Everyone is talking about the apocalypse. Well not everyone. But some people. I’ve heard one or two. I think.
Let’s start again. An unquantified number of people have at some point perhaps made reference to this year potentially being the last year ever. Contrary to popular belief, the method of thinking did not originate from the 2009 Roland Emmerich film starring John Cusack. No, it has been foretold by many people including Nostradamus and the Mayans.
When I say ‘foretold’ I mean it in a very loose sense. December 21st 2012 is when the Mayan calendar stops. Now I might be wrong but that doesn’t necessarily mean the freaking world is ending, does it? I mean if anything we should be thankful that the Mayans had the foresight to make a calendar that goes as far as it does. Contemporary calendar-makers are far more short-sighted, meaning that if we go by this way of judging the apocalypse – as soon as Kelly Brook’s December charms are no longer adorning your bedroom wall the horsemen will come knocking. Well, they probably wouldn’t be that polite as to knock. If you only get an advent calendar, life doesn’t even exist until December 1st (and will probably end on the 1st too you greedy bastard).
Nostradamus also didn’t do very well predicting the end of the world. Nowhere in his book does he mention the end of days. He also continues to prophesise until well beyond the year 3000. As did Busted. I’m not sure they thought it through as well as Nostradamus, but at least he corroborates their reports that we will still be here. Living underwater and our great-great-great grandaughters still being alive and aesthetically pleasing, notwithstanding.
So basically we don’t really know. Just like that one guy who thought that the rapture was coming last year and was left rather embarrassed when it didn’t; we’re all just stabbing in the dark and using very old and unreliable knives to do so. The Mayans can predict the end of the world but they didn’t predict the invention of mini kievs, did they? Thought not. Come December 21st there are probably going to be a lot of disappointed people. I’ll probably be drunk in a bar somewhere, just in case. But what happens if the end actualy is nigh? What if we’re all about to be Michael Bay-ed?
10 Things I Wouldn’t Miss if There Was An Apocalypse
Yes, I know that there is a scientific explanation for why wires get tangled. Still doesn’t make it just. I have spent approximately 14 years of my life untangling wires.
2. Robert Carlyle
I don’t really know why I hate him, but I hate him with every fibre of my being. It’s either because of ‘The Full Monty’ or the fact that his eyes look like sultanas. Or maybe both.
3. People Who Use the Word ‘Ignorant’ to Mean Something That It Totally Doesn’t Mean
Listen up, idiots (I mean loyal readers. Actually no, I mean idiots). If someone is ignoring you, they are not being ‘ignorant’ unless they genuinely do not know you are there. We don’t have an adjective to describe someone who ignores people. ‘Rude’ will suffice you ignorant people.
Why? We had computers that were fine (until you actually need it to do something) and we had mobile phones that were perfectly adequate. Then someone said ‘we need something that’s not as functional as a computer and more like a big phone that doesn’t actually make calls’. Okay sure. So by my logic we have doors, and we have windows. So what we need is something that’s smaller than a door but doesn’t open fully like a window.
But for humans.
5. People Who Protest About Everything
Don’t get me wrong, I like to moan about things. I also think that it is possible to change the world with the right approach. However, liking a post on Facebook and then standing in a field for fifteen years whilst claiming that ‘Capitalism is gay’ just makes you a douchebag, dude.
Before I begin, let me just hand a free pass to tomato purée. You can go, you are fine. Right, now that we’re alone, Mr Tomato, what the fuck are you doing in my sandwiches? If I go to Tesco (or M&S if I’m feeling frivolous) I don’t expect to spend twenty minutes picking you out of my lunch. You just don’t taste right. Yet everyone thinks you’re welcome at the party. Get the fuck out!
7. Reality Television
Everything is a reality show these days. How To Live Your Life, How Not To Live Your Life, How My Wife Cleans Her Bathroom, Who Is The Best Singer, Who Is The Most Annoying Person In Dundee, Who Is the Most Annoying Person In Dundee – Celebrity Edition. I thought TV was supposed to be a form of escapism? Documentaries are great, but when you assume I want to know about the sex lives of some creosoted Geordie people you are so very wrong. I’d rather watch myself watching me on a live streaming webcam. At least I might get an erection.
8. The Person Who Decided This Was A Good Idea
“What’s on Sky Sports this afternoon?”
“Oh it’s just a team of men in jumpers trying to catch a ball. They know where this ball is probably going to go, because they know who is throwing the ball and they know who is hitting it. Occasionally they have to jog.”
“Do you want to know how they work out the score?”
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m going to make caveats here. Like I’m going to say ‘annoying kids who scream on public transport’ or ‘all first-born sons, Herod-style’. Nope. All of them. I am aware that I was a kid once, but I was a fantastic kid. I could eat anything, I spent a lot of time pretending to be a chicken and I convinced my younger sister I had magic powers. But now kids are just loud, needy, obnoxious and unnecessarily pandered-to. Children’s books are being read by adults (that might not be their fault directly) and they have stupid names and stupid hair. But the one thing that gets me is that people are creating more and more of them and then clogging up my Facebook with pages and pages of people that all look the same until they reach the age of about 5 anyway. I’m tired of blaming the parents; take some responsibility for yourselves you little shitbags.
So there we have it. I am actually hoping for the prophecies to be fulfilled now. At least I can die without seeing Colin Farrell do a massive shit on Mars.
In my last post, I suggested that I would write about whatever the people want me to write about. I am a man of my word. Unfortunately that word is ‘gravy’.
Gravy. The very word can make a Northerner salivate from sixty paces. It tastes good with a roast, it tastes good with chips, it tastes good with fried chicken. Acceptable on most meals, yet not acceptable on its own as a savoury alternative to tea or coffee. It’s not a condiment, it’s not a garnish, it’s not a sauce. What is it? It’s the enigma of the dinner plate. The stranger that’s welcome at any family meal.
There are allegedly some people who don’t like gravy. These people are known in the industry as ‘wrong’. In fact, I read that someone once put ketchup on a roast dinner instead of gravy. That person was forcibly removed from society and presumably eaten by crocodiles. With gravy.
Gravy is actually quite sexy. Think about it. It’s viscous and glossy, but looks dirty and wrong at the same time. Much like Katy Perry. According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gravy, gravy is a sauce. I don’t believe it, but apparently it is. If it is a sauce, it’s the sexiest sauce going. Other than garlic mayonnaise.
The other subject I considered writing about this week was ’50 Shades of Grey’. It seems that woman has discovered pornography only 99 years after Emily Davison threw herself under the King’s horse at Epsom. It is a book so popular Facebook is overrun with statuses from women declaring the commencement of their nightly masturbation session.
However, I don’t profess to have read the book. This is not my English degree, I can’t just read the first chapter, last chapter and the Wikipedia synopsis and use that as the basis for an essay. So alas, my take on the literary classic shall remain unwritten. I shall not libel that which I am ignorant of. But I can write about gravy. There must be some link between gravy and erotic fiction…
“I’m going to pull on your plastic lid until you pop off”, she said, desperately trying to get to the savoury satisfaction contained within.
“I want to have you with my chicken pie.” she whispered, almost as if she expect to tease the inanimate sauce.
Rihanna licked the scarlet Bisto pot around the edges, as though it were an erect penis. She dreamt about pouring the hot, saucy contents over her lithe, Barbadan body. She had never been to Doncaster before, and she had never expected to find pleasure in something so simple; something so instant. Not since those adverts with Linda Bellingham that were shown during her childhood and the subsequent wild fantasies about stock cubes had she been so turned on by a foodstuff. But now it was all about gravy. Gravy was the very essence of sexiness. It made her nipples harder than solving a complex mathematics problem after you’ve just fondled yourself to a poor quality Youtube video of your friend’s mum doing the dishes in a dirty slip.
“I will guzzle every last drop of you,” she moaned, pining for the rugged brown moisture to work its dirty magic.
“I’m going to rip this Fray Bentos apart with my teeth and then you and I shall find love in my hopeless place.”
Rihanna couldn’t wait any longer. The kettle was taking an eternity to boil; it was shrieking like an ovulating kestrel. Unable to resist the container any more she tore it apart with her bare hands as thousands of tiny beads poured themselves over the kitchen floor like a velvet carpet. Naked, she thrust her body down upon the lino flooring and squealed as the granules entered her in places she never thought possible.
“Aah, Bisto!” she sang.
19 views is always going to be a tough number to beat. Now that I have established the fact that I don’t really have an audience, I have to live with the fact that this blog has very little direction as well. Writing about nothing and having no one read it is on a par with being a tree. Sure, you have this smug sense of self-worth, but the reality is you have small animals living inside you and you’re going nowhere until a Canadian comes at you with a chainsaw, buddy.
Inevitably, one must write the follow-up post. You could call it quits after post number one and then reminisce in 2022 about how you once started a ‘hilarious’ blog. Whilst sipping a futuristic cocktail, listening to country rap, wearing a jumpsuit and euthanising your friends. But where’s the fun in that? No, one must make multiple failed attempts to capture an audience.
Maybe this time if I actually write about something it will surpass the 20 hit-counter. But what could I actually write about? Maybe I should let the audience decide. Actually Dan, that’s a brilliant idea! Whilst you might now be stranded in a strange place where you are conversing with your own thought patterns via your keyboard, if you let a third party make a decision for you, you can establish whether or not you have the potential to build an audience and simultaneously stumble upon some subject matter. I knew you had it in you.
So I guess this could be the end of my little blog. I will not be writing again until someone suggests a topic for me. Direct me. I am the ovine investigative journalist. You send me out into the field and I will write about it. Providing it’s not Harry Potter. I fucking hate Harry Potter. If you ask me to expand on this, this is how the conversation will always pan out:
“But have you read it?”
“Because I’m not eight. I don’t ask you if you have eaten mud and pretended to be a chicken recently.”
I was a weird 8-year old.