Monthly Archive for October, 2008

Humbug

Some would have you believe that tonight, as the witching hour draws near, the very walls of reality itself become mutable and torn as the spirits of the dead squirm through seeping cracks and fetid gullies to return to the world of the living.

This is of course bollocks. Dead people, in my experience, are renowned in every sense for remaining dead; the one notable exception being Jesus, who, technically, is a zombie*. And even if the dead didn’t remain firmly in the hereafter, I really don’t see why they’d adhere to an entirely arbitrary date to make their return. Do you honestly think the vengeful spirit of Hitler would wait until the end of October to invade the world of the living? Of course not, he’d come back in June and make a push towards Moscow ultimately being exorcised sometime in late December. Caught out by the cold, see?

Then there’s the whole ‘New Year’ thing, with Wiccans, Pagans and Neo-Pagans banging on about how their holiday was subsumed into Christianity and blah, blah, blah, whatever. It’s not as though any of the rites they carry out date any further back than the Romantic Movement that swept Europe in the 18th century. Which is fine, whatever works, right? But all the black lace, Olde Worlde incantations and eye-liner, really? You’re supposed to be practicing a religion, not pretending you’re Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.

Finally, there’s the reality of Halloween, someone knocking at your door every five minutes to demand sweets. Brilliant, you can use a doorbell, fuck off.

* Presumably he now turns cabbages into braiiiinnnnns or some such.

Lessons in trust

Because I am a deeply flawed human being, I exhibited all the hallmarks of panic and trepidation on Tuesday when I began considering the possibility that two of my friends were in the process of stitching me right up. This might seem a little uncharitable, but there is a common humour between us that would have found such stitching gratifying.

Imagine, then, my unbridled joy upon discovering that we were not, as I’d previously suspected, going speed dating; we were off to see The Woman in Black. I have never been so relieved or excited in my entire life; it turns out that I do like surprises after all.

And ghost stories, I love ghost stories. There’s something primal about the way they tease and taunt the imagination until you’re hooked and, quite despite yourself, subject to the sudden shocks and frights of your own suggestible mind. The Woman in Black is one such tale, and the acting marvellously done. Quite simply, last night’s trip to the theatre was the best birthday present I’ve ever received.

Well, if you don’t count my catching Lindsay’s cold/flu/plague thing it was, and even then it’s a close run thing.

Valuable lessons

I do love satire.

Omens of trepidation

Way back in September, two of my favourite people handed me a token by way of a birthday gift. On said token was an invitation to “an evening of fun with Lindsay and Susie, 29th October, bring a white hanky” which, frankly, could mean anything.

However, it’s now the day before and something’s occurred to me - it was the white hankie that did it – I’m being set up. Something about the whole debacle smacks of speed dating/blind dates, two things I hate with all the bile at my disposal, and now I’m edgy as fuck. I hate surprises, and I mean really hate surprises.

It’s for that reason that I sincerely hope I’m wrong and we’re just off to the theatre to see Macbeth or The Woman in Black, the hankie and cloak and dagger stuff just being a clever ruse. I’m suspicious though, and the internets tell me this, and I am afraid.

Lewis Carroll - The White Rabbit’s verses

They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him;
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.

He sent them word I had not gone.
(We know it to be true.)
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him and ourselves and it.

Don’t let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.

The Crazy Adventures of Wassup Holmes

I post this having shamelessly nicked the link from the chaps over at 5punk in lieu of writing something myself or using my imagination.

Buy this record

Friends, it is of vital importance that you purchase, listen to, and appreciate all the records ever made by the group known as God is an Astronaut. I tell you this for your own good. ^_^

Banks

I hate banks. I hate the necessity of them, the way they think they’re doing you a favour, and their ability to fuck you over royally for the sake of two pence. More than that, I hate their obduracy, their lingering reluctance to do what you’ve asked, when you’ve asked, and their insistence that what they’re doing is of benefit to you.

I’ve been locked in the same discussion with one of my banks for months now. I want them to cancel a standing order; they refuse – it has to exist apparently. I’ve argued long and hard as to why it shouldn’t, how it only serves to benefit them and, in the end, I’ve produced a copy of their own terms and conditions that proves them liars.

You might think, at this point, that they’d concede, back down gracefully, stop being fuckwits and do as I ask. Not so. They need to ‘check something’ to make sure it’s ok. Quite what they can check beyond their own terms and conditions and the agreement I signed, I don’t know, but there you have it. Six months of obfuscation, lies, deception and general twattery and I’m still no closer to my relatively simple goal. I wish them all ill.

And, you know what, in a way I’m glad they’re all slowly going out of business, shower of money-grabbing bastards that they are. I’d be happy keeping my cash in a box under the bed.

Therapy? - Screamager

With a face like this I won’t break any hearts,
and thinking like that won’t make any friends.

Screw that, forget about that,
I don’t wanna think about anything like that.
Screw that, forget about that,
I don’t wanna know about anything like that.

I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.
I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.

Your beauty makes me feel alone,
I look inside but no ones home.

Screw that, forget about that,
I don’t wanna think about anything like that.
Screw that, forget about that,
I don’t wanna know about anything like that.

I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.
I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.

I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.
I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.

I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.
I’ve got nothing to do,
but hang around and get screwed up on you.

But get screwed up on you.
But get screwed up on you.

Still remains one of my favourite ever songs, even after 15 years it’s still class.

Children’s parties

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