Friday, March 25, 2005

If It's Already Dead, You Might As Well Eat It (Part One)

Fate has a delicious sense of irony. Having paid £26 for the privilege, we expected Amy's 21st birthday meal in Bournemouth on Saturday to be an ecsquisitely refined affair, held in an beautiful and charming location of awe-inspiring aesthetic value with a relaxed, understated yet subtlely cultured ambience and a soothing gentile patronage. Our chosen establishment was the Red Panda (note: where the hell does this obsession with naming restaurants and pubs after ludicrously and plainly impossibly coloured wilderbeast come from??? Ever seen a 'Red Panda'? Or a 'Blue Boar'?? Extremely angry pandas and terminally ill boars notwithstanding..). Our expectations in the latter category, however, were annihilated into oblivion within ten seconds of entering, as we noticed to our horror a hideous and revolting obstacle in our path. A monstrous, betracksuited figure clothed entirely in the most impossibly disgusting of all shades of Basildon sewage-water blue-green dexterously fingering the mother of all cancer sticks and wearing the most utterly arbitrary and pointless orange sunglasses. A man singlehandedly redefining the meaning of 'incredibly annoying ostentatious arse'. Yes. The truth will out. We entered the restaurant confidently expecting high culture and walked straight into bloody Jimmy Saville.

Overcoming the reflex nausea that was an unavoidable consequence of such an unexpected and entirely unwanted surprise, we squeezed through the small gap in the room not occupied by Jimmy Saville's ego and arranged ourselves for an evening of wanton and gratuitous super-calorific gorging. I am extremely sorry to inform all vegetarians everywhere that I rendered your lifetime work and admirable sacrificial abstinence absolutely pointless in the space of about two hours, engaging in the most wanton and entirely unnecessary duck, beef and lamb dish genocide imaginable.

In order to justify this merciless devastation, I refer you to my (slightly tenuous) and brilliantly amoral life maxim of 'if it's already dead, you might as well eat it', a maxim incorporating the secondary utilitarian statement 'since someone's going to eat it, it should be eaten by the person who'd enjoy it the most and not worry about such issues as a) a conscience or b) morals'. I am that person. Utilitarianism is a fantastic theory, residing on the basic premise 'when presented with a choice, perform the action that will bring the greatest happiness to the greatest number'. We take such intense pleasure from consuming innocent animals that no pleasure on the part of vegetarians from our not eating animals could possibly overcome ours. Therefore, not only do I ingest meat and take pleasure from it, I am MORALLY CORRECT to do so and would be a WICKED and IMMORAL EVIL PERSON to refrain. A great consolation when you're chewing brazenly on the leg of an innocent young sheep brutally massacred before it could so much as say 'baaahhhh' or appear as an extra in Emmerdale.

Continuing our path of destruction, we relocated to Jumpin' Jacks, a place which can only be described as the chav equivalent of the ludicrously titled 'Zion' in the Matrix trilogy. In other words, a superbly pretentious underground orifice with a populace of numerous ridiculously dressed individuals performing seriously conceived but uniformly hilariously performed arhythmic gyrations to spectacularly unlistenable noise that can have emanated only from the most noxious armpits of music hell. Yes. That's right. Perpetual Rubbish'N'Boring, Garage Shite and Tip-Slop, punctuated by the occasional decent rock song just to infuriate us that bit more when the threatened and belated recovery was immediately quashed with the inexplicable and bewildering playing of yet another godawful R'n'B 'anthem'.

R'n'B Anthem (n.): A hilarious ironic misnomer for excruciatingly boring, uninspired and incomprehensibly popular minimalist ear-shattering noise accompanied by a singer desperately attempting to disguise the unbearable drudgery of the instrumentation behind him/her and the glaring lack of any kind of chorus by performing increasingly irritating vocal gymnastics (see Beyonce). Often excused with the words 'it's got a beat' (correct, rubbish percussion is indeed involved, as are drums in ALMOST ALL MUSIC YOU IDIOT DUMBARSES) or 'he/she's got a really good voice' (so bloody what?!? How does that compensate even infinitesimally for the appalling musicianship behind him/her?!? The singer could sound like a Janet Street Porter impersonator projectile vomiting Crazy Frogs with individual maddening Crazy Frog ringtones for all I care).

Unable to join the Burberry-capped brigade in their insensate rituals (see Ed's University Survival Guide Part Four, hosted at, we spent three hours in a trancelike state, maintaining our slim hold on sanity by performing short breathing exercises every half hour or so and visualising ourselves in a happy place with a decent music soundtrack. Never have I made so many utterly unnecessary toilet visits, knowing perfectly well that my bladder was a barren wasteland, just to gain some brief respite for my poor bleeding ears. Fortunately, my brain's excellent repression feature, blocking out all things potentially harmful to its well being, has enabled me to almost entirely forget the club's proceedings. And, finishing with another convenient philosophical theory just to suit myself, if I can't remember it, it never happened. Aaaaahhhhh. Peace.

Ed's Mood: Tranquil

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Franz Ferdinand - The Dark Of The Matinee

To be continued...

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Freud, Frenchmen and Faeces

Firstly, I feel that it has become increasingly essential to respond to a number of sardonic jibes aimed at my football team in recent times. Contrary to infuriatingly popular belief, Colchester United are not spectacularly underperforming because they 'suck', or indeed because of the infinitely more thoughtful and reasoned explanation that they 'suck balls' or various other unpleasant bodily parts. They are, in sharp contradistinction, underperforming as a consequence of a fundamental, sad and highly unfortunate misunderstanding of the expression 'to keep goal'.

Following the debacle that was Blackburn Rovers versus Colchester United, Aidan Davison indubitably proved, contrary to the popular belief that goalkeepers are intended to prevent balls entering the goal, that he personally considers 'goalkeeping' to be analogous to 'zookeeping':

AIDAN DAVISON: Does your goal look forlorn and empty? Do you have concern for the welfare and health of your goal? If so, then look no further. With the new Premier Deluxe 2005 Ball, your goal can regain his health and vitality! The Premier Deluxe 2005 provides the essential nutrients that your goal cannot be without - protein, carbohydrate, leather, stitching and the bladder of a pig. Nothing could be simpler. Just ensure that your goal ingests three to seven Balls an hour or so and you and your goal will become great friends. Me and my best buddies Colchester United Clock End and Colchester United Layer Road End would recommend the Premier Deluxe diet to ANY goal.

Feeding Instructions: Although your goal will accept Balls luxuriously placed in the corner prior to swallowing, nothing says 'friends forever' like a Ball rolled gently and harmlessly down the middle. Your goal is a playful creature, and will be at its happiest if the Ball a) spectacularly enters between your legs b) hilariously bounces off your backside or c) is entertainingly dropped with suspicious convenience right in front of a feeder. Some people need assistance in feeding goals - in order to achieve this, make sure they are able to feed your goal from close range by carefully dropping any Balls that come your way right in front of them. Should you accidentally block a Ball, ensure that someone else is at hand to complete the operation. It is best not to stand in front of your goal when someone is attempting to feed it. Provide kindly assistance by running away like a headless chicken on Prozac Plus from feeders who come anywhere near you and thereby ensuring that you are absolutely bloody nowhere near the Ball when the goal is fed.

As a consequence of this foolish misinterpretation, Aidan Davison is allowed to 'feed goals' nationwide to his heart's content, spectacularly failing to appreciate that other 'goalkeepers' maliciously and inhumanely starve the goal that they happen to be responsible for the welfare of. This, my friends, is the reason why Colchester United are languishing in 18th place in League One.

However, moving with extreme hastiness away from this distressing and soul-destroying subject, the principal topic reserved for my ire this week was the incorrigible and perpetually infuriating Sigmund Freud, the man who singlehandedly provides the ultimate test for 'suspension of disbelief', and more particularly my course - which states as a fundamental requirement that I am 'not allowed to criticise Freud'. For utterly incomprehensible reasons, we are not allowed to criticise a man who thought, in a victory for jaw-droppingly warped imagination over the vaguest semblance of rationality a) that young children believe that babies are born out of the arse as what can only be described as glorified faeces with faces, b) that girls have such appalling taste in mammal genitalia that they actually envy the male penis; a primitive, glorified, hairy, unfiltered tap and c) that because we are disgusted by the idea of sexual intercourse with our mothers we must therefore desire sexual intercourse with our mothers (surely the ultimate tautology?). The shocking, horrifying, brilliantly revelatory possibility that we are disgusted because we do NOT desire sex with our mothers is dismissed by Freud as a ridiculous and extreme notion. Much better to ignore the obvious explanation and construct a ludicrous, pseudo-scientific, pseudo-allegorical, pseudo-intellectual theory, painstakingly provide it with a stunningly pretentious title: 'The Oedipus Complex' (which admittedly sounds far more impressive than 'Why I Want To Have Sex With My Mum And Why You Should Too, You Annoying Normal Person') and then effectively oppose any criticism with the argument 'that's not true cos you're repressed! Ahaha! Na na na na na'. But the biggest problem with Freud's theory is that the text interpreted by psychoanalysis is effectively a passive vessel - open to any kind of insensate and stupefyingly ridiculous theory:


FREUD: Hello!
FREUD: Ah, I deduce from that that you desire sex with your mother.
FREUD: Oh, and that clearly reveals that you're afraid of the female genitals because they resemble a mutilated penis.
FREUD: And that strongly suggests that you regard the vagina as being furnished with teeth and are therefore afraid of it biting off your penis. Interesting, interesting.
FREUD: Ah, excellent! You can't contradict me! Ahaha! Watch as I come up with increasingly ludicrous but infuriatingly unfalsifiable theories!
FREUD: You wish to travel across the Atlantic tithed to a speedboat using two large sausage dogs as amazing phallic skis.
FREUD: You wish to impregnate a coffee machine.
FREUD: You wish to play strip poker with Mr. Creosote.
FREUD: You wish to ride an amazing magical flying unicorn wielding a Star Wars light sabre whilst singing the Austrian national anthem in an amusing falsetto. And then have sex with it.
FREUD: Oh I've got a good one. This really is the craziest one yet. Get this! You... *don't*... wish to have sex with your mother! Haha! Ludicrous!
MATT DAMON: MA...oh come on! Be realistic now.

This ridiculous ban on criticism requires the acceptance of such extraordinarily fanciful notions as the Eiffel Tower not being simply an impressive feat of craftsmanship but a gigantic metal erect penis which singlehandedly compensates for the poorly endowed Frenchmen who built it. It also necessitates the application of this same theory to anything which remotely resembles the male organ. The idea of playing my clarinet has lost all its attraction after this particular revelation. Most disturbingly of all, Freud is destroying my hold on reality to the extent whereby I increasingly have the worrying sensation that any object I pass may, without any prior warning, suddenly metamorphosise into a penis. Oh, and that all people are desperate to excrete faeces in the optimistic hope that it will miraculously become a baby. The situation is becoming increasingly desperate.

Ed's Mood: Infuriated

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Snow Patrol - Run