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.