Young Pilgrims

I feel like it's been months since last I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life, but at the same time feel it was mere hours since I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life and yet it has been days since I sat down and wrote upon these ebony keys of my strange and fascinating life. The words and the ebony and the keys and the life and the range and the st and the fascin and the ating of it all has clouded about my head like some kind of cloud and now I can't piece anything together, as though my strange and fascinating life is a Victorian street scene depicting rather a to do over a baker who's spilled his rolls as a rowdy dog bounds past being chased by a stream of young urchins, printed onto and expanse of wood and cut into curious shapes with some kind of motorised cutting tool I can't quite remember the name of.

The scene is then placed into a plastic bag and sealed. The bag is then placed into a cardboard box and sealed with two slithers of a clear plastic adhesive, sticky on one side but not the other. The box with the bag in it with the scene in it is then shipped out to toy shops and wayfaring merchants who tout it to children as a means of improving their hand eye coordination. However, children can often slip into a simple-minded haze and forget entirely that the small pieces of scene they are holding in their hands are of vital importance to the scene as a whole and they eat them and the scene can never be complete.

It winds up in charity shops bearing the slogan, "Some Peices Missing" and everybody cries because "pieces" is spelt wrong and the scene can never be completed. Somebody buys it anyway, thinking it will be okay but they wind up completely, utterly, heartbreakingly disappointed when they invest hours of free time building the scene piece by piece only to find that the scene can never be completed.

Minus One

I came down the stairs on the bus the other day - Edinburgh buses feel safer than Yorkshire buses, which means I'm able to sit upstairs without the awful apprehension that used to plague me about descending them and falling to my ultimate demise. So I came down the stairs and saw a woman with a sleeping baby in a sling coming towards the door, so obviously I let her go first. Off she got and I followed. Then I realised that what I thought was a baby aged around a year was in fact a twenty five year old woman. Yes, that's right. A mother. Carrying her twenty five year old child. In a sling.

As the above photograph suggests, the mother had a severe spinal deformity, probably due to the fact she's been carrying a 25 year old around in a sling.

The 25 year old was asleep and looked thoroughly contented. That might have something to do with the fact she'd never been forced to use her completely non-disabled legs to do any walking because her mother is quite happy to tote her around like a great big teddy bear.

Let's bear in mind here, that it was around half past 4 in the evening. The 25 year old clearly had no kind of a routine and would no doubt be awake until the early hours of the morning, during which time, the deformed mother would stand, staring into space (because she cant straighten her back into an upright position) wondering why her child wasn't asleep.

Get a grip, middle-class parents! Your children need to walk sometimes. They also need to learn to hate you for depriving them of their sleep. I am hereby pioneering a new campaign to get middle-class children walking:

To join my campaign, you just have to sponsor a spine. It could be your own, it could be mine, it could be the spine of a seasoned hooker, it really doesn't matter so long as you're willing to pay it a pound a week and stroke it a little bit sometimes. That's basically it.

So off you go! Find your spines! LOVE YOUR SPINES!

What's That Jeremiah?

GET ME! I've been to the cinema! For the first time in months! When I used to go all the time! And now I can't stop exclaiming! EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SO YEAH...I have apparently figured out how to change my font size. It wasn't that hard, maybe you should try it and then you will have achieved something more than waking up and avidly watching the toaster while it makes your breads crispy so they can make your butter melty.

Back to the point. I went to the cinema! I went to see The Artist. And now I'm going to review it for you, as I sometimes do when a film impresses me or if I hate a film or if everyone else is reviewing films, because as I'm sure you're aware, I'm a major bandwagoneer. So The Artist. Here's the movie poster:

If you've read any other reviews of this film, they probably said it was amazing and that you should go see it. My advice to you would be to take the advice of all the other reviews and go and see it immediately. And you definitely have to see it at the cinema, but a really GOOD cinema, by which I mean one in a decent city/town where people can go and watch a film surrounded by other people who are there to actually watch a film instead of texting or talking or locking into coitus three seats down. Because it needs to be really quiet for this film to be effective.

IT'S A SILENT MOVIE, PEOPLE. Yesthat'sright. It's extremely well-acted, the music is excellent and the dog is my highlight of 2012 so far - I'll keep you posted if anything replaces it.

I gives it 72 pecans out of 75 pecans pies.

Which equals GOOD. And HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

The End.

Findings

"We'll begin with a spin filled with puuuuure imaginopolation..." is how I believed this wonderful lyric went for many a-year, despite having watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory approximately 743 times. Personally I like my lyric better; it fits into the strange and wonderful world of Mr Wonka perfectly, don't you think?

Anyway, now that we've spun and begun: HAPPY NEW YAR! I say that with a depth of feeling unimaginable and hope, dearest readers, that you survived the treacherous cross over from one year to the next and are having a wonderful Janvier so far. I feel like this year is going to be fabulous because, one day in, I was foraging through the mounds of carrier bags that littered my room and

If you can't guess from this amazing photograph, then you're obviously an imbecile and ought not to be readin' this 'ere blog, 'cause it ain't for the likes o' you!

So now I weep no more for we have been reunited and, as suspected, Peaches and Herb DID write a song about our wonderful rejoining! Here's a photograph of them singing it:

There you have it, a real bit of good luck to start the new year, which means the world is VERY unlikely to end this year, thanks to me. You don't need to repay me with anything other than good will. And all your monies.

And that's all I really have to say about that.

Banter

Dear all

I hadn't really planned on doing a blog today, but since I removed my hilariously witty t-shirt designs lest the evil corporation tried to steal my ideas and I saw something worth sharing, I thought I'd give you an impromptu treat. AREN'TIGENEROUSYES.

I was casually Facebook stalking people I used to go to school with just now, and came across someone I never really spoke to all that much, but Facebook being what it is, I was forced to click on their page and start scanning through the entire repertoire of meaningless drivel known as their "life". I'm actually still laughing away to myself about what I found.

As I was creeping through this person's pictures and I found one on which they had commented "Oh my shit stain :P" I stopped and read it a few times to make sure I was seeing it right, but indeed, someone had used their own shit stain as a means of exclaiming their surprise and disgust at a photograph.

Really? We're doing that kind of thing now? Am I really out of the loop here? Has this been going on for a while?? What next? "Oh my weeping anus"? "Oh my used sanitary towel"? I am llol-ing (literally laughing out loud <<< fyi, correct use of the word "literally") on my own, in my room, at my own jokes whilst typing this to share it with all you lovely readers. So you'd better be llol-ing too, otherwise I look like a maniacal fool.

Over and Out.

There's a Hole in that Snowflake

Oh woe is me! Here I am, back at home for Christmas all excited about the prospect of watching Elf and  crocheting to my heart's content in preparation of the upcoming festivities and being reunited with my graphics tablet, only to discover that NONE of these things can happen!

There I was on Sunday afternoon avidly refreshing my Facebook homepage, because all my friends are "so interesting"* and definitely not just a distraction from the portfolio I was trying to finish. I was all *scroll scroll scroll like scroll scroll*, when I saw a status that referred to the fact that Elf, THE best Christmas film of all time would be on that very afternoon...exactly 24 hours before I would be home where there's a TV for me to watch things like Elf and Neighbours and Murder, She Wrote. Oh! I could have WEPT. And I did, inwardly, where people can't judge you for it.

After that, I decided to do a bit of crocheting to calm myself down. And guess what. I bloody bought the bloody wrong bloody wool. Annoyed much? Yes, I was. And that's pretty much the story. I've decided I'm going to blame my mistake on the fact that I didn't get to watch Elf this year...even though I bought the wool before I found out about that...

So anyway, when I did finally get home, when I DIDN'T finally watch Elf, I went a-searchin' for my graphics tablet, as made famous by such timeless blogs as "The One About John Travolta Being a Catfish" and "I found a Photograph of Mr Whitehairblackbeard". Couldn't bloody well find it, could I? No I could not. In fairness, I didn't look all that hard - I was brushing my teeth at the time and thinking about all the antelopes who were dying, but it should have been in a fairly obvious place. I *think* I left it on a chair. But I can't be sure. If anyone has seen it, please return it to me immediately. It is greyish-black; charcoal you might say, and it has a pen of the same colour with a little white tip - that's what you do the drawings with.

Needless to say, I've been quite distressed. To calm myself down, I sat for one whole hour this evening, obsessively taking my laptop to bits and cleaning away all the dust with a paint brush.

And now I've upset myself even further looking at the above photograph of me that was taken just minutes ago. I'd better go and eat a novelty biscuit quickly to reverse the effect.


*Anyone reading this clearly falls into the bracket of "actually interesting". Please discount yourselves from this droplet of sarcasm that was added to further the horrible, cynical persona I'm crafting for myself upon the internet. Obviously I'm really nice and genuine in real life, just like every other person who writes a blog to make themselves feel better about the fact that their life is an endless drag from one moment to the next.

In the Eye of the Pickle

I don't know if you've noticed, but the quality of my drawings has been slightly less wonderful than usual. That's because I forgot to bring my graphics tab to Edinburgh. What a bummer. However, as of Monday, we shall be reunited. It will feel so good. Peaches & Herb will probably chronicle our reunion in a timeless love song.

Anyway, it turns out this is an avoidance blog. I have a portfolio of work due on the 15th, but since I'm going home on Monday, which is before the 15th, I need to get it done by Monday. And it last night became apparent to me that I hate almost everything I've written so far this year. So I'm in a pickle and that's no help at all, because carving out a six foot pickle to lie in and think about the poetry I haven't written is completely counter productive.

And I have a cold. It's a bad cold. Whenever I move my eyes, it would appear I'm moving backwards through time and that's a painful experience I can tell you because my eyes are already sore from all the staring at my crummy poems I've been doing.

And now to sew the parts of this apparently disjointed discourse together:

You see, I was talking about how bad my drawings have been at the beginning and now I've posted an example. Here we see me, inside a giant pickle, looking a lot like one of the creatures that stalk the sets of Dr Who, WHICH IS ABOUT TIME TRAVEL! And on that picture the woes of my failing health have been noted, and they're all reasons why my poetry apparently sucks.

So to conclude, I really need to stop wasting time writing pointless blogs and do some work. I'm glad we figured that out together, world! Until next time!