Lottery wins and Bestival

Once again, the televised holocaust that is Eastenders has forced me to retreat, a broken man, to bitch and moan like a bitter child into my blog. I can think of no sound explanation as to why any sane person would watch this abomination, outside perhaps, of a coma or sincerely expressed death threat. As far as I can tell, all that has been filmed is a horde of screeching harpies and shit flinging apes, locked together in a brutal pit of despair until all that remains is a steaming pile of crow pecked corpses.

I´ve been somewhat distracted this week, my dreams still haunted by the sight of that sledge, hurtling murderously towards my face. That´s what I´ve been using as an excuse for my night time incontinence this week anyway. Other than that, work has even more than usual been making the idea of a crippling car accident, a dream like fantasy paradise. I shouldn´t complain though of course, I could be down a mine, on a street corner or, God-forbid, working in Aldershot. The problem is, I can´t help but think I deserve a lottery win. I may not have given up everything to work for the Peace Corps, I don´t help out in a soup kitchen, look after sick animals, or even be a particularly nice person, but damn it, I´ve got it coming to me. Not that I even play the lottery, my hopes are banked entirely on having a winning ticket posted to me, or finding one stuck to the sole of my shoe. Though thinking about it, the odds of that happening don´t seem that much more extreme than winning the thing via more traditional methods. Once you get into those sort of odds it really doesn´t add any extra layer of absurdity, like my phone call from Cheryl Cole, it´s just not going to happen.

To edge cautiously towards a more optomistic view, I have made the exciting purchase of Bestival tickets this week. I am reliably informed that I went two years ago but my memory, or lack thereof, makes a convincing case for the opposition. Looking through the photographic evidence, I could well have been at the Battle of the Somme in fancy dress. There was, on the first morning, the equivilant rain fall of that experienced by the Brazilian rainforest during the 1980´s. We woke on the Saturday to find our feet in a puddle which had formed at the end of our incredibly poorly placed tent, having seeped in through the tear made by a man on so many drugs he no longer appeared even remotely human. He had, presumably lost and confused, stumbled across our pitch and tried to make a nest out of our outer sheet. Upon returning to find this fetid cock, wrapped in the brutalised remnants of our only protection from the pounding elements, I was typically compassionate and understanding of his condition. By which I mean I was able, barely, to prevent myself from bludeoning him to death with the nearest available blunt instrument and using his skin to repair the damage he had so spectacularly created.

So, waking sog and miserable, I consoled myself with breakfast of vodka and the rapid ingestion of as many intoxicants as I could cram into every orifice. My girlfriend decided she preferred to go down a different route initially, chosing instead to sit in a patch of mud and cry hysterically, but she soon came around. I can´t wait for this year...

White Deathly Turf

The continuous attempts I make throughout my life to pretend to be normal, and in some extreme cases, even civilised or sophisticated, have lead me to some weird places. This weekend for instance I've been to San Moritz, home to the world´s smallest gene pool. The lakes freeze in the winter only to ensure the locals don't get too used to swimming with their webbed feet and take permanently to the water, to form some superior sub-human species capable of taking us on in planetary war fare.

I've been skiing, mercifully without significant internal bleeding or loss of any limb or appendige I'm overly attached to. In fact I seem to feel more and more comfortable on skis. So much so that returning to this god forsaken 'walking' business feels like a backward step. I might as well travel home on a horse and cart, shooting any Frenchman on sight. On refelection, I guess some things don't work out for the best in the long run.

After surviving skiing I felt confident enough in the continuation of all the best genes my balls could muster. So I felt ok starting sledging. I felt ok that is , until after a brief, brisk burst down the run, I exceeded my minimal comfort limit and crashed spectacularly into a solid bank of ice. The initial impact, atomic though it was, seemed to cause no serious damage. I gingerly checked myself and seeing there was no spinal fluid running freely from my ears, mouth or nose, mentally thanked the god I know doesn't exist.

This was where my secondary problem started. Having given such orgasmic clearance to the fact that I wasn´t going to be having my girlfriend wipe my bum for the rest of my pathetic life, I had forgotten that I was lying horizontially in the middle of a fucking sledge run. This blissful spell was gloriously broken with the dramatic entrance of a member of cool runnings, steaming head first into the rest of what seemed like my very short life.

Luckily, the driver of this harbringe of death took my mental connection and realised that self sacrifice was the only way foward. To avoid me, she would have to go over the barrier and never see her kids again. Frankly, at that point, fuck her kids.

She survived. Beers were bought in hearty recompense. Each realising that this went in no way to balance what had happened. Me, not giving a shit.

The Swiss Experience

There's a common misunderstanding amongst the unfamiliar, that Swiss public transport offers some kind of euphoric, nirvana like experience. Clearly this is bullshit. Those of us with the London tube as a comparable know that in reality it is far, far better than that.

Here in Switzerland, immediately upon entering the palatial chariot of a train carriage, you are enthusiastically fellated by a supermodel. Should you wish, you can eat the finest lobster, cooked exclusively by Jamie Oliver, and have the bastard summarily executed in front of you afterwards.

My experience of any journey of similar length in London taught me that I may as well cut off the tips of my fingers and drag myself with the bloody stumps through a path of gritted salt. The chances of reaching my destination would be improved and it would certainly make for a far more pleasurable experience.

This glorious life that Switzerland has bestowed on me has not exactly been reciprocated with a demonstration of my immediate willingness to adapt to the culture. I still spend most of my time speaking to English people, mostly in English pubs. Take the language, for instance. I’ve watched far too many war films to take it seriously. Everything sounds like it should be said through barbed wire.

Language has never been a forte of mine, ranking about on par with my ability to menstruate. It is, however, shameful that after two years I can only can order beer and ask where the toilets are. The astute among you will note the subtle connection.

I will try and learn at some point, just as soon as I’ve gotten over this chronic laziness. Anyway, I'm stopping before I get too introspective and start talking how about mummy didn't hug me enough and how that led to my pole dancing.

iPhone and TV battles continued

Like every man, woman and child on the planet, I recently bought an iphone. I did so under the pretence of actually needing the thing, while in reality using the shiny new toy to momentarily distract me from the soul crushing, pointless banality of my existence, as well as the plummeting journey towards senility, incontinence and a potentially lonely, painful death that myself and all I care about are taking at this very moment.

So, the iphone really hit the spot.

One of the features that impresses me the most, apart obviously from the 24 hour access to hard core pornography, is the Google map. Having as I do, the directional sense of a potato, this will inevitably become of slightly more use than oxygen. I will no longer get lost wandering around down town Zurich, trying to find the Pfister store so I can stand for hours and hours outside laughing at the sign.

So I mentioned in the last post about the frequent god awful TV programmes I am subjected to at the delicate, and yet cruel, cruel hands of my girlfriend. A typical conversation will start with a fair discussion, her generally claiming that Hollyoaks, for example, isn’t something she has to engage her brain for after a long day at work. I will retort that she could achieve the exact same result by going and sitting in the corner, staring vacantly at a crack in the wall. The mighty logic of this suggestion will have no sway however. I’ll briefly toy with the idea of using my weight and power advantage to brutally beat her until she relinquishes control of the remote, but generally by this point she’ll have threatened to withhold blowjobs, and thus the argument is lost.

Anyway, tonight is revenge for all that raping of my masculinity. Man U versus, if the press are to be believed, David Beckham’s haircut. I got home early, put Sky Sports on, and pressed the button on the remote that ensures it controls only the stereo. This will utterly foil her. Worst case scenario, I watch the game to a backdrop of All Saints at 50 decibels.

Blogging, why?

So, being the mindless, sheep like fuckwit that I am, I have copied my friends and set up this blog. I will no doubt soon tire of writing it and move onto the next shiny new distraction, but for the mean time it will serve as a good way of splattering my ill judged thoughts across the internet like a wet fart.


As I mention in the summary, this is really just the result of finding a way to entertain myself while the tv is being held hostage to the latest horse wank programme that my darling girlfriend is using as a substitute for Valium. Currently on is the crime against humanity that is the film '88 minutes'. I've always thought Pacino was overrated, especially in Scarface. Any film where someone is shot more than twice, doesn't die instantly, and is not a robot, should have all copies stamped into dust and burned. So far the plot makes as much sense as a voluntary weekend in Staines.

My body is currently delivering a stern message in the form of a hangover. A hangover of such intensity that I am barely able to type without wishing to bludgeon my head against the screen until the agony is ended with the sweet release of death by blood loss. This was all well worth it however, initiated as it was by a dinner party on a scale I have not witnessed previously or, judging by how drunk I got, will be invited to experience again. There were seven courses. Each of them exotic and so delicious I genuinely felt like I was having a shuddering orgasm with each bite. I can't even cook food in seven different ways. The only way I could compete would be to lace some baked beans with class a drugs. Which is not a bad idea. Crack pizza anyone?

Right, bored now. And Top Gear is on. Assuming I don't die of liver failure during the night I will reassess this blogging nonsense tomorrow.