The Lonesome Death Of The Catch Up

There is something disappearing. Something that is decreasing at a trouser shittingly alarming rate. Covering an area that dwarfs the desecration of the worlds' rain forests and is at a red alert level risk of becoming extinct sooner than any Polar Bear or Panda. A global catastrophe in the waiting and it is man at the helm and yet man who will suffer when this weary wordy ship finally hits the jagged rocks of social meltdown.

The Catch Up: The quintessentially civilised beginning of any conversation in which one has not seen another for a measured period of time, be it a week, month or year, is rapidly vanishing from our everyday conversations.

Remember the times when you'd arrive for the Easter holidays at your cousins' house and those awkward stilted first moments where you could only talk about your journey there, which was unfortunately void of any danger or excitement of any kind, so you would would sometimes have to elaborate on a hairy moment near the Milton Keynes bypass, until you were suddenly and magically transported into the familiar living room of normal relaxed conversation with people you knew perfectly well and wondered how or why you ever had to have these strange little epilogues every time you met, similar to each time you'd go ice skating after getting rather good the last time, only to find yourself back at square one, scrambling round the ice like a Chuckle Brother on mescaline.

In the following dialogues proceeding that oddity of Englishness, one would normally set about talking to everyone about what they've been up to since last they met. Holidays, Birthdays, Deaths, marriages, happy news, sad news, new arrivals, new acquisitions and so on but these small introductory news bulletins are in serious jeopardy due to the multitude of modern day communication networks such as Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, Blogs and other assorted interweb interfaces.

These growing behemoths of chattering tit bit are crushing the possibility of having anything new to learn of someone what so ever that hasn't already been divulged in a news flash style communiqué of some sort, trespassing onto your computer like an Ebola virus attacking your immune system.

Those ingenious programmes and systems that were no doubt designed to bridge the gap in global communication are now being used for such menial and pathetic situations and tasks that it probably has the staggeringly rich cyber boffin inventors crying into their Sim avatar's digital porridge.

In this age of celebrity pointlessness these things have managed to persuade the everyman and woman that if a star can be born from nowhere on such programmes as Big Brother, X Factor and the multitude of 'Fly on the Wall' docu-dramas then they too should be transcribing the chronicles of their every thought and wim to the entire planet.

Resulting in people using space bound technology to make sure that the whole pissing galaxy knows that they're 'having Pasta for tea' or that a man on the bus is 'wearing a funny hat' or that you're on the fucking holiday you told everybody you were going on ample times before you left just to make sure they don't send such titillating information as Wagner's possible departure from X factor or that your mate Tommo just followed through in the cab home from Wagamamas as you couldn't carry on filling your face with over priced Paella if you missed out on that life changing info-fucking-mation.

I am now so fully informed of everybody's whereabouts and daily shenanigans that i meet friends out on a Friday night after work and sit in absolute silence until someone pipes up with someone else's news that they've recently read to which the writer of which can only simply acknowledge with a “yeeeaah!” and retort with a similarly quoted piece of recent gossip which everybody in earshot already knows 'cause they fucking read it already too!!

I'm now surrounded by iPhone obsessed drones that look like they've lost all the muscles on the back of their neck who peruse the inner world as they ignore the outer one, begrudgingly bowing to the small glowing once bitten Apple god like a drugged up Mooney cult and the only people that aren't subscribing to this geek revolution are outside polluting their outlaw rebel lungs with cancer sticks probably swapping actual stories of things that actually happened to real people that they didn't put on fucking Twitter earlier that day!

I'm thinking of starting up my own site called “Twatter” and what it cleverly does is tweets anybody who Twitters anything saying “Nobody cares what you're doing you egotistical delusional Fuckwit! Get on with your silly little inconsequential life and stop bothering us!”

Then maybe one day soon on a hopeful, brighter day, people will be skipping through the parks laughing, gayly swinging round lamp-posts, singing of the joys of spring, cigerettes will be proved to be vital to good health and bans will be lifted to the sound of triumphant trumpets and iPhones will be made illegal after being proven that they turn you into a unsociable 24 carat cunt and i will finally be able to sit in a pub filled with smoke, drinking my pint out of a straight forward non branded pint glass and chat the kind of shit i'm now driven to only writing down to my attentive friends who are filled to the brim with all their news and gossip, unheard, unspoken, unwritten, un fucking facebooked until it all goes deathly quiet....

...and then we'll all start talking about how we miss it all! Arse.

When Penguins Turn Peado

Emoticons

What kind of star spangled cunt nugget invented emoticons? For thousands of years humans have been developing expansive, complicated and highly evolved languages and have been writing these down in a multitude of ways including ink, blood and even stone and chisel over the centuries. For the past 8000 years or so people have have to make do with using these 'words' to convey the message they wished to get across by simple arrangement and with the forethought of making the message clear and precise in order to not be misunderstood or misconstrued.

These jumbled and bundled assortments of alphabet have given us the worldly wise philosophy of Socrates, the poignant poetry of Pablo Naruda, the dark twisted tales of Edgar Allen Poe, the exquisite wordplay of Shakespeare and of course the fantastical autobiographies of Katie Price.

Then some clever piss biscuit invented the 'Text Message' and all that went to shit.

Whereas before, they had to think of lots of words  to use in phone calls and responses to questions and sometimes even mild chit chat, they could now syphon down their word usage to it's most economical form in order to save valuable time not having to do things like talk or get in touch with friends and family.

But due to the great greed of mankind these new character limited bulletins soon also became too laborious for our ever dwindling attention spans and the bastardised language of 'Text abbreviation' was born.

Cries of “I can't waste precious time typing in an ,E,E,Y,O,U,A,T and a fucking ATE! I've on level 6 of Super Mario Bollox on my Nintendo Gameboy! and then Eastenders in on!!” emanated across the land.

And so “See you at 7 mate!” became “C U @ 7 M8” but it didn't stop there and soon this abrupt new street dialect became so hard to decipher that you had to employ an 11 year old street urchin to translate the covert dyslexic transcripts as if you were a top code breaker on the trail of a madman.

Then in a cross pollination from email etiquette and Internet forum geekdom, acronyms of phrases from camp teen fodder programs became common practise but all the while, one problem persisted. One obviously colossal omission from modern day communication.

This break down of language meant people sometimes didn't quite get how you meant something and would sometimes leave you waiting for minutes for their witty riposte whilst they tried to work through the possible double meanings of your ill worded communiqué. The timing of responses became as important as the messages themselves, with a 10 minute wait meaning something entirely different from a 2 day interval.

Multitudes of random possibilities began firing through the fevered craniums of textees and the paranoia would grew by the hour to the point where hypothetical situations of people gathering to laugh at your incoherent scribblings whilst ignoring you on a day out visit to Alton Towers deliberately organised without you became full gone conclusions.

Pretty soon, handbags were swinging in the streets, names were hastily being scribbled out from address books and even the leaders of the great super powers had a moment where their hand quivered over the red button in incandecent rage at the 17 minutes it took Boris Yeltsin to text back “LOL” to George Bush's fart jokes he made at his recent climate change conference when anybody used the word “Emissions”.

So in order to solve this growing global pandemic, some no doubt be-specktacled NASA schooled fucknut went and invented something that alleviated the receiver from having to work out how the message was intended by reverting to one of man's most primal instincts - Facial recognition.

Yes, by using all the now rendered pointless keys around the everyday keyboard that used to be used for varied punctuation back when we could remember how to write properly, we then starting using them to make a variety of face shapes like :) and ;( and ;0 to display our intended meaning.

Then people starting thinking their phone was simply on the blink so the fucking “Emoticon” was wheeled out like some demented Transformer baddie and the world was saved.

Now when i get a message with a little smiley face I simply take it that the cheeky cunt that sent it assumed i'm such an incredulous moron that i wasn't capable of working how he meant what he said by merely reading, computing and then judging the text to the best of my ability. Should a cheeky wink face not suddenly appear at the end of "I'm gonna bloody kill you!" then obviously we should all run around screaming and franticly dial the police should we?

My feelings on the matter are that we should try and devolve back to using proper language before we end up back at grunting and angrily shaking a stick to make our points but until i can persuade the whole feckin' emoti-conned universe to do so i have come up with some of my own to join the smiley,cheeky,happy gang!

( ! ) = a normal woman from a gynaecologist's point of view

( ? ) = a women who's had a baby with complications from a gynaecologist's point of view

( @ ) = an Anal gape

( # ) = Arse like a broken cat flap (i.e after a very hot curry or prison gang rape)

I'd work out more but i've got some texting to do and it takes bloody ages when you spell out all the words and that!

C U L8ER M8 :/*

Garfield Minus Garfield - One man's slow decent into madness

A Trip To The Flicks

Now I am a new Father I don't get the chance to visit the Celluloid Shit-box formerly known as the Cinema/Picture House/Theatre Of Dreams as much as I'd like to these days but one film I've read about recently stands out a mile in terms of cinematic bravery and originality and then i find out it's even based on a true story? Amazing!

I very nearly enjoyed Danny Boyle's last outing "Slumdog Millionaire" which was only spoilt when he decided to make the film such a condescending comedy pastiche of every other film there's ever been about similar subject matter! Ripping off pretty much everything from City Of God and The Kite Runner to ..er ..The Railway Children and Chris Tarrant's 'Who Wants To Be Millionaire' he thoroughly redeemed himself though with the Bollywood dancing at the end (Well done Danny?....Well done!) which almost completely made me not think of the bit of the story where the Fagan character poured boiling acid into the children's eyes and in no way made light of that horrible disfiguring scene!

"127 Hours" from what i gather stars James Franco (he the Green Goblin!) as an extreme sports fanatic with anti-catholic sexual proclivities, that likes to try new and dangerous things, and by some strange and unbelievable run of events that I'm sure the movie goes into in much more depth, ends up getting his whole arm up to his elbow stuck in “The Rock” (Former WWF Wrestling star Dwayne Johnson of “The Scorpion King” fame and other films you haven't ever seen and never will unless you are trapped on a plane and have had too much coffee).

This terrible anal ordeal then apparently goes on to last for a cheek clenching 127 hours (The film's Title! Genius!) which I'm informed is told in 'Real Time' (so it definitely can't be made up, Right?) note to self: bring plenty of snacks and water and perhaps inform loved ones of your whereabouts for the week.

Then after the marathon 5 day fist-fuckfest, he decides the only way to escape his bum deal alive is to cut off as much of his arm that is inveloped in The Rock's crushing grasp and then bloody stumpedly ride him back to the Hospital / new arm shop. Obviously when i say “ride him back” i don't mean more arse tomfoolery as poor Mr Rock at this point still has the freshly severed forearm stuck right royally up his chugger! I'm assuming that The Rock simply accompanies him back to have the foolishly investigative limb removed and sewn back onto Green Goblin bloke.

The multi-angled split screen 24 style depiction of such graphically catastrophic fist-fudge packery has apparently proven too much for some movie goers stateside with reports of audience members fainting and some people leaving the cinema's to simply “wash their eyes!” and then “run to the nearest church!”.

Though this is not my regular kind of film i look forward to what I hope is going to be a refreshing and thought provoking piece of drama about male bum love in the desert much like the misty eyed memory of how much I thoroughly enjoyed “Brokeback Mountain” once i finished throwing up.

I will review the film on my return from the local Multiplex.

"Alright I'll be in fucking 'Spiderman 4'! Christ I'll even make 'Pineapple Express 2'

Just get my fucking arm out this greased up Cunt Nugget!!"

The Fund

With Christmas looming on the horizon like a drooling rapist waiting at the top of a steep hill ready to take full advantage of the tired and weary shell of a human left after the arduous inclined journey that was 2013, I'd like to bring to light some high level corruption that hasn't even been unearthed in the Wikileaks dossiers.

Rather like countless 70's conspiracy thrillers I have suddenly come round to the chilling realisation that the company i work for, along with the colleagues that beam ever so brightly at me at the mornings start, are secretly being run by a new breed of Mafia.

When i started here I was asked politely, but now come to think of it quite firmly cajoled, into joining a Tea Fund. This seemed innocent enough and I tight fistedly obliged even though they all drink 27 cups of the stuff a day, to my mere 1 or 2. This was swiftly raised to encompass the biscuit and cake supply and before I knew it money was freely flowing out of my ever lightening pockets into this voluminous office pool quicker than it took to snap a Kit kat.

Eventually the overly elaborate outbursts of sighs and tuts and all round general stare led arm bending, led me to make my first gargantuan Tea round involving the kind of planning and execution usually reserved for the on set catering staff of such behemoth productions as 'Ben Hur' or 'Cleopatra'.

This routine soon became a habit which quickly sent me spiralling into the dark depths of addiction as my 1 to 2 cups became 3 to 4 and then 7 to 8 or more as the Tea Rounds slowly sucked me into the rapid swirling hot broth of my colleagues dark world of libation, and who's rabid thirst knew no satiety.

Much though I fought it, the caffeine withdrawal took me into double figures by only my 5th week and this was when the feeders stepped up their game. Offering just biscuits at first and cackling maniacally at my defence of 'being on a diet'. The stakes were soon raised to fondant fancies and the like and before I knew it I was waiting on the daily cream cake delivery with a fevered sweat, fighting my way to the front of the cue to desperately snatch at the days sugar frosted bounty.

They had me in their control for sure and as the seasons changed so did my empty pocketed size 32 jeans to a breezier, easier 34 waist. I was so dosed up in a saccharine dream that unbeknownst to me they were hitting me left, right and centre for Birthday gift and leaving present money while Tea Fund collections came more frequently and with increasing menace.

It was the sudden introduction of lottery and charity collections that set my alarm bells ringing and it was then i decided it was time to blow the lid off this Kitty of injustice and break this Party Ring of vice for good. I swapped my Tea for hot water in the rounds and poured my colleagues offered infusions into a nearby plant. The biscuits and cakes were carefully hidden about my person and discarded in the yard at break times.

It was only after a few days of being clean that my eyes were truly opened to the sheer cunning and size of this covert underground operation. The Tea and Cake fund monies being taken added to up to far too much for the paltry Asda Smartprice Bourbons and discount out of date cakes and when I delved deeper still I managed to track the spare funds from this shake down up the food chain as high as number 10 with some of the cash even going to some evil mastermind living in London named Simon “Bear Head” Cowell who was ploughing it into shameless fake TV shows to make even more money off unsuspecting hypnotised fools in the  infamous old “This Shit is Gold” scam.

The money for birthdays was being taken for people who i didn't even know! They were never seen and neither were the gifts or vouchers. The people supposedly “leaving” turned out to be people who had questioned or tried to opt out of 'The Fund' and I have a feeling it was more than the office confines they were escorted out of on their 'final day'.

All of the confectionery i saved up was enough to buy me a friend on the outside who managed to get me out in a fake secondment role but when I went to the papers with the story I was greeted with the familiar glaze of a sugar doped drone who said they'd get right on it and then had me followed home. I managed to lose him at a Dunkin' Donuts.

This thing is so much bigger than I thought. There is widespread con-manship afoot out there and It might be happening in your very office? You might be reading this just as someone in 'The Fund' places a hot sweet brew down with a couple chocolate hob nobs on the side? They might even be suckering you into a false conversation of “How did that thing go at the weekend Bob?” whilst they peruse this very post you're reading, meanwhile Doreen in 'Accounts' is downloading your emails and bank details whilst packing her bag for Switzerland?

Either way, 'Beware the Eyes of Mars' and all his covert confectionery cohorts and start planning your break out now, god damn it!, now!

*This post is abridged and printed with permission from the book "Three Days Of The Kit Kat" by Randy Pumper.