Back from the unplanned hiatus

It turns out that trying to keep up with university work and trying to be funny to an unknown, online audience is a difficult task to juggle. So, now that I have a bit of spare time on my hands I have decided to rekindle the online flame and stick another blog on the fire... (haha, blog is like log with a B in front of it.)

Which reminds me, a thought entered my brain the other day which luckily turned out not to be a minor stroke. The word rape is clearly very bad and strikes up all sorts of uncomfortable feelings. Unless you are actually a rapist. But stick a 'G' in front of it and it's all ok. People love grapes. And grapists make wine.

Not one of my wisest thoughts, no. But a thought nonetheless.

A serial grapist



A victim of grape who wishes to remain anonymous

Anyways, to keep whoever can be arsed to actually read this slightly entertained, here is a poem I wrote a couple of months ago about that awkward meeting with an ex who managed to find someone new before you.

You know that awkward moment when you realise
your ex-girlfriend has started seeing other guys
And despite the fact that you called it off
it still comes as quite a surprise.

Queue the public ritual at the public house
My habitual flaws are firmly laid out
and encrypted into scripted conversation.

She's well and truly over and relishing the closure
As I am presented with this poser.
The Scene-kid, has-been kid
With the sides of his hair cut so lean kid,
Just like the tension.

And the stylised messy mop
modeled on top
is a memento of this messed
up situation.

“Keiran, this is so and so, so and so, Keiran”
I hold out my left hand as the right has a beer in
As a right handed person my aversion
with the left was certain.

He gripped unnecessarily tight and sensed my unease
I would have felt more displeased
But as he reached out to me
Poking out of his sleeve
Was a super mario tattoo.

All of the criticism, witticism and cynicism
Filled my brain like an aneurysm
But I keep quiet and listen.

Which was a bit of a mission, I must say
As 5 minutes before this chance soiree
I'd chowed down a fat line of MDMA.
Through a receipt ironically as cash was tight
Just sat on the seat and snorted out of sight.

Time then to use a finger (Steady on)
A wet one wiping the white specs from the cistern
And into my gums going for the blisters
Cuz that's how you get it straight into the system.
Another raw wound, going the distance.

Man this girl can talk.
I'm not surprised we broke up
I'm glad I woke up, even more that I spoke up
But this is too much for my mashed mind to soak up.

My lips start to tingle and move without thought
So I try keeping them occupied with the drink that I''d bought.
My eyes dart left for no reason
but kicks in quick succession

As they do I notice what's his names
are fixed in my direction
Are you trying to insinuate a confrontation?
Cuz right now I've only got one sensation...

Of peace and love
and for the hungry to eat
Unity, the stars above
and the feel of that leather 3 piece suite
Over there in the alcove

Man, I am buzzing, you should give this a bash
When you're ready to stop hiding behind that dismal mustache
That to be honest mate, would look more in place on a gentleman's gash.
You can let down your guard and that cool kid facade
Cuz me and her, will always be in the past

I pledge allegiance to the fag..

America. Land of the free, of opportunity and of course, free speech. That is, so long as you're a God fearing, faggot hating christian. It was another glorious day for the Westboro Baptist Church whose subtlety and discretion in their religious views has made them household names across the globe. A US Supreme Court has given them the right to carry on with their peaceful, fag-themed protests and pickets of dead soldiers' funerals because it says so in the first amendment.

Founder of the church and resembling a lizard in a suit, Fred Phelps' was so excited by the news he probably made a speech containing the word 'fag' at some point or another. Little do the public know but Phelps actually works as a club promoter for a string of gay clubs called 'Fag' and every time he mentions the word 'Fag' he gets a big juicy bonus in his bank and his internal back pocket. This probably isn't true and is still under debate.

Where of course, I disagree with their extreme views, you have to hand it to them when they come up with such excellent epithets for people, like the pope being branded as 'The Godfather of Pedophiles'. If they're the only people going to heaven though, I'd rather not go, thank you.

So another great day for justice. Parents burying their children who died in combat are now falling victim to the very thing they were probably fighting for. Did you know the army has even started advertising on Spotify? Infiltrate any lair if you must but please not my Spotify playlist.

I know, being a British citizen I probably have no right to mock the legal system in America, but this is the same country that has summoned a cat for jury service.

Cameron's Creme Egg

Spot the Difference?

Like a 15 year old babysitter checking that the kids are playing nicely upstairs our beloved Prime Minister, David "How do you eat yours" Cameron has detoured to Egypt during his sell-out tour of the Middle East to see how things are doing out there. The Faberge faced fool wanted "to make sure this really is a genuine transition from military rule to civilian rule". Surprisingly, Cameron is the first of the world's political leaders to 'check-in' on Egypt since Mubarack's departure. Usually this would be Obama's territory, getting there first with his handsome looks and over-using his catchphrase "Change". He said, "By stepping down, President Mubarak responded to the Egyptian people's hunger for change". Yes, change. So, for a 'change' Obama took a back seat and let Cameron get there first, for a 'change'. Did you know that for every time Obama says the word 'Change' a woman in her 50's is prescribed HRT for the 'Change'?

In a quote from the BBC News pages regarding the Egyptian protests that left hundreds dead, Mr Cameron said he had met "very brave" figures from the protest movement who "don't yet have confidence that this transition is real". This is in stark contrast to the recent protesters in Britain on whom he said, "I want to see them arrested and punished". All because the Duchess of Cornwall may or may not have been poked with a stick. In all fairness though, a stick, a riding crop, same-difference.

Cameron then started throwing around the term 'friend' and how Britain and Egypt have been bestest buds for years. A bit like Uri Gellar on his friendship with Michael Jackson. We all know they probably met twice if he was lucky and MJ just wasn't interested because Gellar is over the age of 10. If Britain and Egypt have been such great friends for so long, how come we didn't step in and do something earlier? That's what we normally do.

Cameron continued, "This is a great opportunity for us to go and talk to those currently running Egypt, and see what friendly countries like Britain and others in Europe can do to help." Friendly countries like Britain? Possibly one of the most unwelcoming places in the world, you're likely to encounter miserable taxi drivers, arsehole bus-drivers, hospital superbugs and Coldplay.

Mr Cameron went on to say it was "right to come here to say that we support the aspirations of people in Egypt for a more genuine, open democracy". Yeah, that's what Egypt needs now, a lecture from a western politician who's been in charge of a country for 5 minutes and has already dashed the hopes and dreams of many of its citizens. Somebody who will jump at the chance to be part of a revolution they played no part in. A prime minister who condemns an act in his own country but applauds it in another. Do us a favor Cameron, leave Egypt be. They have done well enough on their own, over-turning their government. The last thing they need is an enlarged talking prostate gland trying to be their pal or their buddy. Like the awkward step-dad trying to give advice to the step-son that will never respect them. Just sit back and let them do what they have to do. Concentrate on sorting out your own country before you start shitting on everyone elses. Don't make us go Egypt on your arse, son.

Diddy try too hard??

It has emerged this week that Sean "Puffadiddleydoodiddleydee" Combs is the biggest try-hard in the world ever. For years he has hidden his actual dull personality with a lavish facade of mink coats and champagne. Combs' latest "Please like me" party, as they are now officially known, had him resorting to throwing $1million in cash of his own money into the crowd just to liven things up. It is sickening to think just how shite this party must have been to have to go to these drastic lengths. Reports from previous parties state that at one point he paid $30,000 on an orchid display. Not entirely sure what these orchids were doing for it to cost that much but I'm guessing it went down like a pin-prick in a condom.

Forever Trying...

Sources suggest that he has always been a characterless ball bag and is about as interesting as the back of a man's knee. This is evident in the way he raps his monotonous twaddle. If you listen very carefully, in most of his songs he has actually bored himself to sleep so he isn't actually saying anything audible.

On a serious note though, why doesn't he go and build some water wells in hard-hit places around the globe? Maybe a school or two?

B*stards

The daily bus ride. The kind of drudgery that accentuates the social awkwardness of mankind. Myself evidently included in that. If you're not being eyeballed by a toddler that should more than likely be in foster care you're probably sat in front of a flu-victim that must have had both arms blown off in some holy war because that is the only acceptable excuse for not covering your mouth when you splutter your snotty little swine germs all over the back of my healthy head.


It is the only aspect of modern business where you are frowned upon for trying to pay with actual money. The driver, reacting like I was trying to pay him with a couple of car stereos or an unwanted baby, "Ooooh...you can't pay with that, especially not at this time of the morning". It was a fucking ten pound note. Her majesty the Queen graces that woven piece of fibre and you are going to deny her entry on this bus? Although she probably has a bus pass. Or maybe even a cardboard cut out of some money that she can just stick her face through. Will have to be less than a fiver though.

With this type of stress on bus journeys, it is not surprising to read this headline:

Police appeals after two separate assaults on Bath bus drivers

To be honest though, it's a surprise there have only been two separate incidents.

While on the bus today, the driver let on all of the passengers then buggered off for a couple of minutes, leaving us locked in like contestants on the Crystal Maze. While I was happily daydreaming about what it would be like if they switched on the fans and we all had to scramble for gold envelopes to win a weekend trip to Centre Parcs my mind was interrupted by a child expressing his opposing daydream. "Anyone could hijack this bus right now"... Wow. Really? Is this all kids are thinking now? Hijacking and terrorism? I didn't know whether to feel sorry for the child, being brought up in a scare-mongering, Daily Mail believing, hate-driven world. The fact that simply being locked on a bus prompted panic in this kid. It's either that or this kid will go on to be a hijacker and this prompted his next venture in life. So I had no other alternative than to manually restrain him and perform a citizens arrest. He is currently being held for 14 days without a sniff of a trial.

Now for the bus journey's denouement. The sitting down politics. That moment where every window seat is occupied. You've got your space too. But more commuters arrive. Who are they going to choose to sit next to? Just keep looking out the window. Don't make eye contact. Will you be able to keep your bag on your seat to let everyone know you want to be left alone? I think this is where the term 'Bagsy' came from but I may be wrong. But then there gets to a point when most people have been joined by another commuter. You start to feel like the last one picked for the sports team. Why doesn't anyone want to sit next to you? Even the fat emo kid got picked before you. Then the worst case scenario occurs. Your space is the last one left. And there is one more person to come and sit down. They walk toward you. You try not to pay any attention. They inch closer. Just keep looking out the window. They're about to sit down. You feel quite excited, you're finally going to make the team.....they opt to stand. Bastard.

Saving the world from mass paper wastage. And black Velvet.

After a few discussions with friends it has come to my attention that people waste a lot of toilet paper. And yes, I am pointing my blameful finger at the female species. Now I understand that we all need toilet paper when making mud-nuggets, but women also need a sheet or two after a tinkle. We men, of course, have a pointing device that we can shake to rid of any excess dribble. So what can we do to help the women of the world to stop wasting so much paper? That's right, a vibrating toilet seat that shakes the woman dry. Once the lady has finished having a tinkle she can simply press a button that rapidly rocks the toilet seat back and forth to shake out every last drop. This eco-friendly device will help save the trees in the rainforests and cut down your toilet roll spends. The only problems that may arise are yeast infections and trying to lure the woman off the toilet as we all know how much they like to sit on vibrating objects. Apart from that though, I think I'm on to a winner. I'm off to patent this idea...

On the subject of women, I find girls who can sing well very attractive. Karen O, Alison Mosshart, Bat for Lashes to name a few ALL very beautiful women. One thing that really grates my cheddar though is women who sing 'Black Velvet' on karaoke. I hail from Penzance, and karaoke is a major feature in a lot of the night life there (The White Lion, The Longboat). Guaranteed, every flipping time there is some complete arsehole woman who sings that god-awful song. I don't even know who sings it originally. And to be honest, I don't want to know. Because I'll be half tempted to staple a goat's foreskin to her vocal cords for starting this mass wave of warbling wank.

A loan in the shark?

Now I understand that 'loan sharks' are bad news, but whenever I hear of 'The Loan Sharks' it makes me think of a sports team like the Miami Dolphins or the Lesbos Beavers. I'm waiting for the Loan Sharks to take on the Mortgage Monkeys or the Bankruptcy Bears in a head to head clash to see who can exude the most pedestrian blood. If I were going to get a loan from anyone though I'd rather it be a 'loan puppy' or 'loan moth'.

My reasoning behind this particular blog post was after witnessing the most frightening advert, warning people about loan sharks.



Poor old Jody has got herself in a right state with a key-player of the Loan Sharks. But unbeknownst to key-player she has downloaded some new iPhone app that acts as a tazer to stop him in his tracks. Whether this is acceptable in the rules of the game, we are yet to find out.

Where is Alan?

Come back little one...

I lost a hamster over Christmas. No, not up my sphincter. And no, I didn't just leave the cage open like an irresponsible pikey. He burrowed so much that he actually split his cage and crawled out. Now I don't know whether to be offended by this or feel sad. I gave him food, bought him a lovely ball to roll around in, a human name so as not to belittle him, Alan. I was the best Daddy he could have ever dreamed of. And then to just leave like that? And not come back? I feel bitter.

Then I feel sadness. He's out there somewhere in the real world now. Probably selling his body for monkey nuts and cress. (He really liked cress).

I think this song highlights the emotional torment I've been through.


Alan was a gift from a group of friend's for my birthday. He lasted 3 months in my care. The previous year they got me a bonsai tree that I let die after 3 months. Please, don't get me anything living for my next birthday. Unless you want it destroyed within 3 months. Hello, abortion school.

Lucifer's Dream Box

I, like many billions of people around the globe own a television. What I don't own though is an aerial or license. Being a media student, this can cause a bit of an issue sometimes. However, I do feel that you are less likely to be influenced by the growing popularity and trends that we base so much of our lives on. The debate of whether television influences people, especially children is still inconclusive in my opinion. On one hand there are people who can watch violence in television and films and not go out killing as a result, myself included in that. Yet. And then there are the kinds of people who indulge in nothing else but television. The ones who can't really muster up a conversation without using the word 'Like' or an expletive to fill a gap.

This is a factor of why we don't have an aerial for our TV. The only motivation it musters up in some people is telling Mum's to go to Iceland. On the contrary though, there are programmes that you just can't afford to miss. Like, Britain's fattest Man on Channel 4. This programme has inspired me to watch at least one TV show a week that is a bit different, and I will voice my opinions on this here blog.

So the programme of this week, Britain's fattest man. The long, bitter-sweet toothed tale of 50 Year old Paul Mason. Paul is like a human pac-man, eating up everything in his path. Ironically, he has growths all over his legs that look like the little pink ghost in pac-man too. This colossal man vacuumed up 20,000 calories per Diem and seemed offended when the Mirror newspaper branded him as being almost 70 stone. Later on when they could actually provide the correct winch to weigh him it turned out he was only 56 stone 11lb. ONLY 56 stone. Which he seemed pleased about. I wonder if he expects a written apology from the mirror for claiming he was 70 stone?

The Mighty Man. I was worried the file would be too large.

The idea to staple this guy's stomach was long overdue and of course came with an array of possible complications but I just kept thinking, how deep does this guy's bellybutton go? After the surgery on his stomach he also had a large lump of fat removed from his leg. This bulge was hypnotic, reminded me of when you see a large jellyfish washed up on the beach. I panicked thinking that it may be his ball bag they were hacking in to, or as the doctor referred to them as his 'Bits and Pieces'. Never good when a fully qualified doctor refers to your genitals as 'Bits and Pieces'. It sounds like a candy store. The last thing a morbidly obese person needs to hear about their genitals.

Morbidly obese is a great phrase though. As if being simply obese isn't bad enough. Although Paul Mason was even too fat for the morbidly obese category and was promoted to the 'Super-Obese' pile. And he can't get driven to the hospital in no regular ambulance. He has to get a Jumbulance. I'm waiting for marvel comics to get in on 'Super-obese Man' who drives the Jumbulance and fights calorie related crimes against the evil Lord Ryvita.

The Jumbulance

Throughout the documentary you do feel for the poor bugger. Every time this guy broke down in tears it really was awful, but I kept thinking about Fat Bastard in the Austin Powers movie and was expecting him to let rip at any moment. His carer, Maria looked like the love child of Janet Street Porter and Fiona Allen. She was strangely attractive and I could see why he was so distraught when she had to leave for another job because her funding was cut, just like the fatty bulge was cut out of his leg. They could have kept the wobbling mass and named it Maria.

To be honest though, I do hope he does well and I would like to see a second documentary where he can actually walk and not have to go to the supermarket on an electric wheelchair resembling a motorised magic 8 ball. Hopefully this film will raise awareness of the issue and will manage to get people the help they need before they step, or flop, over from morbidly to super-obese. It did bother me though that after all the surgery and lectures from doctors, his idea of a healthy meal is stuffed peppers with minced meat. That is basically a pepper with a burger stuffed inside.

I also started to watch an American version of WifeSwap which featured a hideous couple from Jersey. I soon had to turn the television off and sit in a quiet, dark room for a couple of hours to calm down. South Park got it so right on that one.

The year Two thousand and eleven

So it turns out I'm quite slack with these blogs. Leaving it neglected like a child or an open flesh wound, turning stale and rotting amongst the dark and dingy web-world. I didn't think it would take me back. It seemed to refuse to want me. But it turned out I had entered my password wrong. Which made the reunion somewhat awkward. I worried I had left it fester too long and, maybe with a bit of loving care and attention we could be back on track. I have seen people grow tumours and unborn twins in their bodies for years and they kind of end up OK with a bit of help from Western medicine.

Well this is my effort anyway, to right my wrongdoings of the year 2010.'Pon the midnight chimes of Big Ben (being played through a radio) I have found a major change in the way I talk. I used to say 'two thousand and ten' but now I feel the need to join the Americans in saying 'Twenty-Eleven' rather than 'Two thousand and eleven'. Am I growing up or just becoming lazy? I never say that I was born in the year nineteen thousand and eighty eight, but maybe I will start to. Resolution number one, use names of years fully.

To keep the ball rolling on the Spongebob faces, here is the first one of the year and it's a great one. Hats off to Teagan, Hannah, Georgia and James on the Tidal Wave ride at Thorpe Park. And an impromtu one from a girl sitting behind them who looks reminiscent of a gun-toting, Texan oil baron. Well done you grubby little spongebobbers!

First and foremost...

My reasoning behind this blog? To ponder, to question, to ventilate, to procrastinate. An update of my daily musings because I can't afford a notebook and pen and so, rather than keeping my thoughts to myself, I can tell the whole world at the extortionate rate of a £30 a month Virgin media bill.

I'm currently a Creative media student at Bath Spa university. It's funny how students at The University of Bath like to poke fun at us for 'not being a real university', when a lot of us couldn't give a sloppy turd about what they think.

I'd like to take this opportunity to promote 'The Spongebob Face'.

One of the co-founders of the Spongebob Face, Shaun

How to do the 'Spongebob Face': Simply throw your head back, drop your jaw and create a beautiful curve with your mouth. When you feel the sinking feeling in your face and neck, you know you're doing it correctly!

About me...Originally hailing from the deepest darkest ghettos of Cornwall, I've seen my fair share of in-breeding. I love Cornwall to bits. The Cornish are some of the most patriotic people in the UK. There seems to be an alliance between us, especially when we're out of Cornwall and find out there is another Cornish person within the vicinity. There's some sort of detection device implanted in the average Cornish cranium. You hear the word "Cornwall" and your ears prick up, kind of like when a dog hears "Walkies". You start up with a casual, "Wasson" and that develops to a "Yeeew boy" then following on to a long conversation trying to work out if you have any mutual friends. No mutual friends? Then let's talk about pasties. How Warrens is the Starbucks of the pasty world and to avoid it at all costs and how Philps are just the best, bar-none. (Unless you're going for a chicken one, you're best going to Rowes).

Anyways, so on to some moaning. A couple of things really grated me this week.

1. People on buses
2. High Fives

Firstly, when I say 'People on buses' I actually mean, this one particular nasal-voiced cretin. I am a fan of people-watching (not stalking) and over-hearing conversations (not eavesdropping). Actually on the subject of 'eavesdropping' what a great word eh? It makes me think of Adam's missus doing a poo. Anyways, like I said, I enjoy listening to a conversation I'm not actually part of. However, this bunged up character, charting her excessive drinking habits to the entire bus was just a sad case. She has a self-described 'liver made out of titanium'. Oh hahahaha you're so funny and cool, we all want to be like you. Well done. If only you were there for George Best. I just hope to God that the nasal voice and inability to talk in an inside voice was the result of a cold, and not because she is actually partially deaf. While on the subject of public transport, this is how they do things in Japan...




I have also found High-fives are coming into my life a little too often. Don't get me wrong, high-fives are lovely, especially if you get that 'slap' sound perfect, so perfect in fact that you want to high-five the high-five. But it's high-fiving the most mundane things that bothers me. Leave it to special occasions, otherwise it just loses the magical essence. When someone has that glowing palm raised and facing you with a look in their eye that's reminiscent of a kitten that just wants to be loved, probably after being thrown in a bin, you can't keep them hanging. That'd just break them. So you have to commit, and part of you dies inside.