Thursday, 24 December 2009

Sweet and Tender Hooligan

I need to employ someone to badger the fuck out of me to keep writing these. I'm a lazy bastard this weather, my attitude to everything has been somewhat notionate and hedonistic - well, moreso than usual. Anyway, since my last post about The Specials gig there's been a few things worth writing about, more though worth discarding from memory.

I've been out a good few times in the past while, some nights of which were pretty shite, others were half-decent. A decent one was Cloisters in Ballynahinch last month, it can summarised thusly:
Appletini's (I know we're gay as fuck), the "Pull a Midget Challenge", Underworld - Born Slippy, Ronaldinho/Horse hybrid, Ian being Ian, getting Stella confiscated by the feds, getting started on by spidey fuckers in the street, two kebabs in 10 minutes, subsequently fighting in the kebab place, Deaf Girl, Simon pole-dancing in the street etc etc.

Another one was the Rugby Club, again in Ballynahinch, which can be summarised thusly:
Malibu preswal in taxi, return of the Royal Marine, "Ret luuuuv", Diesel, "Ahhhh no... not Toilet Duck again...", moked up Clubland-esque balls, raving te fuck to moked up Clubland-esque balls, Big Phil getting his hole, getting fucked out (Nazi bastards), epic snowball fight, hypothermia, pissing in garage forecourt at 2am, Adam being fleeced by the taxi man for being from Downpatrick etc etc

I've been to quite a lot of big gigs in the past while, here's a brief review of each:

The Answer in the Ulster Hall: UNBELIEVABLE. Crowd was mental, moshed the whole time, sang along to everything, held Cormac when he crowd-surfed (in fact his face touched my face, as gay as that sounds I care not) and generally had a badass time. Swanee River and Black Spiders were fantastic too.

Horslips in the Odyssey: Great gig, they played all best shit from The Tain, Book of Invasions etc. They were funny fuckers too. T'was just a really good gig, would like to have been standing down in the action though rather than sitting up in the stand.

Yes in the Waterfront: Another class gig. Basically a room filled with auld hippies spaced out to fuck. Really enjoyed it, though Chris Squire has got to the age where skin-tight flares are just an unnacceptable form of attire.

So there's some of the amusing things that have occurred in the past month. That'll do for the meantime, I'll update it in a few days when everything has calmed down. But for now have a fecking brilliant Christmas the lot of ye.

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

One of the best nights of my life...

...is how you'd describe The Specials gig last night. It was everything I had romantically envisioned and more.

I arrived early to get up at the very front, and sat there bopping out to the Dub dj with a few beers, whilst having a good auld yarn to a load of old skinheads, punks and mods (it was like being in This Is England) about the old punk scene in Belfast and they told me about how they remembered the first time The Specials came to Belfast as if it was yesterday. They said it was refreshing seeing young people such as myself so interested in the music and culture that they grew up with, which made me feel all kless - but ultimately it's because music and culture nowadays is a load of auld fake apathetic balls.

So on came the support band Pama International, who were actually really good. Played sorta soulful rocksteady mixed with ska and a wee bit of dub. They got everyone going anyway and got a rapturous applause.

Waiting for the stage to be set up for The Specials seemed to take an aeon, even though it was only 20-odd minutes. But as soon as the lights went off, the curtain flew up and they went straight into "Do The Dog". The place went NUTS. Everyone was moonstomping in unison, and the skinheads were pogoing and crowd surfing to clean fuck. It was like reliving all those old videos on youtube of The Specials playing in the 80s, the same anarchic, raw energy existed in both the audience and The Specials themselves. They certainly hadn't mellowed with age.

Long story short - they tore through the set. The moonstomping and pogoing didn't cease once, and they were recalled twice for an encore, the first being "Ghost Town" of course and the final "You're Wondering Now". It was fucking magic, a truly spiritual experience.

I could sit and write about it forever but that'll have to do before I bore the tits off you all with my romantic ramblings. C'mon Bad Manners t'fuck!

Sunday, 15 November 2009

THE FUCKIN' SPECIALS LAD

I'm desperately shit at this blog carry-on. My last post was a big gay Morrissey-esque emo one and I'm too much of a technophobe to figure out how exactly I edit the faggotyness out of it. Balls to it.

Well it's 11.30pm on a Sunday night and I have an English essay due for tomorrow which I've yet to make a start on. I did the same thing with my last English essay, except started it around midnight on the Sunday, and I ended up getting an A+ on the fucker - beating all the swatty bastards in the class. Buckin' kless.

Tomorrow night will potentially mark a momentus occasion in my life (touch wood). I'm going to feckin' see THE SPECIALS, one of my favourite bands of all time. I have these visions of me moonstompin' and skank dancin' like a buck eejit to the best ska band ever with a load of old punks and skinheads. I know I probably sound like I should've lived during the 80s - which is how I feel (un?)fortunately.

Ret I shall update this piece of sheeeeet tomorrow night either in a state of absolute euphoria or epic disappointment. Tbc baby.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

The first of the big gay emo posts.

Fuckin' fuck. I've just come in from those nights where everything that happened was completely half-arsed and apathetic, and by the end of the night you feel like shite for reasons you don't fully understand. However, tonight has opened my eyes somewhat. I realised that I am a desperately shy person, and I have absolutely no balls (not literally, I definitely still possess testicles). I am far too content to just wait for things to happen; things that all too often cannot be anticipated or expected. I am so afraid of failure that I cannot summon the courage to bite the bullet and go for it. My problem is that I try to be too nice, too polite, too unassertive and reserved.

Maybe I'm talking shite 'cos I'm half-cut, maybe I'm actually talking sense (for once), I'm not too sure. All I know is that I'm not happy and I'm not sad. I'm not quite sure what I want anymore.

I'm sure I'll regret this big gay emo post in the morning but right now I don't really give a fuck. Balls to this.

*Sorry you had to read that pile of balls. I was going to edit it completely, but I shall keep it to remind me to never be a half-cut emo faggot ever again.*

Saturday, 3 October 2009

Absinthe-fuelled golf course ballbaggerry

When you start the night enjoying a pre-swal carry out with yer mates on the green of the first hole on a golf course, you know you're in for a good one. For some reason, drinking excessive amounts of Budvar and cheap cider turns one into a physical juxtaposition. In this case our resident gammy handed lanky streak of pish (Matthew McKeown) decided, in a fit of drunken yet crusty eco-warrior influenced rage, that it would be a fantastic idea to release the deer (that are kept in a field beside the course) from their oppressive enclosure by breaking down the fence and letting them run wild and free. Thankfully he was too pajama'd to break down the fence and we weren't mauled by a herd of stampeding deer. So sullen and defeated, he stumbled away and retired to a spot of flag-pole javellin.

Suitably oiled from our interesting pre-swal, we sauntered into our venue for the night. Talk about a fucking creche, some of the attendants could qualify as my offspring. However this didn't deter a 20-odd year old father of two that I spoke to at the start of the night, who when asked for his opinion on the creche situation, replied with "Here mate, if there's grass on the pitch". He was definitely a bit of a Hot Baby Roy.

I can't really comment accurately on the rest of the night because my memory is heavily obscurred after Burnside generously (some would argue too generously) shared his bottle of straight Absinthe with me. Initially I felt all kless and bohemian because Oscar Wilde and the rest of those arty Victorian fruits drank it. However, fast foward 20 minutes and I find myself draped over a wall, boking my ring up. I almost certainly acted like a ballbag for the majority of the remaining two or so hours of which I have no recollection. Consequentially the following morning (this morning) was just horrific. I woke up equally as pished as when my head hit the pillow the night before. Beyond desperate.

All in all, a brilliant night was had. Bring on Rugby Club like (...christ).

Wednesday, 30 September 2009

FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUU-

I'm actually going mental. After four consecutive weeks of mundanity in the insititute of fascist bullyboyism I cannot stick it anymore. I wake up tired, spend the day half-alseep in lessons - taking next to bugger all in, and going home wrecked with no motivation whatsoever to put any effort into studying. I'm not learning anything, in fact all this is probably having an overall detrimental effect on me. It's getting beyond a joke, and the worst thing is that there's shite all I can do about it. I hate those situations in life, thon "it'll benefit me in the future so I might aswell stick out a year or two of hell" type 'carry on. Balleex.

And is it just me or has everyone suddenly become shrouded in apathy? Nobody (me included) can be arsed anymore, everyone's pissed off, everyone sick and tired... it's all a bit shit right now isn't it? Must be that time of year. I hope Halloween hurries the fuck up so we can all go a bit mental for a week, let out all the frustration by giving it stacks to "Thriller" in Box whilst dodging fat mill-begs dressed as schoolgirls, then laughing at the vodka victims boking their ring up outside.

Anyway sorry for being all heavy and uncool with this somewhat teenage-angst-esque blog post, but like I said, this is what listening to Morrissey does to you! (I've been waiting ages to fit that in somewhere).

Oh, and another thing, I think I may have spotted Tuesday Kid with Battlecat at the entrance to Ormeau Park the other day (Wednesday I think it was?). I'm not sure why I thought it was Tuesday Kid; it was just one of those weird intuitive notions. It most probably wasn't him at all. Awk well. If you're reading this Tuesday Kid, could it have been you?

Tuesday, 1 September 2009

A return to the institute of pseudo-fascist bullyboyism...

I'm such a shit blogger. Had I bothered my arse I could've spewed out about 3 posts of nonsensical drivel in the space between now and my last. Well here's more literary ballbaggery for you good people of teh internetz to assimilate.

Well first and foremost, I have returned to the institute of pseudo-fascist bullboyism for a further two years. My classes are all pretty nerdy which means I'll actually have to work this year. Balls. Also, I'm convinced that the headmaster is in fact trying to turn the school into some sort of military fort. A building that usually inhabits all us rowdy wans during break has suddenly attained a large number of racks, which border the building like great fortified walls of... plywood? Thus, I have renamed this building, "Kingdom of the Racks".

I started the term in true Johnson manner, thinking that today was in fact Monday and subsequently packed the wrong books. And in my mechanics Maths class, not even the wonderous allure of velocity equations was enough to stop me from nearly, properly falling asleep. You know that feeling you get when your eyes close for a bit and you really have to fight off the temptation? Try that, every 10 seconds, for an hour... desperate. If this is the state of me at the start of the term christ knows what I'll be like when it really starts to kick in. I'll probably become pyschotic, in fact it's inevitable.

However it isn't all bad in the relm of pseudo-fascist bullyboyism. There's new clunge which is always a bonus, free periods and of course heading into town for lunch is badass. Chicken Goujouns + Sweet Chilli Dip + Coke = Happy Alex. I'm going to turn into a fat bastard by the end of the year though. To remedy this potential obesity I have started playing football again. Played my first match on Saturday, won 5-1, scored on my debut. Fuckin' right. However, I seriously nearly boked at training tonight. Summer may have enlightened me mentally, but physically the bastard has ruined me.

On the subject of Summer, I'm gutted that it's over. However, I had some fucking awesome times and thank everyone who has made it so memorable. You know who you are, I love you all. Here's to a few more years of the same!

Monday, 24 August 2009

God bless the Turks

I was supposed to write a blog documenting our night out at Pulse last Wednesday but I really couldn't bother my arse. Instead I shall compose a brief (and really shit) summary of the night:

I managed to get in with an ID that was so hilariously dissimilar to own appearance that I really urge the bouncer in question to make an immediate trip to Specsavers. Fat, blind eejit. But I wasn't complaining. However two of my friends weren't graced with such fortune and were refused entry, which somewhat put a dampener on the whole night. The remainder of the evening was spent half-heartedly; the atmosphere was neither here nor there, and no amount of Diesel (nectar of the Gods) could fill our vacuity. But more crucially, we had failed in our mission to get Simon pulled. Poor effort lads, poor effort.

As is tradition we made the epic 30-yard journey next-door to the kebab shop, where I got a bigass mutherfucker of a kebab that probably could've fed an entire family of Croatian refugees for a week. It was great. God bless the Turks and their fine cuisine.

Well apart from that, I spent the weekend recording songs for my bands' new E.P. My throat is fecking killing me from recording vocals, I must've consumed half a jar of honey (apparently it helps.... my hole it does). So yeah, we've gone all classic anthemic rock on your ass with this new E.P. Think AC/DC meets Saxon meets Rory Gallagher. And with our new-found "sound", I think it's about time we changed the band name from "Circadian". Circadian sounds too GAWFICK METULZ and shit.

So, if any of you good people of teh internetz have any ideas for a name for a hard rock band, leave your suggestion in the comment thingy. K thx bye.

Tuesday, 18 August 2009

Fuck you Mr. Brown

Well I haven't written a blog since last week, the main reason being that if I was to write about the shite I got up to I'd get sent to prison for A MILLION YEARS. I'm somewhat apprehensive of saying anything remotely against the grain these days for fear that some speccy shitehawk of a liberal would use it against me, thus landing me in the shit (again). And I can't be arsed wriggling my way out of another similar fiasco.

So this is what Mr. Brown and his nanny state has reduced me to; a politically-correct, drivelling 'auld ballbeg. I HOPE YOU'RE SATISFIED GORDON.

Well today I was out being an anarcho, vegan, straight-edge, crusty punk again. I even wore my Superman boxers from Topman, just to make the whole "saving the entire world" thing feel that wee bit more authentic. The idea of being an eco-warrior and saving the whole world and all becomes a little less attractive when the fucking mountains are being bombarded by pishing rain. But nonetheless, being the hard led eco-warrior superheroes that we are, we battled on and saved the world from combusting into a ball of flames yet again.

Oh and Pulse at Globe tomorrow. Eyeeeeeooooo etc etc

Thursday, 13 August 2009

Gerry Bokebeard vs The Chinese: The sequel.

In this world there are some legends... then there are legends. Peter Kelly, the utter champion that he is, ranks amongst the legends...

On Tuesday night we all headed into town to attend the appropriately named "Shag", which is basically Spring & Airbrake, Limelight and Katy Daly's all combined. It was badass. However I was disappointed that they weren't serving any cocktails, as I was planning on prancing about the place with my big faggy Cosmopolitan (complete with James Bond-esque cocktail glass). Instead I made do with the ever reliable Diesel (lol).

Whilst dancing away to "Party Hard" by Andrew W.K (that becomes the greatest song ever when yer gazeebo'd) I met Tony from ASIWYFA. He shook my hand (and kissed it for some reason?) and I felt all kless. Does this officially make me a groupie?

Anyway, keeping true to tradition we left Shag and headed down the Dublin Road to find the nearest chinky. The place was packed. Chinky's are to drunk people what shite is to flies. Some burly ginger fella came in with blood pishing out of his bake, asking for a towell. When we asked him who won the fight, he claimed he did. I'm not convinced.

Ordering food in a chinky when yer ballbegged is easier said than done, and for some reason, excessive consumption of alcohol had turned Rose into a massive (well, technically small) racist. A joke concerning Chinese phone books sent us into hysterics, and it took me at least 5 attempts to ask the woman for sweet and sour chicken balls. She wasn't amused.

After our munch (Peter and Cleggy were so hungry they ate leftovers from previous customers), we got a taxi up to Jess' house, which of course I paid for. Stingey bastards. When the rest of the crew arrived, and after coaxing Cleggy down from a tree, we got into the house and for some reason spent a considerable amount of time snorting sherbet, drawing on ourselves with permanent marker (well I did, and it still hasn't fully come off) and eating prawns.

The rest of the night (well morning) was spent watching Peter Kelly undress (again) and listening to Glenn tell stories which were so hilariously crude that I can't share them here in case Bill Gates bans me from the internet. As a wake up call to the rest of the house, Peter and Glenn ran around practically naked, making weird noises and dancing. It was disturbing yet brilliant.

Well, that's as much as I can write as I'm heading down to get pics taken for my provisional. It'll take me about 15 minutes to do my hair alone. Fuck you OCD.

Thursday, 6 August 2009

Pulse (I want my £5 jugs ye bastards)

Well the night started a bit dodgy when on entering Globe we were asked for ID at the bar by some wee speccy shitehawk who I'm pretty sure, judging by his "voice", was of an indeterminate gender. That or he was a eunuch. Either way he was a ballbeg and told us to fuck off.

So, defeated and sullen we walked out of Globe, fearing that our night was over before it had even began. But we weren't to be defeated that easily. 10 minutes later, after meeting the rest of the leds, we sneaked in past the eunuch and hid at the back of the bar for quite a long time, pretending to read the menu and playing ridiculous amounts of pool in a desperate attempt to look casual. However there was another scare when the leds were asked to show their ID again, and me being the only one without ID, ran away from the bar staff and hid in the bogs untill they buggered off. It worked.

A few Jagers later, we're all up dancing like mad eejits to "Thriller", with the ever reliable Peter Kelly busting moves that Jacko himself would've been proud of. Another honorable mention must go to Jonny "Look how fuckin' tanked my arms are" King, for his fantastic solo effort of the "Cha Cha Slide". Badass like. For once Globe was packed full of young-ish people, as opposed to the usual Grab-a-Granny fest. More Pulse events please.

As is tradition with any night out, we spent the remainder of the night outside a kebab shap eating chilli chips. They were fucking great. Some Polish guy kept bothering the girls and would repeat "It's amazing. Everything is amazing" over and over, much to my amusement. Complete champion.

The taxi ride home was quite hilarious, with the main highlight being Glenn's verbal abuse and "shunning" of Peter Kelly. Once home, we all sat up 'til 4am talking shite on Facebook, 'cos we're mawd auld bawstards.

Great night.

Wednesday, 5 August 2009

Saving the entire world.

I'm absolutely fecking wrecked. I was out being an Anarcho, Vegan, Straight-Edge, Crusty Punk yesterday, which involves being a cool Eco-Warrior person by doing conservation work in the Mournes. Basically I'm saving the entire world from suddenly bursting into a ball of fire.. Do I get a prize?

However, instead of conserving the flora and fauna, we were destroying it for once. In an attempt to reclaim the native peatland, we had to cut down a section of Scots Pine Woods. Cutting down bigass trees and watching them slowly crash to the ground is strangely satisfying. Though having to carry the feckers back and pile them up was a bastard, made worse by the fact that I only got like 5 hours sleep. Thanks a bunch insomnia.

Well tonight I'm heading to that King of all pubs/clubs, the one, the only, THE GLOBE (all hail). Hopefully it isn't a Grab-a-Granny fest like previous occasions. I'm placing all my hope of a good night on Peter Kelly, his dance-offs with the fat beardy guy last month were memories I shall treasure eternally. Absolute champion.

Eyeeeeoooo etc etc

Monday, 3 August 2009

8 Week-Long Festival of Precipitation

Eugh. Monday. I'm starting to dread Mondays now, because with the beginning of each new week I'm slowly realising how fast Summer is passing. Well thus far I'm not sure if the title of "Summer" is deserved. "8 week-long Festival of Precipitation" is more fitting. I'd have to consider investing in a small boat at this rate. Feckin rain.

Today whilst engrossed in Cash in the Attic, I realised that I have done shit all proper excercise all Summer. I've been such a lazy bastard. I think I'm gonna take up Hardstyle Shuffle dancing so I can be as cool as Moonboy. Except I'm not 8 years old, nor am I Japanese. But I really want a pair of those parachute pants that he wears, they're so badass.

Imagine how cool I'd look, with my badass parachute pants, shuffling away to Showtek on my gangsta boombox down at the Waterfront. The emo kids would be so jealous that they'd all simultaneously self-harm and cast themselves into the water in a desperate attempt to flee the envy. The Lagan would run red with the blood of a thousand faggots, and I would receive a medal from the Mayor of Belfast for my outstanding work in ridding the town of all the whiney wee fuckers.

Well, we all can dream.

Sunday, 2 August 2009

Sundays

I can't believe I'm writing a blog. I feel like one of those pseudo-bohemian indie kid fags, you know the type - spend half their life on Fastfude, and the other half spewing out "Tweets" (?!?). I'm even listening to the Velvet Underground and burning Nag Champa incense as I type. Next I'll be shopping in the Rusty Zip. Christ.

Sunday is an odd day. The lazy bastard in me quite enjoys it, mind. I arose from my pit some time in the afternoon and treated myself to a "breakfast" of Walkers Sunbites, cheese strings and sugar-free Iron Bru (which fucking smelt like pondwater, seriously).

Thus far my rock 'n roll Sunday has been spent watching cows vs trains on Youtube and trolling Jonas Brothers fan pages. I can't wait 'til Top Gear is on. The episode with the midget last week was Lulz. And I hope James May, the fucking champion that he is, pulled that model. If I was a woman, I'd marry him. Is this wrong? Yes?

Well this blog is pretty shit too, but I think it accurately conveys a typical Sunday in the life of the 21st century teenager, so I guess it's job well done(ish). Maybe I need to start smoking crack like Tuesday Kid to make my blogs more entertaining, and come up with amusing aliases for my friends. I know shitloads of Death Owl-esque characters, cultchie land is full of the fuckers.

And Esor, if you're reading this gaybake, be an emo fag like me and write a blog. G'wan, do it.

Saturday, 1 August 2009

Get me being all bohemian with my blog and shit.

I had composed a piece that made me sound terribly learned and erudite, but I thought bollocks to that and deleted it.. I've cut out the crap and I'm going all Ramones on your ass with this rant. It'll be fast, aggressive, it'll take me under 2 minutes to compose and probably make no sense at all...

I haven't been on this Earth terribly long, but in my time here I've discovered that there are a lot of people out there, it seems, whose very existence is dependent on fucking up the chances of others. I cannot understand what said people gain from doing this, it genuinely bewilders me. Utter fecking shitehawks.

In other news, whilst composing this desperate excuse of a blog, I'm drinking a can of "Dandelion & Burdock". Do they really make it out of Dandelions? And what the sweet tap-dancing Christ is burdock? It's Google time.

Well that's all I have to say right now. I've been listening to Hawkwind for the past hour and as a result I'm too chillaxed to give a shit.

Nighty night.