Despite the fact that I just wrote that last post, and I'm pretty sure that it's about 2pm on 31st July, it seems to have gone back in time, meaning that I correctly predicted the heatwave and the Soho power cuts before they happened.
I'm bathing in my new seer-like powers right now, and awaiting a band of followers to feel this exciting, new disturbance in the aether and drift into my sordid corner of North London, where they will set up camp and make me tea. Tea, do you hear me?! Tea!
Monday, July 31, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
It Got Quite Hot In Here
But thankfully, I have not taken off any clothes.
Service has resumed after the heatwave, another example of the crushing mediocrity of Britain. I agree it was so hot that I wanted to crawl out of my skin and rub orange calippos directly onto my internal organs, but come on. I'm sure quite a large percentage of the known world gets quite a lot hotter than this, and their roads don't bloody MELT. And I'm sure someone was on the radio the other day saying that it was so hot that they had "run out" of electricity in Soho. Travesty. How will people know to buy TDK and Sanyo products now??
Anyway, the whole heatwave was in fact engineered by a secret cadre of tabloid newspaper owners, who for the past 30 years have been pumping CFCs into the ozone layer at the North Pole using huge polar bear-shaped cans of deodorant, thus creating hot weather that enables them to publish with impunity 26 pages every day dedicated to pictures of secretaries sunbathing in bikinis in Hyde Park and lions eating ice lollies made of blood.
Justrestingmyeyes here, giving you fresh, up-to-the-minute insight on the fact it was hot two weeks ago. Breaking! There may be some kind of trouble somewhere in the Middle East...? I'll get my people on it.
Service has resumed after the heatwave, another example of the crushing mediocrity of Britain. I agree it was so hot that I wanted to crawl out of my skin and rub orange calippos directly onto my internal organs, but come on. I'm sure quite a large percentage of the known world gets quite a lot hotter than this, and their roads don't bloody MELT. And I'm sure someone was on the radio the other day saying that it was so hot that they had "run out" of electricity in Soho. Travesty. How will people know to buy TDK and Sanyo products now??
Anyway, the whole heatwave was in fact engineered by a secret cadre of tabloid newspaper owners, who for the past 30 years have been pumping CFCs into the ozone layer at the North Pole using huge polar bear-shaped cans of deodorant, thus creating hot weather that enables them to publish with impunity 26 pages every day dedicated to pictures of secretaries sunbathing in bikinis in Hyde Park and lions eating ice lollies made of blood.
Justrestingmyeyes here, giving you fresh, up-to-the-minute insight on the fact it was hot two weeks ago. Breaking! There may be some kind of trouble somewhere in the Middle East...? I'll get my people on it.
Friday, July 07, 2006
On Time
It is a crime how little I do with my time. Really. I've just had two days off from working - two whole days, two fecund, juicy, plump, delicious days which I could have used to do one of thirty million things... I could have dedicated two days to complete and utter hedonism, supped champagne from a maiden's shoe, smoked opium till my knees bled, and generally dandy-ed it up one time. I could have enriched my soul by going and getting mildly freaked out by video installations at the Tate Modern, then having to sit down for a bit and think about normal things like scones. I could have done some washing, for Christ's sake. But no. I did nothing.
Oh...I may have stood on a snail yesterday, if that counts. But seeing as I don't have a psychotic hatred of crunchy invertebrates, or indeed a garden, it wasn't really doing something constructive, rather a guilt-ridden but secretly satisfying happy coincidence.
Point being, most people would look at a stretch of 48 hours without going further than the corner shop and call it a weekend. But then, things are designed for you to not do anything at the weekend. You've got your papers with thousands of supplements that will easily take you through till Sunday afternoon. You've got your sport on the telly. You can go to the pub at 12pm without looking like a lonely, snuffly drunkard. Most importantly, everyone else is in the same boat. Everyone can gather, rosy-cheeked, in the local park for a huge smiley collective game of rounders, or whatever the hell it is that well-adjusted city types do nowadays. You get a day off in the week, and you're on your own, with very little to do.
But! I can go to the post office at 3.45pm and THERE WILL BE NO QUEUE! Have that!
Alas, I have nothing to post... Ah, life.
Oh...I may have stood on a snail yesterday, if that counts. But seeing as I don't have a psychotic hatred of crunchy invertebrates, or indeed a garden, it wasn't really doing something constructive, rather a guilt-ridden but secretly satisfying happy coincidence.
Point being, most people would look at a stretch of 48 hours without going further than the corner shop and call it a weekend. But then, things are designed for you to not do anything at the weekend. You've got your papers with thousands of supplements that will easily take you through till Sunday afternoon. You've got your sport on the telly. You can go to the pub at 12pm without looking like a lonely, snuffly drunkard. Most importantly, everyone else is in the same boat. Everyone can gather, rosy-cheeked, in the local park for a huge smiley collective game of rounders, or whatever the hell it is that well-adjusted city types do nowadays. You get a day off in the week, and you're on your own, with very little to do.
But! I can go to the post office at 3.45pm and THERE WILL BE NO QUEUE! Have that!
Alas, I have nothing to post... Ah, life.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Crushing disappointment
I guess that everyone kind of feels the same when they start a blog.
1. Mild surprise followed by crushing disappointment that the blindingly witty and original title you've come up with for your blog has already been taken. Leading to:
2. Weird, unsettling thoughts related to the size of the world, the similarity of the people within it, and how a art-school Manhattan hipster has had exactly the same thoughts as you, when, let's face it, you have about as much in common an art-school Manhattan hipster as you do with, oh I don't know, linoleum.
3. Sudden start - isn't linoleum an Americanism? Art-school Manhattan hipster leaking into thought processes. Assume foetal position, wherein:
4. Massive inferiority complex crashes through cortex, as you realise that in the time it took you to look up linoleum, 26,000 people started blogs. No-one will ever see it, no-one cares. In fact, there are so many blogs that rules of probability state that someone, somewhere, has written precisely the same first post, word for word, as you. Head spinning, but then:
5. Realisation settles on your shoulders like a well-worn poncho - no-one will see it, so it doesn't matter one teensy bit, you can say whatever you damn hell ass want to. Sun shines, birds sing, blog starts, world keeps turning.
It's a rollercoaster of emotions. Onwards and upwards...
1. Mild surprise followed by crushing disappointment that the blindingly witty and original title you've come up with for your blog has already been taken. Leading to:
2. Weird, unsettling thoughts related to the size of the world, the similarity of the people within it, and how a art-school Manhattan hipster has had exactly the same thoughts as you, when, let's face it, you have about as much in common an art-school Manhattan hipster as you do with, oh I don't know, linoleum.
3. Sudden start - isn't linoleum an Americanism? Art-school Manhattan hipster leaking into thought processes. Assume foetal position, wherein:
4. Massive inferiority complex crashes through cortex, as you realise that in the time it took you to look up linoleum, 26,000 people started blogs. No-one will ever see it, no-one cares. In fact, there are so many blogs that rules of probability state that someone, somewhere, has written precisely the same first post, word for word, as you. Head spinning, but then:
5. Realisation settles on your shoulders like a well-worn poncho - no-one will see it, so it doesn't matter one teensy bit, you can say whatever you damn hell ass want to. Sun shines, birds sing, blog starts, world keeps turning.
It's a rollercoaster of emotions. Onwards and upwards...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)