Pity The Fools

I got a new phone this week. A smart phone. And it's beautiful.

Oh here we go, I can hear you mutter under your breath. Another technology bore banging on about his latest bit of cyber-bling (in my head you say things like cyber-bling. And you have shit hair. Deal with it).

I used to be like you. I shunned technology. I didn't get an iPod until 2009. Anytime an apple fanboy would proudly brandish the latest £1000 quid infinity cube I'd respond in kind with a flourish of my £15 worth of Nokia and an invitation for them to place their hardware into various handy bodily orifices.

To be fair, they really don't help themselves. Apple advertising is dogged by a level of smugness matched by only those who didn't vote for Nick Clegg in May. Case in point; the 'what is ipad?' advertisement, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKZrqiBtUZo&feature=channel which assumes that the product is so revolutionary it can defy grammatical convention itself and become a proper noun. I'd recommend sending email's to Apple in which your insults treat language with similar disregard; 'Ipad shit is', 'What is Steve Jobs? Steve Jobs is smegma', that sort of thing.

But eventually I couldn't resist any more. My brick, whilst not only inferior to all other phones made in the last five years except that it was less likely to shatter when you hurled it away in frustration, was costing me about £30 a fortnight; due to O2's Pay As You Go rates being based on US research documents into the best way of torturing Guantanemo Bay detainees. So I went contract, and go a free handset to boot. Not an iphone though. Some wounds run too deep.

And I was impressed, at first. Half of my life suddenly shrank to the size of large cracker and slotted neatly into my pocket. I could look up things on the internet, access maps, listen to music, play games, all that jazz. It was everything I'd expected.

Then, maybe a day after getting it, it started to rain. I pulled the phone out my pocket to make a text and saw a little windscreen wiper drift across the screen and clear away a cluster of digital raindrops. And my heart melted.

This is what I love about modern technology. Not the practical things, not the huge leaps forward in terms of revolutionising the way we live and communicate. Fidgety little butterfly-chaser that I am, I love the useless things. The one's made only for the love. The app that becomes a zippo lighter. The app that becomes a he-loves-me/loves-me-not daisy. The app that becomes a replica revolver that you hold up to your head in front of your mates in what they think is a joke but is actually a desperate attempt to commincate your feeling of desperation and loneliness in an uncaring world. The Mr. T soundboard.

Yet people around me seemed less keen to share in my excitement. Half-an-hour after getting it I was sharply instructed to 'stop going on about your bloody phone'. The next day, whilst going through the slog of re-entering all my contacts into the phone book, two friends came to visit me and damn near castrated me when I didn't immediately put my phone down and give them a bloody puppet show.

Which I think is a little unfair. I'd just been given what was, essentially, the equivalent of a fucking magic wand, and now was suddenly expected to treat it nonchalantly, as if this portable deity was the sort of thing you received every day.

This is the wrong way to treat such objects. I think we should take a step back once in a while and appreciate just how fantastic these little things are. Just like nature, or literature, or art, we need to make time to be amazed by them. Otherwise, what's their point? Oh, other than to see how many presses of the 'I pity the fool' button it takes to make someone want to stab you. Tee-hee.

Procrastination 1: Worthwhile Use Of Time Nil

Skins. Like pornography, you watch it with a vague sense of guilt and the feeling you could be doing something more worthwhile, but still, it's strangely entrancing. Also like pornography it seems specifically designed to help weirdos get off. Instead of that, I'm going for a blow by blow account of the first episode of the new series. Feel free to watch alongside: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSgfg7kMWAU&feature=hp_SLN_curated&list=SL

0:41 – Standard ‘teenager waking up and getting dressed in their kooky bedroom’ opening. Don’t all Skins episodes start like this? I’d appreciate a little variety. Something like ‘teenager wakes up strapped to a Russian missile heading straight for the sun’. At least they didn’t indulge in the shot of her nude back to get all the thirty-year olds hot and bothered. Maybe this series won't be as ruthlessly exploitative as the others.

0:47 – Just realised Kooky Lesbian is the girl who played Lyra in the Northern Lights adaptation. This gives me a fuzzy warm glow.

1:30 – She has two fathers. Ooh, how very modern of you, Skins!

2:44 – UNREALISTIC PLOT POINT No. 1 – Kooky lesbian manages to outrun some thirteen year olds on a mobility scooter. Those things go at about three miles an hour.

3:20 – First shot of up-her-own-arse-attractive girl.

3:43 – Upherownarseattractive girl gets her first line of dialogue. Unsurprisingly it’s shite.

6:16 – Why does every adult over 25 have to be a clueless dick? They’re still my favourite characters though

6:46 – I take back my initial optimism. We’ve entered a girls changing room. There’s no point pretending this is anything other than lechery.

7:00 – Oh look its upherownarseattractive girl in a sports bra. How predictable

8:56 – UHOAA’S TERRIBLE LINES No. 1 – ‘I’m coming through bitch!’

9:02 – UHOAA gets tripped up by Kooky lesbian. It’s rather obvious but fun anyway.

9:05 – A MUD FIGHT! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? It’s like a softcore porn film with worse dialogue.

9:07 – Chris Addison. I’m 10% less incensed.

9:39 - UHOAA’S TERRIBLE LINES No. 2 – ‘Better watch your fucking back. Or you’re dead meat. Bruv.’

10:10 – What’s this? Metal heads? Blimey, it’s a recognisable stereotype!

10:54 - UNREALISTIC PLOT POINT No. 2 – UHOAA apparently wields so much power she can make people surrender their seats. Maybe she can do that Darth Vader strangling thing.

12:00 – UHOAA asks Kooky lesbian whether she’s ‘not alternative enough for you?’ Strangely perceptive of her.

12:38 – RECOGNISABLE STEREOTYPE No. 2 – The apathetic Scottish/Irish teacher. Everyone’s had one of ‘em.

14:10 – First sign of casual drug taking. How edgy of you, Skins!

16:01 – Makeover scene. Is it just me or have we fallen into an 80’s teen movie?

20:40 – MUFFIN MUNCHERS! Sorry. Haven’t had anything funny to say in a while.

21:00 – They go on ‘Friendlook’. This seems oddly familiar and yet unrecognisable at the same time! You coy devils, Skins!

22:25 – Why is she blaming her gay dad? Homophobe.

22:39 – Misquoting John Donne. Philistines.

HALFTIME PREDICTIONS – Kooky lesbian won’t be a lesbian after all. She will symbolically walk into a crowded room with her new sexy make-up look to show that there was someone beautiful inside all along. UHOAA will be suffering some sort of family trauma. Kooky lesbian will get off with someone/be embarrassed by UHOAA at this party she’s going to. The quality won’t improve. We might see some side-tit.

24:15 – Homemade animation symbolising inner pain. DEEP!

24:35 – I love her gay dads!

24:39 – CORRECT PREDICTION! Symbolic door walk! Get-in!

26:30 – UNEXPECTADLY GOOD UHOAA line – ‘It looks like she’s been gang-raped by clowns!’ More of this, please.

27:52 – Apathetic English teacher has a Charlotte Bronte tattoo. Calls her’ the original fucking punk’. I’m quite enjoying this now.

29:40 – Rugby dick enters. ‘Was it your turn to pick up the soap?’ asks Apathetic. We’re on a roll here.

31:30 – Smoking weed and firing a BB gun at a refrigerator is the new way to symbolically unwind. It’s more tele-visual than wanking anyway.

33:00 – New character; edgy trench-coat man. He’s the only one to sport Kooky’s inner beauty. It probably helps that she is actually beautiful, rather than, say, a realistic outcast, who never are. But there’s TV for you.

33:25 – ‘Why do I see a glorious, fucking, headfuck thing?’ Presumably because she’s dressed like a punk hipster and has a gun. Hardly takes an Einstein to reach that conclusion.

33:49 – Leaves without saying his name. I’ve decided I don’t like him.

37:50 – UNREALISTIC PLOTPOINT No. 3 – The kung-fu female bouncer. Presumably she goes to the ‘Bruce Lee School of Overstated TV Feminism’.

39:17 – UHOAA’s TERRIBLE LINES No. 3 – ‘F-R-E-A-K’, hmm, now what does that spell, oh yeah, YOU.’ Blaarg.

39:40 – CORRECT PREDICTION! Embarrassed by UHOAA at party. I could make a living out of this.

41:25 – Posts gun through a letterbox. Symbolic of...what? I’ll get back to you.

43:22 – Symbolic strip and swim to indicate sexual release. And we were doing so well earlier.

Verdict – Better than expected. It’s brave enough to have the main character reject the usual ‘make-up makeover’ conventional approach and not wear any, any we never see her in anything less than a wife-beater, which is oddly mature of them. But it’s still largely mediocre. There always feels like there’s a better show hiding under all the cliches and swaggering attempts at symbolism and edge. They should let it out more often.

MORE UPDATES COMING VERY SOON! Stay tuned.

If You Want A Blog (You've Got It)

Gonna be honest with you, blog. We haven't been trying our hardest, have we? We've been taking the easy route. "Ooh, what's tickled your anger this week Rory? What's got you all flustered and spluttering and David-Mitchell-y today? Yeah that's right. Don't forget the trademark filth! Gives it that extra edge."

So, in a break with tradition, I'm going all gooey on you. It's a misty-eyed, lump in the throat special. In no real order, and for no real reason, I'm going to tell you why I love the rock band AC/DC.

1) They're genuinely good.

Everybody has their iPod guilty pleasure. A bit of George Michael here, a bit of Duran Duran there. About 50% should never see the light of day. If it was a puppy, by now you really should have risked the difficult conversation with your children and drowned it. The other 40% will have some value. It might make you wince a little, but it won't make the last request on your deathbed for your spouse or family to wipe your itunes in a bid to better preserve your memory. Then there's the 10% that's be genuinely good. The final resting place of Queen, the Dire Straits and Fleetwood Mac. At the risk of sounding like a superior music dick, this is where AC/DC belong.

Like any band, their work varies in quality. Anything made after 1980, with a few exceptions, is a bit balls. But for five years they released a string of up-tempo blues rock albums - High Voltage, Dirty Deeds..., Powerage, Let There Be Rock, Highway To Hell, and Back in Black - which are, and I really want you to pay attention here, genuinely genuinely good. Not for everyone, but good. Fuck it, just wrap your ears around this

www.youtube.com/watch?v=en7EKL1pX5w

...and then tell me that little half-naked bastard can't play guitar.

They're not hacks. The music is honed over years of practice. They weren't engineered by a manager, not dictated by committee or demographic, not ceding to any popular taste. They do it for the love. They're the cure for cynicism.

2) They're fucking bad-ass.

Just watch this;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1VlRUIHwygc

I'll give you a minute to recover...

...

...

...How awesome was that?

The guitarist (Angus) is dressed as a schoolboy. The singer (Bon Scott, rest his booze-addled soul) is dressed as a schoolgirl. The music sounds like God punching you in the ears. Everyone has gloriously awful hair. There's no way you can come away from that without a huge stupid grin on your face.

If you'll allow me to make another laboured comparison, if they were a person they'd be the sort of person who'd come round to your house at 11 on a Sunday, eat all your cereal, feed beer to your dog, have casual sex with your sister and leave the toilet seat up. And have you pay them to do it.

3) They're Australian.

As a nation, the Aussies haven't been particularly well served in terms of musical talent. The fact that, if I asked you to remember an Australian band, 97% would think for a minute before suggesting Men At Work, probably says enough. But along with Nick Cave, AC/DC have been pretty much atoning for this lack for the last 35 years.

Now, my antipodean roots may be very slight, but I've proud of them. And since I never had the patience to follow cricket or the confused sexual orientation to follow rugby there wasn't much I could do to exercise this pride. So liking this sorely outdated rock 'n roll quintet has been my equivalent.

4)They say things like this;

'I'm sick to death of people saying we've made 11 albums that sounds exactly the same, Infact, we've made 12 albums that sound exactly the same.' Angus Young

Which is just awesome. Compare it to a quote from a recent 'alternative' group;

'Yeah I decided to call the album 'Through a Glass Darkly' because it's, like, from the Bible, and, y'know, I've always been quite a spiritual person. I mean, I often feel like...I AM the new Jesus, y'know? And also because y'know, in a way, we're all seeing the world through, like, this, dark glass. I mean, literally, if you're wearing sunglasses. Which I always am. Because I'm a tosser.' Some Arrogant Fucker

And you get what I mean.

5) Because you know what? They made me feel cool.

Okay guys. Here's where it gets personal. Look away now.

I wasn't the trendiest teenager. I'm still not. But I was weird. I was naive and over-earnest. I had the hand eye coordination of a spastic pirate. All my clothes were hand-me-downs from bigger, more stylish kids. I had a haircut like David Cassidy. I always had some sort of cancer. I was so awkward I spend half of the day wanting to crawl into a corner and die and the other half giving myself reasons to do so. I was no 'Skins'esque success. I was a fuck-up.

But aged 13, listening to 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap' at full volume, I'll admit it...I felt cool. And to any band that can manage to do that, I salute you.

The Pretention/Detention Dichotomy, or, 'Fringe vs Minge': A Modern Male Dilemma

Let me tell you about women in 15th century Florence. When they reached early adolescence they were given two choices. They could either be married and devote their lives to domestic torpidity, or they could become prostitutes. Those were the options.

Let me tell you about men in 21st century Britain. When they reach early adolescence they are given two choices. They can either pick up the gauntlet of lad-hood, or they can become hipsters. Those are the options.

I think it's no exaggeration to say that the conditions faced by men today are as bleak and unyielding as those faced by 15th century women. Except they definitely aren't. What a bastard I am.

The problem is still a pressing one though. If you're a guy, and you want to have any sort of standing in society; to be recognised as a successful personality and not a dribbling outcast, you either have to become a lad or a hipster. You look into your wardrobe one day and either pick out the pink A&F t-shirt or the maroon skinny chords, and you never look back.

Think of your male friends. Think how easily they slot into these categories. Think of how when you go to the pub half of them buy 10 pints of lager and the other half sit outside smoking roll-ups. Think of how half of them suggest you go see Paranormal Activity 7 at your local multiplex this weekend and the other try and drag you to an existential little spanish film showing in the back-room of a coffee shop. Think of how half of them went to Benidorm this summer and the other went to Bestival. Think of how half wear shirts so tight you can count the goosebumps circling their nipples, and half wear jeans so tight you can read the veins on their cocks.

Anyone who doesn't fit into either category...well, they've sort of failed, haven't they? Failed to grasp that great existential truth that we've all realised, that conforming equals success and individualism (and I'm talking about proper individualism here, not the sort of individualism that you put on empty Ray-Ban Wayfarer frames to achieve) is reserved for those whose weekends consist of making airfix F1 cars in their bedrooms and rooting around in the laundry basket to see if Mum's left any fresh panties lying around. Freaks 'n' geeks. In any sort of sane world they'd be euthanized.

I fought against this prevailing wisdom for a couple of years until, not wanting to give the impression I enjoyed the smell of super glue and still-warm M&S value undies, I realised I'd need to make the choice.

Lad went straight out the window. It just wasn't going to happen, was it? Just no. So I put my mark down in the hipster box. One trip to Ryan Vintage and an awkward haircut later, I was set.

But it never felt right. I was never very good at it. I half wanted it, half despised the very idea of it. I felt like a fraud.

Because even though I'd ruled it out, being a lad always looked like it would've been more fun. Let's face it, there's a lot that's better about it. There's no self-concious posturing, no vanity, no pretentiousness, no way for well-off middle-class kids to pretend that what they have to say is in anyway profound and meaningful. There's just getting pissed and insulting each-other's mothers. That's the life.

And I want to reclaim this. Why should I have to restrict myself? I want freedom. The freedom to on one day run a hand through my fringe and quote snippets of Beat poetry and the other piss through the exhaust pipe of a car and listen to bands that don't sound like they're playing lift music to an audience of sleeping pensioners. Together, we can achieve this dream. I need your help. All two of you. Who's with me? Excelsior!

Kevin Costner's SHAKESPEARE: RETRIBUTION (Coming 2011)

I've just heard that there's a new film being made about the life of Shakespeare. Directed by Roland Emmerich. You know Roland Emmerich. He directed that film where the earth almost gets destroyed but then doesn't. 'You mean Independance Day?'. Yeah, but that wasn't the one I...'Godzilla?' Yeah, but not that one. 'The Day After Tomorrow?' Oh, I'd forgotten about that. '2012'. Oh yeah...

Maybe I'm being unfair to the guy. He has directed other films. One of them had mammoths in it.

Knowing nothing about the film other than that it'll be about Shakespeare, a primitive version of the plot I expected surfaced in my mind. Shakespeare (played by Kevin Costner) is a reluctant meteorological expert and part time playwright who has an awkward relationship with his estranged wife (played by Anne Hathaway, in a piece of joke-casting far too intelligent to have been made intentionally) and two interchangeable blonde children. Strange scientific readings lead him to implore his colleagues to beware the Ides of March, which herald the coming of the Winter of Our Discontent. They fail to do so; but instead he is contacted by the Three Musketeers and, along with his trusty beagle Chumley, travels to the nearby city of France. There he is mistakenly identified as King Louis XVI (they both have beards, y'see. I think) and placed in a guillotine. In a moving scene he conducts a final, teary phone-call with his wife and improvises a sonnet, the beauty of which convinces the authorities to let him go, appoint him King, and place defences around France to prevent the coming disaster. Meanwhile his wife and kids manage to escape the Winter by riding the icy tidal wave on Shakespeare's second best bed, thus proving that he was a good husband after all. At the end of the film France is the only city left alive, and the death of millions is compensated by the fact that despite a few scrapes, Chumely survives. Oh and there's a scene where Shakespeare drop-kicks Napoleon and throws him off the Eiffel Tower. It's awesome.

Then I did a bit of research and found at it's actually going to be about the whole 'Who Was Shakespeare' thing, with the inevitable answer being 'not him'. More info here: http://www.empireonline.com/News/story.asp?nid=29834

Any rising confidence I might have had about the film (sparked by the fact that Rhys Ifans and David Thewlis are in it; though sadly it looks like Chumley's been dropped in pre-production) has been offset by the fact it's about this stupid Shakespeare imposter debate. Because the fact is, there's never been an even vaguely convincing theory to say Shakespeare wasn't Shakespeare. If you fancy evidence to back this up you can read the Peter Akyroyd book, or the much shorter and better Bill Bryson one. Or if you lack the time just become someone vaguely intelligent.

It seems to me that this debate isn't really to do with the fact that we know very little about Shakespeare, for there are plenty more authors that we know less about, or the idea that he doesn't seem educated enough to be the genuis that wrote his plays. It's just that people can't believe that someone so boring could ever write anything so interesting. Shakespeare doesn't appear to have done anything particularly gripping in his life, so stupid people continue to try and prove that he was actually someone else; and by someone else they mean literally ANYBODY even a little bit more interesting.

And I don't like that idea. I love that Shakespeare was probably a boring bastard. Speaking as someone who spends half their life sitting in their pants in their room I need to believe that boring people are capable of writing interesting things. Because otherwise I'm really fucked.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to write the film's spin-off sequel in which Chumley protects Queen Elizabeth from ninjas. So long.

Beowulf says Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires

It might seem churlish, in a world where people are plagued by poverty, disease, addiction and any amount of other problems, that the greatest pain in my life is being caused by a man who died at least 1,500 years ago. And didn't even exist. But there you go. I suppose if I was the victim of any real hardship I'd probably spend my time, I don't know, dealing with it, rather than making poor jokes on my own on the web. So it is that my one sliver of misery is inflicted by a Swedish brick shit-house named Beowulf.

He's the subject of a poem written in old english; information that will immediatly start to piss you off, since 'poem' suggests something short, and 'english' suggests something written in English. Then you buy a copy and realise its a 3,500 line monster written in gobble-de-gook. You're having fun already.

When you actually get to reading the thing (having of course gone back to the bookshop and swapped your copy for a translation) you realise it's not really like reading a poem at all but more like playing a videogame. You play as Beowulf, whose special power is just generally being a massive lad. There are three levels, each with its own final boss. There's the beginners' level set in the mead hall Heorot, where you fight the monster Grendel. Next comes the obligitory boring underwater level where you defeat Grendel's mother. After a 50 year-odd pause whilst you go and take a piss, you reach the final level and face a dragon. He's a bit too hardcore for you, but luckily your second-player companion Wiglaf - here played by your annoying younger brother who can't press the 'b' button quick enough and tilts the controller like a racing wheel - is on hand to help you out, and you eventually triumph. Unfortunatly your brother's attempts to show you the treasure power-up fail, and you get Game Over anyway. All this is interspersed by boring cut-scenes where you find out about characters you never meet and couldn't care less about, but which you aren't allowed to skip. At the end you take the cartridge out and throw it into the garage, wondering why your parents couldn't have gotten you Super Mario Bros. 2 for Christmas instead.

I suspect that, outside the trappings of my horrid degree course, I might quite like Beowulf. Like a work collegue on a team building exercise, you think the two of you might have gotten on if you weren't stuck on an orienteering course with him and he's given you the map, by which I mean, is forcing you to work. Beowulf is a fun character. No whiny claptrap about past trauma and daddy issues for THIS hero - he kicks ass because he was BORN to kick ass. He rips arms off with his bare hands and can breathe underwater. He doesn't learn anything through his exploits. There's no love interest or comic sidekick. Just an appealingly homoerotic subtext (Beowulf keeps finding that his 'sword' is useless against his foes and has to use his 'fists' instead) and a fuck-off dragon. Beautiful.

As it is, he's really starting to get on my tits. I've begun picturing him as one of those Saturday morning cartoon hero's who hand out parentethical advice - Superman Says Say No To Drugs, Spiderman Says Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires, etc - except he's only got one piece of advice, and it's 'read more Beowulf'. Which gets really grating after a while. Luckily I found the perfect way to solve this problem, which was bitching about the guy in a blog post instead of doing what he says. How strong do you feel now, huh, Beowulf? You may be able to slay dragons, but you can't even get an 18 year old student to do his essay and translation? You baby.

And if you were wondering, I did do that picture. What a valuable way to spend my time.

Catchers in the Rye, Or, The Day This Blog Went Highbrow

When I was younger I wanted to be a socialist. Like all grammar school kids growing up in a leafy suburb of south Manchester I was really feeling the sting of working class oppression, so I bought myself a beret and went around drawing the hammer and sickle onto school desks and being provocative in front of my elderly relatives. All was well.

As I got older I began to distance myself from the label. Partly to distinguish myself from the hardcore Marxists who seemed too angry ever to have any fun or to form meaningful relationships with anyone who didn't completely agree with them, but partly...well, something had changed. Whereas before I'd taken an immediate shine to anyone pronouncing themselves a lefty, now they'd begin to irritate me. I myself wasn't any less committed to left wing values (moderate as they might have been). But if I saw someone walking down the street in a Che Guevara t-shirt I wouldn't think, 'good on you comrade', I'd think, 'clueless dickhead'.

I was never able to explain this until, a couple of weeks ago I mentioned it to a friend.

"I know what you mean," he said, "It's the Catcher in the Rye of politics." And I knew exactly what he meant. I liked it so much I nicked it, and shamelessly recycled it for blog material. Which is what you're reading now.

The problem with socialism is that too many people support it purely for image reasons. Due to its reputation for being a radical, fringe ideology its been adopted by those people who want to appear radical and fringe themselves but are too bland and ordinary to achieve such labels by merit of any personality trait or reputation. So like limpets they throw themselves to the left. They buy t-shirts for £40 from Topman with Lenin's face on them, wrap themselves in scarves and those fingerless gloves, smoke effeminate Russian cigarettes and denounce everything they come across as hopelessly bourgeoisie.

This must be intensely annoying for the hardcore revolutionaries, but its just as annoying for those who are forced into the realms of the centre, the moderate, the white-bread, and the establishment, just because where they'd like to be is so fettered with morons. You could argue its a classic case of being jealous when something you like becomes popular, but I'm more annoyed that people support it for the wrong reasons. Hence the Catcher in the Rye analogy.

Now I'm a big fan of The Catcher in the Rye. But so are a lot of other people. I can't classify myself as a fan because I don't want to be grouped in with the majority of people who claim fanship because they like it for the wrong reasons. The Catcher in the Rye is a great example of a book which is both hilarious and at the same time profound. J.D. Salinger ruthlessly rips the piss out of Holden - his self importance, his victim complex, his self-conscious angst - without ever being unkind or scathing, and thus we treat him seriously. That's why I like it. Idiots like it because they treat what Holden says with a kind of slavish profundity - "Man, I know what he means? Everyone's so phoney! And I'M doomed to be a catcher! Jesus, I AM Holden Caulfield!". So they carry copies around with them and quote it sporadically to the blissful rapture of their twazzock mates. In order to prevent myself ever being lumped in with such people, I have to give up my attachment to the book altogether. Which is so unfair I feel like chewing glass.

And its not the only example. My life is littered with things - On the Road, The Smiths, Bob Dylan, and the film Withnail and I - I can no longer love. They have all become catchers in the rye, and I am left listless and bereft.

About a week after the discussion I found myself at the student protest in Westminster - you know, the one where Camilla got poked with a stick. After two hours spent crammed in with a bunch of public school kids clammering about fascist oppression I forced my way to the sidelines, and saw, sitting in a deckchair and wearing a CCCP shirt, sat a girl. Reading The Catcher in the Rye.

"Are you serious?" I asked her, after scanning the area to check there weren't any rock-stars who'd been shot.

She looked up at me and my 'Impeach Clegg' banner.

"Don't you think he's such a phoney?" she asked.

I got out of there as fast as I could. I was keen it wouldn't become the second time that book had inspired murder.

Drop everything! It's time for an agenda!

Welcome to a one-off feature in which I explain what I'm doing here and why I'm doing it. For your benefit, I assure you.

This isn't the first one of these I've done, and it probably won't be the last. Actually, it's my...fourth now. Wow. I know. Someone should really stop me.

The name, if you were wondering, has been the name of the last three, meaning I chose it when I was thirteen, so stop sniggering at the back. It was part of an attempt to come across as arty and interesting. I was meaning to change it until I realised that literally anything else I named it would look even more self-consciously affected, and at least this one had an excuse. So I'm stuck with it.

I can't predict how long I'll keep it going, but I can reveal my record number of posts is eight. So my main goal is to beat that. I'd also quite like to keep it chugging along for at least a year. Stranger things have happened. Hell, apparently someone found one of the jokes funny.

I'm writing this, if I'm honest, mainly for my own sake. Partly to motivate me to write at all, which I've been slacking off doing for the last couple of months. Partly so if I'm ever asked to write anything by a third party I can direct them here and convince them to leave me alone. And partly because it's always fun to look back years later in your life and have something to prove just how much of a tit you were back then. If I ever get depressed about work or ageing or broken, messy relationships I can look back and comfort myself with the thought that with every passing second I put more distance between myself and the throbbing buttock pain who wrote 'that'.

All of which is a clever way of saying that it doesn't matter if no one reads it. I won't mind at all. I'm bigger than that. I don't need other people to be happy. Everyone knows talking to yourself is more fun anyway. Yeah, you here that? I don't need you! I like being alone! Fuck, I LOVE IT! I LOVE IT!

...I'm so happy...

Ahem.

I'm not going to limit my material by stating what the blog is be about, but suffice to say it's likely to have a few jokes and a lot more references to wanking. Of which I'm trying to cut down. Honestly. I'm jizz finding a little hard. On.

Oh, there's a lot more where that came from.

On Wankers

Five seconds of analysis could tell you that I'm little more than a drain on society. I consume its food, its water, its energy, ruthlessly squander its time and money, and it gets nothing in return except my disdain. But before you dismiss me and leave the site to do that *cough* research *cough* you were meaning to do, let it be know that I do have something to contribute. You see, I can spot wankers. And with my help, you can too.

This skill is more essential than it might first sound, because, unlike other kinds of flaw in humanity - cruelty, intolerance, pettiness or being Cliff Richard - the majority seem unable to spot it. In the 21st century we've managed to mostly condemn the bigots and bastards of society to its fringes, and yet wankers are more prevelant than ever. We're crawling in the fuckers. Which is why I'm the only man who can save us. Dun-da-dun!

A wanker, to distinguish the label from similar negative epithets like arsehole or cockend, is someone who's very being suggests they're permanently pleasuring themselves. They exist in a state of constant self gratification - stuck forever in that 15 minute gap before the unzipped fly and the encroaching feeling of guilt and disgust. Women, who are generally less well acquainted with the world of male masturbation, are thus much less likely to spot wankers. They see their deluded, self-satified manner as endearing and desirable. Remember that these men are, metaphorically, constantly tossing themselves off in front of you, and you'll see the issue. Similarly I can't claim to be able to spot female wankers; who do exist but are luckily much less prevalent.

So the following tips apply to spotting male wankers only. I can't give you the complete benefit of my talent - honed as it is over eighteen years of observation, perseverance, and never being picked for games - but here are some handy hints to get you started on how to recognise the tossers amoungst us.

1) If they are Smoking or Drinking in their Facebook profile pic, they're a wanker

This is distinguishable from people who are merely smoking or drinking in their proflie pictures; i.e. those who have been unintentionally snapped mid-consumption, on the fringes of a group photo, say. If they are Smoking or Drinking and making sure everyone who stumbles across them gets that they're 'just wild and edgy like that', they're a wanker. Same goes for anyone Wearing A Hat, Not Wearing A Shirt, of taking a photo of themselves in the mirror, whilst scowling. Dickpulls.

2) If they are constantly pulling 'that' expression, they're a wanker

'That' expression is akin to the pained, spasmy grimace made upon orgasm, turned into a kind of smile and worn almost permanently. It's more of an innately recognised thing, and again not easily recognised by women until by some tragic accident they end up sleeping with them, so here are some examples;



Those these all appear to be photos of me, please be assured that I'm merely assuming these facial expressions for your benefit. Also note that though each of these are subtly different, the wanker's own will never change - if you've been casually stalking a friends photos and think 'Jesus, who's THAT wanker?' after seeing some guy looking exactly the same in the last six photos, you can be sure he's the genuine article.

3) If they touch you for fun, they're a wanker

Wankers are extremely tactile. Permanently mentally jacking off, they attempt to simulate the motion by rubbing their sticky hands all over you. In the case of women, this will take the form of a massage or a hair rub or a casual fondle; when men get the treatment they'll be pretending to be gay for a joke. Naive non-wankers, keen to appear street-wise and sexually liberated in the world of 21st century sensual freedom, tend to tolerate this. Trying to resist them, or worse, trying to freak them out by beating them at their own game, merely encourages them. The best trick is to not respond at all. Just as there's no point tugging a limp dick, the wanker will soon tire of touching a limp you.

4) If they react to any of the following songs coming on as though Christ himself was descending from the fucking heavens delivering free cash and blow-jobs, they're a wanker;

Only Girl (In The World) - Rihanna
Barbara Streisand - Duck Sauce
Club Can't Handle Me - Flo Rida...and so on.

Or worse...

I Gotta Feelin' - The Black Eyed Peas
Little Lion Man - Mumford And Sons...and so on

Worst of all

Mr Brightside - The Killers

This is not an exhaustive list, but you should soon pick up enough savvy to recognise other such tracks. Riverside is excused for being genuinely awesome.

5) If they mention more than three things about how drunk they were last night, they're a wanker

I was originally going to limit this to one thing, but since mentioning how drunk you were last night has pretty much replaced hello as the standard greeting I'll make the allowance. Therefore if someone says to you 'oh my God, I was soooo drunk last night', you can ignore it. If they then go on to say how much they drank ('...literally, like, six pints, five shots of Jager, two...') and then where they went ('...Plasma, and then an hour at Polyp, and then on to B.M.'s...') and where they were sick, or where they woke up, etcetera, conclude the presence of a wanker. Add points for anyone who mentions an embarrasingly poor amount or uses the word 'chunder' un-ironically. Add more if they use it ironically.

Tune in again soon for more tips on spotting the walking hand shandys amoungst us. Because knowing is half the battle.

First Edition

I've started getting pretty weird around books. And not in a good way. Not in that endearing, love of knowledge sort of way that's a necessary requirement for being a straight-A student or at least the twelve year old heroine of a children's novel. It's a sickness of the anorak variety. It has nothing to do with what's inside books. This is a purely physical infatuation. It's all about the editions, baby. They drive me wild.

I mean, books are beautiful. They look great; both new and old, when crisp or when worn. They sound great. That dry rattling of riffling pages, or the muffled thud they make when hitting a desk or a floor. Fuck, they smell amazing. Open a copy fresh of the shelf, put it to your face, inhale...it's pant-dampening stuff, it really is.

Until recently, the problem was a manageable. Without money or any real need to buy books, I could keep it almost under wraps. Furtive glances at window displays, or the occasional thumb-through, that was all. But since starting Uni I'm buying books in a quantity I'm not used to; maybe two or three a week. These are mainly 'classics', which means they're out of copyright and come in roughly about as many editions as there are people. For any normal, un-fucked student, this would be fine. Just a matter of weighing price against availability and going for the compromise. But for me it's a torture and an ecstasy, a terrible vice, a blissful compulsion, a fucking gorilla on my back. I've become a publishing junky.

I spend hours in bookshops. I skulk along the aisles in dark glasses and a trench coat. Shop-assistants know me on sight. Children run away from me. I look up at the rows upon rows of Austens and Brontes and Dickens wearing an expressions like a stroke victim getting sucked-off. I run my finger over the spines and shudder with delight. I pluck them down from the shelves and riffle the pages from one thumb to another. Bent corners and dust-jacket tears fill me with a kind of revulsion. If I see someone opening them all the way down to the crease and letting the spine wrinkle I feel like stabbing them. I breathe heavily down their necks until they leave. I watch managers emerge and try dreaming up a legitimate reason to get rid of me. It's a bloody disgrace. He should be paying me. I'm the fucking book-master.

At night I wrestle with myself over the crucial debates until the early hours of the morning? Penguin Classics or Oxford World's? The stark black of the Penguins lends them a weighty, sombre authority; but the white and red of the Oxford Worlds feels more exciting, more seductive. But both are expensive. For the less funded obsessive there's always the filthy temptation of the Wordsworth Classics with their shoddy covers and coarse paper; a guiltless indulgence at £2 a go. Do we want an introduction? Too long a one feels messy, but one by a decent academic is always a plus; a trusted pimp guiding you into the arms of his whore. Dare we go hardback? A rare option, but it prevents against unsightly damage later down the line. Do we prefer plays to come separately or in a single edition? Do we like our poems collected, or in their original, slimly digestible forms? Do we want to end up with a library of uniformed, eugenic clarity, or go for the charmingly jumbled feel? Is it ever okay to lick them? These questions obsesses me to the point of madness.

And when I can't take it any more, when I can't stand the internal struggle, I picture the holy grail; the Faber & Faber poetry editions. Fuck me are they beautiful. The minimalist, bare coloured-covers, the regal font, the creative white space around the text...And that smell! Moistening the crotches of every pretentious tosspot around the country to atlantean levels. Sometimes, when the obsessing's at its worst, I stand by the window in the moonlight with my copy of The Whitsun Weddings in one hand and grimly toss myself off with the other. They're just that good.

And that's basically how I live my life! Diddle-di di!