there's not much you can do really. personally i fidgeted my feet; played with my ear a bit too. ok, so i thought about sliding my lefty down to the yogurt spurting slab of throbbing gristle in my trousers when her boob slipped out a bit, but soon returned to the only state of emotion that's really possible when you're watching a drooling daddy slide off his little princess' knickers. total fucking ... ew.
oh but then there's the rage too. "you repugnant piece of mouldy cat shit, you. touch her. try and fucking touch her and your scrotal sack is coming on a trip down your local high street, stretched backwards over my cranium whilst i'm whistling 'animal hospital' and giving your mother the eye. you're giving beards a bad name. and on my time. you massive, utterly fucking brobdingnagian cunt".
but finally, came the relief; the three 'yes' code. lol took out the hammer, and i actually said 'yes'. she overpowered that hangin' creature, and i actually said 'yes'. she spilled his ribena all over the carpet and eventually sent him packing, and i actually said 'yes'. i could've thrown a party. fuck that, if not for a lack of willing sexual deviants in the room i'd have thrown an orgy.
it was drama, alright. the screen felt as though it wasn't really a screen, but some pervy window into the next room. rape, eh? deeply nauseating, especially for the second time in a week; the ebb of our shit humanity. disgusting you might say, but i'm more disgusted that it took shane meadows and gaggle of quirky haircuts and harringtons for me to realise it.
this is england 86's finale last night, in the aforementioned scene and the one with the character combo and the discovery of his dead mother, deserved BAFTAs for breakfast. bra-fucking-vo. what's more, the consensus seems to be with me. everyone knows it; most of that was fucking excellent. but in this feast of televisual plenty, it's just a shame that meadows starved a lot of the conclusion to this landmark series.
starved it of words, that is. and of real time motion. and of any kind of comprehension for the audience as to what in the good name of lambretta is going on. meadows created a drama where there was rarely a scene not worth your undivided idolotry, something to make you really kick the golden calf. how unfortunate then that half the time, the cinematography was classic fm on depressants.
ludovico einaudi may be a name unfamiliar to you, but his piano wankery won't be. eh well, maybe 'wankery' is too far, he's genuinely an excellent composer. here's my personal favourite, one surprisingly untouched by meadows but used recently for an ad campaign by the BBC:
beautiful music which suggests, rather than screams, of melancholy and tragedy. that's MELANCHOLY AND TRAGEDY. it doesn't, in any way, suggest an image of that character, that walking, talking, somehow respiring health warning against the bastardisation of down syndrome hamsters (affectionately known in the show by the name of 'smell') climaxing on underage cock in some sweat ridden, scribbled o'er toilet. that is however, what meadows used it for. that and every other scene with any essence of drama in it. ridiculous.
mericfully, the excellent dead mother scene was spared tinkling ivories. the attempted rape of lol had them, but for drama such as that, images were enough. at the pivotal moment when the character of trev revealed last week's antics to lol however, dialouge was essential; images were not enough. when kelly's crying over the death of her father, a man she both admired and despised, again, images were not enough. when shaun's losing his v to pie face, images were not enou... wait, no, any more of that and i'd have rubbed my eyes in dog mess. even so, each one of these featured einaudi, painful slow motion and all contributed to the idea of meadows' harbouring an increasingly unnerving fetish for cinematic fuckery.
maybe he's trying to make a trademark for himself, something to match tarantino's gratuitous violence, or scorsese's complicated catholics? all it needs is a name. 'meadows motion', perhaps? that's got a bit of zing. unlike the technique itself after it's been used for the fifth time in an hour. you don't want to have to lip read at 11pm, you just don't.
this was a series almost ruined but nevertheless, a brilliant piece of television drama. this was the milk, the bread, the chien's cahones exploding a load over 'silent witness' and other such gubbins, but without meadows splurging piano over the top, it was possible that it could have been so much more. this was however england, and it was good.
come on, why not?! me and old sugar tits go way back. i've got a boombox, a packet of tic-tacs and my buffy boxset. our mate paul's bringing some chicken and his fishing rod down too. it'll be a right laugh.
wait, raoul moat's dead? oh, right. sorry, i hadn't noticed.
it's just, there's nobody mourning. or at least, everyone mourning is being called 'macabre' by a national media armed with a thesaurus and the moral integrity of a erstaz gas fitter for the elderly. pardon me if i'm coming across as a "sick ghoul" and all, but isn't it generally accepted practice for someone's passing to be met with a sense of sobriety and lamentation, especially when concerning a death, and indeed a life as tragic as raoul moat's?
"BUT HE DONE MURDED THEM INNE"
yeah, well spotted. the reasons why he isn't exactly getting a state funeral are obvious, but the reasons why a bit of decorum can't be shown aren't. david cameron wooped and raa-raaed today:
"it is absolutely clear that raoul moat was a callous murderer, full stop, end of story"
ok, that's that then. back to the defecit and pretending to like football. wait, no he wants to spout bilge a bit more:
"there should be sympathy for his victims and the havoc he wreaked in that community. there should be no sympathy for him."
sorry raoul's kids. daddy's gone and you can shut the fuck up about it. apparently feeling slightly sorry for a mentally unstable man, driven to murder, self destruction and a declaration of war on the police is not just wrong, but wrong enough for the prime minister to try and make you feel like the dog who ate the birthday cake.
mr. cameron is largely supported in the media for his stance on the 'distasteful' facebook group 'r.i.p. raoul moat you legend'; the same media that find it perfectly tasteful to publish with headlines of 'thank god he's dead'. need i say more?
the ironic thing about it all is that the harmless nihilists parading moat as a hero (i.e. me and my friends) are only doing so because of the media's fecal-defying, sleep-suspending 24-hour coverage of nothing but the 'manhunt' of a supposed 'madman'. had they localised the issue to the affected area and not glamourised his modest 'rampage', the hero worship there is now would never have registered with even the biggest rebels without a pause.
don't believe me? two minutes of research (a record-breaking feat for any hg article) brought up this; two dudes who beat one guy to death with an iron and stabbed their other victim whilst the man unsuspectingly watched television. that's double raoul moat's 'high score', but guess who's name you'll be hearing in the papers for weeks, perhaps months to come.
it'd be refreshing to believe that the media may learn from the past week of damage they've caused, but you've a struggle in attempting to even hope that.
i didn't mean for hg's return from hibernation to be quite so cereal, but fucking hell, there's some cunts in this world.
it seems like forever that i've been stuck in this achterhuis; writing intermittently for my stupid little blog, behind a dutch woman's bookcase with my orange armband increasingly beginning to itch. one day, middle-class oafs might read hello ghosts and think "...shit, the befreckled buggers really did have it hard, didn't they?", and from then on i'll be a synonym for suffering with my grave all adorned by jaffa cakes and portraits of mick hucknall.
but not if MIA has anything to say about it. armed with a tenuous grasp on world politics and an insincere threat to "take your money" (the arsenal of the every young activist, you might say), our tamil tigress has once again stopped the mcdonalds sponsored 'free world' in its tracks and called for the liberation of history's fall guy, the most oppressed of all the human races (my race nonetheless), the gingers. and all through the medium of her latest single's music video.
before any AS film studies experts pedant my fucking ears off; yes, I know it's a bloody metaphor. apparently, the suffering of every properly persecuted human line can be analogised through blowing up carrot-tops, whose experience of maltreatment begins and ends at the playground. such a representation generally produces one of two responses: either "wow, how shocking and profound", or "lmao fucking boom!! ya ginger". It's predominantly the latter, and who would've expected otherwise?
it's bad enough that my skin can't handle sunshine, that i'm perpetually covered in orange dots and that the rug inevitably matches the curtains; i don't need MIA making me even more of a fucking joke.
when bored and confined to the padded walls of my imagination, i play family fortunes in my head. today les asked 100 members of the imaginary public a question; 'what is a more attractive prospect than a night out at carnage, "the UK's no.1 uniformed fellatio-fest of a student event?". hmm, tough one. i answered..
shaving with a cheese grater? diving into a shallow pool of horse juice? finding a naked and limbless barbara windsor facing cunt-upwards on my bed? ding. unsuprisingly, the answer was any of the above; and more.
carnage is exactly what i thought university would be like, except i didn't assume that absolutely everyone else would think so too. tonight is, i think, the fourth and final moron convention of the year, bigger and more enthusiastically awaited than the last. fortunately, people do exist here who don't furiously wet themseles at the thought of paying £10 for a 'free entry' t-shirt (... i know), and coincidentally i've come to know these people my 'friends'. none of this was a conscious decision, everything just fell into place. my friends and me aren't going. hence i've no desire to go to carnage, tick off my pulling achievements on a t-shirt like its an MOT, and face being cubed or sold for scrap if I don't finger enough police officers or live up to the other coital requirements.
otherwise i'd probably be acting quite sociable. and who wants to do that at university?
music, man i remember it well! some days i'd listen to a lot of it, other days i'd eat healthy. provided the two were kept in a fine balance, i'd leave the house a relatively complete human being.
but then i went to university.
perhaps you've noticed hg hasn't even glossed over music since the heady and easy-blogging days of august, back when i was on bail (!!!!) and you could walk down the street without asylum seekers jumping out and fellating you. shit yeah, the grime posts; but then that's got low bass frequencies and black people and stuff, so it's not really music is it? i mean proper songs done by rich white people in emotional distress.
ah indie :') i meant to call, honest. why the fuck have you grown continental porn moustache? you're head to toe in american apparel too, i can actually define each part of your body by block colour. every knuckle in my quivering fist is screaming to cuntpunch you, but i guess you're my home. furthermore, unless i contract a skin condition other than acne and stop dressing in 'small', that's not going to change, so let's begrudgingly accept it.
after a sigh of defeat, i took up the daily task every indie back in 2005, by looking for unknown bands. not necessarily good bands, just unknown bands. since tom decided ripping music off his fancy player was inherently corrupt, even if you've made it which means i've lost '1UP' forever, falling in lust with myspace bands is ultimately frustrating. still, the price of ripping your cock off is probably worth it when the bands in question are these. check them out:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PANDA LOVE UNIT ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- now '(defunct)', as their headline mournfully declares, panda love unit are the slimmer, prettier and bigger-breasted ex-band of johnny foreigner frontman alexei berrows. usually when you atomically fusion spoken word, road noise and amateur math rock riffs you get a hyperexplosion of purified pretension, and i'm afraid PLU don't defy the laws of science here. what is quite magical though, is how you come out of it thinking they're a brilliant band who's life was cut far too short.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- WHITE SWALLOW ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 'sam almond and bobby mambos new band are genuinely great' - marcus barnett, 8/4/10 22:35 via text message
marcus barnett texts me a lot of lies, but surprisingly this wasn't one of them. wait, it's not even surprising. sam and bobby were one half of chorley's best musical export, '3 black dwarfs'. they may have been grammatically challenged, but yes i'm putting them above starsailor and him offa liberty x. now white swallow is the new band, and they're the best thing to come out of chorley since trains elsewhere. maybe it's silly of me to base this on 'i scream', an initially out of time and part-improvised live recording on the myspace, but it's such a breath of fresh air it's like a douchebag for my lungs. someone, anyone, please give these boys a fucking break.
old people say so. the maccabees say so. even fried chicken says so; you never forget your first love. except i do, or at least i forget her surname. before you call me a heartless bastard though, it's probably a lot easier for you if your first love was that fake tan thong-fan in 8B, the brylcreemed boy next door or uncle frank with his special 'stroke the bunny' games in the garage. mine came when i was three years old, with a lovely girl that turned out ultimately to be a fucking fat slag called hannah.
before i dive head-first into heartbreak, you should probably know a bit about the three year old mark critchley. my favourite things are cars and big ted, my diet is strictly dairylea and i dont understand the difference between tuesday and thursday. when people start nursery, they're probably there to improve their counting skills and expand their knowledge of the alphabet, but i saw it as a chance throw wooden building blocks at people and link girls. naturally.
sometimes i was a bit of a bad boy. kieran murpher (my best friend, who may have had a different name but this one seems correct in my subconscious) used to lay the smackdown on other kids just so i could run them over with my trike. i was sent out of class a lot, i was usually in trouble with the carers and as mentioned, bashing toddlers heads in with dense wooden bricks became somewhat of a hobby for me. when i wasn't running riot though, i was an absolute freak. the day i met hannah, i was walking around the yard taking into the toggles on my mac pretending i was on the phone to peggy patch, and i like to think it was a combination of the bad boy and social outcast images that helped me pull her.
from then on, me and her spent all our time together, whilst kieran played gooseberry and i gradually tried to counter his blatent cock blocking. in winter, after finally shaking that bastard off, hannah came round to my house and we built a snowman. then we sat on my bed and she punched me in my undeveloped balls, so i smothered her with a pillow until my mum dragged me off. we sat down to sooty and sweep and twenty-five minutes later everything was fine. it was that kind of relationship.
even though she was my girlfriend, i didn't particularly care at first. yet by easter, i reached a romantic peak that i'm probably too cynical to ever try for again. when we burst out of spring term assembley to go play on the trikes, we were reprimanded for going too early. foolishly, i took all the blame and saved hannah from the punishment of being excluded for the last story before the easter break. sent outside, i started banging on the walls, probably throwing action men in the air and screaming "NO JUSTICE!", which meant not only would i miss the story, i'd also not get my complimentary easter egg when hometime came. all for a girl. i was already a sucker at four and half years old, and it only got worse.
on the last day of the year, the nursery had a fete. magicians, jugglers; all manner of cunts including mr. blobby (which is a different story entirely) came to see us all off before we went to the big bad world of sand pits and kiss chase, i.e. primary school. there was also a face-painter, and seeing as hannah and kieran had turned themselves into wildlife for the day, far be it from me to be the odd one out. half an hour after committing, the guy had finished my face. he'd painted me as a fucking beach. yeah, a beach.
i took one look in his mirror and bawled. what the fuck had he done to my face? everyone was a shark or a tiger, i'd been painted as the fucking title sequence of 'wish you were here'. tears had turned my face into something of a melted postcard, and when i found hannah she wouldn't talk to me anymore. some bear-faced twat was the centre of her attention now, and i'd been cast out to sea. life's a beach, eh?
annoyed, i sulked back to one of the carers and punched her square in the arm, my punishment being to sit on the tree stump outside to think about what i've done whilst everyone went to the final assembley. instead i just thought about hannah, and vowed to win her back. in fact i was completely confident i could, as long as i wiped the beach residue off my face. unfortunately, when kieran called me back in,i was sent straight to a talk with the head carer. everyone went home, my mum picked me up half an hour later and i thought i'd never see hannah again.
actually i did. by law, after a particularly emotional break up, the beleaguered boy inevitably sees his ex girl with her new man, and this was no different. only it was her old man instead. walking to primary school, our parents recognised each other and got chatting, whilst i turned mute. fuck her, she dumped me because i was a beach. all her questions were rebutted arshavin style, and at the earliest opportunity i jumped the school gate and escaped the bitch's clutches forever.
on reflection, perhaps it's my most surreal relationship ever. you know, maybe she's reading this now? back then she was small, blonde and the only girl that had ever willingly wanted my penis on demand. maybe she's still small, maybe she's still blonde, maybe she's still the only girl that has ever wanted my penis on demand? if you are reading hannah, how about a coffee?* we'll catch up, reminisce, it'll be exactly like the old times. and then i could paint your face like a beach and dump you, for a nice bit of symmetry.
so that's my first love, and even without her surname, i can't really forget it. but just wish i could.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *DISCLAIMER: if you're a) fat, b) ugly or c) severely handicapped now, you should know i'm busy washing my cat most days of the week.
football's own benjamin button was last week confirmed as having suffered an out of character knee-whoopsy, which will almost certainly rule him out of coming on as a late substitute in as many as 'several' of manchester united's remaining fixtures this season. it also means he'll be watching the world cup in hospital waiting rooms this summer, rather than his original plans of watching it from his sofa.
with such horrendous bad luck befalling on 'one of football's nice guys'™, it's hard to resist sending michael owen a sympathy card, perhaps attached with a pippette filled with your own tears and a rabbit's foot for future fortune. at least it is until you see this:
"well done, he's 13"
just because you pick on ginger kids doesn't mean i'm afraid of you michael owen. what goes around comes around, you utter prick.
