Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
I didn’t get to do much when I was a young’un. I was brought up in a fairly dodgy area, surrounded by neighbours with pervy eyeballing movements and the odd Polish person. People would sometimes hang about after dark and try to steal cars (often failing quite miserably), and there was an old couple a few doors down that persisted in calling me Bartley. My parents never dared to be so rude as to correct them.
I was never allowed to go outside on my own until I was about 10. My poor mother lived in fear of me heading down to the park, sniffing some pritt stick and pretending to get all “high” and stuff. Either that or manically fingering some slightly older but downright skanky, chip-pan faced sod-for-brains girl behind the bushes. With her Puma popper trackie bottoms and shouting racist but still awkwardly irrelevant words at passing cars and getting “well pissed” on a J20.
I never done none of that fun stuff. At 12 I was an ugly, disgustingly fat kid who for some strange reason shaved my bonce off completely, thought Korn were the shizznit and had a rack of teeth strikingly similar to a handful of broken hula hoops (that was until I got the black coloured braces due to me being such a devoted “grunger”, oh what a social statement to make in those days).
I was never naughty at junior school, and if I got told off I’d probably cry for an hour and try forcing a little wee out into my pants. I’d never go playing on the railway tracks or anything. Hell, I practically pooed myself one time when I went to the newsagents to buy some matches at the age of 11.
What I’m basically saying then, is that I was a right massive shameful pussy… and I pretty much still am, albeit taller, skinner and with slightly better teeth. But at least I’m honest about it.
Yet when I occasionally stagger my way out of these four walls covered in my own dried faeces, I often stumble upon a few people from my secondary school years (which was notably an all boys school and certainly prolonged my entry in to the sexually active world by about, hmm… two years? …and I’m still feeling the effects).
So when I gradually move forward to make conversation with some of these people – once some form of intoxication has taken place of course, I only really talk to about nine people when I’m sober – I’m fully expecting a little frilly, high-pitched girl’s voice to pop right on out of their face traps, just like how I remember from the olden times. I start hoping that they’ll jabber on about some HIGHLARIOUS Warhammer nonsense, or how awesome Papa Roach are, or boasting about how many wanks they managed in one day, just to give me some kind of excuse to subtly take the Mitchell without them coming to any kind of realisation… and resulting in nobody getting upset or hurt.*
But what do I get instead? I’m stopped in my tracks with a deep, gravelly voice, words chopped apart and forced out into the open with an angry, turbulent thud. A true Sittingbourne accent, one that sounds like these people have been brought up on some windowlicker farm where everyone has a wildly mutated Adam’s apple and just drink handfuls of bleach. A place where people don’t look at dictionaries, they just bash the keyboard in their brain until a sequence of letters comes out that just about make enough sense to roll off their tongues. It's the voice that appears when everyone suddenly becomes "hard", when people learn to drive and figure out how to smoke a cigarette properly. Yeah, you know EXACTLY what I mean.
Suddenly my initial giddy excitement turns into some minor form of slight intimidation. Next thing I know, I’m trying to defer my attention away whilst remaining politely responsive, as I’m told a story about how they recently beat the living crud sticks out of some really old aged pensioner, just because he had a large lower lip that was capable of engulfing half a face and he quite liked to show it off.
But the problem is I kind of do it too, at least when I’m drinking. All of a sudden I lose the ability to pronounce my ‘t’ or ‘h’, and this weird, half-arsed attempt at being cockney flops out, like I’m some kind of lout who drinks a shedload of lager, pulls some orange girl and drills her by the bins. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done that. But that’s how you might imagine me to be if you couldn’t really see me properly, but for some strange reason you could hear my drunken voice.
Sadly though, I don’t really have the stories about scary fights or car crashes that I usually have to cringe to. Although there was this one time I donked my pathetic excuse for a fist into some ginger kid’s face on New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago. But immediately after this I found myself getting slapped back by several of his friends. This lead to my cheek swelling up so much it looked like I was sucking on a light bulb for three days and really, really enjoying it. My poor mother cried when she found out as well, wishing she’d never even let me go outside on my own in the first place. Poor lady.
But! I do have a good story which involves me finding a dildo and thinking it was my Christmas present when I was about four. But I guess that’ll have to wait.
You are the Egg Men. I am the Walrus. Goo Goo G’Joob.
*Yeah, a lot of any such people could probably hurt me quite a lot, which is why I’m not writing about anyone in particular… as such… or am I? **
Sunday, 3 January 2010
BUT HEY LOOK THERE IT'S 2010 NOW. And guess what? WE STILL DON'T FUCKING HAVE FLYING CARS. And to think I was genuinely excited about these Jetsons rip-off prospects when I was younger.
So am I seriously going to sit here, like all those other short-fingered, hot headed, grammar shy bloggers and talk about my pointless New Year's resolutions and mind-shatteringly boring life? Fat chance. I'm probably just gonna' moan a bit, to be honest. You don't mind, do you? No, of course you bloody don't. You're only here 'cos I forced you to be. You was just minding your own business until I started ramming this shite down your eyelids. But now you're here. And you're gutted you're here, because you've now realised - in much the same way as me, might I add - that I, me, your writer/syntax person/funny little voice that you hear in your head when you look at words, I, have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. Nada. Bugger all. In fact, all I'm doing is wasting your time. And my time. And the internet's time. This is just a space being filled with a big pile of cataclysmic balderdash, zapped straight from my stream of thought, gradually pushed towards my fingers and then spunked out all over your mind. Happy you're here? Me too. I can do with the company.
I'm supposed to be an attempted journalist, wannabe columnist, die hard media bummer who just wants a bit of a laugh and stress free lifestyle. Instead I'm sat here, fully clothed and stone cold lonely in my bed, completely sober, with an empty, vacated head, wishing I had something to say. Wishing that I could be properly inventive and just string a long load of wit and happiness into a few sentences. Trying so bloody hard to keep you, all of you, anyone at all interested. And I can't. And that pretty much sums up my entire life at the moment.
I'm not one for posting emotional blogs about my day to day life, general struggles, relationship problems, life issues, and I'm definitely not gonna' start now. I'd much rather overreact to something that'll no doubt come back to bite me in the arse in the not too distant future. But, you know, I'm having a little bit of a mare. Maybe I should've just done business studies or something.
Love from Brad's somewhat fragile twin brother... uhh... Brett. x
P.S If you know me, don't you dare bring this blog entry up ever. Business as usual from this point on. Fuck off.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Every now and then a song comes out with a perfectly descriptive song title, like it's the musical equivalent of Ronseal or something, it does exactly what it says on the tin.
The fact is, Riton & Primary1's latest track, Radiates, kind of, well, radiates from your speakers. It sounds like plenty of stuff you've heard before, sure. But it's short, sweet, fast and horribly catchy, to the point where you'll either: a) raise a smile whenever you hear it, thinking happy thoughts and being at peace with the world, or, b) want to punch yourself in the face repeatedly until the sounds you hear are no longer recognisable and pain is no longer an issue. Now only the most emotionally fragile may take up the latter, but a few of us that 'might not mind it' now will no doubt be sniping it down with our nasty words in a mere few weeks.
Verdict: Alright but potentially a pile of poo
Written for Artrocker Magazine
Listening to Acoustic Ladyland can be a little confusing at the best of times. It's like it's jazz, but it's not really jazz, instead it's some kind of scary, slightly mental hybrid pretending to be a post-rock band. It's jazz if saxophones were the coolest instruments in the world, if Jimi Hendrix had used his mouth instead of his spindly fingers, if 'Baker Street' was the greatest anthem ever recorded.
Initially 'The Mighty Q' starts off as a slow, dark and dreary track, yet just as you think this song's about to burst into some angst-riddled monster of a rock bastard, we're treated to a build up of more uplifting, colourful sounds, an unusual twist which grips your ears with strange, warm bewilderment. It's really splendid, but if I were to pitch this to my friends as a starting point for a band, they'd only point and laugh. Kudos for making it work.
Written for Artrocker Magazine