It was my grandma's birthday today, and as such I ate far too much. We went to a place called The Orchard, which is a Beefeater in her general area, and I had forgotten what it was like to go to a Beefeater.
I had a large steak with any extras they were willing to give me - barbecue sauce, onion rings, the full works. I felt a little like Danny Wallace when he was doing his "Yes Man" experiment, in which he said "yes" to every yes or no question he was asked for six months.
"Barbecue Sauce?"
"Yes."
"Onion Rings?"
"Yes."
"Salad?"
"Yes."
"Side-steak?"
"Dear God, Yes."
Anyway, not having fully felt the effects of the large steak, I decided it would be a good idea to stuff my face further with a Chocolate Fudge Brownie Sundae (which incidentally was not a sundae, as it was not in a tall glass), which really made me feel ill. It also gave me an ice-cream headache, or "brainfreeze," which I haven't suffered from for a number of years.
Then, when we got back to my grandma's house, she forced birthday cake on us. It was lovely cake, and I don't regret it for a second, but I felt very bloated and quite queasy whenever I even thought about food for the rest of the evening.
Unsurprisingly, I didn't have dinner.
Monday 17 November 2008
Festive Hell [15-11-08]
I tried to do my first bit of Christmas shopping today, and I emphasise the word tried to what some call an unnecessary degree. I headed into central Reading with all the best intentions - I had vague ideas of what I wanted to get for people, and thought, somewhat arrogantly, that once I started shopping it would become much easier, and the ideas would become much more solid in my mind.
Wishful thinking, as it turned out.
There was literally nothing to give me the slightest touch of inspiration in town - I wandered around the shops for over two hours and found nothing I wanted to buy for anyone. Now, I have a fairly easy time Christmas shopping compared to other people - I have to buy presents for my mum, my dad, my brother and my grandparents - in my group of friends we don't tend to bother about Christmas presents, we just worry about birthdays seeing as we are all skint students or ex-students. But even this fairly minor task was too mammoth for the poor shopping facilities in Reading.
I wanted to get my parents a fairly simple present, which I'm not going to mention on here in the slim chance that they might read it, a present which, any other year, could be found in any decent department store. But not this year - I hunted around all the major department stores we have access to in Reading and found el zilcho.
So I came away having bought nothing for anyone else, but with a long list of ideas for presents I wanted to ask for myself. Seems selfish, but I blame Reading.
I get the feeling I might be doing most of my Christmas shopping online this year...
Wishful thinking, as it turned out.
There was literally nothing to give me the slightest touch of inspiration in town - I wandered around the shops for over two hours and found nothing I wanted to buy for anyone. Now, I have a fairly easy time Christmas shopping compared to other people - I have to buy presents for my mum, my dad, my brother and my grandparents - in my group of friends we don't tend to bother about Christmas presents, we just worry about birthdays seeing as we are all skint students or ex-students. But even this fairly minor task was too mammoth for the poor shopping facilities in Reading.
I wanted to get my parents a fairly simple present, which I'm not going to mention on here in the slim chance that they might read it, a present which, any other year, could be found in any decent department store. But not this year - I hunted around all the major department stores we have access to in Reading and found el zilcho.
So I came away having bought nothing for anyone else, but with a long list of ideas for presents I wanted to ask for myself. Seems selfish, but I blame Reading.
I get the feeling I might be doing most of my Christmas shopping online this year...
Friday 14 November 2008
A Big Ball of Hate [14-11-08]
After having watched no more than forty minutes of this year's Children In Need, it became apparent to me that the show is everything I hate rolled up into one giant ball of televisual garbage, sprinkled with Wogan-flavoured word-shit with just a dash of total and utter misery.
I have nothing at all against the charity - I don't "give generously" to it, because there are other charities out there which require more of my attention, less well-advertised charities which deal with far more important things. Which is not to say that I don't think helping children worldwide is worthwhile, but if I get dragged into this discussion again I will do something I may one day regret.
From the moment I started watching, when they rolled out a half-hour long segment devoted to the vapid dross-fest that is Strictly Come Dancing, I knew it would be the same as it is every year. The first face I saw was that of Fearne Cotton, and I instinctively asked myself "why?" Not "why did they get Fearne Cotton to host this?", but just "why?" as in "why Fearne Cotton?" What is the point of her? She seems to pop up presenting everything, but with no real presenting talent. A moment of watching her pretend to speak to Bruce Forsyth on the phone also made me realise that whoever writes the stuff she is supposed to say is an idiot and should be fired. From a cannon.
Get you with your pull back and reveal.
Anyway, the one positive thing I got from it was the preview of the Doctor Who Christmas Special, which seems to be almost entirely built around provoking rumour - "The Next Doctor"? Announced shortly before David Tennant announces the fact that he is leaving the show? We all know that David Morrissey will simply be playing an impostor, or a Doctor from a parallel universe, or something of the sort, and will not be taking over from David Tennant. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and predict that David Morrissey's character, whoever he may be, will die in the Christmas episode.
Let's see if I'm still writing this blog after it's been shown...
Unfortunately, the one positive part of the evening was dismally short, at a mere two minutes long. Then we were "treated" to a performance by Leon Jackson, who I'm told was the winner of one of the X Factors.
Now, I never thought I'd find myself getting angry about this, but I don't know how there is someone like Leon Jackson, or Leona Lewis is another good example, who is so prominent in the press, and yet I know nothing about them. I didn't even know what Leon Jackson looked like until last night (turns out he's pasty, scrawny and buck-toothed - is that considered attractive nowadays? Who knows. I thought the point of these manufactured popstars - Girls Aloud, I'm looking at you - was that they were pretty to look at, but not much else. If they're ugly and can't sing or dance or do something in an organ-grinding monkey fashion, what is the point?), but I still know nothing about who or what he is.
I was looking forward to the episode of QI specially broadcast for Chiddlers In Need, which thankfully wasn't cut as short as the Doctor Who preview, but once again CIN ruined it for me. In place of one of the comedians usually placed on the panel, Terry Wogan took a seat, and began to take the whole thing rather too seriously. Stephen Fry did well to seem as though he was interested in what the Irish dinosaur had to say, but it felt rather limp to me. David Mitchell's rants were as entertaining as always, though.
All in all, a bit of a damp squib of a charity telethon.
I have nothing at all against the charity - I don't "give generously" to it, because there are other charities out there which require more of my attention, less well-advertised charities which deal with far more important things. Which is not to say that I don't think helping children worldwide is worthwhile, but if I get dragged into this discussion again I will do something I may one day regret.
From the moment I started watching, when they rolled out a half-hour long segment devoted to the vapid dross-fest that is Strictly Come Dancing, I knew it would be the same as it is every year. The first face I saw was that of Fearne Cotton, and I instinctively asked myself "why?" Not "why did they get Fearne Cotton to host this?", but just "why?" as in "why Fearne Cotton?" What is the point of her? She seems to pop up presenting everything, but with no real presenting talent. A moment of watching her pretend to speak to Bruce Forsyth on the phone also made me realise that whoever writes the stuff she is supposed to say is an idiot and should be fired. From a cannon.
Get you with your pull back and reveal.
Anyway, the one positive thing I got from it was the preview of the Doctor Who Christmas Special, which seems to be almost entirely built around provoking rumour - "The Next Doctor"? Announced shortly before David Tennant announces the fact that he is leaving the show? We all know that David Morrissey will simply be playing an impostor, or a Doctor from a parallel universe, or something of the sort, and will not be taking over from David Tennant. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and predict that David Morrissey's character, whoever he may be, will die in the Christmas episode.
Let's see if I'm still writing this blog after it's been shown...
Unfortunately, the one positive part of the evening was dismally short, at a mere two minutes long. Then we were "treated" to a performance by Leon Jackson, who I'm told was the winner of one of the X Factors.
Now, I never thought I'd find myself getting angry about this, but I don't know how there is someone like Leon Jackson, or Leona Lewis is another good example, who is so prominent in the press, and yet I know nothing about them. I didn't even know what Leon Jackson looked like until last night (turns out he's pasty, scrawny and buck-toothed - is that considered attractive nowadays? Who knows. I thought the point of these manufactured popstars - Girls Aloud, I'm looking at you - was that they were pretty to look at, but not much else. If they're ugly and can't sing or dance or do something in an organ-grinding monkey fashion, what is the point?), but I still know nothing about who or what he is.
I was looking forward to the episode of QI specially broadcast for Chiddlers In Need, which thankfully wasn't cut as short as the Doctor Who preview, but once again CIN ruined it for me. In place of one of the comedians usually placed on the panel, Terry Wogan took a seat, and began to take the whole thing rather too seriously. Stephen Fry did well to seem as though he was interested in what the Irish dinosaur had to say, but it felt rather limp to me. David Mitchell's rants were as entertaining as always, though.
All in all, a bit of a damp squib of a charity telethon.
Strange Observations [13-11-08]
I had one of those bizarre little observations that spring into your head with the slightest provocation today. I was minding my own business and suddenly this thought appeared with little or no warning.
Why aren't all the characters in the Harry Potter books obese?
They seem to eat a banquet for every meal - there are repeated descriptions of the amazing food laid out in front of them, and other descriptions of how stuffed they always are after meals. They can get any food they could possibly want, at any time of the day or night, simply by getting a house-elf to bring it to them, and they seem to do very little exercise. Quidditch may burn a few calories, admittedly, but they don't play all that often.
The only possible explanation I can think of is that they simply magic themselves thin once they start getting podgy, but isn't that almost the same as bulimia? Evacuating all the food from your body, either through magic or the act of sticking a finger down your throat, is essentially the same thing.
Therefore, the only possible conclusion I can come to is that JK Rowling hates fat people, and encourages them to turn to bulimia in order to shed their fat and become part of her race of stick-thin ubermenschen. That's right, JK Rowling is sexually aroused by the idea of fat kids vomiting.
Some might say this is libelous, but you've just got to look at the facts...
Why aren't all the characters in the Harry Potter books obese?
They seem to eat a banquet for every meal - there are repeated descriptions of the amazing food laid out in front of them, and other descriptions of how stuffed they always are after meals. They can get any food they could possibly want, at any time of the day or night, simply by getting a house-elf to bring it to them, and they seem to do very little exercise. Quidditch may burn a few calories, admittedly, but they don't play all that often.
The only possible explanation I can think of is that they simply magic themselves thin once they start getting podgy, but isn't that almost the same as bulimia? Evacuating all the food from your body, either through magic or the act of sticking a finger down your throat, is essentially the same thing.
Therefore, the only possible conclusion I can come to is that JK Rowling hates fat people, and encourages them to turn to bulimia in order to shed their fat and become part of her race of stick-thin ubermenschen. That's right, JK Rowling is sexually aroused by the idea of fat kids vomiting.
Some might say this is libelous, but you've just got to look at the facts...
Thursday 13 November 2008
Boosh, Boosh, Stronger Than A Moose [12-11-08]
I went to see The Mighty Boosh Live in Brighton last night, and absolutely loved it. As a longtime fan, everything I could have wanted was in there, different characters and fun little sketches (Noel Fielding's turn as higher being Tony Harrison was particularly good, with some decent banter between him and a heckler, and Fielding losing his foothold and creating the illusion of Harrison's head slipping down the back of a chair), as well as live music from the Boosh Band.
However, I can see why it got such terrible reviews. There were too many little in-jokes, references to the series and stuff that seemed to be reserved only for fans of the show. For example, anyone who hadn't seen the show before would have been totally bemused by the appearance of the Crack Fox, and people may have been offended by the Hitcher's repeated use of rape jokes (although as he stated, they were funny simply because it was a raven doing the actual raping).
The night was topped off by the appearance of Eleanor, Rich Fulcher's disturbingly sexual female character, calling bingo numbers ("4, the number of Arctic Monkeys I've had in my vagina"), ultimately leading up to the number "666," after which the curtains opened to reveal the entire cast of Boosh dressed up as old grannies to sing "Nanageddon," followed by the raucous punk smash originally played by Terminal Margaret "I Did A Shit On Your Mum," and finally "Charlie," a metal song about a living blob of pink bubblegum.
All in all, a truly bizarre, but bizarrely wonderful night's entertainment. I now want to speak Chavese, Vince Noir's proposed future language, a mixture of Chinese and Chav.
Also, my good friend Meg was driven to jealous insanity as she discovered that, at one point, I had been no more than two feet away from Noel Fielding, wearing a T-Shirt with his likeness scrawled all over the front. I just wanted to note that down so there was a copy of my triumph in the annals of history.
However, I can see why it got such terrible reviews. There were too many little in-jokes, references to the series and stuff that seemed to be reserved only for fans of the show. For example, anyone who hadn't seen the show before would have been totally bemused by the appearance of the Crack Fox, and people may have been offended by the Hitcher's repeated use of rape jokes (although as he stated, they were funny simply because it was a raven doing the actual raping).
The night was topped off by the appearance of Eleanor, Rich Fulcher's disturbingly sexual female character, calling bingo numbers ("4, the number of Arctic Monkeys I've had in my vagina"), ultimately leading up to the number "666," after which the curtains opened to reveal the entire cast of Boosh dressed up as old grannies to sing "Nanageddon," followed by the raucous punk smash originally played by Terminal Margaret "I Did A Shit On Your Mum," and finally "Charlie," a metal song about a living blob of pink bubblegum.
All in all, a truly bizarre, but bizarrely wonderful night's entertainment. I now want to speak Chavese, Vince Noir's proposed future language, a mixture of Chinese and Chav.
Also, my good friend Meg was driven to jealous insanity as she discovered that, at one point, I had been no more than two feet away from Noel Fielding, wearing a T-Shirt with his likeness scrawled all over the front. I just wanted to note that down so there was a copy of my triumph in the annals of history.
Tuesday 11 November 2008
Ch-ch-changes [11-11-08]
Recently, a bizarre change has occurred in my life. I realise that a lot of people won't have any idea of the state of my life before the change, so I'll tell you a little about myself.
My name's Phil, and until recently, I was a young, unemployed and chronically single male, fresh out of college with a fistful of decent A-Level results, full of the joys of spring. Well, full of the joys of spring is an overstatement - I was fairly grumpy already, and the fact that the majority of my friends seemed to have lost interest in spending time with me. My health was not in the best condition it had ever been in, in fact I had been under the knife three times for the same condition, and knew I would have to go under a fourth time. I was single and alone, with a long, lonely gap year stretching out in front of me - the only people not moving on to university were leaving the country for the majority of the year. All in all, life was not going so well.
However, in late August of this year, after three months of moping around feeling sorry for myself, I got a job at a well-known stationery shop, full-time, five days a week. When I began, it didn't seem like it would change my life for the better - the hours were horrible, the people were not exactly welcoming, the pay was a little disappointing and I began to lose the will to live. I would have gone off the rails if it weren't for one person.
I saw her on my first few days, working at the tills in the days, and began to feel something which I hadn't felt in over a year. I began talking to her more and more, and eventually the feelings began to grow into something which I knew was special.
Her name was Vicky, and she was smart and funny, attractive and appreciated my truly bizarre sense of humour. Soon enough, we arranged to go out to the cinema (oh yes, I know how to treat the ladies), and something began - holding hands, hugging and kissing, and we arranged to go out again.
A few weeks later and here we are: I am unemployed once again, as even her presence couldn't stave off the insanity which would eventually engulf me, but I am no longer single. I've never felt so close to someone so early in the relationship, and it's incredible.
But enough slushy stuff. I've tried doing a daily blog before and failed miserably, but now I feel like I have some good stuff to say. I'm going to try and make a post for every day - it may not be on the day, but I will date it in the title so it can be identified. They'll be short entries, basically about an event or an observation that has occurred during the day - some days it will be more interesting than others, I will admit, but it's mostly to keep my writing skills sharp for when I start uni next year.
I'll do a better thing tomorrow, as it's quite late at the moment and my writing isn't as good as it could be.
Keep safe.
My name's Phil, and until recently, I was a young, unemployed and chronically single male, fresh out of college with a fistful of decent A-Level results, full of the joys of spring. Well, full of the joys of spring is an overstatement - I was fairly grumpy already, and the fact that the majority of my friends seemed to have lost interest in spending time with me. My health was not in the best condition it had ever been in, in fact I had been under the knife three times for the same condition, and knew I would have to go under a fourth time. I was single and alone, with a long, lonely gap year stretching out in front of me - the only people not moving on to university were leaving the country for the majority of the year. All in all, life was not going so well.
However, in late August of this year, after three months of moping around feeling sorry for myself, I got a job at a well-known stationery shop, full-time, five days a week. When I began, it didn't seem like it would change my life for the better - the hours were horrible, the people were not exactly welcoming, the pay was a little disappointing and I began to lose the will to live. I would have gone off the rails if it weren't for one person.
I saw her on my first few days, working at the tills in the days, and began to feel something which I hadn't felt in over a year. I began talking to her more and more, and eventually the feelings began to grow into something which I knew was special.
Her name was Vicky, and she was smart and funny, attractive and appreciated my truly bizarre sense of humour. Soon enough, we arranged to go out to the cinema (oh yes, I know how to treat the ladies), and something began - holding hands, hugging and kissing, and we arranged to go out again.
A few weeks later and here we are: I am unemployed once again, as even her presence couldn't stave off the insanity which would eventually engulf me, but I am no longer single. I've never felt so close to someone so early in the relationship, and it's incredible.
But enough slushy stuff. I've tried doing a daily blog before and failed miserably, but now I feel like I have some good stuff to say. I'm going to try and make a post for every day - it may not be on the day, but I will date it in the title so it can be identified. They'll be short entries, basically about an event or an observation that has occurred during the day - some days it will be more interesting than others, I will admit, but it's mostly to keep my writing skills sharp for when I start uni next year.
I'll do a better thing tomorrow, as it's quite late at the moment and my writing isn't as good as it could be.
Keep safe.
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