I was flicking through some pics the other day and started thinking about my friends (you people), so I thought I'd drop a little blog of you peeps.
This blog displays some, but not all, of the coolest, most bad-ass mother fuckers I know. Even if I don't get to see some of them enough.

Check 'em - they know who they are...

Rock the boat (don't rock the boat baby)

So a couple of days ago I went white water rafting on the Shotover River in Queenstown. I'd been rafting before so I had a fairly good idea of what to expect although the highest class rapid I had ever tackled previously was a class 3, and this trip went all the way up to 5. And once again, the trip was brilliant. I whole-heartedly recommend anyone heading to Queenstown to do this trip, whatever the season.

The road to the actual rafting site is probably the most terrifying part of the journey though as you drive up the most dangerous road in New Zealand - not suitable for anything other than four wheel drives, and under no circumstance should you be towing a trailer. You traverse this 'road' of course, in a two wheel drive bus, towing a trailer full of rafts. O'rian, our guide and safety kayaker cheerfully pointed out the various edges of the road as 'seven rollers' - meaning it would take seven rolls to get the bottom of the canyon to the side of us, and 'zero rollers' - meaning it's just a sheer drop to the bottom. My personal favourite part of the journey was 'bus scratch corner' which is where the driver needs to throw the front right wheel of the bus off the road, out over the canyon in order to get the bus and trailer around the corner.

The whole tour was remarkably interesting in terms of a historical factor as it was once a mining area and the Shotover River was actually the second highest gold-yielding river in the world, producing around $50m of gold in its mining period. It's also one of the shortest rivers, which is why the Klondike was able to overtake it. The old mining equipment is still there, littering the edges of the river and there are lumps of metal and wood embedded in the rocks beneath the raft as you head downstream. Some of the equipment is so heavy that it hasn't moved since it was put there, despite horrendous floods tearing up the area in the past.

Our cheerful tour guide Tom kept us safe, and moderately dry for the duration of our trip. Considering we were going up against class 5 rapids this time there were a few more commands for me to learn than when I last went. The rapids were amazing, and despite the water having been snow on the mountains less than ten hours previously (and please do believe me, it was seriously cold), it was just ridiculously fun. The grand finale of the trip is by far the best part however, as you all huddle down in the middle of the boat while you go headlong into a 170m man-made tunnel, headed downwards towards your last, and by far best, rapid - Cascade. Cascade is apparently known for flipping rafts, and as soon as you're all out of the tunnel, you have around two seconds to get back on the side, aim it, and then back down and hold the fuck on. Our raft almost flipped, it went right over onto its side, dunking the Alva, the poor girl sat next to me completely under water. We all thought we were going over, Marty, our front guy said afterwards that he was getting ready to bail rather than flip, but we somehow righted ourselves before either of these things happened.

It was an absolutely fantastic trip and if you head to Queenstown at any stage, ever, then make sure you do this because I promise you won't regret it. The only negative factor for me was my own social awkwardness. I was in a boat filled incrediby nice, friendly, interesting people, and yet again my brain managed to employ its usual social function and shut down entirely. It's my most major annoyance that I'm such a social tard. What I should have done was exchange emails at the end of the trip or something like that, and I didn't, because for some reason I am incapable of attempting to make new friends. But on the bright side, that was my last straw. This is now a problem that has hindered me for too long, and it is one that will be getting dealt with.

The only other negative thing I'll say is that I've also got some kind of itchy rash where one of the wet suits touched me - that too is annoying.

If you don't believe me about the raft almost going over at the end by the way, I'll post the pictures and video up as soon as I can, unfortunately the disc they produce is not Mac-compatible. So it'll have to wait a few more days until i"m back in the UK.

Oh gash, I just realised I've pretty much only got today and tomorrow left. Shit.

Someone take me back to Queenstown please, I'm not ready to come home yet.

Taupo would be nice too.

Aquaman innit

Aquaman is friends to all the creatures of the sea. Right? Or was it just fish? I’ve never really read it to be honest and I think the only things I actually know about it are based on the film that was made in Entourage…anyway, I spent some of my day yesterday hanging out on some rocks with some New Zealand Fur Seals. They didn’t seem to mind much.

I was driving along the coast when my parents spotted a load of seals on the rocks so we pulled in at the next available area, to find that it was about a mile down from where we’d seen them. This doesn’t stop me. I walked all along the stones until I reached a stream about 6ft wide and deep enough to go just over my knees. After careful consideration of the fact that I am a fat bastard and in no way an athlete, it was decided that I could not jump it. Just as I was about to turn around and leave, a large female hauled herself out of the water and headed up the beach. Well I didn’t have my camera with me, but I was determined to see her close-up. So I rolled my jeans as far as they would go, left my nice new shoes and socks on the gravel and waded across. It was fantastic, absolutely amazing to be so close. I stumbled back across the beach all pleased with myself, not noticing that somewhere along the way I had cracked my big toe on a rock as well as cutting it under the nail, causing myself untold pain.

I would actually be fine with this, were it not for the fact that I drove us another 2km down the road to spot another load of seals all chilling on the rocks right by an actual pull-in. So we stopped and I spent an afternoon hopping about rocks with a bunch of seals who didn’t seem to mind. One of them actually seemed to like me, and spent quite a lot of time posing for the camera.

So yeah...I'm like Aquaman, friends to the creatures of the sea! Now if only I could fix my toe…

I declare war on those hiding onions

Right. That’s it. This is fucking war.

I have had enough of vile restaurateurs trying to poison me now. What have I done to deserve it? I have now officially taken umbrage at the food almost everywhere. They are clearly all devious, lying little bastards.

I don’t understand why any restaurant deems it necessary to list every ingredient involved in a dish, as well as what it is garnished with, yet they somehow omit onions every…single…time. Why? I can’t stand onions, they make me physically sick, so each time I get a menu I look for the vegetarian options, then I look to see what has onion in it. If it’s not listed I automatically get excited and order that dish.

Except every time I do there is always hidden onion. Tonight was the last straw – the dish I ordered listed everything involved from the types of tomatoes, to the bed of cress which would be served on top. It was such an extensive list of ingredients that I decided I was safe. But once again I get tongue-raped by them.

Let me make this clear to all of you, and anyone owning a restaurant take note: onions ARE an ingredient. Just because you put them in a lot of dishes does not make them a herb or a spice. They are a vegetable, and they should be treated like one. There are millions of people who won’t eat onion, so if your dish has onion in, fucking include that on the menu.

I find it both baffling and infuriating that I am now going to have to spend every day of my life asking someone “does this have onions in?” before ordering. So the next dish that I find hidden onions in, will be the onion dish to end all onion dishes. Because I will use it to batter the staff to death.

Hey onions, fuck you.

I don't like my culture anymore

I want to be a Maori.

Seriously, why wasn’t I born into such an amazing culture?

Everything about it is so fantastic, it makes me feel that for everything England has (and I only admit that it has anything worthwhile very begrudgingly), we have no beauty in our culture.

The Maori performance I witnessed and the information I learned today astounded me. There is such a rich history, and as per usual, it was us that fucked things up. Up until the Europeans arrived, battles were fought in close combat with vicious weaponry, but when we came along, we brought guns and when Maori tribes got hold of them, things changed.

That aside, I was lucky enough to speak to some of them about various things afterwards including the crafting of canoes, and tattoos. The main guy I spoke to had a large tattoo on his back and he explained that the left side was for his fathers tribe, the right side was for his mothers, and they met in the middle with the bottom set aside for his siblings. He explained how he had the bulk of it done traditionally, which is incredibly painful – if you don’t know what a traditional Maori tattooing process looks like, I suggest you look back to last years blog on the London Tattoo Convention to see some pictures. He said that he had to get the rest filled in with a needle to save time, and it was much less painful. He said he was going to start the tattoos of his own life story on his arm soon.

In fact, most of the Maori’s I spoke to had tattoos for their families, the utmost in respect which is something else I think we lack, and I include myself in that most days. Everything about the culture is so rich and involving, I’m jealous.

I want some rich history attached to me. I wish I was a Maori. I’ll have to settle for just meeting them for now. Which was pretty damn good.

My SOA moment

I spent much of yesterday walking like a crab. Ambling up and down the street with my legs splayed at an absurd angle. I expect most passers by must have assumed I was pretending to be a cowboy. I wasn’t. This was in fact due to having spent the previous day on the back of a Harley Davidson.

On my first full day in new Zealand I was privileged enough to be given a fairly extensive tour of the North Island on the back of some amazing bikes. I’ve always been an avid Harley enthusiast, but I’d never ridden one and now I was finally on one. Obviously I didn’t get to drive as I’d need a valid license which I still lack. That won’t last long though.

We were split into three and each of us rode pillion on a guides bike. Our guides were Baz, Divot and Donkey. I was riding with Donkey – who I can safely tell you, likes to go really fucking fast. I was slightly hesitant when I asked why they called him Donkey, but he said that it wasn’t what I was thinking – “I’ve disappointed a lot of ladies that way” he laughed. He never offered an explanation as to the real reason behind his name though, although he had various donkey related items about him and covering his bike so the name obviously pre-dates Shrek.

The day was spent exploring the beautiful scenery around the North island and generally scaring me randomly as we went round corners grinding the foot plate and making me think I was about to shoot over the side of a cliff. But I didn’t, quite obviously, and at one glorious moment we reached a little over 140kmph on a stretch of clear road. There is no greater feeling than feeling the wind in your face on the back of one of these glorious machines. The only negative thing I take away from me from the experience is this: What, exactly, is going on with the roads here?

There will be a sign that informs you of a winding road for the next two kilometres, and then you’ll get two kilometres down the road to find another sign telling you there will be a winding road for the next five. It never ends. There is always another sign waiting for you just when you think you’re free and safe. Why don’t they just admit that the road will be winding until you reach your destination?

As much as I enjoyed it, I never really appreciated just how much physical effort goes into riding. The position, stance, the weight on your feet…it all adds up. My legs felt like I’ve been doing squat thrusts for a month and my upper arms still ache today from holding on to the sissy grip for dear life, even though I was in safe and capable hands. To make my day even better, we were joined by a journalist from a New Zealand magazine called Bikerider which we will be in next issue. This also gave me the opportunity to film from the back of the bike for some footage which will be going up on their site.

All in all, I can advice this as something to do if you’ve got a thing for bikes. We were taken around by Harley Tours New Zealand. I suggest you check out their website, cause they gave me a day I’ll always remember, as well as the determination to get my bike license when I get home. Well nice.

Oh yeah, this is Baz, Donkey, and Divot.

Red alert my arse

Considering that England is supposed to be on red alert, not simply because of our usual terrorism threat, but because of the current threat of the IRA. So with that in mind, just how easy is it to get through Heathrow customs with minimal checks, to board a flight going to America?

The answer is of course ‘piss easy’. If anything, the easiest customs check I have ever had in my life. The first person I encountered on a checkpoint asked for my boarding pass and when I produced it (with the details facing down) he waved me through. Apparently the mere presence of a boarding pass, whether it was for that airport or not, and I hasten to add that it was, was enough to get me through to the next check point.

At no stage during the process of having my luggage and my persons checked, was I asked any of the usual questions; ‘did you pack your bags yourself?’, ‘are there any sharp objects in your bag?’. In fact not only did they fail to ask me these questions, but as I walked through the metal detector I set it off. No idea why, but I put my arms up awaiting the magic wand scanning. It didn’t happen. I was lightly patted down and then told I was good to go. No scanning, no checking my shoes, nothing. The only things that were in my shoes were my feet, but without checking, how did they know that?

Ultimately I don’t think I really care, but not only was it astonishingly easy to get through the airport, but I was boarding a flight to LA. In America. Pretty much the number one terrorism target in the world. I was only in LA for two hours, on a stop-over. But I spent more than an hour of that queuing, having my photograph taken, retinas scanned, fingerprints collected, and answering questions such as “is this really you?”. When I finally got through their checks, I spent twenty minutes on a plastic seat in a small room with several other people willing themselves dead from the last ten hours of flying.

Another twelve hours of flying with a very good tail wind saw our arrival in New Zealand and with an exceptional amount of jet-lag. Considering we spent more than 26 hours in transit, we were a little bit tired, and then…we got lost. But luckily a local came to our rescue when he saw us reading a map in the car, knocked on the window to see if we were alright, and then drove us (we followed his car) about half an hour out of his way all the way to our hotel.

Hero of the day.

The fail of the day being the security at Heathrow, shortly followed by my dad leaving the keys to his suitcase at home.

She Makes War

I for one am thoroughly excited about the release of She Makes War's debut solo album - Disarm.

I'm sad to say that I was late in my discovery of the musically astounding Laura Kidd - I in fact discovered her from something that was retweeted (thank you Twitter) - but as sad as I am that I have been missing out, I'm more than pleased to have found her.

Having spent much of the last few years touring with other bands such as The Young Punx, Kidd finally gathered together a set of 41 demos and headed to the studio. This has resulted in a thirteen track album dealing with everything from love and loss, to genocide.

It's difficult to liken it to anything I've heard before. It appears she's carving herself a niche in the music industry with her beautifully crafted songs, defiant of genres.

As I sit here trying to find the words to describe just how good this album is, I struggle. I am unfortunately not a music journalist. It would appear that I am headed more into financial journalism than I am music and film. The best thing I can really say to you is that the album is out on 1st September, 2010.

When it comes out. Go get it. You need it in your life.

Soon you'll be wondering what treats were in those original 41 demos she had. More please.

Alas, the evils of Pizza Express

Pizza Express, your ridiculous menu cost me extra money and my custom shall be yours no longer.

This is a note for all of you out there who feel like like eating out, but think it's nice and easy to do it on the cheap. It is no longer simply enough to read all of the small print. No, no, no...now apparently you have to read all of the small print and then upon arrival, you must in fact ask the waiter if there was anything on there that they might have forgotten to add.

This rant stems from the fact that my girlfriend, her friend and myself all decided to eat in the Guildford branch of the Pizza Express on Sunday, thinking that with the vouchers it would be a nice, affordable treat. The bill arrives to have not had all of the differences removed because we had ordered the 'Tricolore' from the starter menu.

The small print dictates that you are not allowed to order from the Francesco Mazzei menu - this is fine because where it says "Introducing our celebrated guest chef - FRANCESCO MAZZEI" I didn't even bother looking. But wait, what's that Pizza Express? Your menu is colour coded but at no stage does it stipulate that on the menu or the small print? Oh of course it is, my mistake, sorry.

The menu in question splits itself into three areas, but coloured boxes flutter about the menu as I am sure most of your are aware. Except apparently different colours mean they are part of a menu which isn't listed as having started until the next section over - for example, our starter classed as a being from the main menu despite being a starter.

The very helpful, courteous, manager, who was not in ANY way smug* informed us that had we asked our waiter what was included, he would have told us. For one thing, when we pointed out the discrepancy with the bill, our waiter had no idea why it was included in a different menu and told us that the till must have made a mistake, and for another, why would you need to ask your waiter if you've read the small print already?

At any rate I consider this as Pizza Express owing me money. And by 'me', I don't even mean myself, because I was treated to the meal as it was.

So I advise anyone looking at going to Pizza Express using one of their 'two courses for £10' vouchers any time soon to beware of the coloured boxes. Also, under the colour coded system the manager pointed out to us, several of the wines also count as being 14" pizzas.

In reality I'd just advise you to go to Zizzi - they're way better.

*Lies

Can we have a new villain please?

I understand the need to vilify something or someone, especially in the news - quite frankly I am a fan of it. Nothing gives me more pleasure than seeing Nick Griffin bitch and moan about being treated differently to everyone else in Britain, and make no mistake, he truly is a villain. However, I am bored of the villains dominating the headlines most recently.

Everyone knows that we all hate the banks right now, but Goldman Sachs really takes the biscuit. According to a recent Daily Mail article, they are accused of doing this quite literally - accused of taking food from the hungry and creating starvation and war, they really aren't faring well in the public eye.

Not that I have any sympathy. The bastard company gets almost £6bn in a pool for bonuses. Each Goldman bank worker will be taking home an average of £356,000 this year despite the company getting charged with a $650m fraud. So I have no sympathy. I especially have no sympathy for BP and their plunging shares and the billions they will have to pay out for the clear up of the 'worst ecological disaster in history'.

But I am bored now people - bring me a new super villain whom I can loath and detest. These ones have played out their purpose in my life and I no longer desire to hear about them.

Nor do I ever wish to hear about the iPhone 4 and its fucking 'death grip'. I like Steve Jobs and Apple, but I hate the iPhone and I'm bored of hearing about it all together. If I have to read another article on it I am going to take my mothers, tie it up in a burlap sack and throw it in the nearest river.

Bring me some new news please. Something interesting. Something I can enjoy. Something I can vilify.

Flame grilled whoppers for firemen all round!

For those of who don't know, the Wessex Foods factory responsible for the production of all the patties supplied to Burger King for the entire UK, has been destroyed by a large fire.

The fire took more than 100 firefighters 5 hours to rescue the douse the flames. I find this interesting on one level because I can chuckle because a lot of you are now going to be unable to get your Burger King fix for a while although they insist it won't affect production (*bull*).

I am intrigued though - once they had battled the blaze, were the firefighters allowed to take their pick of their favourite flame grilled whoppers?

Oh, and don't worry I can make light of the event because there have been no reported injuries. Yeah, I'm not being a dick and making crappy little jokes about something that's killed someone.

Even I'm not that mean.

I'm such a stalker

If you're reading this then the chances are that I stalk you on Facebook. or Twitter. Or Formspring. Or even Myspace. Oh yeah you can't hide from me, I know all about you - who you are, what you do, what you had for dinner last night and all about how drunk you got last weekend.

I realised today that I have been using Facebook as my link to the world. I now know that while I can't always find the time to contact someone or send an email that's quite as long as I would like to, I constantly keep tabs on them on Facebook. I check what they're up to to make sure they're alright and what-not.

As pleased as I am to feel like I am not neglecting people on purpose - only to the extent that I know what's going on, not that they know that I know - I can't help but think "wait a minute Joe, you're being a tad of a dick here - if you don't have time, make time."

So I shall from this point forward attempt to make more time to stay in contact with the people I care about - I publish here so that in 4 weeks time you can reprimand me if I have not lived up to this - as well as actually doing my uni work.

So my apologies to my neglected friends, but never fear, I have been stalking every move you make x

I'm back

Right, well I have been slightly remiss in the updating of this (and all other blogs) so I shall start by apologising for that. Sorry.

That done, I have been really bust lately. You wouldn't believe it. Well you probably would, nothing has been especially unbelievable. I did recently go to Alton Towers though, which was really fun. I managed to get Michelle on most of the rides and she even liked one of them.

Alas, I must away, I must get up early for a bootfair in the morning. But I will be updating this blog more regularly, I assure you.

In the mean time, if you are bored simply take off your socks and play with your shoes.

Click for me pleez

Hey people,

I am trying to encourage people to fill in this quick survey for Haymarket who I'm working for this week. It only takes a couple of minutes and you can win a prize too.

Click it: http://bit.ly/cMpP8N

You would be very awesome if you did (and even better if you've done so already)

Reading MAG staged a bike show today at Reading Abbey Rugby Club, two days after their Easter Egg run in which bikers with the Thames Valley Vultures rode to benefit local hospices.

The show saw avid bikers arriving from all across the county to display their bikes, trikes, and 'other'. The car park of the club was quickly filled with a range of bikes, glittering lines where spotless Harley Davidson's lined up next to mud splattered Yamaha's while a range of old Triumph's stood aside holding dominion over all other bikes. Sadly the lines were invaded by a series of grotesque Kawasaki's to which a stranger loudly stated "I hate these. They're fucking ugly."

With the exception of a series of classic, pristine Harley's the real pride of the show were the bikes entered into the competition. Ranging from an incredible Harley with a skeleton riding bitch with some ape hangers I doubt I could even reach, to some gaudy neon-orange rape victim of a bike. So gaudy I even refused to take a picture of it. The two custom trikes with no owners in site grabbed my attention quickly with cobra gears and unique seat stitching.



But really the bike of the day was a custom Harley with an orange and check finish.



Raced in Hell was ingrained into the paintwork and for my money there wasn't a more respectable or beautiful custom in the bunch although I can't the deny the bumpy frame of the tiny yellow Yamaha Fizzy did catch my eye.

But sadly not a suicide shift in sight.

New species of crab found!

A story in my local paper caught my eye today.

A new species of crab was discovered by a man walking his dog on a beach down in Cornwall I think it was...anyway this specific crab (which is now known through the town as Shelly) has evolved to walk forwards. No more pesky scutling sideways. I started to think there was something slightly odd about the story when I saw that Waitrose has pledged money to a local firm to help them investigate this new species.

I thought that was really good. We find a creature that has evolved (that's right you lot from the God Sqaud EVOLVED) to better suit the conditions in which we live, and here is a supermarket pledging money to help it survive.

Sorry, my mistake, Waitrose actually want rights to sell the crab which they have deemed to be tastier than ordinary crabs. Simply because this crab can walk forwards. What the fuck people? Yes I am a vegetarian but no I really don't care if you eat meat - but honestly. We find a new species of something and our first thought is not "oh my God, a new species, lets study it", it is sadly "EAT IT, EAT IT, EAT IT....why isn't it in my stomach yet?"

We are so very fucking strange.

Spanish Eyes

London holds many things and my humble opinion is that nearly all of them are bad. That is at least my general feelings on the topic and yet I am aware that one day I will most likely end up living there. But I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT!
Don't I?

Apparently not. Each time I get there I ready myself for the flooding hatred I usually feel, but it doesn't come anymore. In fact it replaces itself with something you might even describe as jubilance. The little trip of today left me feeling utterly happy to the core of my being.

Visiting a friend for what was originally set to be a pub lunch and a catch-up we headed over to the Future Gallery instead to see the Café du Pique-Nique. I'm not sure what I was expecting from an indoor picnic. I think I was assuming it'd be crap but it was really nice. Clean, soft, fake grass to sit on, warmed by SAD lamps providing us with sunshine and surrounded by birdsong and fake leaves, vines, trees. As lovely as it was I couldn't help but remember I was inside but everywhere I looked I could see people literally laying on each other just as you would expect to see them doing in the park. The food was great and arrived in a little hamper and everything. Most importantly however, it had a bar. Cider in the fake sun, there isn't much that can make me happier. Actually, scratch that, there is. Cider that has been served to me by the most beautiful woman in the world, with a soft Irish accent. Ace.

Somehow the discussion turned to how I have been mistaken for being Spanish before and it turns out that it is accepted that everybody thinks I look Spanish. Apparently it is a combination of my dark hair, my dark eyes and the shape of my face. I do in fact look Spanish. I had been told that before, but now I have actually been told that by two different Spanish people, so quite simply, it must be true.

The conversation of the day however, was a discussion regarding why people sometimes mistake me as being gay when they meet me. New acquaintance Dan lays back on the grass with his eyes shut and says "I didn't think you were gay, but if you'd have said you were, I wouldn't have been surprised".
Thanks?

Anyway, it was just a really nice day and I'm liking that people can apparently mistake me for being Spanish. Also loving the new look at the BFI, now my official hangout whenever I am in London.

I did not like how 'single' the couples canoodling in the grass made me feel though.

Bastards.

Vodka Revolutions

Silly-flavoured vodka shots and inhaling the fumes with a straw.
Being told I look like Johnny Depp (I don't, but it's a nice thought).
Seeing Lewis start an absurdly loud 'woop woop' sound that's mimicked by an entire club.
Paying £8.50 for 2 cocktails, with a £10 note and getting £11.50 change.
Meeting awesome new people.
Meeting a porn star.
Body-bag sleeping bags.
Caterpillar rolling.
Seeing Batman punch a woman in the face while Iron Man tries to pull him away.

These are the things that Vodka Revolutions was made of for me.
Despite what vodka does to me.

Today has been a good day

For the first time in a long time that I can remember, today has been a good day.

When I say good I don't just mean that it had a few nice moments in it, but I mean a genuinely good day from start to finish. Maybe it was because I went to bed laughing at my ban from Chat Roulette, maybe that was why I awoke with a smile on my face and this started my day.

The sun was out, the sky was blue, the weather was fantastic and I was able to dust off my lightweight Uniqlo Japan jacket and wear it once again. The walk to and from stations was lovely in the clean, fresh air. My train had no ticket machines so my ticket was half price by the time I got one. Then another brisk stroll in the sun took me to News Writing, usually a 3 hour misery and I smiled and laughed all the way through - who can honestly write a story about a panda sexually assaulting people with a straight face?

My tattoos are all healed over too which meant I was able to wear a jacket again. I've been walking around in the cold either in a light shirt or no shirt. Finally I can wear clothes again! On top of this Mouth Issue 2 has arrived. It seems to have an abundance of small mistakes, but I don't care. There were always going to be mistakes and whilst it's not great news, I've worked too hard and I like it too much to let it affect me. Mouth Online went live today too and you can check it here:

http://riveronline.co.uk/09/mouth

You can also do us the favour of becoming a fan on Facebook here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/MOUTH-ONLINE/326490858737?ref=nf

All in all. Well good day.

Ace.

ET was a wrinkly litter child molester

I posted yesterday regarding having watched some fantastic films over the last few days, and a comment I made in passing has actually stuck in my mind since then. ET, yes that wrinkled little thing with the glowing fingertips, was a blatant child molester.

This....thing, turns up and starts hiding in piles of childrens toys. Next thing you know he's in the house, playing with the kids. I'm not going to go into the plot of ET here because it's time consuming and you all know it anyway - but this extra terrestrial pedophile wanders round extending his elongated, glowing finger to children and touching them. Why did he take Elliott to the woods with him anyway? Ask yourselves. "Phone home". That bastard pretended not to know any of the English language but when it came to getting rid of his victims, he knew enough didn't he.

So yeah, ET is a kiddy-fiddler.

He can keep his dirty anal probe (or glowing finger) to himself in future.

If I ever have any kids (and reading this you're all willing me not to), I'm never letting them watch ET.
Filth.

Film-Fest

As opposed to taking the risk of starting my university projects this weekend I opted instead to relax and do very little of anything. In fact, I simply had a film festival in my chair. I've seen more films in the last 3 days than I have in the last 2 months.

First of all, why did I ever leave it so long before seeing District 9? When I heard that it got a nomination for Best Motion Picture of the Year I was surprised and I won't lie to you, I scoffed. A science fiction film, with aliens, shot in a documentary style? Did they put it in as some kind of cruel joke for the serious candidates? I'd heard a thousand times over how good it was but I wasn't expecting an Oscar nomination.
My biggest regret about having seen the film was simply that I never saw it at the cinema. An hour in and you realise you're no longer routing for Wikus, but for his alien companion. Rarely in cinema are you given the opportunity to humanise the invading aliens, or to consider them as beings. The exception that comes to mind for everyone when you think this is ET, but we all know (even if it's really deep down) that the film was shite and ET wouldn't be allowed to put his outstretched, glowing finger anywhere near a child in this day and age. I also loved the fact that for once the aliens opted not to land in America which saves me the "America Fuck-Yeah" film where they save the day by killing all the aliens single handedly, thus saving the entire world. But I digress.

I have also managed to see The Hurt Locker, 9, and Seven Pounds. Admittedly I am behind the times in seeing Seven Pounds but once again, an astounding film, well acted and I especially liked the sign: DO NOT TOUCH THE JELLYFISH.

9 was an interesting film, you can see Burtons scarred mind involved there somewhere with it being far darker than other animated films. One of the first shots you see is a dead man on the floor covered in paper and shortly after this a particularly poignant shot of a mother with her dead child clutched against her, both immobile and decaying. Dark stuff. But the animation is wonderful (of course not a pixar level), it's visually interesting and has more death in it than you're ever likely to find in any Disney film.

The Hurt Locker was good, for my money it's not an Oscar winner, but it definitely deserved the nomination. I've not seen it yet, but from what I know, I'd be pleased if Precious won. Ultimately Avatar will wipe the floors with almost every other film and I've got to say that if Up in the Air wins Best Film I'm hanging myself because I don't want to live in a world that rewards something as terrible as that.

The highlight of my weekend came at the cinema though, when after weeks of waiting, The Showcase finally got their grubby little hands on A Single Man. Having missed out on it on several days already I was more than a little excited to finally have the opportunity to go see it. A beautiful and melancholy film; it deals with the loss of a lover. Only Tom Ford, in his directorial debut, could make Colin Firth look so God-damn dapper. I'd be pleased if I could look like that. But you wouldn't think that Ford was new to the industry at all. His film, as I suppose you would expect from him, is visually magnificent. The subtle changes in lighting, illuminating the different aspects of George's life. His bursts of second life, elated me and Firth plays him so well from the word go that I found myself mistrustful of every person he came into contact with, simply for the suspicious notion that they might do something to hurt him. It was a cinematic masterpiece and more than a little affecting.

I also saw Couples Retreat this weekend. Suffice to say I'd rather pretend it never happened.

My shiny new tattoo

I got my second tattoo done today as well as getting my first one re-inked where I drunkenly slept on it just after it was done.

The highlight of my day was not the three hour wait, nor was it the oddly pleasant pain, but the conversations I had with my tattooist, the guy in the next room and the assistant. The assistant Wes came in and complimented me on my choice. I said "Thanks, I'm into my Haida". To a blank stare, Andy explained to him that it was the style of the symbol.
"Oh right, I thought you were talking about Maddy" he replied, laughing. Avoiding laughing when someone's drawing on your back with a needle is not any easier when Andy leans round me and goes "no mate, she's fucking dead". There was then a lengthy discussion as to how and why she was killed, what happened to the body and the guilty party.

If this wasn't enough to make my day, the conversation (somehow) moved to how good it was that Kurt Cobain killed himself: "he must have been a good shot to blow his brains out cause he didn't fucking have many. Besides, he's a fucking liar - he said he didn't have a gun". I replied that it was probably Courtney Love anyway and it was then pointed out that she'd have needed to understand what a gun was in order to pick one up.

All in all, it was bloody funny. Also just bloody, my left shoulder bled like a bitch.

But still, it's all nice and new and shiny now. =]

(Here it is...)

Imogen Heap 19.02.10

After much anticipation, and some trepidation because of a sore throat, I finally witnessed Imogen Heap live in concert last night. I'd like to be able to wander off into some beautifully descriptive tangent at this point about her skill, her talent, the brilliance of the show, the genius of it all and her commitment to her fans. But honestly, nothing I can say, nothing I can write, could ever do her justice. I could write paragraphs about her and still not scratch the surface of that show and so I shall leave it at this:

Brilliant.

The only bad point in the entire evening was the horrendously drunk and obnoxious peroxide blonde wanker who thought he was better than her. Five songs into the set and he was shouting louder and louder, not singing, just shouting to his girlfriend, making jokes and taking phone calls. Eventually after many threats from people nearby he shut up and once he'd sobered up he left before any of us could get our hands on him. But once he'd settled down, despite being on edge the sounds washed over me and Imogen worked her magic. Calming, soothing, moving, funny and haunting beautiful. It couldn't have been better.

I was pleasantly surprised by the accompanying acts too. Generally a little disinterested in the opening acts after years of seeing bad ones (though not exclusively bad - I've been lucky enough to see Sean Walsh, Sonic Boom Six, Big D and Rhys Darby as warm-up acts). But Tim Exile was hilarious and within ten minutes of being on stage had turned a 'meow' sound into bubbles and dived into the crowd to perform some homemade magic with a mental recording joystick. But he was preceded by my new favourite artist - Back Ted-n-Ted. His set was fantastic. The songs were great and his music is genius not simply in its construction but in the very method in which it is created. I urge you to listen to him (http://www.myspace.com/backtednted) and know that even though these songs sound awesome, they're even better live.

His first album is out on April 27th and you can (and should) follow him on Twitter. Cause he really is just that cool.

Bored Now...

Time for a change.

It's occurred to me recently just how bored I am of being myself. I am always the same boring person. I drive, I only go places within my limits, I have no cash, I'm scared to take risks (yet I'll happily hurl myself from a bridge attached to a piece of elastic), I'm a nervous driver, don't like public transport and I'm socially awkward.

But God damn it I'm bored. I think I'm going to start making some changes, taking some chances and see where it goes. I'm going to start by trying to sell some of my stories, then I'm going to take some risks with uni. I've recently taken to showing affection a lot more openly and I'm going to progress this and I think perhaps, at someone else's suggestion, turn it into a project. I'm also going to follow up some of my other projects.

I need to learn to be a little bit different. If I start to relapse into my usual, abusive, miserable self, someone give me a kick up the arse please. Not an actual kick up the arse, but tell me off.

It's time to enjoy life.
Also perhaps to sign up to anger management.

I was born with a heavy heart.

These days I am becoming increasingly tired and my heart is still heavy.

What will happen on the day I am laid bare? If my heart is this heavy at 21, what will it be at 71? Will the feather balance or will I be thrown to Ammit?

Happy Valentines Day

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I've got a gun,
So get in the car

I had forgotten the familiar sense of burning hatred that I am filled with on this day every year. Luckily however I am trapped inside the house with coursework to do and a Placebo CD playing in the background. I am needlessly cruel to happy couples at the best of times, worse still on Valentines Day.

I remember a couple of years back when a friend and I both went through a break up at around the same time. We each worked in a different Blockbuster and we called each store on the internet phone and verbally abused our happy-couple-customers. That was entertaining.

Fuck Valentines Day.

Reminiscent

From the clutches of my latest downward spiral, unable to resign myself to my usual 'out of range' period, my mind has opted to cast itself backwards at inopportune moments. It started when I dusted off my old music that I'd not heard since I was 15. Then suddenly I've got Papa Roach, Korn and some old Placebo on my iPod and I'm trying to decide why I ever liked it, and why I still do. I've not heard the sounds of Follow the Leader for about 9 years. The layer of dust attached to it was testament to this. Yet despite the time lapse I find I still know all the lyrics. I'm able to shamefacedly run through the lyrics while Jonathan Davis accuses Fred Durst of "getting butt-fucked by your uncle Chuck". Apparently not content with this, my mind has resorted to sending me obscure memories too, seemingly at anyones whim but my own.

I'll be in class trying to concentrate and all of a sudden my mind will be bombarded by mental depictions of my friends attacking the ground of a car park screaming "fuck you mother earth", or the 'dead' pig on a field trip back in secondary school. But my favourite came along today in the terms of music (forgetting the fact that I became acutely aware of Freak Power - Turn On, Tune In, Cop Out yesterday - a 90s masterpiece). I sat in class this morning trying my best to pretend that the world around me was not happening and a few minutes into the lesson I got an image thrown into my head from primary school. Every day when my mum would drive me to school I would listen to Black Sabbath. At the time I think I was the only kid listening to that sort of thing. We'd rock into the church car park (yeah, I went to a COE school), and I'd be singing along to Sabbath Bloody Sabbath - because there were lyrics in it about seeing people burn, and at one stage you get to sing "you bastards" without getting in trouble for swearing.

It was great.

Why isn't life that simple these days?

Oh well. At least I'm not getting sent out of the church anymore.

Graduation

Having sat through my graduation ceremony for my BA yesterday, I have come to the conclusion that graduation is utterly wank.

Don't get me wrong, I had a blast. Got to see a load of my friends again, got a degree, had a composer the size of Hagrid bellow "We are the champions" at us as we stood to leave. "I've got 5 degrees and this is what I've been reduced to - Freddie Mercury impressions" he later told me.

Afterwards I got to go drinking with my friends (always good to have an excuse). I don't quite remember how I got back from Kingston to Surbiton and I apparently passed out on the back seat of my car on the way home. What I do remember is falling over. I don't know why though. I distinctly remember Dilia shouting "you were supposed to CATCH me!". That is all.

So why, when I had such a great time, is graduation wank?

Because rather than actually be a congratulatory affair to celebrate a group of young people getting their degrees - it's just another excuse for them to take your fucking money!
£20-odd a ticket for family or friends who want to come. Then they sting you for pictures because they have those pretty backgrounds and they know that you need them. Then they try and get you to upgrade to the fancier, much more expensive background, "well that's the background I want for when my children graduate. Yes, it's slightly more expensive, but they're worth it". Shut up. I doubt you even have children troll. I'll take the cheap background thanks. But that's not enough. Then there are photos of you shaking hands on the stage. T-shirts with your name on it. Fridge magnets. Teddy bears. Scarfs! Then of course there's the DVD. Do you really want to relive the 90 minutes of clapping and boring speeches for something ridiculous like £40 a disc? No - but you know what - I'm going to buy it, I know I will, just because I want to see Hagrid sing again!

The £9600 I paid them for their fees was clearly not enough.

Utter wank. I could have been very happy with turning up, prancing across the stage and getting my degree. But instead I am confronted with more merchandise than a tacky tourist shop in London. Bastards.

But like I said, the drinking was good

The Road

I woke up this morning to that familiar old feeling that I had lost the will to live. I rolled over, switched my alarm off, put my ipod on and stared at the ceiling for three hours. I had been telling myself that I would be going to university to hand in a portfolio early...get ahead with my work. It never came to fruition. Barely mustering the energy to go downstairs and let the dog out, I dragged a pile of magazines back to bed with me and have done nothing more than read them ever since.

However, I also spent much of my otherwise useless day, pondering my sudden reasons for such melancholia. I have ultimately opted to blame The Road. I went to see this film the other day with my family and I won't lie to you, I loved it. But I can't help but feel that it has left me hollow, empty and feeling more than a little inadequate. An outstanding, often disturbing film; it offers a bleak outlook on the future of mankind, a different kind of disaster movie. A film about one man and his son, years into an apocalypse where any survivors you encounter are more likely to rob, rape, kill or eat you than they are to be grateful of the company. A story of one mans only charge to protect his son, it offers no explanations, no solutions, no happy endings - only a haunting possibility of things to come.

As astounding as I found the film it left me feeling rather numb which has since progressed to me barely wanting to move from my own bed. Could it be that I am all too aware that should any form of apocalypse occur, I wouldn't survive a day and should I have a son at the time, I'd be able to do nothing to safe his life? I don't think so. I have determined that this was merely a starting point and I am now simply realising that I am barely able to function in the real world, let alone a post-apocalyptic one.

I am not ready to join society. I never have been and I fear I never will be. I look around me at the people I know and I see their amazing skills and talents and intelligence, and I know that they can and will flourish in the real world. Me, I can't even face the idea of a real job - I opted to do an MA in Magazine Journalism to defer the job issue for another year. Why though? I have no discernible talent for it. I wonder whatever possessed me to enroll into two of the most competitive areas - journalism and film - but what is a 'good' degree to take in our society? What course is there that will guarantee a job at the end of it? To the best of my knowledge, nothing. Other than for the exceptional students, those people who you know are going to succeed immediately.

So I stand here and I gaze down my own impending road. But unlike the man and his son, I do not carry the "fire within". I can't see an inch in front of my nose and I have nothing but uncertainty clouding my every movement. In a few short months I will have to start down my road, to join the rest of the world. I am fighting every urge I have to just run away, only because I know it will lead me to another road. The only thing I know for sure is that when the time comes to join real life I won't have a gentle amble, I will be dragged kicking and screaming down that road and fuck knows what I'm doing when we reach the end.

I'm not ready to join the real world yet.

Angry

As I sit here sipping Zinfandel from a glass the size of a small bucket, I ponder why people consider me such an angry person. Admittedly I can be a little cantankerous, I'm more the equivalent of a grumpy old man in my own mind. But apparently not. I am seemingly the angriest person any of my friends know.

It seems a long time ago that a close friend told me that I was the angriest person they had ever met. This is the same person I should add that told me that I should never smile at people because I looked like a "sarcastic pervert" when I did. So I paid no real heed. But as it turns out, almost every person I know has now consented that I am indeed the angriest person they have ever met. Including my boss.

Well, I recently quit my job so she's no longer my boss. But in a hypothetical conversation I was having with a colleague she intervened to say "ooh, I wouldn't ever mess with Joe - he's one of the quiet ones. You never mess with the quiet ones, they're usually the worst of all". Errr, thanks?

This has now been furthered by most of my friends and even some near strangers. When I meet people I am fairly careful not to let them see the 'real' me as it were as I am aware that I more than a little abrasive at times. So I guard myself, make sure I don't say anything too inappropriate. Apparently it doesn't work though as within a few weeks of having met someone on my course, upon learning I did boxercise from a Facebook update - she turned to me and said "Do you do boxercise Joe? I bet that must help with your anger issues". I don't think I said anything back but in reality what I should have done was turned around and put my fist through a table to see what she did.

But it's making me wonder - do you people know something I don't? Am I really that angry a person that many of my friends fear me? I know I'm a grumpy, curmudgeonly, mean-spirited fucker who laughs at (awful) things, but do I really have anger issues?

Fuck off do I!