Category: humour

::::The Crawl::::

Last night I decided, due to certain skull fucking circumstance, to go and get wasted. Wanting the process to be in some way produce apposed to purely destructive I decided to make it a bit crawl and write a bit about each place. Below you will find those impressions. Shit gets a bit random.


Oh dear. The first place. I’ve walked into has all the life of a 2am kebab. I don’t think I can stay in Maryhill. I don’t think I can even go to the west end as I am completely sick of byres road. In the back of my head I knew this would be a failure but a maryhill pub crawl did present a certain wayward charm; plus I could visit every pub around and at least pick a favourite. But, no. I crave more meaningful noise than naff celebrity tv reminiscing. The odd look I got from the barmaid should l tipped me off really. A kinda “what the fuck are you doing here?” expressed performed exclusively with her eyes. Still, the price was right. £2.60 for a pint of san miguel. Framptons on maryhill road. Don’t tell them i sent you. Time to finish this pint and fuck off.


Sauchiehall street. Just past nine. Entering budda bar I note the misspelling and consider how much cooler it would of been if they’d called it bubba bar instead. Reminds me of the bill hicks joke. At the door I get my first random, who shakes my hand and calls me Ian, because apparently he meets a lot of Ian’s on a Wednesday. I have my doubts. Later, whilst I’m drinking and writing in my booth, he comes over and asks me if I’m okay. I explain that I’m on a mini crawl but have nobody to drink with so I’m writing instead. Glancing at my notebook and seeing the name of the bar he asks me if I’m writing my life story. Seems like a nice guy. He points to a woman and says “there’s one for you!” I tell him i have a girlfriend to which he replies “that doesn’t matter”. Again, I have my doubts. Music leans towards chart R&B. At least it has a beat. Sky sports on the TVs. Time to drink up and fuck off.


Nicos cafe bar now. House on the sound system. No televisions thankfuck. Middle aged men line the bar. Not much life here, made all the more apparent by the bright lighting. Have turned to the lowest common denominator in the form of a pint of Tennents. They do jäger bombs here for £1.80 so I may have to indulge, minus the red bull because I actually like the taste of Jagermeister. A man and a woman sit at the bar and argue about movies, each trying to convince the other to watch a particular film, the ones in question being Brick and Drive. I stand up from my able and tell the. They each have to watch what the other is trying to convince them to see. For the record Brick is the better movie. The house music continues.

Oh, shit. I think that was Craig David just now. Time to leave.


The Box now; not to be confused with the shitty music tv channel. A pint of thorntons for £2.80. I’ve even here before; a friend’s hip hop crew got signed to a small edinburgh label and they threw a gig here to celebrate. Was a good night. Tonight, bands play for edification. Right now though it’s all CDs… Or mp3s. Whatever. I doubt I’ll stay for the next band. There is a bit of a wait and I am in no mood to stay still. Also, I think this guy is giving me the eye and I’d like to avoid confusion.


Okay, I’m still at The Box. I went out for a cigarette whilst the next band were tuning up and got into a conversation with a guy who started out by mocking my “where the fuck?” English accent before we descended into a discussion about he whole Catholic/Protestant Celtic/Rangers thing. Something to do with he Irish potato famine. He ave me a cigarette then I went in and ordered a shot o something cheap and nasty for a quid and a pint of tennants. Came to four quid. This and are all over the place. A little rocky. A little indie. They have no concrete identity. I must make a note of their name because despite of that they do not suck. Like, someday, maybe. Whatever.

I returned to the same table and that guy is still giving me the eye. If I was single and gay I’d be well in there. Time to down this and keep moving.

I am surrounded by rutting. Men and woman and lust. I feel it. I have no desire to take part. The screens wake themselves from a sate of No Signal and a WWF DVD flickers into florescent half life. Definitely time to leave.


The band were called Alavano. They have a couple of tracks on soundcloud. They sounded a lot more varied on stage and told me that they are in the middle of writing and recording some new stuff.


A wetherspoons. £2.15 for a pint of carlsberg. The fact that tennents is not a cheapest points to the lack of local soul in chains. In ASDA or Tescos you will pay more for 2 litres of irn-bru than you will in a shop run by Pakistani immigrants. Legal immigrants, I might add. Not that I give a fuck about the whole immigration debate. Please, come to the UK on and all. Piss off the natives. It amuses me greatly.

Two men creep up to he puggie machine in front of me. The one watching as the other presses the flashing buttons couldn’t look more out place. He leans and tuts in the right places but you can tell his heart ain’t in it. Behind and to the right a middle aged man drinks alone.


This is the second time I’ve run up against apologetic bouncers. I tried to go into Firewater because I heard they played rock music and I crave the loud and abrasive. There is a policy against the individual in certain locales on sauchiehall street. Basically, if you ain’t in a couple you are fucked. Guess they cause less trouble. Us losers drinking on our own cause nothing but pain which begs the question of when exactly did nightclubs develop feelings? Also, this tendency towards the reinforcing of he heteronormative is somewhat disturbing.


I’m in a pub, A pub pub, just off sauchiehall street. It’s called The State and wonder to which state it might be referring. The word has several contexts it could be used in. A pint of tennents costs £3.05. I don’t even like tennents really. Is a pissy lager on par with carling which is often seen declaring itself to be probably the best lager in world, or some such shit. At the bar some Polish are in deep conversation with at least one Scot – now they are gone. I just caught last orders and now they are gone. Guess they know when to escape. Still, two guys at the bar speak Polish to each other. Several other people make to leave as Daft Punk’s latest single plays. Ten minutes to drink this and move on.


I think I may be done. Time to go home.


I guess I’m not done. Those Polish people turned out to be Russian. They don’t want to stop and I end up following them down the street in an amused fashion as they carry on all raucous. I try to lead them elsewhere but there’s something about a mass of Russians that puts bouncers off. They bailed on me whilst I took a piss in a lane and took the advantage to sneak past them nto a bar called Bloc whilst they tried to argue their case. I find it a little, not ironic, but perhaps cognitively dissonant (okay, that might be the definition of irony) that a bar which pretends at a sense of solidarity with the soviet union (and whose website domain is registered in Russia) won’t let a bunch of drunken Russians in. Maybe it’s the fact that, as I was told by a barmaid on a previous visit, it’s just bullshit posturing and pretension.

I seem to have stripped a table of its occupants. What is it about a guy alone in a bar that causes such revulsion? In younger, less confident days, this might of troubled me. Now I’m just glad of the space. Aaaaaah.

A guy from a different table comes and asks me if I’m okay. Jesus fucking Christ. I know I shouldn’t complain about people showing concern but I really need to make some more friends to drink with. Still, I’ve enjoyed the experience of writing of my misadventures and I wouldn’t of been able to do that if I’d been being all social and shit. So, anyway, I get talking to this guy and his friends. I don’t notice someone slipping in behind me and start flicking through my notebook. When I do suddenly become aware of their presence I turn around to see an alternative looking girl in a trilby.

“It’s okay. I’m a lesbian.”

This counts as one of the best random introductions in a bar I have ever experienced and we end up chatting. We go to swap numbers and it is at this point I notice that my phone has been stolen. This is quite annoying but not the end of the world as it was a piece of shit pre-android pseudo-smartphone hand-me-down and gives me the excuse to get something that a wired individual such as myself could do with to do my thing with maximum efficiency. I write her number down in my notebook, designating it under KT, because that’s what she told me to do. KT, if youe reading this, I’ll call you as soon as I get a new one. Like I said, I need to make some new friends.

Things get a bit murky after this so I’m just gonna stop here.


::::bring thee noise::and thee comedy::::


I am a little hung over. No, please, don’t waste your sympathy on me. I know you care, and it fills my heart with joy, but I’m not looking for your pity. Your pity makes me sick. No, wait. That’s the hangover…

Last night I was at Comedy in the Basement – a weekly night of free mirth put on by the marvellous Marta Adamowicz. Yes, I know that’s a weak ass adjective, and there is alliteration, but like I said – I’m hung over. What do you want? a delicious metaphor wrapped in a golden fucking bow? I’m doing my best here.

The basement is a great venue; small and intimate, perfect for a cozy night of comedy. And it’s weekly, so easy to remember that it’s happening. If you’re available, enjoy laughing at people and like not spending money to get into places so you have more mullah for booze you should totally come check it out. I won’t be there next week cuz I’m in Cardiff catching up with family and friends but I’ll be there the week after. Probably. No, wait, think I’m at a writers group. Look, I promise the time will come when you get to buy me a pint, you just have to be patient.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, A night of noise was unfolding in another basement – that of the 13th Note. I wasn’t there, but I do like noise. I have it on good authority (I was talking to some guy outside the venue one time, having a cigarette, and he told me) that Glasgow once had a glorious noise scene, and that it is once again on the ascension. Stay tuned for further details.

Playing were…

Young Philidelphia

American Television





Like I said, I wasn’t there, but do enjoy the links. Some of them point to places other than Facebook.

Here’s kabobo’s set. It was their first gig. Nice, huh?


::::We don’t go to Newport::::

I used to live there, so I know it’s true.


::::Hey Starbucks…. Sponsor THIS::::

It’s the “EITHER/OR/BORED is still here” awards!

top via post – national geographic puts lsd under the microscope

top bloggy post – Slow Cinema & the Long Take

top poem – thank you for you patience

top short story – The curious adventures of Lord Fuckington

top photography – epiglottal

sackboy is strangely aroused…. [ photo ]

See more at youtube. Obviously.

quote of the day

I like to visit my blog when I get up to check on the quote and the word of the day, maybe look at the pretty picture – all that changing stuff that rolls in off rss feeds i have plugged in to either/or/bored. Today’s quote i found emminently amusing…

“I don’t have an English accent because this is what English sounds like when spoken properly.” – James Carr

I so desperately wanted to know who James Carr was, because judging from the quote he’s the kinda person I should know of, so i followed the quote back to its page, found it’s source (The Tonight Show with Jay Leno) and did a lil googling.

And then felt a little stupid.

Of course, James Carr is Jimmy Carr – an extremely dry and somewhat dark british standup with a thing for one liners who is like totally famous over here. I mean, I can actually hear him delivering this line. I really should of figured it out without the aid of google.

Anyway, here’s some of his stand up.

Some people can just make anything sound epic….

And follow this here link to hear Richard Dreyfuss reading the iTunes EULA.

< via open culture and some chick I know on facebook. >

Ruport Murdoch: “We are fuckers.”

<< via >>

the memories of my youth have just gone wrong

The curious adventures of Lord Fuckington [short story]

To skip all this disclaimer bollocks and get straight to the curious adventures click here

I have, very recently, completed a short story, whose title you can see above. Ordinarily, i would attempt to get it published, sending it around to magazines both on-and-offline, and hold out for the one that offered the best rate (this has never actually worked). But even I, with my optimistic smoke-filled eyes, can see that I could shop this around to a thousand publications, over the course of a year and a half, and still be rejected. Alot of them, most of them, want exclusive electronic rights – so in all that time it would languish on my hard-drive, unread.

Fuck that.

Why though? Why am I so certain that it would be rejected? I shall tell you. It is without a doubt the most perverse thing I have ever written. It is sick. It is twisted. It is likely to offend. It’s also quite funny, in my opinion.

The list of the kinds of people who may be offended by the words and narrative contained within is long; too long to be included here. A brief overview would likely include feminists, masculinists, liberals, conservatives, vegetarians, vegans, the upper-middle classes, the lower-middle classes, the lower-upper classes, the upper-upper classes, those with a sensitive disposition and most probably anybody with any kind of moral compass.

So, I guess this is a disclaimer. It is not my intention to offend, only to amuse and illuminate. Please don’t read much further if you are likely to descend into a rabid furor of outrage. Actually, please feel free. You will probably find it a cleansing experience.

When i started writing it I conceived it as a satirical reflection on the works of the Marquis de Sade with Cronenbergian overtones. There is perhaps an undercurrent of feminist thought and a critique of society, although these may in fact be accidental. I may, in fact, be suffering from delusions of granduer.

If you read it, and after giving it some thought I have changed my mind and in fact urge you to read it, please – share it. Throw it up on facebook, your blog, your twitterstream. Email it to friends. Mention it on the forums you frequent. Leave me horrified diatribes in the comments. Let me know if you like it, if you hate it, if you want more. There can be more. If you want it.

I’m not usually one to be so forthcoming. I’ve been blogging on and off for a decade – i’ve seen the raise and fall of traffic, the waxing and waning of interest. All the while I’ve played it cool. There’s nothing worse than some whiny prick begging for attention on his blog. I’m making the exception here though, because i think that ‘The Curious Adventures of Lord Fuckington’ is worth the possible backlash.

I started writing this is a lark, a piece of amusement for myself and friends. Something to write after a several month long lapse of creative output. I throughly enjoyed writing it and as i showed it around to a few people i realised that people throughly enjoyed reading it (even those that were somewhat disturbed by it). So, I figured, why not throw some effort of promotion behind it? If it sinks unnoticed beneath the surface of the internet so be it, but at least I will of tried.

So, i bequeath you to read. And link. And comment. And if you want more let me know. There is a very possible long-form narrative for this. Get to the end and you’ll see an inkling of what i mean.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Although I have strived to correct spelling mistakes, it is somewhat unproofed. Just so you know.


Click onward to read The Curious adventures of Lord Fuckington

If you’re a writer – I’m sinatra


From Peanutweeter: Where they take random tweets and merge them with peanut comic strips for maximal luls.

Vomit Bags At 11

time to spew

Just in case anybody was curious about my opinion about the forthcoming royal wedding 😉

thanks alec

Sources confirmed that while Peterson has been supplied over the years with a glut of compelling evidence that life is a zero-sum game at best—including a thwarted career as a graphic designer, multiple failed relationships, and limited financial mobility—he nevertheless continues to cling to the misguided expectation that he can and will experience real serenity and joy in the long term.

The baffling man has also reportedly read a newspaper before, interacted with coworkers, knows how economies and political systems work, and is undergoing the process of aging, yet has made no effort to revise his original assumption.

“What really gets me is the confidence he seems to have that one day he will be able to shed all of the fears and anxieties that are hardwired into his DNA and the modern world will decide to stop being unrelentingly brutal and allow him some happiness,” said coworker Miles Sagal, adding that the delusional Peterson inexplicably presumes that this not only could, but should, occur. “Whenever he’s feeling low, he’ll allude to some time down the road when he’ll have it all ‘figured out.’ When exactly does he think that will happen?”

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy?” Sagal added. “He’s aware that he’s going to die, right?”

thanks be to Emma

via Grown Adult Actually Expects To Be Happy | The Onion – America’s Finest News Source.

Cat Hepburn

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