I'm not a fan of this imported Yank tradition of having kids going around to strangers' houses and asking for sweets. I was told to do the opposite when I was a nipper. So I went round to friends' houses and didn't ask for sweets. Some people like it, however, so, I'd thought I'd show you this excellent video. it was sent to me by my friend Laura, who has a great love of all things cheesy and naff. Probably why she now works for the Beano. Only kidding, Beano fans (and Laura)!
Anyway, watch this video, It's hallowe'en themed, and it's got Tim Curry in it, and some of the shittest as-long-as-it-rhymes lyrics and video effects I've ever experienced, which makes it head-shakingly great.
A toad in a bass guitar? It's better than a video? Has anybody seen my tambourine? What the devil is he on about?!!
Happy hallowe'en from me, anyway, if you're bothered.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Sorry, Sir.
Back in July, in this post, I regrettably made a flippant comment about the'Peter Pan of Pop' and got a few comments from irate Cliffites who had nothing better to do than stick 'Sir Cliff' into Google and have a go at the first person they saw having a moan about him. I wouldn't mind, but the post was about shouting Everest-climbing yeti hawkman Brian Blessed! Gordon's Alive! Anyway, I'm sorry for any distress caused to deluded menopausal women with a fixation on a man who isn't remotely interested in pleasures of the flesh. Apparently.
Anyway, I shall atone for my sins by embedding this video, which shows me the error of my ways:
And that Madonna's a horrible gap-toothed slag with man's arms!
(That may seem totally irrelevant, but I want to do a future post with a similar video so I can use my 'Embed with Madonna' joke that won't fit in anywhere else but Blogger or Facebook.)
Anyway, I shall atone for my sins by embedding this video, which shows me the error of my ways:
And that Madonna's a horrible gap-toothed slag with man's arms!
(That may seem totally irrelevant, but I want to do a future post with a similar video so I can use my 'Embed with Madonna' joke that won't fit in anywhere else but Blogger or Facebook.)
Egg-chucking.
I know this isn't exactly topical, with it all being finished last week (I've been a busy boy), but I'm glad the rugby world cup is over.
I know there's a lot of rugby fans out there. I can understand the appeal, it's a fast, violent sport, and I was pleased England got as far as they did (which pissed off my Scottish girlfriend. Sport's always good for rubbing the sweaty socks' noses in it) and was genuinely disappointed when they didn't win it.
What really pisses me off is the response to the tournament in the newspaper's letters pages that I've read in the last week. It's all been the same old "our football players could learn a lot from our rugby players" cobblers that was being spouted after the last rugby world cup. (These same letters pages were all saying the opposite at the beginning of the tournament, when England were playing shite.) Football , (or 'soccer' if you're from across the pond. I hate that term) is Britain's most popular sport. Always has been. Always will be. Rugby Union may be popular for the next fortnight or so, but it'll soon fade, just as it did four years ago, and that was when we actually won something!
I know a lot of Premier League players misbehave. I also know a lot more of them do loads of charity work and support a lot of schemes helping their clubs' local communities. I also know that, because of football's position as the number one sport, these players are under a lot more scrutiny than their egg-chucking counterparts, so any bad behaviour by a football player is going to turn up immediately in the papers. In fact, I seem to remember Lawrence Dallaglio making the papers for an alleged cocaine scandal, and Will Carling's various alleged trysts with women who weren't his wife, one of whom was the wife of the future king of England. (There goes the knighthood, eh, Will?) so, the paragons of virtues that are rugby union players aren't exactly that pearly white, are they?
And this is what pisses me off. All this moaning about our football players is just downright snobbery. Professional footballers are generally working class men who piss some people off because they make lots of money. (which is only right, in my opinion. I've never believed that footballers shouldn't make a lot of money. They are part of an entetainment industry, which in itself makes a lot of money. It's only right they should see some of the profits, as they're the ones punters are paying to see, and it is a very short career. I don't blame them for trying to make as much money as they can when they can. Hardly anyone moans about Tom Cruise making twenty million dollars a movie, which I think is more abhorrent. Have you seen Days Of Thunder?!)
Rugby players are, on the other hand, mostly middle-class. Until recently, they weren't even paid for playing rugger as they all had posh jobs like being accountants or quantity surveyors or company directors during the week. It seems to me that it's okay for rugby players to get pissed up (with members of the royal family, no less! I think I might join the army, if it's anything like Prince Harry's time in the forces, you get to get pissed as much as you like, go to swanky nightclubs and big sporting events all the time, and not actually do any fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan.), as it's just high spirits. If footballers do the same,(especially after losing an important match) it's another indictment of the sorry state of our national sport. It's just out-and-out snobbery and it shows that the class system is alive and well in our country, despite protestations to the contrary.
Right. I'm off to get pissed, now.
I know there's a lot of rugby fans out there. I can understand the appeal, it's a fast, violent sport, and I was pleased England got as far as they did (which pissed off my Scottish girlfriend. Sport's always good for rubbing the sweaty socks' noses in it) and was genuinely disappointed when they didn't win it.
What really pisses me off is the response to the tournament in the newspaper's letters pages that I've read in the last week. It's all been the same old "our football players could learn a lot from our rugby players" cobblers that was being spouted after the last rugby world cup. (These same letters pages were all saying the opposite at the beginning of the tournament, when England were playing shite.) Football , (or 'soccer' if you're from across the pond. I hate that term) is Britain's most popular sport. Always has been. Always will be. Rugby Union may be popular for the next fortnight or so, but it'll soon fade, just as it did four years ago, and that was when we actually won something!
I know a lot of Premier League players misbehave. I also know a lot more of them do loads of charity work and support a lot of schemes helping their clubs' local communities. I also know that, because of football's position as the number one sport, these players are under a lot more scrutiny than their egg-chucking counterparts, so any bad behaviour by a football player is going to turn up immediately in the papers. In fact, I seem to remember Lawrence Dallaglio making the papers for an alleged cocaine scandal, and Will Carling's various alleged trysts with women who weren't his wife, one of whom was the wife of the future king of England. (There goes the knighthood, eh, Will?) so, the paragons of virtues that are rugby union players aren't exactly that pearly white, are they?
And this is what pisses me off. All this moaning about our football players is just downright snobbery. Professional footballers are generally working class men who piss some people off because they make lots of money. (which is only right, in my opinion. I've never believed that footballers shouldn't make a lot of money. They are part of an entetainment industry, which in itself makes a lot of money. It's only right they should see some of the profits, as they're the ones punters are paying to see, and it is a very short career. I don't blame them for trying to make as much money as they can when they can. Hardly anyone moans about Tom Cruise making twenty million dollars a movie, which I think is more abhorrent. Have you seen Days Of Thunder?!)
Rugby players are, on the other hand, mostly middle-class. Until recently, they weren't even paid for playing rugger as they all had posh jobs like being accountants or quantity surveyors or company directors during the week. It seems to me that it's okay for rugby players to get pissed up (with members of the royal family, no less! I think I might join the army, if it's anything like Prince Harry's time in the forces, you get to get pissed as much as you like, go to swanky nightclubs and big sporting events all the time, and not actually do any fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan.), as it's just high spirits. If footballers do the same,(especially after losing an important match) it's another indictment of the sorry state of our national sport. It's just out-and-out snobbery and it shows that the class system is alive and well in our country, despite protestations to the contrary.
Right. I'm off to get pissed, now.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Old Faces.
I was nagged by an old friend of mine (old in the sense that I've known him for twenty-two years, not old in the sense that he has no hair or pisses himself. Actually, he does do that, but not because he's old!) to join Facebook. In a country where we (quite rightly) generally don't want the government (or anybody else for that matter) to keep records of all our personal details or have I.D. cards, a lot of us are quite happy to put a lot of our details on one of the world's most popular websites for anyone to have a look at!
Anyway, I've got a profile on there, and I've been mooching about looking up old schoolmates and stuff. The strange thing about seeing your old classmates is seeing how much they've aged in the years since I last walked out of the gates of Handsworth Grammar school for boys. The ones I've kept in touch with don't seem to have aged that much, but that's probably because I see them fairly regularly. The ones I haven't seen all tend to be balding, or grey, or fat. Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror and think I look old, that it's my dad looking back at me, only he's wearing glasses, but I don't feel that old anymore because I've seen what the ravages of time have done to the lads I went to school with!
Actually, thinking about it, these people probably think the same about me if they were to see my profile!
Anyway, I'm just getting used to the whole etiquette of Facebook. For example, I've been informed that if someone writes on your wall, replying to them on your own wall and not on theirs is a social faux pas tantamount to fisting someone to death at your pool party. And I've not really took part in all the giving of 'gifts' or nominating people for certain awards that my friends take part in. I will do, but I've been busy with other stuff (like drawing dirty pictures for that comic book I'm doing at the moment) so, if you're reading this and you've got the hump because I've not got round to nominating you as 'the person most likely to party like a rock star', sorry. I will do, one day. I'm just worried that fucking about on facebook will prove as addictive as heroin or wanking and it will take over all of my spare time, and I can't have that as I've got deadlines to meet and bills to pay.
It's bad enough trying to do that with the aforementioned addictions to wanking and heroin.
Anyway, I've got a profile on there, and I've been mooching about looking up old schoolmates and stuff. The strange thing about seeing your old classmates is seeing how much they've aged in the years since I last walked out of the gates of Handsworth Grammar school for boys. The ones I've kept in touch with don't seem to have aged that much, but that's probably because I see them fairly regularly. The ones I haven't seen all tend to be balding, or grey, or fat. Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror and think I look old, that it's my dad looking back at me, only he's wearing glasses, but I don't feel that old anymore because I've seen what the ravages of time have done to the lads I went to school with!
Actually, thinking about it, these people probably think the same about me if they were to see my profile!
Anyway, I'm just getting used to the whole etiquette of Facebook. For example, I've been informed that if someone writes on your wall, replying to them on your own wall and not on theirs is a social faux pas tantamount to fisting someone to death at your pool party. And I've not really took part in all the giving of 'gifts' or nominating people for certain awards that my friends take part in. I will do, but I've been busy with other stuff (like drawing dirty pictures for that comic book I'm doing at the moment) so, if you're reading this and you've got the hump because I've not got round to nominating you as 'the person most likely to party like a rock star', sorry. I will do, one day. I'm just worried that fucking about on facebook will prove as addictive as heroin or wanking and it will take over all of my spare time, and I can't have that as I've got deadlines to meet and bills to pay.
It's bad enough trying to do that with the aforementioned addictions to wanking and heroin.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Something In The Air?
We live in a crazy world where advertising execs seem to think that watching a gorilla play drums instantly makes us think of chocolate. The only brown stuff I associate with gorillas is the stuff they've pulled out of their arses and fling at you at the zoo. (This is a depressingly regular event at Dudley Zoo.) I also associate that same brown stuff with the soundtrack to this advert, a thought shared by lots of other people, as YouTube is full of redubbed versions of this advert, so I thought I'd share the best ones with you all.
First up is Bonnie Tyler's ridiculous power ballad:
Next is a simple soapy idea:
Here is the great ape rocking out to Pantera's excellent Walk:
The also-excellent Nine Inch Nails get an inevitable re-dub, this works because the drummer actually IS an animal:
And I've left the best until last:
Which kinda takes us back to Dudley zoo. One thing that's always bothered me is the fact that Cadbury's make a big deal of the fact that there's a glass and a half of milk in every bar, but exactly how much is a 'glass'? What recognised system of weights and measures are they using to quantify the amount of milk used? Maybe they should change it to 'a petri dish and a half of salmonella in at least 10% of our bars'.
First up is Bonnie Tyler's ridiculous power ballad:
Next is a simple soapy idea:
Here is the great ape rocking out to Pantera's excellent Walk:
The also-excellent Nine Inch Nails get an inevitable re-dub, this works because the drummer actually IS an animal:
And I've left the best until last:
Which kinda takes us back to Dudley zoo. One thing that's always bothered me is the fact that Cadbury's make a big deal of the fact that there's a glass and a half of milk in every bar, but exactly how much is a 'glass'? What recognised system of weights and measures are they using to quantify the amount of milk used? Maybe they should change it to 'a petri dish and a half of salmonella in at least 10% of our bars'.
BICS
This weekend I attended the BICS (Birmingham International Comics Show), a much improved convention than the one last year. And it was much busier, with people queueing for at least an hour to get in when it first opened. The ThinkTank at Millenium point was a much better venue than the Custard Factory was last year, the convention actually seemed like a proper comics convention and not a church hall-type fete.
I didn't know there were function rooms at the ThinkTank, which is the new home for the old Birmingham Museum of Science and Industry. I thought they'd stick all the tables in and around the exhibition, and I was dreading our table being by the exhibit which is a giant model of a colon, which would send out the wrong impression of our comics!
I spent most of Saturday manning the MC2 table, and catching up with the bods I'd not seen since the Bristol Expo. I left early to watch the England footy match (wish I hadn't-what a shit game!) then I went back out to meet up with the other Mc2-ers at the 'official' bar for the event, which was Bennetts, a pub that used to be a bank on Bennett's Hill. Just as it was getting warmed up, though, they decided to call time, so there was a mad exodus of comics creators and fans across the road to a pub called the Briar Rose. Afterwards we went back to the Britannia Hotel and had a few more in there.
I spent most of the night drinking with John McCrea, and meeting a few new people, at one point I seemed to be surrounded by everyone from Northern Ireland who had anything to do with comics. This isn't a bad thing, as a good time was had by all.
What spoilt it was the two hour wait for a taxi when I left. I'd forgotten it was Eid, so most Muslim taxi drivers weren't at work, so there were less taxis. I didn't get home until five in the morning. So, subsequently, I slept in 'til late, and didn't bother going to the con on Sunday, as I wouldn't have got there until about three, and I felt as rough as a badger's ballbag anyway.
I'm just hoping there'll be another Comics Show next year. I was talking to Shane Chebsey, one of the organisers, on the night, and he told me that they can't afford to do it again next year, unless they get a sponsorship for the event. Let's hope so, it'll be a shame if this event never happens again.
Right, I'm off to catch up on some kip now.
I didn't know there were function rooms at the ThinkTank, which is the new home for the old Birmingham Museum of Science and Industry. I thought they'd stick all the tables in and around the exhibition, and I was dreading our table being by the exhibit which is a giant model of a colon, which would send out the wrong impression of our comics!
I spent most of Saturday manning the MC2 table, and catching up with the bods I'd not seen since the Bristol Expo. I left early to watch the England footy match (wish I hadn't-what a shit game!) then I went back out to meet up with the other Mc2-ers at the 'official' bar for the event, which was Bennetts, a pub that used to be a bank on Bennett's Hill. Just as it was getting warmed up, though, they decided to call time, so there was a mad exodus of comics creators and fans across the road to a pub called the Briar Rose. Afterwards we went back to the Britannia Hotel and had a few more in there.
I spent most of the night drinking with John McCrea, and meeting a few new people, at one point I seemed to be surrounded by everyone from Northern Ireland who had anything to do with comics. This isn't a bad thing, as a good time was had by all.
What spoilt it was the two hour wait for a taxi when I left. I'd forgotten it was Eid, so most Muslim taxi drivers weren't at work, so there were less taxis. I didn't get home until five in the morning. So, subsequently, I slept in 'til late, and didn't bother going to the con on Sunday, as I wouldn't have got there until about three, and I felt as rough as a badger's ballbag anyway.
I'm just hoping there'll be another Comics Show next year. I was talking to Shane Chebsey, one of the organisers, on the night, and he told me that they can't afford to do it again next year, unless they get a sponsorship for the event. Let's hope so, it'll be a shame if this event never happens again.
Right, I'm off to catch up on some kip now.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Connections, Carlisle, Conventions and Celebrity Chefs.
Hiya! I know it's been a long time, but I've been a busy lad just lately.
This is my first post from my new computer in my (fairly) new flat, I've just this minute plugged myself back into the 21st century, and I've missed it. My ex is probably very glad that I don't have to usurp her computer throne any longer to make various emails , delete the hundreds of spam emails I've received since I last logged on, use it for various comicky/arty reasons, or generally take up space in her living room; space that she fought hard for by fucking me off in the first place!
I've just come back from a trip to Carlisle, which is a great looking city (old fashioned stone built houses, twisty streets and a castle) but of a night, filled up with the same pissed-up wankers you get in any town centre, and there were rather a lot of coppers about. I thought Cardiff had Plod-overload the other week, but Carlisle was like Mega-City One in comparison. (I think the impending visit of Millwall F.C. to the local footie stadium might've had something to do with it, though.) Weirdest sight of the weekend was four Policemen interrogating a dwarf on the Carlisle Road, outside the hotel I was sleeping in. Although I wasn't actually sleeping at the time, I was outside, staring at four burly coppers questioning a PORG.
Ah, the hotel! Wasn't it lovely? Well, no, actually. The toilet made this noise whenever you flushed it that put me in mind of the noise a Harrier VTOL might make whenever it takes off. It was this loud 'BOOOOM!!!' which I was certain was waking everyone else up in the city of Carlisle, never mind the next room!
As I was going out with a nice young lady, I thought I'd make an effort and actually iron my shirt. I know! Crazy behaviour!! As this hotel was shit, there was no iron or ironing board in my room, but there was a leaflet in my room telling me about the special 'ironing room' which was on the second floor. I walk up the stairs, clutching my crumpled shirt, towards the ironing room, imagining a pressing paradise, rows and rows of ironing boards, hundreds of young professionals, like me (okay, not like me, then!) ironing their garments with a beatific smile plastered all over their boatraces, the combined outpourings of steam turning the second floor of the hotel into a sauna...
Let's say the reality didn't match up. the ironing room was a windowless room about the same size as the bedrooms, with a smattering of litter on the floor, unheated (it was bloody cold) with one ironing board and battered-looking iron in it. It has to be the most soul-destroying room in the whole world .(Actually, Birmingham City's trophy room is probably worse, but seeing as no-one has ever needed to go in there, we'll never know.) I quickly ironed my shirt and got out of there before the Devil realised I was trespassing on his property and try to claim my eternal soul as compensation. It worked, anyway, as the afore-mentioned evening with the young lady was a great success.
The weekend was nearly ruined by the British Rail network returning to form after lulling me into a false sense of security with a hassle-free journey up, with a return journey that took twice as long, and an enforced connection because they decided not to stop at Birmingham New Street anymore. I can't really blame them for this, it is a shithole, but I've got no choice, I have to disembark there! So, I had to get off at Stafford and wait half-an-hour to catch a train that did stop at my station. While waiting, I went outside the station for a cigarette (it had been at least five hours since my last one) and noticed that the bloke smoking a fag next to me was none other than celebrity chef Paul Rankin (the longish-haired Irish one who sometimes has a goatee). He got on the next train as well, and got off in Wolverhampton. The lady in the seat behind me asked her friend "Isn't that that chef? Irish one off of Ready, Steady, Cook? Thought so. You'd think he'd travel First Class, money he's got!" He was only going one stop!! He wouldn't have had enough time for a cup of tea, let alone any of the other treats First Class has to offer! Silly woman! Then I remembered we were in Wolverhampton, and there's more brains in a butcher's sink than there is in the whole town (sorry, it's a city, now, isn't it?) of Wolvo.
Anyway, I'm home now.
Next weekend is the Birmingham International Comics Show (BICS) at Millennium Point, Curzon Street, funnily enough, here in Birmingham. I'll be there at the MC2 table, trying to flog our new comic Ghosts , which I didn't contribute to, as I'm busy with Septic Isle, still (I'll post some more images from that as soon as I get this sodding new computer to recognise my old scanner. Don't want to buy a new one as it's an A3 one, and them are dear!) If you can come along, please do, as the guests include Mike Mignola, Kevin Nowlan and one of my all time faves Mick McMahon, who I reckon draws the definitive Dredd, and doesn't do many conventions, so it's worth checking out. We need this convention to be a success! Not least because I know how much work the organisers are putting in! Come and meet me-I'll be the four-eyed one sweating out a hangover at the Midlands Comics Collective table (found out today that there exists a Manchester Comix Collective! First they pinch our big wheel, and now this!) and buy one of our books. You could purchase the ones I'm in!! See you there!
It's amazing how quickly sitting here typing gets boring. Not missing it anymore!)
This is my first post from my new computer in my (fairly) new flat, I've just this minute plugged myself back into the 21st century, and I've missed it. My ex is probably very glad that I don't have to usurp her computer throne any longer to make various emails , delete the hundreds of spam emails I've received since I last logged on, use it for various comicky/arty reasons, or generally take up space in her living room; space that she fought hard for by fucking me off in the first place!
I've just come back from a trip to Carlisle, which is a great looking city (old fashioned stone built houses, twisty streets and a castle) but of a night, filled up with the same pissed-up wankers you get in any town centre, and there were rather a lot of coppers about. I thought Cardiff had Plod-overload the other week, but Carlisle was like Mega-City One in comparison. (I think the impending visit of Millwall F.C. to the local footie stadium might've had something to do with it, though.) Weirdest sight of the weekend was four Policemen interrogating a dwarf on the Carlisle Road, outside the hotel I was sleeping in. Although I wasn't actually sleeping at the time, I was outside, staring at four burly coppers questioning a PORG.
Ah, the hotel! Wasn't it lovely? Well, no, actually. The toilet made this noise whenever you flushed it that put me in mind of the noise a Harrier VTOL might make whenever it takes off. It was this loud 'BOOOOM!!!' which I was certain was waking everyone else up in the city of Carlisle, never mind the next room!
As I was going out with a nice young lady, I thought I'd make an effort and actually iron my shirt. I know! Crazy behaviour!! As this hotel was shit, there was no iron or ironing board in my room, but there was a leaflet in my room telling me about the special 'ironing room' which was on the second floor. I walk up the stairs, clutching my crumpled shirt, towards the ironing room, imagining a pressing paradise, rows and rows of ironing boards, hundreds of young professionals, like me (okay, not like me, then!) ironing their garments with a beatific smile plastered all over their boatraces, the combined outpourings of steam turning the second floor of the hotel into a sauna...
Let's say the reality didn't match up. the ironing room was a windowless room about the same size as the bedrooms, with a smattering of litter on the floor, unheated (it was bloody cold) with one ironing board and battered-looking iron in it. It has to be the most soul-destroying room in the whole world .(Actually, Birmingham City's trophy room is probably worse, but seeing as no-one has ever needed to go in there, we'll never know.) I quickly ironed my shirt and got out of there before the Devil realised I was trespassing on his property and try to claim my eternal soul as compensation. It worked, anyway, as the afore-mentioned evening with the young lady was a great success.
The weekend was nearly ruined by the British Rail network returning to form after lulling me into a false sense of security with a hassle-free journey up, with a return journey that took twice as long, and an enforced connection because they decided not to stop at Birmingham New Street anymore. I can't really blame them for this, it is a shithole, but I've got no choice, I have to disembark there! So, I had to get off at Stafford and wait half-an-hour to catch a train that did stop at my station. While waiting, I went outside the station for a cigarette (it had been at least five hours since my last one) and noticed that the bloke smoking a fag next to me was none other than celebrity chef Paul Rankin (the longish-haired Irish one who sometimes has a goatee). He got on the next train as well, and got off in Wolverhampton. The lady in the seat behind me asked her friend "Isn't that that chef? Irish one off of Ready, Steady, Cook? Thought so. You'd think he'd travel First Class, money he's got!" He was only going one stop!! He wouldn't have had enough time for a cup of tea, let alone any of the other treats First Class has to offer! Silly woman! Then I remembered we were in Wolverhampton, and there's more brains in a butcher's sink than there is in the whole town (sorry, it's a city, now, isn't it?) of Wolvo.
Anyway, I'm home now.
Next weekend is the Birmingham International Comics Show (BICS) at Millennium Point, Curzon Street, funnily enough, here in Birmingham. I'll be there at the MC2 table, trying to flog our new comic Ghosts , which I didn't contribute to, as I'm busy with Septic Isle, still (I'll post some more images from that as soon as I get this sodding new computer to recognise my old scanner. Don't want to buy a new one as it's an A3 one, and them are dear!) If you can come along, please do, as the guests include Mike Mignola, Kevin Nowlan and one of my all time faves Mick McMahon, who I reckon draws the definitive Dredd, and doesn't do many conventions, so it's worth checking out. We need this convention to be a success! Not least because I know how much work the organisers are putting in! Come and meet me-I'll be the four-eyed one sweating out a hangover at the Midlands Comics Collective table (found out today that there exists a Manchester Comix Collective! First they pinch our big wheel, and now this!) and buy one of our books. You could purchase the ones I'm in!! See you there!
It's amazing how quickly sitting here typing gets boring. Not missing it anymore!)
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