Tuesday, April 12, 2005

An Exercise In Sado-Masochistic Self-Flagellation

After consulting my technical director I've finally succeeded in removing the frustrating feature that only allows registered users to comment. You can now verbally abuse me as freely, anonymously and maliciously as you desire. Enjoy. Especially you Southend fans whose team I wish to annihilate, R'n'B fans whose music I wish to obliterate and Keanu Reeves fans whose idol I wish to exterminate. It's time to enter dialogue.

'C'mon. Let's be having you'.

Delia Smith wins her freestyling encounter against Good Grammar, 2005

Ed's Mood: Combative

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Runrig - Siol Ghoraidh

Monday, April 11, 2005

If It's Already Exploded, You Might As Well Eat It (Part Two)

I considered manipulating the theory of post-modernism for this entry in order to justify a radical reworking of the concept of chronology in order to incorporate events which took place before the start of part one. However, since even my pretentiousness has limits and I found 'Memento' a most bewildering film, I will be charitable to my readers by following the traditional narrative format and continuing to relate events in the order they occurred.

Following the traumatic clubbing experience, we returned to Amy's cosy home environment for some well-deserved rest, recuperation and, most importantly of all, an aural reassurance that real music had not been obliterated by the petrifying, utterly incomprehensible and horrific rise of Rubbish'N'Boring. Compared to the disgusting and hellish noise shattering our beleagured eardrums for the precedinng torturous four hours, Muse sounded like a heavenly orchestra of distorted guitars and epic, sweeping, operatic vocals (note: EPIC, SWEEPING and OPERATIC is NOT synonymous with 'awful effeminate shreeking banshee-trapped-in-a-helium-balloon-with-a-red-hot-poker-up-its-arse'). Comforted by this, Neil and I relocated to our allocated quarters for one of our infamous pseudo-intellectual dialogues about our favoured philosophical topic of the day, little realising that our female colleagues were huddled outside our door. Once we were appraised of this fact by some extremely unsubtle giggling and, more disturbingly, by me returning from the bathroom and having to throw two girls out of my bed and out of the room, we shrewdly decided to scare off the females by merging the topic of arthouse cinema into the infinitely more pressing and important concern of why supposed lesbians in Channel Five soft pornography are incapable of kissing properly and always restrict themselves to the most pathetic and insipid of closed-mouth pecks. Now I have, of course, only caught odd moments of this kind of material, purely by accident and those mysterious ineffable workings of fate, and have always changed the channel immediately (naturally), so my worry is a purely selfless and detached one for those who enjoy such programming. But come on! Saliva exchange is the bare minimum requirement. In the same way WWF fans like to believe that the object of their affections is an authentic macho sport fought by hardened musclebound athletes with 'killer punch combos', 'death slams' and '360 degree crotch kick and head lock finishes' as opposed to a hapless homoerotic charade acted out by overgrown babies in lycra nappies with such jaw-dropping moves as 'killer limp-wristed slap combos', 'death tickles' and '360 degree erotic footsie and passionate hug finishes', soft porn aficionados like to be able to believe, if only briefly, that true lesbian love is occurring on screen.

Anyway, this is all of course entirely beside the point. The point being that we victoriously defeated the females and once again upheld the inevitable superiority of man over the downtrodden beings that disturbingly originated from our spare ribs and are infuriatingly incapable of kissing each other properly. There exists an alternative explanation - that the girls simply got tired and went to bed - but this is plainly ridiculous.

Bournemouth escapades over, I returned to Essex with two principal aims: a) to complete my first two dissertations and commence research on the third, and b) to watch Colchester United achieve safety in League One* (*Old Division Two**) (**Old Division Three***) (***Division where all the crap teams who aren't quite as crap as Southend but are crapper than Rotherham haplessly stagnate). The first of these aims was completed after overcoming the nightmare paranoia that attacks when one is twelve hours into a fourteen hour working session and realises that one's biggest achievement in those twelve hours was finding a new, brilliant recipe for mashed potato:

1 harmless jacket potato
1 idiot
1/4 ounce of brain

Take potato. Do not put a fork through the potato so that air can escape. Put in microwave. Set to ten minutes. Wait until potato explodes. Scrape remains off sides of oven. Serve.

The second of these aims is currently under consideration from the Colchester United team, who are weighing the premise a) potential for bigger revenues, better quality opposition, greater opportunity to put oneself in the shop window and potential for better wages versus b) the need to put a bit of effort in for a couple of games. Fortunately, the spectacular ineptitude of Torquay United has made it apparent that the choice will be made for them. Since my last entry but one, it has been pointed out to me that Aidan Davison possesses, extraordinarily, the second best goalkeeping record in the division. I can only assume that the other goalkeepers in the league ritually tie lead weights to their feet, smear their gloves in butter, assume that the best way to put off an onrushing striker is to turn their backs on him and/or run towards the corner flag screaming with fear and think that they're top professional dodgeball players. Either that or they're all new kinds of awful.

Ed's Mood: Mellow

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: The Killers - Somebody Told Me