Girl Action

I attended the Girl Action Christmas Party in London the other night.

If you didn't know, that's a special lesbian club night. Now as most of you might know by now, I am both male and straight, but one of my closest friends happens to be a lesbian and she REALLY wanted to go. So that was that. I was going. Apparently. I have to say though, it was easily the best night I've had out in a long time.

The evening began when I got a frantic phone call at work telling me our prearranged time was now null and void and I had to leave right then and there. I jogged to her house and scoffed a bowl of micro-rice at the speed of light, switched into a nice shirt and some jeans, checked my cash and ID and then we ran. With 8 minutes to get to the station (about a 10 minute walk), we ran down the icy hill that led to the station slipping, sliding and skidding every step of the way. Derrie gave up and ran in the middle of the road towards the oncoming traffic. I opted to stay on the ice my feet flailing about like those of a newborn calf. But we made it to the train.

Next up we did the totally cool thing of crashing some poor gimps private party at the only pub we could find in the vicinity. It looked fine, had a few weird looking people inside but we thought 'why not? It's cold out here and Mel's not here yet' so we went in. We never saw the tiny sign on the door that said 'closed for private party'. Ordered our drinks. Sat down. Started drinking and chatting. All the while we're getting weird looks which is strange because the people giving us evil eyes resembled a group of drunken hunters gone out to a neon rave, somewhere between the 60s and the 80s. Within 60 seconds the girl at the bar had clocked that we weren't meant to be there and we were asked to leave. So I downed my 2 pints of cider and we bust a groove right outta there.

The night in the actual club was amazing though. For one thing, they had an amazing cocktail list and if you wanted something else they'd just make it for you. For another, it was just a pleasant place to be. It took me a while to get settled in because I'm not a club person at the best of time and it takes me a lot of time to get drunk enough to dance. So abandoning my cider and cocktails, I opted for shots. Many, many shots. Turns out, I have more fun in a lesbian bar than I do any straight bar I've been to. After a while I realised that no matter how many women I clocked there'd be no-one in the vicinity who'd give me a second glance. That's when all my little insecurities disappeared and I was left to feel good about myself. So I danced like nobody was watching, I drank like there was no tomorrow and I interacted with people.

The moments that stand out in my mind were the more surreal moments. Such as within 20 minutes there was already a naked women stood behind me being painted. Then, eventually, what with there only being a maximum of 5 men in the club - and myself the only straight man - the women learned that they could get away with using the mens toilets. So the second time I visited them I had to queue to get in there. Then when I did I was very aware of there only being 1 cubicle and 2 urinals and a large group of women behind and in front of me...I found this slightly intimidating to say the least. The girl in front of me was chatting to me, having a laugh. "Go ahead love, just go, trust me, none of us are interested - no offense". So I was all geared up to go, then this little voice at the front of the queue chimes in..."actually, I'm straight so...".
I of course, being me, panicked, made a joke and stood very still. Then the moment she'd gone I hopped over to a urinal. That might have been the scariest moment of my life. I've bungeed, I've been white water rafting, I've walked along the top of a glacier with holes deeper than the Eiffel Tower is high, but all of that was dwarfed by how conscientious I felt having my knob out in front of a large group of women.

Then there was the striptease act. Two tall, leggy strippers who performed a little show. We were dancing on the stage at the time so rather than shove us off, they just nudged us to the back of it so we had the best seats in the house and could get a good glimpse of everything going on. In all honesty I didn't really watch much of the show, I was talking to my new friend who suggested to me after watching one of them pour hot candle wax on the others face and chest that "it's blatantly your fantasy". I looked back over at the wax stained duo as they took turns to spit things into each others mouths. "No" I said. A short while later, I made my way over to the DJ to see if he had any Pendulum (he did not. Nor did he have the Morrissey track we wanted) and one of the strippers emerged from the door. She looked at me a bit surprised, than says "fuck me you're gorgeous!". I thanked her, a little confused that I was being hit on in a lesbian bar. She grabbed me and pulled me in close, she told me how hot she was under her fur coat. Then as if a light had gone on over her head she went "oh fuck. Shit. You're here. You're totally gonna be gay aren't you?". When she found out I wasn't she got very excited, grabbed my arse and asked me if I saw the show and how much I liked it. I was too drunk to process all of this. I've never been hit on in my life and here's some stripper groping me - I made my excuses and left for the bar. I still do not know why I did this.
Perhaps it is that moral code of mine which has prevented things like this in my life thus-far and so far I have only met one person who shares that code - at least I am not alone.

So ultimately, after much deliberation, I have decided that lesbian bars are way better than straight bars for me because I'm not self-conscious, I can drink and dance with style. I meet people, I have the nerve to talk to people, I am more like the me in my head. I had a night I'll remember for a long time and that's a good thing to have.

I also learned that when all you have in the cupboard is sweet chili rice, a pita bread, an egg and some salad cream, a tasty meal can be concocted.

A hidden gem

Today I reeled off a list of some of the things that make me just that little bit more fucked up than the rest of you. I do this every now and again because people will say things like "I don't know how anyone could not like you". I usually point out that it's more than fair and that in fact most people dislike me (which is fine because I inherently dislike people upon meeting them and I need to be shown that they are in fact likable).

So I point out that have been told I have Manic Depression but I refuse to take medication. That I have a list as long as your arm of things that cause me distress, that I have mild OCD, that I have difficulty trusting people, that I have had to deal with eating disorders and I can't use any toilet unless it has a flush mechanism (I don't know why). People smile awkwardly when I tell them these things and then they act differently around me, as I'm sure anyone reading this will. But today, for the first time I reeled off my list and my friend turned right around and said 'that's great. Those are all the reasons I like you. You're not boring. There's nothing more boring than the people who aren't like you'.

I have never been prepared for that.

It's rare to find a friend who is that willing to accept you like that.

Realising that you've got a friend who is willing to import you peanut butter to cheer you up when you're down, who puts up with all your bullshit and still helps out, who doesn't give a flying damn how fucked-in-the-head you are; is like finding £50 in a pair of old jeans, the best feeling in the world.

It's times like this that I take note and think 'that's it, they're suck with me for life now'.


In a good way

Christmas is knocking on your door

Ho ho ho!

The days get darker, the air gets colder and the wallets get emptier. That's right, it's December once again and Christmas is knocking on your door. So draw the curtains, turn off the lights and pray it passes by.

Most of my life I have been the 'bah-humbug' misery-guts who hates Christmas but this year I am surrounded by a tide of people who hate it as much as I do. For years I have been picking up on little faults with it and whilst most people are saddened by the stress and the lovely recession that burst through the door and kicked the tree over, I myself am still concerned about a few things.

Santa.
At this time of year, parents don't simply acknowledge, but advocate an elderly, obese man who 'sees you when you're sleeping' and hands out sweets and toys to children. So essentially, this guy's got webcams in all our houses watching the kids and then once a year he drops down a chimney and plies the sleeping youngsters with gifts. That sounds pretty strange to me.

Santa Claus doesn't even have anything to do with Christmas. He was invented by Coca-Cola and based on jolly old Saint Nick. For those of you who don't know - Saint Nick was at the time, one of the other names for Satan. Satan - Santa. Spot any similarities?

On top of this, the Santa you go and see at your local stores are always portrayed as living in a grotto. So.....a cave then. He's a troglodyte.

So in summary, once a year, on the birthday of Jesus Christ (if that's your belief) we are basically inviting a cave-dwelling, gin-soaked devil into our homes while we sleep so he can give our children gifts and sweets? This concerns me on many levels.

I can't be the only person who sees a problem here....

So this year lock your doors, barricade the windows and brick your chimneys up.

Because this year Santa's shitting down your chimney and touching up your wife.

The reflection in the mirror

I look into my bathroom mirror these days and I see something reflected back that isn't always myself. I'm not schizophrenic or anything along those lines, sure I have some issues but nothing that major.

But sadly for me it is a fact that my reflection is a far better semblance of myself than I could ever be. The mirror, or any reflective surface for that matter, portrays me in a different light. I thought I was imagining it but then my friends noticed it too. I have been told that I look far more dashing in mirrors and train windows. The soft focus perhaps?

I am not a 'looker' by any means, but neither am I a monster from whom the village people flee or attack with torches and pitchforks. But I sit here examining my reflection in my monitor and I see a glimmer in my eyes and a flicker in my smile but neither are there in my daily life.

Perhaps there is something laying dormant within, perhaps it is in fact the confidence I so desperately seek. Has it simply been suppressed all these years?

I look into the screen.

My reflection has a nicer smile than I do.

I was told recently never to smile at people because I look bad when I do.

I envy the reflection in the mirror.

How to impress people

Lets take a look at how exactly you DON'T impress people shall we?

Firstly, you don't impress them by ruining their day and causing them untold stress.
You don't impress your new friends OR your father when they have to clean up the mess.
You don't impress hotel staff or dentists when you stand in the middle of a hotel lobby shouting down a phone about bleeds and tearing a large chunk of hair out. The person at the front desk won't even make eye contact with me anymore.

So what's the point? This is what I do. I fuck up.

If I ever had a hope in Hell I'm reckoning that I just threw it right out the window.

Suffice to say, I can be an utter cunt sometimes

Like a mad scientist on a sugar high

Having had a seriously long day yesterday (I arrived at uni at 7:10 am - left at about 9:40 pm), upon my arrival home, I had a bath and fell straight asleep. I got 6 hours sleep which is more than I've had for a good couple of weeks.

However, as a result of my going directly from bath to bed, aside from waking up with a damp pillow and a cold head, my hair now resembles a mad scientist who's had far too much sugar. Combine that with the wind factor provided by the platform at Farnborough and I now resemble a black haired version of the Wheetos man who (might still) be on the front of the cereal boxes.

Despite my hair malfunction and the annoying commuter who tutted me this morning (not to mention the train load I upset last night on my way home), my day has been saved from being shit by one of those little innocent moments that just makes you smile. As I wandered to uni getting increasingly disgruntled, I noticed a child over the other side of the road with one of the umbrellas with the eyes on it. Aside from the fact that I want one with cats ears - I noticed his dad who was about 6'5 and built like a brick shit house - had one too - a really girly one. He was making the face on the umbrella dance above his head to amuse his kid.

It made me think of Life is Beautiful. But without the Nazi concentration camps.

It also made me accutely aware that I want one of those umbrellas.....

I knew this would happen...

I knew it. I just fucking knew it!

At 3:30 this morning I was actually ill enough that I needed to go into hospital. That doesn't happen very often, since I don't like being sick. But I looked especially bad this morning, my hair was disheveled, lank and greasy from where I tried to go in the gym last night but was too tired to shower, I'd have one in the morning I thought. And I hadn't shaved in 2 days.

The moment I realised I needed to go in, I thought 'shit, I look like crap and the nurse that takes me in is going to be really hot'. So imagine my surprise and joy when my initial check up and blood theft gets done by a guy! Brilliant - it doesnt matter if he sees me looking like a homeless person in all my worst clothes and baggy jeans that I've drawn faces on the knees of. No that doesn't matter.

But I knew it would happen, and of course it did. Not only was my Doctor lovely, she might just have been the cutest person in the whole building. And I looked like a fucking dick.

I knew it would happen.

Bastard.

Oh yes, and now I'm really stoned on all the drugs they gave me too.....

Billy Talent @ UEA - 30/10/09

I went to see Billy Talent the other night. Previously I had thought they were quite good, having seen them live I can now say that they are not 'quite good', that they are in fact, fan-fucking-tastic. To the extent that I no longer consider the CD I have to do them justice, it's just not as good.

They exploded onto the stage to a song I didn't know (I only have the 2nd of their 3 albums), but then followed it up with Devil in a Midnight Mass which of course I love, so I was happy. Having been separated from my companions early on, I headed towards the front. I pushed my way forward trying to find them, pits kept opening up all around me - I found this fairly surprising cause I've been to a few gigs, Marilyn Manson included and whilst acts like Manson had violent crowds, this just had energy. Maybe it was because it was in a university and all the crowd were young and fit, or perhaps they just played an awesome gig. What matters is that people loved it.

Just as Fallen Leaves began I spotted my friends and I headed towards them. Finally, it had been about half an hour since I'd seen them. I tried to break through the barrier of the 2 large, sweaty guys blocking me from them but to no avail. Then there was a huge surge from my right and I went down with about 4 other people. Whilst they began to get picked up I rocked forward to get up when the ginger girl behind me began to fall, I thought about it - I could dodge, get up and watch her stack it, or help. So whilst sat on my arse I grabbed her back and shoved her forward back onto her feet. My payment was her arm smashing me on the top of my head. This sent me back down against the ground where the guy next to me stacked it again and landed foot first on the right side of my head. It hurt.

When the shirtless, mustachioed stranger picked me up off the floor I could have kissed him! I didn't though - he was male, shirtless, sweaty and had a mustache.

After that it was plain sailing all the way, a particularly powerful rendition of Red Flag put the gig to rest for the evening and everyone filed out. After being dragged to the medical area and checked over (I got this neat little head injury advice card and everything), I was allowed to head back.

The high point of the gig? The fact that Rich gave me £5 for downing a pint of ice cold Snakebite and nearly stopping my heart. And the person who served it had a smiley face drawn on her cheek which I thought was pretty cool.
That and seeing Una. Too. Fucking. Cool.

Nick Griffin

Well I don't know about the rest of you, but I just finished watching the vile excuse for a human being that is Nick Griffin on Question Time. On the one hand I can't believe the BBC acknowledged his vicious little party (although I am also well aware that they will have had no choice) but on the other I am so glad that they did because from what I just saw, I believe that people can really see who, or rather what he is.

His views are not worth a damn in this age and nor should they be. I have friends who aren't of British origin and I have gay and lesbian friends and each and every one of the people he opposes are worth a billion times more than he could ever be. For me it's like watching a nature show - when I watch I always route for the zebra to get away, but this time, I'm watching and I'm willing something to come along and lunch on him. Just think how many lions his face alone could feed.

He's like a wasp (and I don't mean that in the White-Aglow-Saxon-Protestant way), he serves no purpose to humanity and should be swatted before he has the opportunity to sting.

I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him get gradually more and more irate on there, I loved seeing his hands shaking and him clapping like a wind up toy whenever someone humiliated him. It was fun. But I have a question - who the fuck would ever marry that thing? Not simply because he's a racist, bigoted, vile, slimy, disgusting excuse for a human being; but because he's one ugly son of a bitch. What's going on with his eye for one thing? Frankie Boyle is entirely right:

"he looks like a plucked owl on the fast track to management at Greggs"

Surbiton to Sandhurst

In order to get home, I take a simple train that runs between Surbiton and Farnborough - before the changes and copious walking commences.  Today was no exception.  I sat down on the train and minded my own business, I sat with the latest i-D on my lap and I continued to read it from where I had left off - an article on Tyen, a make-up artist for Dior and continued through, ending on the Gucci article.  

The guy opposite me on the right hand side of the train had been staring at me and I figured he was just having a look at what I was reading cause he was bored.  Lets face it, when we have no paper and someone else does, we do try and look at theirs.  So I ignored it.  

He got off one station ahead of me and as he stood up, he looked me in the eyes, shook his head in disgust, said "faggot", sighed heavily and got off the train.  Now I couldn't help but laugh! 

I'm not gay and nor do I have a problem with people who are, I just thought this was such a strange thing to say to someone.  I can only assume it was because of the mag I was reading, although I don't have to read anything for my Great Aunt to accuse me of being a "shirt lifter" as she calls it.  

It wasn't that he took a pop at me that got me, it was the way he did it.  There was no menace or threat to his voice.  No anger.  No real hate even.  Just the sound of bitter disappointment - it was the tone reserved by your parents when you've just failed an exam - the 'we're so disappointed in you' attack that hurts like Hell.  But here was this strange guy acting like I was a lost soul and I had completely destroyed his faith in humanity.  

I really hope I did.  

I hope he saw me trying not to piss myself laughing as the train pulled away too.  

Pay it forward

I don't know how many of you might have heard of the concept of 'pay it forward'.  It's a really interesting concept and was a surprisingly good film starring Haley Joel Osment and Kevin Spacey.  

The general idea is that you do a good deed for 3 individual people.  I'm not talking a small good deed like holding the door open for a little old woman (which you should do anyway), but something a little better than that.  You tell each of those three people about the idea and that in turn, they should do good deeds for 3 other people.  So one person does 3 people a good deed each, each of those people does a good deed for 3 others and so it spreads.  I think it's a brilliant idea and it should be employed more often.  

However, I was wondering, does it work for bad deeds too?

Some c*nt in a white van thought it would be clever to veer towards the curb yesterday while I was stood waiting to cross a road.  The large puddle that was easily avoidable was then sent all over me to the extent that the £5 note in my wallet was actually soggy.  I watched him steer the van in my direction, bastard.  So I'd consider that a bad deed or a mean deed, so does that mean I can go out and do something similar to 3 other people so they continue it?  Cause that's what I felt like doing. 

I walked the last 2.8 miles with my shoes making squelching sounds while it continued to rain on me.  

Some important information:

I had forgotten just how good this song was, not to mention the AMAZING Pingu video!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7RcqRmBlIQ

Brilliant!

Anyway, on other news it occurred to me that I should probably inform you all that Free Hug has ceased for the time being.  It will no longer be a monthly 8 page e-zine but will now be a quarterly e-zine, but with many more pages.  It will be available to download from my website (which is currently under construction) and I will let you know when that is up and running and ready for download.  

Bagman

x

The London Tattoo Convention 2009

Sadly, due to being forced to work (or else I don't get paid) I was only able to get down to this years London Tattoo Convention for one day, not the whole weekend, but even if it was just for a day, twas one seriously good day.  

You might be wondering if I got myself that tattoo?  

Well the answer is no.

The design I wanted was far too expensive and for the small tattoo I was able to afford, I was just too indecisive.  I was thinking a robot.  

Yes?  No?  

Tom wanted me to get a cock tattooed on my chest.  

I said no.  I feel this was understandable.  

The show itself was astounding with tattoo artists from all over the world congregated to bring us the latest and greatest in body modification.  There was even a group from New Zealand doing traditional tattoos...I can't even begin to tell you how much respect I have for this man, I would NEVER even try this.  

There were some amazing international artists there including my personal favourite, Genko who during my 8 hours of wandering around spent most of that time detailing an intricate design onto somebody's leg.  You can check out Genko and some of his work here [http://www.genko-tattoo.com/].  

This guy's getting some Haida art here, a man after my own heart.  

On top of all the cool booths and numerous tattoos, the shows were always interesting to say the least.  The first show we witnessed was a pierced gentleman lifting various weights with his rings.  It looked ruddy painful to me, but each to their own.  

Better than him though was the semi-naked burlesque dancer who after dipping herself in a bathtub filled with broken glass (and I checked, it really was glass), then rubbed flaming batons over herself before eating the flames.  It was impressive and disturbing at the same time.  I mean, I can see the skill and am impressed by fire eating....but jumping up and down in a bathtub of broken glass?  

But for me personally, the best was at the end of my evening when Vince Ray and the Boneshakers took to the stage and gave it their all in a performance that actually impelled me to buy the CD which doesn't often happen.  

All in all, it was an entertaining, interesting and memorable day.  I am very disappointed with myself for not getting a tattoo done but I know a lot of what I want now and I can save for them and I know who to go to see.  

Next time I'm in Japan, Genko's getting a call.

For more pics, check my FB

x

Fanboys

I was watching Fanboys this morning.

Yeah, I know it's not out here in the UK yet but I got it while I was in Canada cause I have been waiting for it for so long.
Anyway, it's really good. Very funny and it's full of endless inside jokes for any geeks out there.

But there's a scene in it where they have a quizz - most of the questions are Star Wars related but then they throw in three random phrases: "Louisiana Piledriver", "Mississippi Handbag" and "Blinding the Marlin".
Thanks to the magic of Google and the further magic of Urban Dictionary I now know the meaning of all 3; let me be the first to say....What the Fuck?!

I am forever hearing about weird little things like this, but why? What possible purpose does something like blinding the marlin serve?

That said, I am intrigued..........

The most common thing in Canada?

When you ask someone to tell you what they think Canada is full of it's almost a certainty that they'll come back at you with Mounties, Moose and Maple Syrup.  

But it's not.  It's not even Hockey.  It's tattoos.  

Never in my life have I seen as many tattoos as I did whilst I was there.  In one small town called Banff (the place I want to spend my life - it's the perfect world) there were 3 tattoo parlours in total, the most prominent being Little Shop of Holes [http://www.lsoh.ca/HTML/IEmain.htm].  Banff actually has a population of around 7000.  That's not that many people, and a lot of tattoos.  

But the people I spotted over there weren't just happy to get small ones, no, no, no, these people were inked to the hilt.  Elongated sleeves being the most prominent on the scene.  And I can promise you that these are nice tattoos too, I mean they're really fucking beautiful, not to mention the people who harbour them.  

I have always liked tattoos but it wasn't until I got to Canada that I realised just how hot they are too.  I mean, is there actually anything better than a tattooed woman?  I'm not talking one who's got some dirty prison tatts though.  But in general, the tattooed people in Canada are the sexxx.  Regardless of gender.  You know that when these people go out to a pub or club, they never have to leave alone.  Beautiful designs on beautiful people.  

Bastards.  

As I became aware of them, I began to really take note of the art work etched into peoples skin.  I met one girl in Calgary Zoo who had several tattoos.  But she had one of the most intricate and astoundingly beautiful sleeves I have ever seen.  She also had a bizarre series up the back of both her legs which were interesting in their own right.  Sadly I didn't think to ask to take her picture for the blog, but she did talk to me for a while about the guy who did the artwork - based on seeing his work, I'd advise if you're ever in its vicinity, to hit the Swollen Goat in Red Deer.  You can check out their Facebook page here if you like 

 http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=19100104816

If you check out photo 124 on the images, that is the young lady I met, the sleeve mesmerises me and I can't explain why.  

So ultimately if I wasn't quite a fan of them before, I am now a reformed lover of all things ink.  Now to plan my own.....

Dear England

"Sometimes you've gotta start clean, you gotta begin, not begin again"

I am finding my beginning now.  

I'm done with you England, it's over.   

I'll start looking for my own place.  

We can still be friends x 

There Is No God

At this very moment in time I am sat in a B&B in a place called Banff, Alberta in Canada. The B&B in question has been a huuuge letdown in terms of it's being shit when it was widely believed to be fantastic.

The saving grace being that it does indeed have wireless access so I can hassle all of you in my more bored moements at 6am your time. I don't even know what the time here is because I can't be fucked to keep changing my watch, all I know for sure is that it is somewhere between 10ish and 12ish. I can't be bothered to go venturing out into this house to find out.

Anyway, we're in a rather small area of town and it's full of tourist tat shops and shit like that aimed at us morons and our dollars. But what is astounding about this place is that about 80% of its population are seriously beautiful. I'm not talking a little bit, I am talking about stunningly gorgeous. It's not fair. At all. Where are all the people who look like this in England? Why can't we have people this amazing? And why the fuck are they all so friendly?

Because they are Canadians, that's why. They are inherently nice and somehow all genetically gorgeous. The other 20% of the town is comprised of the elderly and tourists. I haven't seen one uggo here other than when I accidentally caught sight of myself in a relective shop window. It is amazing. Upon thinking I was entering a small town in the middle of the Rockies I was more expecting something in between Deliverence and The Hills Have Eyes. So ultimatly I have concluded that there is in fact no God, or if there is, he's Canadian.

And he particularly dislikes us Brits.

I wish I was Canadian....but then again, who says I won't be one in the not-so-distant future?



Love and hugs from a shitty bed and breakfast in the mountains,

Bagman x

Jumping off a bridge is not a natural action for a body

I discovered yesterday that despite mental preperation, jumping off a 150 ft bridge is just not a natural action for your body to perform.  

I got to the edge of the plank and paranoia sets in.  You can barely move your feet and you have to shuffle right the edge.  All I was thinking was 'this rope is quite heavy.  I can feel it tugging my ankles, if I get too close I might fall....it might drag me over!'.....it's a bungee jump, I PAID to fall.  

I looked over the edge and my knees shook a bit.  I was supposed to be jumping with my cohort Nicola but sadly she did the sensible thing and declined upon seeing it.  I looked down at the water and I thought I could do it, I thought it would all be ok, I was ready, I said I was ready for the jump, they did my count down.  

Then a strange thing happened, my mind said 'jump' and my body said 'NOOO FUCKING WAY', the result of which was me flailing on the edge of a plank where my knees bent ready for the jump but didn't tip me forward and my arms only got halfway above my head before stumbling backwards.  Not cool.  Anyway, the bungee guy said to stare at the top of the trees and lean forward on the count of 3, so I complied and miraculously, I actually jumped.  I didn't bottle it as I'm sure most of you thought I would!

The strange thing is that the second I was off the bridge there was no fear, it was just freeedom as I fell.  It was fucking brilliant!!!

Ultimately it's only scaring when you're on a big fucking bridge looking down.  The moment you jump, time stands still.  

And for those of you who doubt me, wait for the bungee issue of Free Hug or check the vid on FB (http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=139603056150).  

Love and hugs from Canada peeps 

x

Free Hug Issue 2 - August 09

Strange people

Round where I live there are lots of people.  

You might think that everybody is a little strange in their own ways, but there's a club here called the Ag and it's where everybody who is slightly different comes to rock out and drink snakebite.  

I was sat on the wall outside as I waited for my friends to arrive to see Skindred (if you haven't heard them, check them out).  The venue is right on a main road and every single car that drives past makes a point of slowing down and staring out the windows at us, like we're some sort of freak show.  

That said, there are some strange people inside.  At the end of the night, about 2am, I was stood gazing into space and pondering something that I'm sure stemmed from 'should I get another shot?' when I saw a hand come waving across my vision.  

I looked down to see a short young lady covered in those little glowing tubes that you bend and connect.  Glow sticks if you will.  

Anyway, she holds a big yellow one out to me nodding and smiling.  I accepted, pleased to acquire a new toy.  She put it round my wrist and I was half expecting some conversation - instead she turned to her friend, grabbed her pint of snakebite, threw it back in her own face and then stalked away to the dance floor.  I looked over at her friend who just said "don't worry, she does stuff like that all the time".  

I love strange people.  

I think they see me as one of their own.    

I am going to jump off a 150ft bridge

In a few short weeks I am going to jump off of a 150 foot bridge in Vancouver.  

I need to think of something really good to shout (scream) as I fall.  

I was thinking of doing a Wall-E impression but I'm crap at it.  

Aside from that I am dry.  

Any ideas?

Mental Tourettes

Anybody else have mental tourretes?

I do.  Well at least my mother and some friends are convinced that I do.  

Does anybody else just see something in front of them and know, really know that you shouldn't do it no matter what?  See people with tourettes get that but they can't stop themselves from then doing what it is they think.  I just about manage to hold it in, but some of my thoughts get a little bit mean.  

Last time I was in London with my friends we walked across a bridge and in my naivety of thinking it was normal to have these thoughts, I asked them if they ever got the urge to just pick a random person on the other side of the bridge and push them in.  They refused to walk near me til we were on the other side.

Other (restrained) outbursts include fighting the urge to:

-make loud and inappropriate noises in a full cinema 

-slap random strangers

-steal peoples drinks and / or chairs

-verbally abuse the people on the other end of intercoms

I personally get a lot more of this than is apparently normal.  I'm also needlessly mean about people I don't know.  The first thing I do upon sight is to judge someone and then form their entire life in my own head around that.  

So quite frankly, I'm a bit of a cunt.  

Anybody else have internal tourettes or is it just me?  

I can't be the only person that sees something, thinks the wrong thing, doesn't act on it, but then sits laughing to themselves looking like a mad man.  

Can I?

Television stole my emotions

I’ve been watching an awful lot of TV recently.  Many of you might scoff at this and think ‘well I bet I’ve watched more TV than he has!’.  Some of you might be right but I’d bet that I’ve watched more than most of you. 

 

In the last 6-8 weeks (I’m guestimating here cause I don’t really remember when I started but I know it was  no more than 2 months ago), I have watched:  Grey’s Anatomy seasons 2-5, The Wire seasons 1-3, Life season 1, Dirty Sexy Money season 1, Dexter season 3, Flight of the Conchords season 2 and I am in the process of continuing to watch The Wire, True Blood and House whilst about to start Battlestar Galactica  and The Sopranos.  I work at a Blockbuster and I have been through the boxset section and I have seen pretty much everything in there now. 

 

I watch what some might call an abnormal amount of Television and I always used to be more into film.  Not that that has changed, I still love film, but I think the emotional engagement that comes with a prolonged TV show is so much better than that which is provided by a film.  Sure the film might be good, it may even be great but two hours with these characters just isn’t enough.  I lament the loss of Steve Zissou at the end of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.  The ending always makes my eyes water a little bit (I’ll be clear here and say that I don’t cry, my eyes water, that is all).  But television utterly eclipses that which film creates.  When you are given 12 one hour episodes, that’s 12 hours of time you spend getting to know those characters, starting to care for them.  Now that show you’re watching runs for 5 seasons and all of a sudden that’s a sizable chunk of your life that’s been invested in these people.  My personal favourite show is Six Feet Under.  Most might think that it’s too morbid to watch but they clearly haven’t ever given it a fair chance. 

 

There are 63 episodes of Six Feet Under – each one running at around 48-55 minutes.  Add that all up and that’s a large part of your life gone watching other people – who aren’t even real.  And yet at the end of season 5, what I consider to be the best ending of any show to date, I cried like a bitch.  People usually look at me funny when I say things like that, my dad especially (“MEN DON’T CRY”).  He’s right, we don’t, we have man-tears instead.  Who needs to ‘cry’ when we have those?  If anybody asks, we have something in our eyes ok?  Damn straight, now go make me a sandwich. 

It’s pathetic but I connect more with television than I ever have with film.  I can sit in a cinema full of people crying at something on screen and not only will I not feel like crying, I’ll fight the urge to laugh.  I do have an uncanny ability to laugh at inappropriate moments though.  I’m like that with most films, it has to be pretty special to get an emotion out of me.  But TV barely has to try, I’ve only got to know someone on screen for more than two episodes and their lives mean as much to me as real people.  Sad. 

 

I woke up this morning to find a note in the kitchen telling me that my fish has died.  I have had him for about 5 or 6 years.  His name was Roger Red-hat.  He had a little red thing on his head.  Did I shed a man-tear for him?  No.  But I’ll happily shed one for an imaginary person on TV.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  Have I been completely indoctrinated by television so that my emotions are controlled by it?  Perhaps not quite yet, but it won’t be long…

 

 

I still haven’t buried Roger yet.  

Free Hug Issue 1 - July 09

This is the first issue of Free Hug, a free online zine designed to bring just the smallest smile to your face.  

In future, these will be available for download in pdf format as well as viewable online.   

It looks better printed I assure you.  

One of those days?

Have you ever had one of those moments where you think ‘oh, that’s a bit sad’ and it makes you feel miserable for the rest of the day?

 

I’m not talking about the kind of sadness that’s evoked by those adverts on TV where poor little Timmy’s walked into his dads fist, and they pretty much just try and make you cry so you’ll part with your money (fuck you Timmy, the RSPCA gets my money).  I’m talking about the kind of sadness that just makes you feel a little bit shitty because you become aware that your problems are nothing compared to others. 

 

I was a work a couple of weeks ago and I was messing around trying to balance about 50 Lucozade bottles in my arms – I failed – and this short (not being mean) plump, woman came in looking very shaken up, staring at the ground.  In a very quiet voice she told me to call the police.  She wasn’t wearing any shoes.  I shot up, sending Lucozade bottles in every direction, thinking that she had been attacked and was in trouble.  She then told me that she had just run away from a nearby mental institution and hadn’t bought shoes with her.  She wanted a ride back to the Hospital from the police. 

 

Of course, I obliged, I phoned the police and explained the situation and they assured me they’d send someone out very soon.  In the meantime I was stuck with her very low rambling.  She was talking to me at some kind of frequency that dogs might struggle with but I continued to try and help her and do my work.  She stood over the counter from me and told me repeatedly that she wasn’t “loopy”, she was just depressed after her fiancé died.  My heart sank when she said that.  Who can stand the thought of losing a loved one like that?  I certainly can’t.  I looked over at her, she was making eye contact with her shoes and mumbling again.  I didn’t know what to do or say so I just stayed still.  I noticed a little ring on one of her fingers too.  It’s one of those ones they have that say “mum” across the top.  And there it was, that ‘oh fuck that’s sad’ moment.  So that was it, I was destined to feel bad for this poor broken down woman the rest of the day.  Come to think of it I still feel bad for her now.

 

I of course struck her with a 2 liter bottle of Coke and proceeded to steal the ring.  It was shiny after all.