There are a lot of reasons why I should hate them, I’ll be honest. Like their neighbours in the land of rock-that-clearly-isn’t-actually-rock music, Coldplay, the Chili Peppers are one of those bands so devoid of personality, that it takes a not-unsubstantial portion of my energy just to hear someone say their name. It’s one of those easy-answer ‘favourite bands’ that are loved by people who aren’t so much fans of the music, but rather just fans of not having to sit in terrifying silence. The spider-feet guitar sounds mixed with the odd clunking bass and the nasal dross that makes up the vocals all congeal into a thick grey paste of oozing weariness that… I’ve just remembered that this wasn’t what this post was supposed to be about. Continue reading

If brief radio flickers and supermarket PA systems have taught me anything about modern music, it’s that kids like to party; the shards of Kesha and One Direction that aggressively force their way into my unwilling ear drums from time to time have certainly shown me that much. However, they never really say ‘drinking’ or ‘dancing’ or ‘hanging out with strangers in awkwardly forced social interactions’, they simply say ‘partying’. Now, I’m not entirely sure when the noun ‘party’, as in an assembly of people meeting with a common goal, be it political, social or celebratory, transformed into this awkwardly misapplied verb that I, for one, feel totally ill-equipped to define. Continue reading

Let’s get one thing straight: you should always avoid standard public transportation. Get a car, ride a bike, use your actual human walking legs, I’d even grudgingly allow you to set foot on a bus, for god’s sake, but whatever you do, just make your way to your destination without having to set foot on a train. So fraught with danger and unpleasant tension are they, that if one is foolish, or desperate, enough to utilise them, they must take the most precise and delicate of precautions to remain anonymous, lest you breathe at someone the wrong way and have your peaceful carriage become the setting for a reenactment of the shoot out scene in Leonardo DiCaprio’s mansion from the movie Django Unchained.

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A few handy hints for the on-the-go traveller who is far too busy (being an important, big shot man/woman-about-town, no doubt) to make time for the dreary underling, the tedious former associate, or the slightly mental, and (as you’ve just remembered) weirdly clingy ex-partner. Continue reading

I’ll start by saying that I won’t be including any story-related spoilers. If you want the film spoiled, just watch it. It does a perfect job of ruining itself without me telling you that Darth Vader was Starlord’s father, or that Drax was Kaser Söze all along. However, I’ll also state that this isn’t really a review, but a reflection on what this movie means in the world of film making, and as such, it may be a little conceptual if you haven’t already seen it (if you do want a review though, how about zero out of literally pick any number).

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Earlier today, I sat down on my at-work lunch break to partake in an activity more quintessentially nerdy than many others you might be able to think of: I repeatedly watched the trailers for the video game I was already playing at home (because when I fall for something, I fall hard). The game in […]

The titular question showed up from an anonymous source in my private blog, shortly after I wrote a very in offensive post about how religion perforated our language; and I’ll preface this all by saying, wow, this is the broadest of questions to me, and since I hardly knew where to start, and wound up […]

Whilst taking down the details of a young couple that were wanting to join our mailing list at work, I was told that the name of their street was ‘Sandwich Grove’ (which is hilarious because a grove is like a woody area where you grow shit, so… it’s where you grow sandwiches?). I laughed to […]

So as many of you know (or I suppose, as none of you know, because I’ve been neglecting this poor, poor blog, like some unwanted child that failed to live up to a parent’s expectation), Becky and I were invited to attend a faraway birthday party for some idiot with whom I used to live (sorry Nick, you may be Prince Nicholai in Romania, but you’re still the idiot with whom I used to live to me). It was a very fancy event at the Royal Palace (or a royal palace, I don’t know, there were a lot of palaces involved), and it was preceded by a delightful tour of some of the sights that Romania had to offer (including the inside of a bus, the views outside the bus from inside a bus, and the view of the outside of a bus from outside a bus).

… and of course we took a bunch of photos, because we’re piece of shit millennials.

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Earlier today, I attempted to call my phone company in order to sort out an upgrade, and, when I was inevitably put on hold, I found that, in lieu of the typical polyphonic elevator music, I was to be subjected to what I can only describe as a bizarre clacking reminiscent of the old Internet dial up tone. As I was too lazy to endure the simply arduous torture of holding my phone up to the side of my face, I decided to plug it into my earphones, meaning that I could hear nothing but the robotic white noise reverberating through my skull.