her.
Love James
_________________
Dear James,
cars need oil. Cars need oil when the oil light is on. They need oil regardless of your emotional state because of girl-problems. Put oil in the damn car.
Love James
_________________
Dear James,
remember to run AWAY from the crime scene, stupid.
Love James
So (assuming that you can’t give advice on the 11.40 at Chepstow or to invest in Nokia) what would YOU tell your 16 year old self?
JmC
Not so sweet sixteen |
|
|
| Kirsten's Topless Ambition |
[Apr. 29th, 2009|12:43 pm] |
Gunel and I watched a documentary last night in which cheery Kirsten O’Brien, mainstay of kids TV (no, I’d never heard of her either), decides that she wants to stop being upstaged by puppets and chirping gay men and graduate to proper “grown up” TV. Pondering the career routes of her contemparys, stand up Gale Porter, Ferne Cotton, Anjellica Bell et al, Kirsten wonders if perhaps the best way to do this isn’t by heading down the well jiggled track of getting your jubblies out in a Lads Mag.
Such is the subject of Kirsten's Topless Ambition where Mz O’Brien, a 36 year old SMart! presenter who sounds disarmingly like Victoria Wood, chats to style consultants, lads-mag editors, glamour models, Peter Stringfellow and her Dad about whether the “glamour-shoot-route” is for her. It was actually really interesting stuff as Kirsten gets some often quite frank and harsh advice:
“You dress like a secretary. You should always dress a step up, dress for where you want to be, not where you are.”
“I think you're kind of borderline... you've got an acceptable face, you've got an acceptable body... It's not absolutely knock-out."
And the even more blunt. “Men will not want to wank over you.”
I felt the last one was a touch unfair- the lass was has some serious gunge experience, after all.
Despite gamely being a Hooter’s Girl for an evening, going to a lap-dancing club and trying on sexy outfits you never got the impression that Kirsten was, well, the sort of girl who could do a pin-up shoot. Shockingly it was leather-faced human arse-cheek Peter Stringfellow that put it best- “You are a funny girl and funny is not sexy.”
Certainly watching Kirsten spin round a poll it was hard to disagree- she was putting the moves in but the whole time gave the impression that she was pissing about and was going to break into giggles at any moment. And that’s just not sexy- you might fall in love with a guffawing girl, you probably want to go down the pub with her but you don’t get the need to fuck her.
Which is no bad thing, okay, Kirsten might not get the vacuous totty roles offered up to her but given that she showed herself to be bright, funny and positive I doubt she’s going to be short of work, particularly after this really obvious interview tape showcasing her as a proper presenter type semi-serious documentary.
Anyway the one thing I found particularly disturbing about the whole thing was when Kirsten went to talk about Woman’s Mag shoots. These, she was told, would be much better. Nice, fully clothed, glamorous grown up shots, none of that smut… buuuuuuut we want you to talk about the heartbreak of your Mum dying/ things your co-presenters did/ your battle with bulimia and so on. Dish up the dirt, she was told, and the public will engage with you, become interested in you, want to hear more about you. Once they know about your tears and anguish they are more likely to want to hear about your skin-regime, diet secrets and all the other bullshit that feeds and fuels the celebrity machine. Dish, TELL, CONFESS!!!
None of this was a surprise to me but to see it laid out so starkly was a bit shocking. Do a boys mag and you’ll need to show some skin, do a girls and you’ll need to show some sin (and repentance!). FHM might blow up your out of context snippets “I LIKE IT OUTSIDE IN THE OPEN AIR!” says Kirsten but they’re not going to expect you to parade your intimate problems. Lads mags might be over-concerned with revealing an outermost self (Fwar!) but it seems that the Lady’s publications expect a girl to splay open her innermost self. And to be the latter seems much more distatefull.
Thoughts?
JmC
Wits out for the lads |
|
|
| Off yer bike, son! |
[Apr. 24th, 2009|11:32 am] |
Y’know how I said I love cycling? How it far beats any other form of transport bar Batmobile, dog-sled-pulled-by-wolves or rocket-shoes? (Note: Fireworks tied to Doc Martins are not rocket-shoes, no matter how much you want them to be). Yeah, well, I might change my opinion somewhat.
I was cycling home last night rather late from work having been forced to miss yet another gym session by unending insanity that it my work. And I mean that literally: part of my job is finding GPs for crazy, violent or ‘difficult’ people and after a quiet last few months the nutty bastards are coming out of the woodwork creating vast amounts of work. Jeez. Can’t at least one of the voices in their heads think of ME for once? Selfish, selfish, selfish.
Anyway whilst cycling home, cursing my job for making me both stressed and flabby, I was behind another bike that was going quite slowly. The road being empty I stared to cycle past the guy. Suddenly, and with no warning, he pitched to one side, head bouncing off my front wheel, before hitting the ground in time to be clattered by my back wheel too. I skidded to a halt and ran back to the guy who was lying flat on his back in the road.
“Jesus, mate. Are you ok?” I asked kneeling by him.
“I,” he said, with some consideration, “am fushkin pished.”
“Ah.” I said, my concern evaporating somewhat. “But are you alright?”
“Oh yesh.” He said, still lying in the middle of the road, showing no inclination to move. He had the full gear on- helmet, florescent jacket, cycling gloves, shorts: he looked far more of a cyclist than me in my jeans-shirt attire. I, of course wasn’t so drunk that I thought that lying in the middle of Balls Pond Road at 9.00 at night was a good idea so I guess that works out.
I checked him for injury and, beyond some scraping, he seemed fine. “Can you get up?” I paused before adding, “Because that would be good right now.”
“Mmmm.” He mused before allowing me to pull him up and out of the road. “I don’t shtink that I shold be in chargsh of a bishicle right now.”
“Yeah, I have to agree,” I had to agreed as I collected our abandoned bikes.
“I think I…” he trailed off.
“…should walk your bike home?” I prompted.
“You mays be right. That would proshbably be for the besht.” He said as he took him bike and used it to support him as he staggered down the road.
Fun, eh? But wait! There’s more!
This very morning when cycling to work I got hit by a car! A woman in a little yellow car pulled out of a side road and bashed me off my bike! The car managed to hit my pedal and handlebar leaving my foot and fingers mercifully unsquashed but I still got thrown off. Fortunately my bike is much like me- small, squat, solid, has a tendency to eye up younger models with really thin tires and was relatively unharmed.
Similarly I was fairly OK so when the car stopped a little distance away and a black lady with big hair opened the door and leaned out and gave a questioning thumbs up I gave a weak little wave of assent. Apparently this was all she needed as she then slammed the door and sped off!
I got helped up by a passing cyclist and a friendly drunk (Stoke Newington is full of drunks). The cyclist insisted that I sit down for 5 minutes, which was both fine and correct- but did mean that I had to listen to slurring advice from my new inebriated chum on how I should chase the driver down and squeeze money out of them- by force if necessary… (He also had those three tattooed dots on his hand between finger and thumb. What IS that? Is it a prison thing?)
So yeah- apparently London in the bright, clear sunshine is a recipe for CYCLE DEATH. Perhaps its time to take the bus. Or only cycle in the rain.
JmC
Or wear a helmet? Naaah. |
|
|
| Head like angry Russian bear |
[Apr. 22nd, 2009|01:05 pm] |
Приветствия!
Which, if I know my Russian, means “As punishment for sleeping with my daughter we are going to ruin you for work tomorrow, little Englishman”.
We went for dinner with Gunel’s parents last night and by God they can drink. Dear fucking Christ can they drink. They drink like their livers personally offended them years ago and are now the subject of systemic abuse. I actually saw Gunel’s Da reach down his own throat, pull his liver out and nut it into submission before dunking it in Smirnoff and swallowing it again.
In deference to the fact I had work the next day I put up a token protest at the sheer volume of alcohol I was being expected to consume. Tofig, Gunel’s Da, soon set me straight:
“Is no problem. You haff the beer, yes?” I agreed that yes, there was beer in front of me.
“Yes. You drink the beer. Then the vodka. You drink the vodka, yes?” His pointing finger and steely glare seemed to indicate that refusal was not an option here so I nodded.
“Then you must drink the… champagne? You know this word champagne? Yes. You drink the champagne and next day- poof! Head good. All fine. Now: you drink!”
This may well be true (tip: this is not true) but as I didn’t have champagne at the end I now feel like someone has unplugged my optic nerves, sharpened them, then roughly reinserted them very hard into my eyeballs. Either there wasn’t any champagne or this was a deliberate bid to hurt me. I suspect the latter.
And you can’t sip! On the third full shot glass of vodka (we had been in the house about 26 seconds at this stage) I drank half of the contents and made to put it down…
“Oh no. No no. Is no good.” Gunel’s Da intoned, “Is GRAVE insult to put glass down if not empty.” I looked helplessly at Gunel and her Mum hoping for some sort of reprieve from this spirit swilling madness but they both nodded in unison.
“GRAVE insult.” They all chanted pointing at my glass. As I knocked it back I fancied I could see my hangover dance in, point meaningfully at tomorrows date, cackle hysterically then vanish.
Next time I’m totally driving.
JmC
In Soviet Azerbaijan Drink consumes YOU |
|
|
| OI, TEALEAF!! |
[Apr. 18th, 2009|09:04 pm] |
Hullo!
I don't suppose anyone exited Abby's party at The Gold Bar last night with the wrong coat? At the end of the night Gunel was left with a Long Black Coat TM that was not hers. Let me know so I can arrage a swap.
Cheers, m'dears
JmC
And I misplaced a gold wallet full of gold, if you find that... |
|
|
| Not dead…. Yet. |
[Apr. 17th, 2009|01:42 pm] |
Hello, The Internet,
For those of you wondering if I had, in fact, partied myself to death last weekend or been spirited away by slavers after being enraptured by the sheer beauty of my Ginger Spice Costume (see Facebook for pics. Be prepared for jaw-dropping wonder.) then I can confirm my place among the alive and free. Many thanks to my wonderful friends for their presence and presents- you rock.
This week has a positive slew of events I wished to wax lyrical about: from real life Snakes On A Plane (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/8001644.stm), to the joys of hair dilapidation (and the somewhat less joys of it growing back).
I desire to rant about the fact that our police are using powers designed to protect us to imprison and batter us with impunity and the wonder that is The Best Business Brains in Britain (according to The Apprentice) failing utterly at the simplest of tasks (this week: adding up!).
I wanted to talk about jobs, interviews and the horror of being given 32 ‘bumps’- all this and more bubbles in my brain screaming for release.
Sadly with one of my team quit for pastures new, another on holiday and a third looking after her sick mother this week has been a unceasing hecticness of interviewing, panicking about queries I don’t understand, shouting at baffling spreadsheets, not getting time for going to the gym or a proper lunch, begging for deadline extensions, all punctuated by trips to the loo for a little cry. As such my beloved Livejournal has had to take a back seat to Real Life TM.
So I’m not actually dead… but I might be soon. You see my beloved Gunel has just told her father that I am violating his little princess dating her. And he’s an ex-military man who once bit the head off a weasel for a bet.
Gulp.
If I don’t update next week assume I am in a Soviet pit fighting off cougars.
And send help.
JmC
You kill ten cougars and bear and I let you see dotter, da?
P.S. Extra appropriate thanks to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) theoclarke who sent me a little goat in the post! |
|
|
| Let's hear it |
[Apr. 10th, 2009|03:10 pm] |
Right, I'm putting together what shall generously be called my "Playlist" for tomorrow night:
James' Bad Music Birthday Party
Red Lion Pub on Stoke Newington Hight Street
8 o'clock - Late o'clock
Fancy Dress!!!
So, dear readers, this is your last chance to suggest me songs. I've already got these-
http://flywingedmonkey.livejournal.com/378218.html
but give me more! Think cheese, think guilty-pleasure dancing, think into-your-hairbrush singing then post below. Annnnnnd GO!
JmC
Anything with a dance routine is good!
EDIT: Dear God. If I don't get at least 57 winces and at least one person in tears I will feel I've failed. |
|
|
| Today is a good day to pie |
[Apr. 10th, 2009|01:18 pm] |
It has been said that there are no good ways to die there are just lesser degrees of bad.
This of course is patently ridiculous as evidenced by my own predicted death- that, at 138 years old, I will die of sheer exhaustion after having sex with an entire cheerleading squad that I had just rescued bear-handed from a marauding cyber-tiger. And no, that’s not a typo: I shall turn my hands into bears through sheer force of will to battle evil space tigers, one last time…
Like this but much, much more frightening
Anyway regardless of my own future that I paid a gypsy handsomely to predict there are clearly some pretty fine ways to die: look at Captain Oates… or Jesus, come to that. Noble, self-sacrificing stuff. Though Jesus did come back so Oatsey is the more impressive sacrifice in my book*.
(*James’ Big Book of How To Annoy Christians.)
And whilst less noble there are still some fucking impressive ways to die- Rasputin for example- besides being Russia’s Greatest Love Machine (not, admittedly, up for much competition) got stabbed, posioned, shot, beaten and drowned before he died. Dude. Or that guy who devoted his life to being with bears. Till they ate him.
But whilst we may argue about how there might be a “good death” I think we can all agree on what would be a BAD death. So, on Easter, spare a though for this poor fella:
Man dies in pie-factory explosion
JmC
Another one bite the crust |
|
|
| Birthday Thanks! |
[Apr. 8th, 2009|03:03 pm] |
Hola all,
Thank you all who have buried me in e-mails, texts and Facebook messages wishing me Birthday best-wishes! I would give an exquisitely crafted individual reply to each one but sadly I am currently busier than a half-price prostitute on an oil-rig. One of my staff is leaving and I’m reviewing the applicants for her new job… all 267 of them.
Joy.
I’m about 50 in and already bleaked out:
By the barely qualified (one Uni Grad working in Subway rather sweetly described themselves as a “Sandwich Artist”) who are being knocked swiftly from a shortlist in less desperate times they might have had a shot at.
But more so by the many over and differently qualified (Managers, Accountants, Teachers, Legal clerks) who have been made redundant and are now clutching at anything they think they can get.
S’a fun way to spend a Birthday, eh?
But this has cheered me up!
(Birthday) Word of the Day
Wednesday April 8, 2009
chimerical \ky-MER-ih-kuhl; -MIR-; kih-\, adjective:
1. Merely imaginary; produced by or as if by a wildly fanciful imagination; fantastic; improbable or unrealistic.
2. Given to or indulging in unrealistic fantasies or fantastic schemes.
_____________________________
“Her name is Dulcinea; her country El Toboso, a village in La Mancha; her degree at least that of Princess, for she is my Queen and mistress; her beauty superhuman, for in her are realized all the impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty which poets give to their ladies.”
-- Miguel De Cervantes, Don Quixote
______________________________
Chimerical is ultimately derived from Greek </i>khimaira</i>, "she-goat" or "chimera," which in Greek mythology was a monster having the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a dragon.
_______________________________
Ha! Pretty damn apt, I'd say! Taken from www.dictionary.com- go find your last Birthday Word (which then shapes the year ahead) and post it below!
JmC
But khimaira is a swearing! |
|
|
| True Brit |
[Apr. 3rd, 2009|11:58 am] |
In recent times there have been many attempts to capture the essence of ‘Britishness’.
Sadly not, in the main, so that we can celebrate our heritage without the faint embarrassment that yes, we did used to rule the world and yes, we did kinda-sorta-ish slaughter a fuck of a lot of native people before drinking gin and tonics, playing crochet and laughing through our noses. Look, everyone used to rule the world through conquest at some point- just because we turned up at the tail end where people were starting to go:
“I say, Caruthers, is it, you know, nice to march into somewhere, take all their stuff and force them to speak our language and adhere to our rules?”
doesn’t make it less of an achievement. C’mon, that was one fuck of an Empire. Ever play Risk? Just like that.
Nor an effort to ensure that we can wave a flag without the niggling feeling that we’re being in some way racist, that flying a flag of the country where you live is one step away from strapping on bovva boots and going out to kick in some darkies (or, even worse, tutting over your pink wafer and writing into the Daily Mail about how immigrants are sucking up all the money from the NHS.)
No, recent attempts at encapsulating Britishness seem to have been misguided attempts to mould our multiculture together. That advice to “talk about the weather”, “apples and pears means stairs”, “tea is commonly drunk with milk” or “when attending a football match be sure to take a sharp shank” will somehow assist a newcomer to this marvellous and often perplexing country.
Personally I think the heart of True Britishness would be “looking after people” and “being polite, even when you shouldn’t” which is a bit difficult to impart (particularly on cultures which do just that in their own way.)
And that’s great- Healthcare, Social Housing, Free Education, these are all cracking things. The politeness though… have you ever been bumped in the street only to automatically say;
“Oh, terribly sorry.” (or whatever your regional variant might be: “Sorry, mate.”, “Arrrrrrr, oi be roight apologetic tharrr.” or whatever) only to have the person glare at you despite the fact that it was their fault. That gives me the fury. Or not been acknowledged when you’ve let someone through? Kill-kill-kill-kill-kill.
Recently I was getting a cab and it became evident that my cabbie had not a fucking clue where he was going, at one point actually doing a U-turn in the street. My (polite, natch) enquires about our destination were met with a half hearted affirmation despite the clear lie of this. And all through this period his meter was steadily tick-tick-ticking away. What I wanted to do was say;
“Stop the fucking cab, dim-wit and turn that fucking meter off. You clearly have not a bleeding clue where you’re going and I refuse to pay for you ambling about like a concussed retard waiting to see something you recognise. Twat.” However to do that would have been to call him a liar. Which, fucking irritatingly, would not have been polite. Fuck.
And yesterday, whilst going to a Neimhein gig at the Camden Underworld, I was given a scant amount of change from my £20 note. Not actually knowing how much it was I asked;
“I gave you a twenty. Are you sure this is right?”
“Yes.” She brazenly replied. Again, what I should have done was say;
“I don’t believe you. That was a twenty and, whilst I am unsure of the cost of this gig I’m pretty damn sure its not sixteen quid, you thieving skank.” But again politeness reared its ugly, if well groomed, head and I said;
“Ah, right then. Thanks.”
Obviously I later discovered that my initial instincts about the thieving skankitude of the pock-marked bitch were correct but by that time it was too late. Fuck. Again.
I love being British, I’m proud of being British, but sometimes it’s fucking annoying.
JmC
Whoever said “politeness costs nothing” needs a good beating |
|
|
| Azeri online |
[Apr. 1st, 2009|02:03 pm] |
Ho all,
The more keen witted amongst you may have noticed that, due to my relationship with one of its number, I have made occasional reference to the glorious country of Azerbaijan. Informative things like the fact that the capital is called Baku (it means “Hefty Dancer” in Azeri), its size is 33 400sq m (We think. The Azerbaijani people still use a standard measurement of “lame cow walk in day”) and its population are afraid of corn flakes is 7,398,000 strong.
Most of my statements are unassailably true but I do make the odd mistake- Rather than being the correct animal to slaughter to celebrate a marriage, Goat, for example, IS a swearing. Who knew?
And whilst I try and rectify these piffling errors:
The Azeri are not actually afraid of wheels per se, just any physical manifestation of circles: “They have no beginning and no end! Such things are evil! Kill them with fire!”
and as we all know: Kişi tüpürdüyünü yalamaz. (a man would not lick what he spat) but I am but one person.
The problem has been that there is no one from Azerbaijan online to correct my mistakes, largely because the one computer that exists in Azerbaijan is actually a box with a pile of dead squirrels inside it. But on the urging of you, Friends-List, the Azeri have a new champion! Someone modern. Someone hip. Someone who in the last 2 weeks has figured out that the little people in the box are not actually there (“Helloooo?”). Someone who has learned that dancing need not involve vodka, hot coals and a bear. Someone who can see a windmill without screaming in fear for 5 straight days.
Yes, my beloved Gunel (or Gyunel as she would be spelt in Azerbaijan. ‘S true.) has got herself a livejournal: smilinggoth_86. So expect corrections of my utterly fabricated lies honest mistakes, Soviet insight, Turkish(ish) opinion and tales of how wonderful it is to be able to buy bread without a 2 week queue and listen to music which is more than the rhythmic striking of a pig with a hammer.
Add her!
JmC
Kzin var, kirmizeh donen chkhat |
|
|
| Blast from past |
[Mar. 31st, 2009|04:38 pm] |
Huh.
Just met with the mentor of my work-experience chap, a Nikki Ralph…
Her: “Are you from Oxford?”
Me: “Uh, originally, yeah…”
Her: “And you went to Wheatley Primary School, right?”
Me (rather creeped out): “I did… how did…”
Her: “And you’re thirty one?”
Me: “Almost thirty two.”
Her: “Ha! I went to school with you, James, I knew I recognised you! Gosh, it must have been, what, twenty years?”
Small world, eh? Of course what’s slightly more concerning is that I have no idea at all who she is. None.
Whereas I clearly look the same as I did back when I was eleven…
JmC
I know I have youthful looks but this is ridiculous |
|
|
| Great, Great, Gran-daddy Torino |
[Mar. 26th, 2009|09:51 am] |
Clint Eastwood is old.
Very old. Older, in fact, than it is possible to be without actually pre-dating history itself. Clint Eastwood makes dirt look young. Clint Eastwood knew God when God was but a lad. Clint Eastwood remembers not only when all this was just field’s but when those fields were full of mammoths. He’s old, basically.
And old is fucking frightening. Not frightening in the ‘my body is slowly decaying and I’m a fully formed consciousness trapped in this withering shell and every time I close my eyes I see Death himself staring at me and tapping his wrist’ way. Nah, fuck that noise, I don’t need to fear that for at least another 10 years.
No, I’m talking frightening more in the “Oh God, that old thing scares the very piss from me.” way*. Don’t believe me? You think old things are just dust, Worthers Originals and money at Christmas? Wrong.
(*Ironic as almost everything- moving/breathing/pulling their trousers up real high- takes the very piss from the elderly.)
As an example look at this- the Goblin Shark, an ancient shark from the time when monsters roamed (which is still around):
Yes. You saw that correctly. The shark can SHOOT IT’S TEETH OUT OF IT’S MOUTH AT YOU and then REEL YOU BACK IN. Pretty fucking frightening, eh? Well in his latest movie: Gran Torino , Clint is TEN TIMES more frightening than that. Granted he doesn’t actually spit his dentures at someone, chomping their necks before pulling them back into his waiting maw but you get the impression that he doesn’t do that merely because he doesn’t want to, not because he couldn’t…
( A mildly spoilerific review of Gran Torino )
JmC
Stay off his lawn |
|
|