So, Pal Challenge returns! Mostly because I was out of ideas and I wanted to update. Since I blogged yesterday, it's probably too fast. But, my pals have been good to me and given me these delightful subjects to yammer on about:
1)'Can I justify eating the 3 1kg tins of chocolates I was given this Christmas? Could anybody?' from Criss.
&
2) 'Indie becoming the new mainstream.' From Lydia.
Let's rock this shit! Woo! That's my enthusiasm for the day.
First thing's first, three kilograms of chocolate? It's do-able, I'm sure. Well, I'm pretty sure that if I tried that I'd vomit, but if you can stomach it that much chocolate, go for it!
See, it's the opportunities you pass up that you'll regret. Except the opportunity to see Uncle Martin's magical snake. Boy, do I regret that one. But paedophiles aside, if you're presented with three kilos of chocolate I think it'd be spitting in the eye of Fate (which now has an eye. And a capital 'F') to not eat it. This is how I justify chocolate, cocaine and mass murder.
Chocolate quality's probably a factor, too. If it's your favourite, guzzle away. If it's poo (metaphorically or otherwise), I wouldn't bother. Unless that's your thing. I'm not here to judge that. I'm only here to judge people who have sex in the missionary position and mean it when they say 'I love you.'
As for any actual health risks, I don't have a clue. I'd say drink plenty on your choc binge. Staying hydrated is important. And make sure you don't eat much else that day, or you'll just feel ill.
Now, I'm sure that chocolatey goodness has left you asking 'Is indie the new mainstream?' I sure know I'm think that. So, without further ado, let's dive in. Remember, it's not ironic to dive into water, so wear a helmet.
So, indie culture (as far as it can be called 'culture') is massive right now. We're talking really fucking huge. I mean, like, twenty beers and you'd still think it's a bit on the big side. Anywhere you go there's bound to be some ironic facial hair with an idiot hanging off it, screaming in terror as he realises too late that the hill is steep and his fixie has no brakes. So, indie is now mainstream, right?
Well ... kind of. That's honestly the best I can do. While the fixed-gear-dickheads are now all over everywhere like herpes on Taylor Momsen, it isn't strictly speaking indie. I'm gonna take a moment to regurgitate some of the hipster dictionary (hiptionary?) I swallowed and enlighten y'all:
'Indie' is a contraction of 'independent'. As in, independent bands and record labels, independent shops, independent films ... You get the idea.
I guess this means indie will never be mainstream. It's just the definitions of what is or isn't indie will change. Same for the mainstream. It runs in cycles. First something's indie, then it's mainstream, then it's unpopular, then it's retro and the indie kids love it again. You'll notice that, now they've been exposed, you see fixie-pricks (this is my name for them as of now) in Topshop more than you see them in, say, Geek Vintage (just thought I'd plug my favourite T-shirt stockists. You're welcome, guys).
So, now the fixie-pricks and their dull-as-fuck music (Yeah, I went there) are mainstream, what gets to be indie? I'm hoping skramz will get indie-fabulous (this isn't an actual term.). Think about it, it makes perfect sense. It's underground as fuck, aggressive enough to never be mainstream and as an added bonus the indie kids get to keep their thick-rimmed glasses. Not to mention, Liverpool's already representin' the music side with We Came Out Like Tigers, who are fucking brilliant if you haven't heard them (They only have one song on the link, sadly). If I was any kind of cool, I'd be petitioning on the streets for everyone to stop playing synth and start making sounds like four dogs locked in a burning shed.
Writing haikus about cannibalism in your yearbook since 1989,
Nick
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Monday, 27 December 2010
Seven Fragrance Adverts you Didn't See this Holiday Season
Seriously, fuck perfume ads. Few things fill me quite as much misanthropy. No matter which advert it is, I invariably end up drowning in my own vitriol (a rare phenomenon, the only outward sign of which is a sarcastic remark). If I were Hitler, fragrance adverts would be my teachers in art school. And fragrance marketing executives would be my Jews, travellers, blacks, gays, non-Aryans, people who looked at me funny etc. I’d like to say I won’t do any more genocide jokes, but I’m not going to lie to you. It doesn’t get any better. Not even a little bit.
Anyway, after I’d awoken from a rage-induced coma to find that my pancreas had developed its own sub-pancreas in order to produce twice the bile, I decided that the best way to bring down the perfume advertising industry was to attack from within.
To this end, I created seven new pilot ads for fragrances yet to be created. I hope you enjoy them. At least they can’t be more disturbing or grossly misogynistic than a Lynx/Axe commercial.
1) Gucci Jihad. Interior, night. A boudoir-style apartment, curtains, drapes etc. A woman strikes a ‘come-hither’ pose on a silk-sheeted bed. A man approaches. Close up of their faces about to kiss.
Crash zoom out. The man explodes, killing the woman and taking out a large chunk of the building.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Jihad. The devastating new fragrance from Gucci.’
2) Republican by Diesel. Interior, night. A well-dressed man acting out of place at a party full of well-dressed people. He moves through a lot of glamorous people, to an antique telephone. He dials a number, and announces in an Irish accent; ‘There will be an explosion on Park Lane at midnight.’
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Republican by Diesel. For independent spirits.’
Bigot, by Nick Griffin. Interior, whatever time. Montage of white dudes applying fragrance. Finally, an Asian dude applies same fragrance and melts, screaming.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘For Aryans only. Bigot, the debut fragrance from Nick Griffin.
Proud sponsors of the BNP.'
Entitlement Complex by Paris Hilton. Everywhere, last Thursday. Close up of a mouth gobbling luxuriant foods and chugging champagne. Strobe-montage of sexualised imagery. Zoom out to Paris Hilton stuffing the planet Earth into her vagina.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Entitlement Complex. The last-ditch attempt at saving Paris Hilton’s career in fragrance form.’
Melanoma by Calvin Klein. Interior, time is a human concept and has nothing to do with the cold, impersonal drones in the fashion business. A lone woman stands in a spotlight in a dimly lit room. She’s nude, but her modesty is preserved by bits of silk blown around by off-screen fans.
Camera pans around her body.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Beauty. The final truth. Overcoming time. Breaking the barriers between sight, sound and scent. With it comes conviction. Hope. The promise of a better future.’
Camera stops on an asymmetrical mole.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Even in the face of the worst thing that can happen. Melanoma, by Calvin Klein.’
Futility by Davidoff. Interior, night. An average-looking young man applies fragrance and leaves a bathroom, entering a fashionable bar. He enters an animated conversation with an attractive young woman. After a short time, a handsome young man joins the conversation, then leaves the bar with the young woman in short order, leaving our hero on his own.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Futility by Davidoff. Because no matter how nice you smell, she’d rather get ploughed by the cute guy.’
Chloroform by Gary Glitter. Your house, October 1991. A well-dressed man walks through a high class party. People faint in his wake. He climbs some stairs, as people collapse (some plummeting over the side). The man continues, as if drawn by something. He reaches the door to a child’s bedroom. A nanny rushes at him, but collapses when she gets within a yard of him. The man continues towards the child’s bed.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Chloroform. The incapacitating new fragrance from Gary Glitter.’
So, I hope you enjoyed my take on fragrance marketing. It may be offensive, but I'll come smelling of roses anyway. Or at least of Futility by Davidoff.
Laters,
Nick
Anyway, after I’d awoken from a rage-induced coma to find that my pancreas had developed its own sub-pancreas in order to produce twice the bile, I decided that the best way to bring down the perfume advertising industry was to attack from within.
To this end, I created seven new pilot ads for fragrances yet to be created. I hope you enjoy them. At least they can’t be more disturbing or grossly misogynistic than a Lynx/Axe commercial.
1) Gucci Jihad. Interior, night. A boudoir-style apartment, curtains, drapes etc. A woman strikes a ‘come-hither’ pose on a silk-sheeted bed. A man approaches. Close up of their faces about to kiss.
Crash zoom out. The man explodes, killing the woman and taking out a large chunk of the building.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Jihad. The devastating new fragrance from Gucci.’
2) Republican by Diesel. Interior, night. A well-dressed man acting out of place at a party full of well-dressed people. He moves through a lot of glamorous people, to an antique telephone. He dials a number, and announces in an Irish accent; ‘There will be an explosion on Park Lane at midnight.’
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Republican by Diesel. For independent spirits.’
Bigot, by Nick Griffin. Interior, whatever time. Montage of white dudes applying fragrance. Finally, an Asian dude applies same fragrance and melts, screaming.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘For Aryans only. Bigot, the debut fragrance from Nick Griffin.
Proud sponsors of the BNP.'
Entitlement Complex by Paris Hilton. Everywhere, last Thursday. Close up of a mouth gobbling luxuriant foods and chugging champagne. Strobe-montage of sexualised imagery. Zoom out to Paris Hilton stuffing the planet Earth into her vagina.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Entitlement Complex. The last-ditch attempt at saving Paris Hilton’s career in fragrance form.’
Melanoma by Calvin Klein. Interior, time is a human concept and has nothing to do with the cold, impersonal drones in the fashion business. A lone woman stands in a spotlight in a dimly lit room. She’s nude, but her modesty is preserved by bits of silk blown around by off-screen fans.
Camera pans around her body.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Beauty. The final truth. Overcoming time. Breaking the barriers between sight, sound and scent. With it comes conviction. Hope. The promise of a better future.’
Camera stops on an asymmetrical mole.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Even in the face of the worst thing that can happen. Melanoma, by Calvin Klein.’
Futility by Davidoff. Interior, night. An average-looking young man applies fragrance and leaves a bathroom, entering a fashionable bar. He enters an animated conversation with an attractive young woman. After a short time, a handsome young man joins the conversation, then leaves the bar with the young woman in short order, leaving our hero on his own.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Futility by Davidoff. Because no matter how nice you smell, she’d rather get ploughed by the cute guy.’
Chloroform by Gary Glitter. Your house, October 1991. A well-dressed man walks through a high class party. People faint in his wake. He climbs some stairs, as people collapse (some plummeting over the side). The man continues, as if drawn by something. He reaches the door to a child’s bedroom. A nanny rushes at him, but collapses when she gets within a yard of him. The man continues towards the child’s bed.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Chloroform. The incapacitating new fragrance from Gary Glitter.’
So, I hope you enjoyed my take on fragrance marketing. It may be offensive, but I'll come smelling of roses anyway. Or at least of Futility by Davidoff.
Laters,
Nick
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Pal Challenge #2
Welcome back to Pal Challenge, where my pals give me stuff to write about. Today, I have:
1) Ass puppets: Nick Clegg VS Kermit the Frog.
2) What makes music good or bad?
So, I'll start with ass-puppetry. Thus far, it's unclear if Clegg is operated via his ass (I always imagined a marionette-style affair, with Cameron controlling Clegg, whilst being controlled by someone else- check out this classic album cover if you're confused), which immediately puts points in Kermit's favour as the superior ass-puppet.
However, that was only in the 'ass' part of the showdown. Kermit has a distinct, albeit slightly awkward, personality and a set of values that he holds true to. Clegg? Well, I can't say the same for him. So, who's more of a puppet? Well, I guess it's Clegg, despite Kermit actually being a puppet.
The winner? You decide. They're both fucking muppets, mate.
Now, part two of my pal challenge. What makes music good or bad?
The immediate and douche-y answer is 'personal taste', but that would be trite, and frankly a disappointing way to carry on, so I'm going to pull a Leo and go deeper (Inception gag's a little late, I know). This is always gonna be my opinion, and I don't wanna have to say that in every sentence. So no whining, okay?
The toughest part of writing this is that for every rule I make, there's gonna be exceptions. I don't have the patience to go into specifics of why I like everything I like, and why I hate the things I hate. I'll say this though: mainstream music isn't always gonna be bad, nor is underground music always gonna be good.
What mostly makes music good is a willingness to go the extra mile. If it's adding strings to a track, changing the whole song up halfway through or simply just making the very best music you can make. It's easy to half-ass an album, as anyone who's listened to the likes of Dead And Devine, Hidden In Plain View or Take The Crown will know (There are way more than this, these are just the first peddlers of sub-par music that spring to mind).
Sometimes, shitty bands are even unfeasibly popular. Anyone remember Limp Bizkit? When those talentless clowns were big, great bands like Mineral and Indian Summer were dying in a tragically overlooked scene (okay, enough pro-emo propaganda now).
Eh, lost my thread there. I kind of want to murder Papa Roach. And Disturbed. God, Disturbed suck.
Aside from putting in the time to do their vision justice, I like a band who writes a good lyric (post-rock bands are let off here). Honesty is preferred, but not to the extent that it becomes sappy (Say Anything's song Sappy is let off because, well, they're taking the piss a bit ...). The right lyrical sentiment can make or break a band in my eyes. You know what I'm talking about. There's a reason why Brand New are going from strength to strength when fellow Triple Crown alumni Northstar faded into obscurity in 2003.
So, I've talked way too long about music and still not really got across any kind of point. I think it's high time to wrap this up.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
1) Ass puppets: Nick Clegg VS Kermit the Frog.
2) What makes music good or bad?
So, I'll start with ass-puppetry. Thus far, it's unclear if Clegg is operated via his ass (I always imagined a marionette-style affair, with Cameron controlling Clegg, whilst being controlled by someone else- check out this classic album cover if you're confused), which immediately puts points in Kermit's favour as the superior ass-puppet.
However, that was only in the 'ass' part of the showdown. Kermit has a distinct, albeit slightly awkward, personality and a set of values that he holds true to. Clegg? Well, I can't say the same for him. So, who's more of a puppet? Well, I guess it's Clegg, despite Kermit actually being a puppet.
The winner? You decide. They're both fucking muppets, mate.
Now, part two of my pal challenge. What makes music good or bad?
The immediate and douche-y answer is 'personal taste', but that would be trite, and frankly a disappointing way to carry on, so I'm going to pull a Leo and go deeper (Inception gag's a little late, I know). This is always gonna be my opinion, and I don't wanna have to say that in every sentence. So no whining, okay?
The toughest part of writing this is that for every rule I make, there's gonna be exceptions. I don't have the patience to go into specifics of why I like everything I like, and why I hate the things I hate. I'll say this though: mainstream music isn't always gonna be bad, nor is underground music always gonna be good.
What mostly makes music good is a willingness to go the extra mile. If it's adding strings to a track, changing the whole song up halfway through or simply just making the very best music you can make. It's easy to half-ass an album, as anyone who's listened to the likes of Dead And Devine, Hidden In Plain View or Take The Crown will know (There are way more than this, these are just the first peddlers of sub-par music that spring to mind).
Sometimes, shitty bands are even unfeasibly popular. Anyone remember Limp Bizkit? When those talentless clowns were big, great bands like Mineral and Indian Summer were dying in a tragically overlooked scene (okay, enough pro-emo propaganda now).
Eh, lost my thread there. I kind of want to murder Papa Roach. And Disturbed. God, Disturbed suck.
Aside from putting in the time to do their vision justice, I like a band who writes a good lyric (post-rock bands are let off here). Honesty is preferred, but not to the extent that it becomes sappy (Say Anything's song Sappy is let off because, well, they're taking the piss a bit ...). The right lyrical sentiment can make or break a band in my eyes. You know what I'm talking about. There's a reason why Brand New are going from strength to strength when fellow Triple Crown alumni Northstar faded into obscurity in 2003.
So, I've talked way too long about music and still not really got across any kind of point. I think it's high time to wrap this up.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
Stopgap self indulgent post ahoy!
Okay, I admit it. I write songs without fully expecting to ever hear them. They're mostly for dealing with stuff that I would never, ever be comfortable putting in a poem.
See, with a song you have delivery on your side. The most mawkish sentiment on the planet becomes stronger when it's sung beautifully (although your definition of beautiful singing may vary wildly). This way, you don't have to worry so much about being clever and can just be honest.
Irony is, I mostly write poems about girls. I've written songs about snow, spiders, places, paint, girls (yeah, okay ...), Klein-Levinson's Syndrome and two about things that I'm never gonna fully explain to anyone. Even when I talk about it with the other person involved, we use third person allegories. They're not mean songs, though. I'd like if people heard them one day.
I have ten good sets of lyrics in total, which is probably a good time to stop writing lyrics and start recruiting band members. Time to tour the Liverpool scene with some chloroform and a net.
On a completely unrelated note, I got my first piece of glasses-related driveby abuse today. Bunch of savages in this town.
Anyway, I've recieved a new blogger challenge- to blog about ass-puppets and what makes music good or bad. That'll be my next post then.
Laters,
Nick
See, with a song you have delivery on your side. The most mawkish sentiment on the planet becomes stronger when it's sung beautifully (although your definition of beautiful singing may vary wildly). This way, you don't have to worry so much about being clever and can just be honest.
Irony is, I mostly write poems about girls. I've written songs about snow, spiders, places, paint, girls (yeah, okay ...), Klein-Levinson's Syndrome and two about things that I'm never gonna fully explain to anyone. Even when I talk about it with the other person involved, we use third person allegories. They're not mean songs, though. I'd like if people heard them one day.
I have ten good sets of lyrics in total, which is probably a good time to stop writing lyrics and start recruiting band members. Time to tour the Liverpool scene with some chloroform and a net.
On a completely unrelated note, I got my first piece of glasses-related driveby abuse today. Bunch of savages in this town.
Anyway, I've recieved a new blogger challenge- to blog about ass-puppets and what makes music good or bad. That'll be my next post then.
Laters,
Nick
Friday, 17 December 2010
The three-episode-review marches on!
So, what's my evil eye been ogling today? That would be The Morgana Show, then.
Okay, so Morgana Robinson, owner of a rad name, has come up with a character-driven sketch show. Good plan, right? Well, maybe. See, every time a sketch show is based on characters rather than straight-up parodies (Tramadol Nights is an example of parody-sriven sketches), it goes toe-to-toe with League of Gentlemen. Basically, The Morgana Show can only ever hope to be the second best character sketch show.
So, let's talk about the sketches. Morgana's sketches (and occaisional impressions) are fifty percent good, about fifteen percent shite and thirty-five percent average.
That's promising, right? Well, kind of. See, somewhere along the line, Morgana decided it would be a good idea to give the majority of airtime to her most annoying, unfunny and pointless creation, a socially inept kid named Gilbert who makes his own TV show. Wow, sounds a lot like everyone on Youtube. And sadly, Gilbert as a character simply isn't as funny as the real-life people he was created to mock (Chris-Chan, DaxFlame, Jawsus etc).
Gilbert is a massive shame, because just about everything else in this show is great. In an ideal world, Gilbert would be cut completely, and more time would be made for Madolynn, the Old Soldiers, the Redneck Family, all of whom are cleverly crafted and well-executed character sketches.
Morgana's impressions are a mixed bag, too. Her Fearne Cotton is funny, if overblown; her Cheryl Cole is annoying, and her Boris Johnson (that sounds like some kind of euphemism) is great for about half the times he's on screen.
Ultimately, The Morgana Show has potential. I just hope she gives less time to the massive, defecating albatross that is Gilbert if she gets a second series.
6/10
Promise I'll get back to writing inane shit soon,
Nick
Okay, so Morgana Robinson, owner of a rad name, has come up with a character-driven sketch show. Good plan, right? Well, maybe. See, every time a sketch show is based on characters rather than straight-up parodies (Tramadol Nights is an example of parody-sriven sketches), it goes toe-to-toe with League of Gentlemen. Basically, The Morgana Show can only ever hope to be the second best character sketch show.
So, let's talk about the sketches. Morgana's sketches (and occaisional impressions) are fifty percent good, about fifteen percent shite and thirty-five percent average.
That's promising, right? Well, kind of. See, somewhere along the line, Morgana decided it would be a good idea to give the majority of airtime to her most annoying, unfunny and pointless creation, a socially inept kid named Gilbert who makes his own TV show. Wow, sounds a lot like everyone on Youtube. And sadly, Gilbert as a character simply isn't as funny as the real-life people he was created to mock (Chris-Chan, DaxFlame, Jawsus etc).
Gilbert is a massive shame, because just about everything else in this show is great. In an ideal world, Gilbert would be cut completely, and more time would be made for Madolynn, the Old Soldiers, the Redneck Family, all of whom are cleverly crafted and well-executed character sketches.
Morgana's impressions are a mixed bag, too. Her Fearne Cotton is funny, if overblown; her Cheryl Cole is annoying, and her Boris Johnson (that sounds like some kind of euphemism) is great for about half the times he's on screen.
Ultimately, The Morgana Show has potential. I just hope she gives less time to the massive, defecating albatross that is Gilbert if she gets a second series.
6/10
Promise I'll get back to writing inane shit soon,
Nick
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Review: Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights.
As Frankie Boyle's new stand-up-slash-sketch-show reaches its third episode, I think I've seen enough of it to write a good enough review. First, though, an overview:
Your opinion on Frankie Boyle is largely dictated by how dark you like your comedy. 'Pitch black' is a good phrase for describing how dark Boyle's humour is. A beeter phrase is 'night-time, down a coalmine, during a fucking eclipse. And wearing sunglasses'. With this in mind, I've written two reviews.
For those of you offended by strong language or irreverant jokes that could be taken as 'something-ist', Daily Mail readers, and people who don't like jokes about child abuse, a) welcome to my blog, you won't enjoy it, and b) Your version of this review is here.
For the rest of you, check this shit out:
As you probably guessed, I'm already a fan of Frankie Boyle's. I'm not being paid to do this, so I wouldn't watch his show unless it was good (or so-bad-it's-good. Or Scrubs). So, let's start with the good shit.
The highlight of Tramadol Nights is definitely the sketches. Good lord, this man has no boundaries. Boyle clearly believes that if something's not okay to laugh about, then nothing is, and has made it his personal business that everything under the sun is made fun of. This is pretty admirable, and no-one else would have the sheer balls to make (just for example, because they're all pretty fucking transgressive) You've Been Framed: Too Bleak for TV.
What makes these sketches so good, though, is that after the shock value has worn off, they're still funny. This is a big plus, because you expect (and are therefore less shocked by) shocking material from a man whose latest DVD is titled If I Could Reach Through Your TV and Strangle You, I Would.
Speaking of abusing his audience, it's time I talked about the stand-up aspect of the show. I never thought I'd say this, but Frankie Boyle's stand-up lets him down here. And it's not just because the sketches are so freakin' good. It's because he pretty much just heckles his audience. We get it, Frankie. You hate everyone. Point taken. We've heard enough child abuse jokes from you, as well. Paedophile uncles are only funny the first couple of times. Occaisionally, Boyle gets back to his brilliantly scathing commentary on the world at large, and the stand-up sections just about get a pass because of this.
Overall, Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is, depending on your attitude to sick jokes, one of the best sketch shows on TV right now. In terms of stand-up, it loses out to Russell Howard's Good News, among others. It's definitely worth watching, but not awesome. Too bad you can't reach through my laptop and strangle me until I give you 10/10, Frankie, but you get a pretty respectable:
7/10
Holy fuck, I've done something productive,
Nick
Your opinion on Frankie Boyle is largely dictated by how dark you like your comedy. 'Pitch black' is a good phrase for describing how dark Boyle's humour is. A beeter phrase is 'night-time, down a coalmine, during a fucking eclipse. And wearing sunglasses'. With this in mind, I've written two reviews.
For those of you offended by strong language or irreverant jokes that could be taken as 'something-ist', Daily Mail readers, and people who don't like jokes about child abuse, a) welcome to my blog, you won't enjoy it, and b) Your version of this review is here.
For the rest of you, check this shit out:
As you probably guessed, I'm already a fan of Frankie Boyle's. I'm not being paid to do this, so I wouldn't watch his show unless it was good (or so-bad-it's-good. Or Scrubs). So, let's start with the good shit.
The highlight of Tramadol Nights is definitely the sketches. Good lord, this man has no boundaries. Boyle clearly believes that if something's not okay to laugh about, then nothing is, and has made it his personal business that everything under the sun is made fun of. This is pretty admirable, and no-one else would have the sheer balls to make (just for example, because they're all pretty fucking transgressive) You've Been Framed: Too Bleak for TV.
What makes these sketches so good, though, is that after the shock value has worn off, they're still funny. This is a big plus, because you expect (and are therefore less shocked by) shocking material from a man whose latest DVD is titled If I Could Reach Through Your TV and Strangle You, I Would.
Speaking of abusing his audience, it's time I talked about the stand-up aspect of the show. I never thought I'd say this, but Frankie Boyle's stand-up lets him down here. And it's not just because the sketches are so freakin' good. It's because he pretty much just heckles his audience. We get it, Frankie. You hate everyone. Point taken. We've heard enough child abuse jokes from you, as well. Paedophile uncles are only funny the first couple of times. Occaisionally, Boyle gets back to his brilliantly scathing commentary on the world at large, and the stand-up sections just about get a pass because of this.
Overall, Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is, depending on your attitude to sick jokes, one of the best sketch shows on TV right now. In terms of stand-up, it loses out to Russell Howard's Good News, among others. It's definitely worth watching, but not awesome. Too bad you can't reach through my laptop and strangle me until I give you 10/10, Frankie, but you get a pretty respectable:
7/10
Holy fuck, I've done something productive,
Nick
More self-indulgence.
I've just been looking through my writing to-do list, and noticed a trend towards bleak titles. There's my embryonic novel, Forget Who I Am (more of a mission statement than a title), a poem titled Catwalking the Plank, another named Red Lie Disctrict, and a story named Tourist Trap (some context is needed to appreciate this one, it's about a sentient pile of clothes that preys on tourists staying at a relaxing lakesde cottage), and obviously the title of this blog (more shitty puns, yeah?). And that's just a sample.
Also, this is my new favourite song. It's fucking ace. I learned to play it, and now I can four-fret-stretch without any trouble. I guess that's how you get better at guitar, by playing songs you really love. In an ideal world (or at least one where everyone loves this music like I do) this would be my go-to campfire song. Man, it's been ages since I set stuff on fire.
So, yeah, I've been trying to be productive, but all of today's been spent learning to play Wishlist, so I've taken a break from writing anything. Tomorrow, I'm gonna do some more work. Maybe post poetry on here, or write some kind of review of something. I've been following Frankie Boyle's new show, I might give that a review.
Laters,
Nick
Also, this is my new favourite song. It's fucking ace. I learned to play it, and now I can four-fret-stretch without any trouble. I guess that's how you get better at guitar, by playing songs you really love. In an ideal world (or at least one where everyone loves this music like I do) this would be my go-to campfire song. Man, it's been ages since I set stuff on fire.
So, yeah, I've been trying to be productive, but all of today's been spent learning to play Wishlist, so I've taken a break from writing anything. Tomorrow, I'm gonna do some more work. Maybe post poetry on here, or write some kind of review of something. I've been following Frankie Boyle's new show, I might give that a review.
Laters,
Nick
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Seeing is nice.
I'm a full-time glasses wearer now. Apart from making me look like one of the dudes from Weezer, it also means I'll probably pull less ugly people. And pull less people in general, probably. Unless geek chic is still a phrase.
So, my thick-rimmed glasses in place, I set about writing tunes which blend subtle melodies and throat-shredding screaming and realised that for me and music, time seems to have stopped in 1997.
I really need to start a new band. See, my previous band split up due to pregnancy. Shit happens, I guess. This hypothetical new band would be quiet and awkward then loud and woeful and I'd end every show coughing up my larynx. Good times. I have, like, five serviceable songs for this.
In other songwriter-y news, I've written a couple of acoustic songs. They'll probably never be sung, although one of them's kinda catchy. The other apes a Bright Eyes track a little too closely. I had Another Travellin' Song in my head for about a week without knowing it, I guess.
So, that's enough of my personal life. Next time around, I'll write something interesting. Promise.
Nick
So, my thick-rimmed glasses in place, I set about writing tunes which blend subtle melodies and throat-shredding screaming and realised that for me and music, time seems to have stopped in 1997.
I really need to start a new band. See, my previous band split up due to pregnancy. Shit happens, I guess. This hypothetical new band would be quiet and awkward then loud and woeful and I'd end every show coughing up my larynx. Good times. I have, like, five serviceable songs for this.
In other songwriter-y news, I've written a couple of acoustic songs. They'll probably never be sung, although one of them's kinda catchy. The other apes a Bright Eyes track a little too closely. I had Another Travellin' Song in my head for about a week without knowing it, I guess.
So, that's enough of my personal life. Next time around, I'll write something interesting. Promise.
Nick
Saturday, 11 December 2010
My Luscious Eyelash Drew a Willy On The Fourth Wall
True Story.
Yesterday, I found myself at a make-out party. I felt sixteen, only less awkward and more handsome. Today it struck me that a football stadium would be a great setting for a zombie film. We've already got a crowd of shambling monsters, and some cops on hand. They could be ordered to 'contain' the infection, which spreads around the fans. The internal bits of a stadium are suitably dingy and laberynthine. It's just too perfect. We'd call it Match of the Dead and have Gary Linekar play the lead.
Anyway, three of my friends have challenged me to write an article about the following:
1) Drawings of willys.
2) Men with peculiarly luscious eye-lashes.
3) Breaking the fourth wall.
This is not going to be easy.
First off, drawing willys is weirdly commonplace, isn't it? Like that kid in Superbad, we seem obsessed with drawnig cocks on everything. Even as adults (kinda) Last year, I drew a massive chode in ketchup on our neighbours' window. Should I admit that? Ah, come get me bitches. I got more firepower than Alan Sugar.
Which doesn't really link me to gentlemen whose 'lashes are of the luscious persuasion, but I don't care. Being dense, I don't really notice much about other people's appearance. I can just about spot a new haircut (if it's a different colour), but eyelashes? That's ludicrous. But is it? Because I really notice when women wear fake 'lashes. I notice, then I run screaming. Whoever conjured up this beauty myth needs to stop, because they're making women scarier than they were already. Yeah, I should mention that women intimidate the fuck out of me. I'm man enough to admit that I'm pretty shit at being a man. Ah, there goes my PG-13 rating.
So ... The fourth wall's a bastard when you're writing. There it goes just now. That's okay, because this is my blog and my blogging style is informal. But, dear God, let just one of those like you dos or you knows into a prose piece and you've opened up a whole world of pain. It's all about this thing called point of view, which writers really, really have to get in order if they're going to be any good. Actually, I think I should do a whole article that calls out writers for being shitty with point of view. Yeah, that'll be fun to do later.
That's it for now,
Nick
Yesterday, I found myself at a make-out party. I felt sixteen, only less awkward and more handsome. Today it struck me that a football stadium would be a great setting for a zombie film. We've already got a crowd of shambling monsters, and some cops on hand. They could be ordered to 'contain' the infection, which spreads around the fans. The internal bits of a stadium are suitably dingy and laberynthine. It's just too perfect. We'd call it Match of the Dead and have Gary Linekar play the lead.
Anyway, three of my friends have challenged me to write an article about the following:
1) Drawings of willys.
2) Men with peculiarly luscious eye-lashes.
3) Breaking the fourth wall.
This is not going to be easy.
First off, drawing willys is weirdly commonplace, isn't it? Like that kid in Superbad, we seem obsessed with drawnig cocks on everything. Even as adults (kinda) Last year, I drew a massive chode in ketchup on our neighbours' window. Should I admit that? Ah, come get me bitches. I got more firepower than Alan Sugar.
Which doesn't really link me to gentlemen whose 'lashes are of the luscious persuasion, but I don't care. Being dense, I don't really notice much about other people's appearance. I can just about spot a new haircut (if it's a different colour), but eyelashes? That's ludicrous. But is it? Because I really notice when women wear fake 'lashes. I notice, then I run screaming. Whoever conjured up this beauty myth needs to stop, because they're making women scarier than they were already. Yeah, I should mention that women intimidate the fuck out of me. I'm man enough to admit that I'm pretty shit at being a man. Ah, there goes my PG-13 rating.
So ... The fourth wall's a bastard when you're writing. There it goes just now. That's okay, because this is my blog and my blogging style is informal. But, dear God, let just one of those like you dos or you knows into a prose piece and you've opened up a whole world of pain. It's all about this thing called point of view, which writers really, really have to get in order if they're going to be any good. Actually, I think I should do a whole article that calls out writers for being shitty with point of view. Yeah, that'll be fun to do later.
That's it for now,
Nick
Friday, 10 December 2010
Nick's Horror-scopes
Okay, so I've been pissed off by my latest horoscope. I don't believe in them so much, but they're usually entertaining. This one was shitty. So, here are my own. Garaunteed 100% inaccuracy as of whenever you read this.
Aries
Life is presenting you with many opportunities to travel, so TAKE THEM. RUN AWAY! Sell the night vision camera and shut down the website, too. Your neighbours have already informed the authorities.
Taurus
As much as you may think you've come up smelling of roses, someone knows something they shouldn't. Try to find out who it is before you go on a killing rampage. Learning from your past mistakes is key, as someone will find the graves.
Gemini
Your shit-picking attitude has been getting on the nerves of your friends and co-workers. It may be time to consider a new career. Your personality should be well suited to pimping or bus driving.
Cancer
One word: Chlamydia. Hope it was worth it.
Leo
Your anger issues may lose your friends this month/week/day, Leo, but that doesn't mean your temper always yeilds negative results. HINT: The Aries next door has been filming you and putting it on the Internet. Go bother them.
Virgo
Life is soon to present its bill for the recent good times, and all you can do is embrace this fact. Embrace it well, though, as nothing unnerves bailiffs like a shit-eating grin.
Libra
Your artistic side will come out this month, although in manners which will make your nearest and dearest feel ill. It may, however, be in your best interests to keep sculpting with your poo, as that Taurus you've had your eye on is a serial killer.
Scorpio
Honesty is important this month. Or rather, avoiding honesty. You'll be getting a phone call from a certain Cancer very soon. I suggest you lie your face off.
Sagittarius
The cream will not help. We both know what I mean. It may be time to contact your physician. Or, failing that, your priest.
Capricorn
You have been feeling dissatisfied with life lately, and things aren't about to get better. Maybe some day your ship will come in, and everything will work out fine. Until then, work the fuckin' fryer and flip them burgers.
Aquarius
Resist the temptation to confront your loved ones about certain issues. Now is not the time. Buy a gun first.
Pisces
Spare a thought for al those less fortunate than you this month. This thought need not be sympathetic, and the self-pitying Virgo in your life could definitely use some cruel mockery. It's good for them, and fun for you, you sadistic prick.
Aries
Life is presenting you with many opportunities to travel, so TAKE THEM. RUN AWAY! Sell the night vision camera and shut down the website, too. Your neighbours have already informed the authorities.
Taurus
As much as you may think you've come up smelling of roses, someone knows something they shouldn't. Try to find out who it is before you go on a killing rampage. Learning from your past mistakes is key, as someone will find the graves.
Gemini
Your shit-picking attitude has been getting on the nerves of your friends and co-workers. It may be time to consider a new career. Your personality should be well suited to pimping or bus driving.
Cancer
One word: Chlamydia. Hope it was worth it.
Leo
Your anger issues may lose your friends this month/week/day, Leo, but that doesn't mean your temper always yeilds negative results. HINT: The Aries next door has been filming you and putting it on the Internet. Go bother them.
Virgo
Life is soon to present its bill for the recent good times, and all you can do is embrace this fact. Embrace it well, though, as nothing unnerves bailiffs like a shit-eating grin.
Libra
Your artistic side will come out this month, although in manners which will make your nearest and dearest feel ill. It may, however, be in your best interests to keep sculpting with your poo, as that Taurus you've had your eye on is a serial killer.
Scorpio
Honesty is important this month. Or rather, avoiding honesty. You'll be getting a phone call from a certain Cancer very soon. I suggest you lie your face off.
Sagittarius
The cream will not help. We both know what I mean. It may be time to contact your physician. Or, failing that, your priest.
Capricorn
You have been feeling dissatisfied with life lately, and things aren't about to get better. Maybe some day your ship will come in, and everything will work out fine. Until then, work the fuckin' fryer and flip them burgers.
Aquarius
Resist the temptation to confront your loved ones about certain issues. Now is not the time. Buy a gun first.
Pisces
Spare a thought for al those less fortunate than you this month. This thought need not be sympathetic, and the self-pitying Virgo in your life could definitely use some cruel mockery. It's good for them, and fun for you, you sadistic prick.
Whoa Whoa Welcome
Hi there. I've had a few blogs before, but that was just messing around. Now I feel ready to commit, so this is my blog for life. I picked the title because I find misery funny. Expect self-deprecation.
I also write poems, but they largely suck and posting poetry online is a bit like slamming your dick in the oven door; no-one else cares and it causes you a lot of pain. I review stuff too, usually several months late and/or when I get my grubby mitts on it.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
I also write poems, but they largely suck and posting poetry online is a bit like slamming your dick in the oven door; no-one else cares and it causes you a lot of pain. I review stuff too, usually several months late and/or when I get my grubby mitts on it.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
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