BETAMAXNOMATES
'All she can do is dial and yell...'20050224
Came on Eileen
What, as Marvin Gaye famously asked, is going on?
Actually, the ‘is’ was conjoined with the ‘what’ and the ‘g’ at the end of ‘going’ casually omitted, but for the sake I’ve clarity I’ve cleaned up Gaye’s diction and consequently avoided paying royalties. Something is certainly going down though. Strongly-worded letters pouring through the door, people in suits calling to ask me questions: either those children have talked or it’s election time again.
This morning I had a visit from our town’s mayor, a woman who’s been mayor for as long as I can remember and looks not so much like she was born but rather evolved from a compost heap. There’s a curiously ‘mulchy’ air about her, like she crawled out from beneath layers of compressed garden waste, and slathered herself in a business suit and sensible specs. Anyway, she was round hassling for votes for one of her candidates. Now, I like talking politics, even though I know next to nothing about anything, and don’t tend to be exactly welcoming of any challenge to my hard-crusted prejudices and assumptions - any questioning of my own beliefs generally elicits only a terse ‘mind your own business’, ‘I’m entitled to a private life’, ‘I’d like to terminate this discussion’, or else hysterical threats of legal action.
I complained to her about the recent proliferation of election posters and overall she was reasonably sympathetic to my concerns, though she hesitated on committing to a motion excluding ugly candidates from running. I’m particularly perturbed by an enormous Fine Gael poster recently erected on my route to work, which I now have to pass by every other day. There’s something palpably unsettling about walking under the gaze of a giant-size Enda Kenny, as he squints with his weird featureless Fig Roll head, flanked by Scully and his suspiciously spongiform square pantaloons. Kenny’s face looks one of those police photo-fits: all the pieces are in the right place but it still looks like no one you’ve ever seen in your life. And I’m not saying that Darren Scully is some kind of asexual ocean-dweller - but let’s just say that if he was found to be co-habiting with a big pink starfish I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.
I don’t ‘get’ Enda Kenny - he may as well be holographic for all the personal charm and charisma he possesses. But I suppose anything’s preferable to the current leader, Bertie, a man who I understand is made almost entirely from liquorice. There’s always Pat Rabbitte, I suppose - a man with a cartoon name and an alleged wit - but we all know what happens to Labour when they get into power: the supposed revolutionary’s inner policeman is unleashed and they go riding around on Spice Girls bombing every country ending in ‘stan’ or containing the Countdown-unfriendly ‘x’, ‘z’, or ‘q’. And while the diplomacy of the baseball bat may work a treat north of the border if our nation is to achieve any kind of credibility in the world we have to keep the Shinners as far away from power as possible.
So, as per usual I’ll be giving (read: wasting) my vote on the very beardy Greens and any other number of unelectable left-wing lunatics. Let’s see more T.D’s in tweed suits and tofu footwear. I want to see our nations leader ride into parliament on a motorised scooter fuelled by recycled avocado rind. And lots more single-issue independents looking to ban paedophilia, arm the homeless, and award ambulance driver privileges to single fathers/national heroes.
Speaking of stupid people doing stupid things, you may by now be aware of the newly launched Freedom from Pornography campaign. That’s right everybody! Put down those Hentai rapetoons, you’re free to go! No longer will you be oppressed by those underage cum-guzzling sluts of the Ukraine! At last our nation is free from the sticky grip of the despotic porn lords that have enslaved us for so long!
The Freedom from Pornography team’s argument, if you could call it that, is that pornography, in our society, has become too ‘pervasive’. What they mean here is that pornography has become more accessible, as it should be: anyone who wants porn and pays for it is entitled to it - as far as I’m concerned that’s their right. People are free from pornography - it’s in shops if you want it, and is readily available online if you seek it out. What people have less freedom from - and what this bint-headed retro-feminist talkshop only pay lip-service to - is the pervasiveness of pornographic iconography in mainstream advertising and the cynical appropriation of pornographic imagery to associate sex with everything from cars to shampoo to Shane Ritchie. And that’s just plain wrong, bitches.
One final grievance: I was dismayed to hear yesterday that Smarties are to change the shape of their box, abandoning their trusty tubular design in favour of a ‘funky’ new hexagonal model. Normally there’s nothing that excites me more than corporate rebranding but this just smacks of desperation. According to the press release, the new tube will be an obnoxious luminous orange in colour and made from the same ultra-light fibre glass material used in the undercarriages of snowboards; it also comes equipped with image capture/MMS technology and the facility to download idiotic mobile ringtones direct to your Smarties box and play Java-based games on the lid, all for six yoyo’s.
Far from this we were raised, I can tell you. In my day we were happy to eat carbolic soap out of an old toilet roll insert. Backwards. In the snow. With no shoes, and only the radiation from a Sega GameGear to keep us warm. These were the days before child abuse was even invented. And our mother, Kirstie Alley, wouldn’t have had it any other way; she’d turn in her grave now if only she weren’t still alive. Things were different back then: there was a war on, Bill Gates Vs. The National Council of Churches. Gates, you may remember, was tried in a plastic box in Geneva and sentenced to orbit the moon. Still, we didn’t complain, complaining not being decriminalised until the end of the years starting with 1.
Actually, the ‘is’ was conjoined with the ‘what’ and the ‘g’ at the end of ‘going’ casually omitted, but for the sake I’ve clarity I’ve cleaned up Gaye’s diction and consequently avoided paying royalties. Something is certainly going down though. Strongly-worded letters pouring through the door, people in suits calling to ask me questions: either those children have talked or it’s election time again.
This morning I had a visit from our town’s mayor, a woman who’s been mayor for as long as I can remember and looks not so much like she was born but rather evolved from a compost heap. There’s a curiously ‘mulchy’ air about her, like she crawled out from beneath layers of compressed garden waste, and slathered herself in a business suit and sensible specs. Anyway, she was round hassling for votes for one of her candidates. Now, I like talking politics, even though I know next to nothing about anything, and don’t tend to be exactly welcoming of any challenge to my hard-crusted prejudices and assumptions - any questioning of my own beliefs generally elicits only a terse ‘mind your own business’, ‘I’m entitled to a private life’, ‘I’d like to terminate this discussion’, or else hysterical threats of legal action.
I complained to her about the recent proliferation of election posters and overall she was reasonably sympathetic to my concerns, though she hesitated on committing to a motion excluding ugly candidates from running. I’m particularly perturbed by an enormous Fine Gael poster recently erected on my route to work, which I now have to pass by every other day. There’s something palpably unsettling about walking under the gaze of a giant-size Enda Kenny, as he squints with his weird featureless Fig Roll head, flanked by Scully and his suspiciously spongiform square pantaloons. Kenny’s face looks one of those police photo-fits: all the pieces are in the right place but it still looks like no one you’ve ever seen in your life. And I’m not saying that Darren Scully is some kind of asexual ocean-dweller - but let’s just say that if he was found to be co-habiting with a big pink starfish I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.
I don’t ‘get’ Enda Kenny - he may as well be holographic for all the personal charm and charisma he possesses. But I suppose anything’s preferable to the current leader, Bertie, a man who I understand is made almost entirely from liquorice. There’s always Pat Rabbitte, I suppose - a man with a cartoon name and an alleged wit - but we all know what happens to Labour when they get into power: the supposed revolutionary’s inner policeman is unleashed and they go riding around on Spice Girls bombing every country ending in ‘stan’ or containing the Countdown-unfriendly ‘x’, ‘z’, or ‘q’. And while the diplomacy of the baseball bat may work a treat north of the border if our nation is to achieve any kind of credibility in the world we have to keep the Shinners as far away from power as possible.
So, as per usual I’ll be giving (read: wasting) my vote on the very beardy Greens and any other number of unelectable left-wing lunatics. Let’s see more T.D’s in tweed suits and tofu footwear. I want to see our nations leader ride into parliament on a motorised scooter fuelled by recycled avocado rind. And lots more single-issue independents looking to ban paedophilia, arm the homeless, and award ambulance driver privileges to single fathers/national heroes.
Speaking of stupid people doing stupid things, you may by now be aware of the newly launched Freedom from Pornography campaign. That’s right everybody! Put down those Hentai rapetoons, you’re free to go! No longer will you be oppressed by those underage cum-guzzling sluts of the Ukraine! At last our nation is free from the sticky grip of the despotic porn lords that have enslaved us for so long!
The Freedom from Pornography team’s argument, if you could call it that, is that pornography, in our society, has become too ‘pervasive’. What they mean here is that pornography has become more accessible, as it should be: anyone who wants porn and pays for it is entitled to it - as far as I’m concerned that’s their right. People are free from pornography - it’s in shops if you want it, and is readily available online if you seek it out. What people have less freedom from - and what this bint-headed retro-feminist talkshop only pay lip-service to - is the pervasiveness of pornographic iconography in mainstream advertising and the cynical appropriation of pornographic imagery to associate sex with everything from cars to shampoo to Shane Ritchie. And that’s just plain wrong, bitches.
One final grievance: I was dismayed to hear yesterday that Smarties are to change the shape of their box, abandoning their trusty tubular design in favour of a ‘funky’ new hexagonal model. Normally there’s nothing that excites me more than corporate rebranding but this just smacks of desperation. According to the press release, the new tube will be an obnoxious luminous orange in colour and made from the same ultra-light fibre glass material used in the undercarriages of snowboards; it also comes equipped with image capture/MMS technology and the facility to download idiotic mobile ringtones direct to your Smarties box and play Java-based games on the lid, all for six yoyo’s.
Far from this we were raised, I can tell you. In my day we were happy to eat carbolic soap out of an old toilet roll insert. Backwards. In the snow. With no shoes, and only the radiation from a Sega GameGear to keep us warm. These were the days before child abuse was even invented. And our mother, Kirstie Alley, wouldn’t have had it any other way; she’d turn in her grave now if only she weren’t still alive. Things were different back then: there was a war on, Bill Gates Vs. The National Council of Churches. Gates, you may remember, was tried in a plastic box in Geneva and sentenced to orbit the moon. Still, we didn’t complain, complaining not being decriminalised until the end of the years starting with 1.
I have to go now, my planet needs me.
Anonymous -- Passing up a free ticket to Snoop to wage War on Error.
Anonymous -- Passing up a free ticket to Snoop to wage War on Error.
20050217
Things is Changed
Re-issue ! Re-package ! Re-package !
Hello, friends. You may well have noticed that things is indeed changed round here. Yes, the titles are supposed to be that size. And yes, you will see that I have added a number of links to the sidebar, a selection of Ddmmyy. approved blogarts for your perusal. Don't see your name there? That's 'cos you fucking suck and I'd sooner slurp squirrel shit than read your pissblogcockbollocks. Also, please make note of the title's changing from 'ddmmyy' to 'Ddmmyy.' (the full stop is very, very important, though I couldn't possibly tell you why); henceforth the site will no longer be referred to here as 'Day Month Year'.
Comments, queries and criticisms are welcome, though not expressly encouraged.
Normal service will resume... why, some time next week, I imagine.
Normal service will resume... why, some time next week, I imagine.
20050216
Pop will Eat Itself
And the shit will smell like this.
No more updates for a while as Real Life briefly takes over.
Anonymous -- Get your croutons on!
No more updates for a while as Real Life briefly takes over.
Anonymous -- Get your croutons on!
20050214
Heart the Size of Salford
Love is a funny old game, one of two halves, but not played on a field.
Love is saying thank you in goals.
Love is St. Valentine’s Day, an amnesty for stalkers to post love-threats anonymously.
Love is a WMD.
Love is scrubbing the blood from the bathtub.
Love is what’s left behind after.
Love is six Lidl beers and The Smiths.
Love is devious, truculent and unreliable.
Love is a many-splendoured Morrisseyean joke.
Love is a fizz-fucking, cock-obvious compote of over-egged bull cannelloni.
Love is a musical greeting card.
Love is a child with flies in his eyes.
Love is the smell of wet towels.
Love is emotional blackmail.
Love is not hitting the face.
Love is taking advantage.
Love is uraqt.
Love is bigger than Jesus.
Love is the hazelnut ones nobody likes that get left in the box.
Love is bad freeform poetry.
Love is natural and love is real, but not for the likes of you and me etc.
Love is directed by Richard Curtis.
Love is just something people say.
Love is Clive Owen in Closer when he says that a heart looks like a fist wrapped in blood.
Love is a word that doesn't rhyme well.
Love is blind, and love is deaf.
Love is dumb.
Love is lobotomised.
Love is gr8.
Love is two naked eight-year olds that are married.
Love is refusing to accept that we all die alone.
Love is gay.
Love is selfish and unpatriotic.
Love is want.
Love is wadded cash between greased tits.
Love is a useless noun and a wanky verb.
Love is a breath through the neck of a corpse.
Love is being lied to until your heart rejects truth.
Love is a four-letter word.
Anonymous -- Croutons are off.
Love is saying thank you in goals.
Love is St. Valentine’s Day, an amnesty for stalkers to post love-threats anonymously.
Love is a WMD.
Love is scrubbing the blood from the bathtub.
Love is what’s left behind after.
Love is six Lidl beers and The Smiths.
Love is devious, truculent and unreliable.
Love is a many-splendoured Morrisseyean joke.
Love is a fizz-fucking, cock-obvious compote of over-egged bull cannelloni.
Love is a musical greeting card.
Love is a child with flies in his eyes.
Love is the smell of wet towels.
Love is emotional blackmail.
Love is not hitting the face.
Love is taking advantage.
Love is uraqt.
Love is bigger than Jesus.
Love is the hazelnut ones nobody likes that get left in the box.
Love is bad freeform poetry.
Love is natural and love is real, but not for the likes of you and me etc.
Love is directed by Richard Curtis.
Love is just something people say.
Love is Clive Owen in Closer when he says that a heart looks like a fist wrapped in blood.
Love is a word that doesn't rhyme well.
Love is blind, and love is deaf.
Love is dumb.
Love is lobotomised.
Love is gr8.
Love is two naked eight-year olds that are married.
Love is refusing to accept that we all die alone.
Love is gay.
Love is selfish and unpatriotic.
Love is want.
Love is wadded cash between greased tits.
Love is a useless noun and a wanky verb.
Love is a breath through the neck of a corpse.
Love is being lied to until your heart rejects truth.
Love is a four-letter word.
Anonymous -- Croutons are off.
20050211
Teepee yo Mama!
To whom it may concern,
Some musical confections for your delectation:
Dew
Dracula Biscuits
Care
Some musical confections for your delectation:
Dew
Dracula Biscuits
Care
Anonymous -- You get your croutons. I'll get mine.
20050208
Got Croutons?
More shocking blog neglect.
Social services’ll be called in next; things’ll really grim up if the journal gets taken into care. The blue template will have to go for a start, replaced by a coat of local authority green, and some bland landscapes. Updates will be daily and the style strictly regimented: it’ll be like Anne Frank, only with more swearing.
To be honest (rather than 'Frank'), there’s no real reason why I haven’t been posting. Essentially for the past week, my life, such as it is, has been rather boring and unblogworthy. Without realising I seem to have become some kind of slow, stuttering dullard, working profusely, falling asleep at meetings, suffering through reruns of The Bill on UK Gold, and putting odd colours in my hair. I also think I pulled something doing an ill-advised Michael Jackson impersonation on Saturday which has limited my movement somewhat and may mean I can never have children. That’s OK though, I’d only neglect them anyway - them and my misguided slag of a wife. I’m joking of course. I’d never neglect my kids: I’d be too busy beating the living shit out of them for that.
I have been thinking a bit about the future though - and domestic abuse definitely features. Mainly I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do with myself next year. My contract with my current job runs out at the end of September at which point I had planned on returning to college but to do what I do not know. I’ve also come to realise that I enjoy bowling a lot and am actually sort of good at it. I’m not sure it’s a viable career, though the idea of living as a minor character from The Big Lebowski is appealing.
Still, I hear there might be a vacancy coming up...
So the Pope is dying. Thanks be to God.
I’m not having a go at the Pope here, I’m just saying I hope he dies. Like, I don’t mean to be insensitive, it’s just I think he deserves to rot. There’s going to be a lot of empty proselytising over the next couple of weeks when, just like with Reagan last year, people will come to confuse the deceased Pontiff with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. I thought long and hard about this but it really is hard to find anything positive to say about such as thoroughgoing scumbag as John Paul II. From carpet-bombing Cambodia after the supposed end of the Vietnam War, introducing AIDS to San Francisco in the 80’s, and more or less inventing S Club 7, the litany of charges against the Pope is as extensive as it is incriminating.
I have been thinking a bit about the future though - and domestic abuse definitely features. Mainly I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do with myself next year. My contract with my current job runs out at the end of September at which point I had planned on returning to college but to do what I do not know. I’ve also come to realise that I enjoy bowling a lot and am actually sort of good at it. I’m not sure it’s a viable career, though the idea of living as a minor character from The Big Lebowski is appealing.
Still, I hear there might be a vacancy coming up...
So the Pope is dying. Thanks be to God.
I’m not having a go at the Pope here, I’m just saying I hope he dies. Like, I don’t mean to be insensitive, it’s just I think he deserves to rot. There’s going to be a lot of empty proselytising over the next couple of weeks when, just like with Reagan last year, people will come to confuse the deceased Pontiff with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. I thought long and hard about this but it really is hard to find anything positive to say about such as thoroughgoing scumbag as John Paul II. From carpet-bombing Cambodia after the supposed end of the Vietnam War, introducing AIDS to San Francisco in the 80’s, and more or less inventing S Club 7, the litany of charges against the Pope is as extensive as it is incriminating.
At this stage it’s probably too late to have the Pontiff face a show trial in Poland - plus the Jackson trial has the February sweeps sewn right up. No, a clumsy, spluttering death in a hospital somewhere with only some opera singers on commission and the Vatican’s vast private army there to see him out is the only end befitting a man of the Pope’s colossal evil. There’s a place in Hell for this monster, between Princess Diana and Mother Teresa, and there he can moulder, keeping a seat warm for Crazed Racist Mel Gibson and a space at the head of the table for this man:
Oh, how I hate U2. For most of the idiot population of Ireland this is tantamount to treason. Regardless of what we think of their music or Bono’s role as celebrity beggar for Africa, we as a people are supposed to rally around U2 and their lead singer's arena-sized ego, and let ourselves be whipped into some kind of nationalistic fever any time Bono and the boys deign to set foot on these shores to fill a stadium with their insufferably earnest corporate-rock anthems. Look, their up-tempo numbers sound like songs to be played over sportscasts; their ballads are written to accompany slo-mo shots of shattered villages and the kind of cynical televised ransom notes that pass for charity infomercials Channel 4 shows before midday. My God, U2 are soundtracking the fucking news! All they’re missing is an instrumental interlude mid-tune allowing Bono to ream off some Googled statistics about poverty and urge the rest of us non-millionaire rock stars to give everything we can to the Third World.
U2 make me ashamed to be Irish and Bono makes me ashamed to give money to charity. I blame Bono for the way I scowl at those blue-plastic-jacket-clad crusty’s collecting for Concern: ‘Minute for Concern?’ ‘Why, yes, I have lots of concerns. Now push off will you, I’ve to see a man about some scatter cushions’. Charlie Brooker, TV critic and co-writer of the upcoming Nathan Barley, got himself into some trouble before the U.S election for calling for the assassination of George W. Bush, but I’ll echo his sentiments here: Mark David Chapman, where are you now when we need you?
Normal service will resume as soon as other people stop stealing my signature sign-off. I don't care how funny you are with it, that’s my thing! My thing that I say! You can’t say that! Screw you guys, I’m going home! Oh. I am home. Well, I’m going out to the shed with a gallon of rubbing alcohol and a short length of hose. See you in the funny pages - if not the obituaries.
Anonymous -- Got croutons, have you? Well, we’ll see about that.
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