Polaroid Journo

Dear readers,

2009-10-30T21:03:00.003Z

If there are still readers, that is. It is fair to say I have neglected this blog quite awfully over the last year. That said, I have made a conscious effort to publish at least one entry per week, probably on a Monday from now on. Thank you to all those who have expressed or still express an interest in what I write. It means a lot. With the amount of traffic the blog seems to get I am hoping many of you are more than just one offs. I should say that posts from now on will have more of a news aspect to them, but I will strive to stay as bitter and ignorant as I have been. As far as a target audience, I have no idea if I have a majority from the UK or the US, so I shall attempt to produce material that is relevant to all. In the meanwhile, I am sure I shall update my new found twitter account much more regularly so follow me on there is you like to experience the stalker touch.
Thank you for wasting your pointless time.

The beginning of the end for the cult of scientology?

2009-10-27T03:16:00.000Z

It began to gain some serious weight when Tom Cruise jumped onto the novelty religion bandwagon. Scientology would not have the publicity and popularity it currently boasts if Cruise had chosen crystal healing to ease the guilt celebrity status and disgusting amounts of money seem to bring. Scientology gave him a chance to throw his money at a place where he can pretend it does him good, but where it actually disappears into the abyss of the bizarre celebrity religious expense account. And as it gains support and regular income from a long list of celebrities, so it gains recognition and the support of a wider section of the general public. Or so it hopes.
Today it was announced that Paul Haggis, the writer of Oscar-winning dramas Crash and Million Dollar Baby, has turned his back on Scientology following their support of controversial legislation that bans gay marriage in California. It is no weird thing to see fickle celebrities running to and from religions and sects, but the peculiar thing about his leaving is the way he employed language as he publicly shunned what has become the most popular sci fi concept of all time.
His statement said he ‘resigned’ from Scientology, seen by many as a cult. Now, I have not had an active interest or involvement in any religion beyond that of attending the odd Sunday session at the local church, but I know that usually it isn’t something that requires a resignation when you become sick of the boring old bloke in the dress. Scientology may employ less dresses and more glam, but does it really require a resignation? Surely religion isn’t so much of a chore that it can be used to add the tedium of real work to the lives of those who haven’t had it for a while? Maybe it’s the super lie-detecting act of ‘auditing’ applied that makes it something to bear? Or, even better, the introductory act of a ‘Purification Rundown’, consisting of light exercise, saunas and the injections of speculatively high levels of niacin.
Could this be the celebrity condemnation that starts a wave of quitters from this extremist celebrity health spa? With rumours that John Travolta is considering leaving after the death of his son earlier this year, the ‘resignation’ of Haggis could stir the Scientology camp into a state of panic, at least it should do. One by one its celebrity endorsers are discovering the dirty side of Scientology, which once threatened to become almost credible for the level of support it had. Now it is finally being seen for the politically-driven, bigoted cult that it is, and at a time when it could’ve gone either way.
Paul Haggis, may you be the first of the many disillusioned to pull back the veil and take in the cruel air of reality.

The appearance of the British National Party on Question Time was an act of suicide for Nick Griffin

2009-10-26T22:43:00.003Z

It is no surprise that BNP leader Nick Griffin receiving an invitation to appear on Question Time has caused so much controversy and hate to be thrust at the BBC. Here we have the leader of the UK's leading fascist party being given truly invaluable airtime in which to preach his message and gain a new type of follower: the non extremist nationalist. Unfortunately for the man, he managed to make so much of an arse out of himself that this seemingly facile task turned full circle. Now it seems Mr Griffin is fighting to hold onto his own party. The word is that the party don't like the way their leader reinforced the widely held beliefs that they're no more than a bunch of paki-hating, nigger-lynching anti-semites.
And all this is the truth, but the truth wasn't the point of their appearance. He was meant to blame a disassociated white middle class for the country's recession, joblessness and immigrations in order to clinch the dumb fuck working class vote. This was a serious misjudging of Question Time's key demographic. It is watched by students and that 'disassociated' white middle class who were the target of this publicity stunt. If he had been able to open his mouth for one second without putting his foot into it, he would have further fucked himself by condemning the only people who have any interest in a current affairs debate-based television programme. Something tells me that the BNP need better researchers, maybe someone who isn't so absorbed in their own 'positive racist action' to recognise audience shares for their public appearance call for a different tactic.
Now Nick Griffin managed to shoot himself in both feet so he couldn't run from his own cranial cumshot as soon as it came time to confront the bombardment of his party's fascist policy. First shot was the ever popular, "my dad's better than your dad" approach aimed towards Jack Straw, the Minister of Defence, a man with a little more of a head on his shoulder. If Griffin hadn't shot himself, I'm sure Straw could have released his own culling blow to the back of Griffin's fat fucking neck. The second shot, this one to the right foot, came with the line "I can't explain why I said the holocaust was fabricated right now". If you can't explain why you said something as controversial as sticking your dick in a ten-foot shark tank filled with a hungry, cramped Great White then you need lobotomising. In fact, you deserve the impending slaughter that will come your way.
The shot of backed up spunk to the temple of this ball of questionable shit was without doubt shot at the moment the line, " Nowadays, the Klu Klux Klan are an almost entirely non-violent organisation" left his rotten little lips. Now, when sitting next to an African American playwright who is well educated in black history this one line is enough to stop you breathing permanently. Bonnie Greer could have easily rung this piggy's neck, but didn't for some reason. I can only assume she saw just how good a job he was doing himself.
So with the potential sacking of the man who has caused much anger throughout the United Kingdom, I have some posthumous words of advice for the next man who fancies this highly sniped job.
1. Pay your researchers with more than 'white pride'. You may be able to appear in National television with an idea of who you are trying to appeal to
2. Pretend you are really looking out for the greater good, not just the preservation of a pure skin tone.
3. Keep your extremist policy to yourself until you have the majority vote. This worked for old Adolf, so take a leaf out of the king of fascism's book and do it youself.
and finally, the most important part of your positive self image promotion:

Don't employ a gang of ex- National Front skinheads as your security team. Not only does this make you look like you're trawling the streets looking for trouble every time you get snapped on the streets, but it makes people really doubt your intelligence and motives. For an organisation that tries to convince people it has nothing to do with the pro-racism skinhead movement of the 80s, you appear to employ a hell of a lot of 'em.

fuck off

2009-02-26T19:49:00.004Z

If you're reading this, I dislike you and what you stand for.
That may be taking things a little far, but you must realise by now that your opinion doesn't matter to anyone, apart from yourself and whatever flock you have following suit. Knowing most people who read this sort of crap you are a fat bastard with no sensible outlook on life. You're the kind of person who trolls around looking for a purpose. You will not find one here, I can assure you of that.
You have to learn to hate, and to hate everything. Nothing is your friend. There is nothing in this world that can or will help you. Everything wants you to suffer in your shitty little hole of a life, and there is no escape. You have failed in your quest for relevance, but you have succeeded as part of a species that should be wiped clean off the face of the planet.
You will not like me, or anything I have to say. You will not become my friend and influence what I write. If you want to leave a slur or two, I welcome them. Be as evil and twisted as you possibly can, and make me hurt. I dare you to try. Not because you won't hurt me, but because you haven't got it in you. None of you have. You're all reading this thinking to yourselves 'what a dickhead'. You have no idea, but you're on the right lines. If you do manage to write something, don't dwell on it; if you do that, I have won and you know I will anyway, so there really isn't any point in you bothering is there? You are a pathetic excuse for a life.
You may think I am aiming this at a particular person, but believe me I have more contempt for humanity as a vast despicable whole than I do for any of the unforgivably deformed individuals that belong.

the future is robots

2009-02-26T19:41:00.000Z

It arrived with a thump on a sunny afternoon in July. Harris was so taken aback by the delivery driver’s vicious gaze that he signed for the box just to get the man off of his doorstep.
For the three hours that followed he sat gazing at the box, wondering what could be inside. He hadn’t ordered anything, and unless it was meant for next door this conundrum would keep him baffled for an undisclosed length of time.
Finally, when he decided that the box would not make the first move, he constructed his plan of action. What he would do is check the label. It was a genius plan with only one minor drawback; there was no label. How on earth had the delivery driver known that this box had been for him?
At this point his paranoia made an impromptu appearance. It often did this, just to make sure that Harris wasn’t getting too ahead of himself; god forbid he developed some undeserved sense of confidence. His mind was full of ‘what if’s. What if he had signed for somebody else’s parcel? What if it was some sort of explosives? What if it contained some top class tea? Harris liked tea. Whatever he had planned, it could all wait for a nice cup of tea.
When his mind had finally finished exploring the questions his paranoia had raised, and all of the irrelevant tangents that had ensued, he returned his thoughts to the parcel. He so hoped it was a stray shipment of choice tea, the kind he imagined Stephen Fry sitting down to in a morning.
He opened the box. There was no tea.
Instead, Harris was faced by a shiny silver shape with winking lights plastered all over its fascia. He couldn’t work out what it was, let alone what it was supposed to do. Then he saw something that made his mind up for him; the ‘ON’ button. He mulled over the idea of pressing it over a cup of second-class tea, before deciding it was probably the best course of action. If he never knew what it was for, he would never be able to decide whether he liked it or not.
He was typically British, was Harris. He never made assumptions regarding things he might dislike. Instead he underwent the thing in question to confirm in his mind that it was the act itself that he disliked and not just the thought of it. In this way, he put himself through the most dreadful activities just to confirm the level at which he disliked them.
He stuck out one of his short thin fingers and prodded at the button. The lights started flashing more than they had before, and a humming sound started exuding from the shape. It started slowly, tickling his ear drums like the drone of a thousand baritones. It was quite a pleasant sound, Harris thought, but it seemed to be growing louder. It turned from a hum to a scream; a whirring scream not completely unlike a boiling kettle whistling, but there was not the reward of a nice hot cup of tea afterwards.
It screamed and screamed, until Harris couldn’t hear himself think over the sound. He started to regret pressing the button, the button that had been the cause of this incessant screaming. He thought the scream would never end, and it would haunt him forever.
As quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Harris thought he had gone deaf from the assault of the scream. As if to replace the scream, the thing started throbbing. He couldn’t comprehend the throb while it wasn’t making a sound, the idea just didn’t work for him. It appeared to glow without actually glowing, and Harris could have sworn he saw it rising from the box with no help from external forces.
It kept rising, until it was floating at chest height. Harris could see the object more clearly now; it was the shape of an office block and looked as if it weighed twice as heavy. He could see more flashing lights on the rest of the office block’s flat almost featureless faces. Then something happened. The office block started developing grooves from halfway down one of the faces. These grooves kept developing, until eventually they were somewhat reminiscent of crouching legs. Only, they couldn’t be crouching because it was suspended. It suddenly struck Harris that this office block was floating; actually floating, hanging in the air in the same way office blocks weren’t supposed to.
He had a way of pondering at the most inappropriate moments, and this was one of them. If he’d have paid attention he may have seen something truly amazing. Unfortunately, he missed the robot’s birth. Maybe birth is the wrong word, as nothing that has ever come off of the production line at the Crab Nebula branch of the Quinton Constella Robotics Company has ever been technically born; they are generally built.
It’s legs had descended from what now resembled a body. Arms had jutted out at right angles from within. A head soon followed suit, with what appeared to be a face; a real humanoid face. May Dee 475 had begun operation.
“Hello human. I am May Dee 475 and I am here to be of service to you”
The voice dragged Harris back to reality from the grips of his ponderings. He stared at the friendly humanoid face, it was poring with warmth from all of its little lights that flashed and blipped.
“Urm, hello. Why are you here?”
“To be of service to you. You are Stephen Fry? I have been sent by the Twinings sub department of the Quinton Constella Robotics Company to aid you in any way I can”
“Oh I see. Well… How about a cup of tea?”

Alan Smith commands my pen

2009-01-11T23:11:00.001Z

I woke up in the middle of the night, again. This had become quite a common occurrence in the last few months; ever since I had met Nigel. I remember the first time I saw him. He was sitting at the piano at a fundraiser I was attending. Being a public figure this is something I have to do quite often, and they’re usually very dull; but not with Nigel. He took me to one side, said something in French, and we proceeded out of the door, ignoring everyone on our way. When we got outside, we climbed into his old Morris Minor and he took out a spliff. I had only smoked once before, at university, but there was something so reassuring about Nigel I felt it would be stupid not to. He was a most peculiar man. I told me he lived with his parents, but worked as a freelance reporter for a confectionary magazine. I didn’t even realise there were confectionary magazines. He told me of his upbringing in Salford, and of the subsequent move to Kensington his parents had made as soon as he had left for university. He had attended Reading University and had read Sociology with Political Sciences, but that ultimately working as a freelance confectionary reporter was his goal in life. As far as I could gather, his father had been a closet homosexual and had worked as a mechanic, which I thought must have been very difficult. His mother had been a chef in her early twenties, but had retired when he was born and, apart from a brief spell where she taught at a public school, hadn’t really worked since.
I told him of my insanely dull life. Of my typically ‘born-in-the-sixties’ hippy parents and the consequent pains of camping with people called Merlin, Galahad and Star. I told him more than even my closest friends knew. He was weird enough to have no ulterior motive, which was my main reason for liking him; and yet we couldn’t be more different. He was so exciting, and seemed to exude a certain confidence that just blew me away. I really liked him. I think I loved him.
It was a purely plutonic, you must understand. It was a purely innocent sort of love that we shared; we would talk for hours on end about everything and anything, and when there was nothing left to talk about we would go outside and lie under the stars, admiring their beauty. It was not uncommon for use to fall asleep together under a blanket right there in the garden.
I woke up with a start after one such night with a soft drizzle falling on my face. Nigel was nowhere to be found so I went into the house. We always stayed at mine what with him only having a small flat in Hackney. The kitchen was a terrible mess, though he had made me a cup of tea and some crumpets. Under the pot of jam was a note; it read, ‘John, might see you soon, though I am quite busy. Hope to stay in touch, Nigel’. The words confused me as I read them. He was quite busy? He had always made time for me, ever since our first chance encounter at the fundraiser I had always been his priority. I had loved him.
I shrugged off the note, assuming I had just misunderstood whatever was meant by it. I took a big sip from the mug of tea and picked up the smaller of the two crumpets as I advanced through the halls and into the lounge, where we had always taken breakfast. As I entered the room my heart sank. Where once there had been my priceless collection of seventeenth century vases there was now a void; a space that screamed of treachery and deceit. As I scanned the room I noticed most of my prized possessions were now gone, including my grandfather’s war medals and countless other pieces that only he knew were valuable. Where one particularly important jade ornament had stood there was another note. This time it read, ‘Never trust the weird ones, John. I love you’.

The queynte's guide to reflection

2008-12-08T00:00:00.002Z

When I decide it’s time for a change, I do the same as any misshaped fuck up does; I stock up on Kahlua, milk and whiskey and lock myself away from the world. This inclusive method of reflection can get quite messy, so if you’re considering reading any of this rubbish make sure you are ready for the horrors I will leave to surprise you.
Keep yourself within the boundaries of a house. However, neglect to use as many rooms as possible and don’t go outside. The garden is a no go zone. Fresh air will just make you see sense or sober you up, and under no circumstance would you want that. This is serious business, and it is understandable if you cannot handle it; you have to have a strong stomach and no sense of smell to undergo this aptly named cleansing.
Turn the heating up, now. You need to sweat out all the shit that pumps through your veins. This is starting to sound like self help for smack heads, but heroin is nowhere near as dangerous as the shit you’ve been filling yourself with. Other people’s opinions, society’s demands, your conscience’s guilty yelling. They all add up and dissolve any content you had, leaving the crust of blood and skin. Don’t give up if you can’t stand the heat. Hang on. It is meant to be unbearable, without it you will never get it out of your system and reflection will be pointless.
After the first week, you should start to feel like a recluse. This is the normal way the negligible parts get you to break from your reflective cycle. Repeat in your head, fuck off I don’t need the bullshit. You are ready.
Consume the first bottle of whiskey, preferably bourbon. Let it intoxicate you to the point of helplessness. Don’t fight it, friend. Now is the start of the process. Two days of sleep deprivation, whiskey intoxication and continuous masturbation will be perfect. Please yourself, and be thankful of the pleasure. Self indulgence is almost a sin in most religions, and the reason is life isn’t meant to be enjoyed, you are meant to trudge on. Let this be your saviour from the terrible suffering living can cause if you do it correctly and without ‘sin’.
By this point the whiskey is gone which is a good thing. You were probably sick of it by now, I know I was. Now, have one last bout of masturbation and get some sleep. Try not to be conscious of time or even light and dark while the process goes on; artificial light will do everything you need light for, and timeless sleep is always favourable. When you awake, milk and Kahlua through a straw for breakfast. This is your beverage until you vomit. Drink as much as you can as quickly as you can.
And now the reflection will be upon you and you won’t even have realised anything is any different to how it was when you still understood the concept of outside, or natural light, or of sobriety. You will find yourself talking to yourself, and double checking everything you say to yourself. The trick now is to realise you are acting like a nut. This could take days, even weeks. If it takes any longer than a week just remember to keep your bloodstream full of alcohol and abstain from the outside world.
When you finally realise, sleep again. Then, immediately after, check the time. Whatever it reads may shock the system. It is time to reintroduce yourself to the outside world. You have been cleansed. You may not fit, but you will be empty of all the rubbish that drags the average human creature suffers with. You will find yourself in a different mind.

Be proud.

Anita Thompson is decrepid and deranged

2008-12-04T22:47:00.004Z

Those of you who have visited more than once know I don't update often, and I don't speak directly to you much at all. However, I have had a terrible experience with Gonzo Wear, the site that sells merchandise in the name of Hunter, something I'm sure he'd have hated. However, Anita needs some way to make money these days.
I saw a lapel pin that I really wanted, shamefully. I bought it, then decided against it almost immediately. Hunter wouldn't have wanted that. He hated the monster of capitalism, right? So I sent a very courteous email stating my mistake and requesting she cancel my order and wished her well.
Not only did she ignore my email, she also left it long enough for me to assume she had sorted it. Not the case. I recieved a confirmation of order and information that it had been shipped about ten minutes ago.
At this point I am poorer than she would be without Hunter's memory to exploit.
On a positive note, I am currently planning my first book, 'Women with Faces like English Bull Terriers'. It should take a while to write seeing as the planning is taking so long.

morals for alan smith

2008-11-30T23:16:00.001Z

If I was asked the nature of my morals, I’m not sure I’d be in any situation to answer. You see, I am apathetic to everything other people care about, whilst simultaneously believing that my position in this piece of shit world is to infuriate the retarded menace that is the majority by presenting opposition arguments. I just love the look on their stupid deformed little faces as they fall into the putrid bear traps I have tactically laid with my meaninglessly strung-out words.
Being in the position I so often find myself in, with no underlying loyalties to any flawed belief system or unconsidered moral obligations, leaves you open to abuse from those who openly oppose abuse, which leads to further upset when the time comes to tear them all new arseholes from freshly grown buttocks of contradiction. The problem with this is quite a straight forward one; people like it when you fuck with their festering outlets. The act of condescending an individual with little more moral obligations than those which society has made mandatory is something that could be deemed fetish play. They get off over it, almost to the point of climax.
I would, with little thought, turn on any individual walking down the street and mould them into an unrecognisable mess on the concrete. This normally creates the most beautiful rainbow of colours you never expected such a shit-filled species to contain. I almost feel some sort of connection with the rest at this point. They are no longer to be considered cum receptacles with no greater purpose than to reproduce; they are divine beings. Almost too perfect to exist, except they don’t. Not for long enough to be classified by anyone who actually matters anyway.

morals?

2008-11-29T12:52:00.000Z

The idea of a general moral belief is something I find sickening. Can anything suppress the individual more than a bent-straight society telling you what should be said or done? Or even who should be fucked? In every sense, I mean society tells you not to give money to degenerates who will spend it on substances to make their fucked up lives lovely for a short while, but it also tells you not to fuck certain types of men, women, animals... even inanimate objects are condemned by these ‘morals’, though they’re more like laws or prerequisites.

But how exactly does one ever escape society’s merciless grasp? Is it even possible to slacken the choking grip of meaningless morals that are given meaning and reason due to popular demand? People love the compliance of it all. One woman I know is so self absorbed, as society demands, that she honestly believes she is her own person. She believes if she were to be born anywhere else in the world she would be the same person. This is erroneous for two reasons; firstly, in many cultures, she would’ve been slaughtered by now for being mentally disabled and secondly, it is widely recognised within intellectual assemblies that the differences in morals within different cultural groups is something massively quantifiable.

The point being made is people are moronic shells of apparent individuals who really don’t have enough time in each day to do anything other than obsess over what it has been deemed safe to obsess over. Some people fear Orwell’s image of the world in ‘1984’ will come forth out of the fog of the far-rightist government butt-fuckers, but I disagree. I believe that said totalitarian hopeless government is already underway. It lurks inconspicuously, slowly smothering every freedom it can mutilate quietly. There is no discrimination by this government; they will fuck us all before they are through

Alan Smith loves Sex

2008-11-17T10:43:00.001Z

"I want you to fuck me!"

Hardly the most attractive thing to hear, though it does inspire more erections per annum than the subtleties and insipidness of sex in a monotonous relationship. I have several theories regarding this matter. The first is relatively unimportant and regards subordinate desires. The second is more important. I believe such filthy language triggers something in the average male genetalia that is not suppressible: Blood pressure rises and the cock becomes a weapon. A weapon against all things good because, in reality, it’s not in anyone’s nature to do anything helpful or productive. Instead we fuck, fight and make everything complicated in order for us to develop an adequate self-loathing and continue the lives we hate so much, but wouldn’t live without.

Without the so-called ‘Doors of Perception’ Aldous Huxley spoke of so much, human beings are drole. Who can blame anyone for trying to make their lives more exciting by scandalising everything that can possibly be scandalised. The fuck-ups in modern society seem to be the only ones who both have a reason to hate their lives, and don’t seem to do so. Though I don’t condone the exaggerated drug use of my peers, I see it as the only way they can keep a grasp on themselves in the ever unsure climate of this godforsaken world.

I am not a god fearing man, nor a god loving man. I don’t acknowledge him and he ignores my existence. This means we can both live in our own little worlds blissfully unaware of each other and the shit we cause for our unsuspecting public.

We are living in a time where even to write something satirical is seen as a crime against society. Freedom of speech has been taken out to the wall and shot; the last fragments of skull and grey matter dripping down the wall are all we have left. I see myself as an ignorant sonofabitch who writes with no consideration of who or what may be affected. Life, as they say, goes on.
The ultimate goal of any social movement is, ultimately, to breed apathy within it’s cohort. This lets the group drift past blissfully unaware of the atrocities they are supporting because, when they supported them, they were doing the right thing. This echoes throughout history. It is the human condition that makes one forget that their idols are in fact bastards in the highest sense of the word, letting them remember the freedoms they supported and not the inequalities that are being forced upon them. God forbid they take the blame for their own situation.

to the readers...

2008-11-17T10:30:00.002Z

I won't ignore you any longer
I find it shocking and disgusting anyone would visit this more than once. I love it. Thankyou
Someone tell me what you think

500 words for Alan Smith..

2008-11-12T18:00:00.000Z

I was at a party. Where I can’t be sure. All I know is sex was everywhere I looked. Every face I stared into assaulted the senses with the bitter realisations of sex. The music was wretched. I was standing there whilst the personified speakers screamed sex in my face. It was sickening. I had two options; leave or get more drunk. The latter was the better of the two evils so I went to the kitchen, the usual hangout for degenerative misfits who aren’t getting any. It was full of my kind of people who immediately accepted me as one of their own; insensitive sex-depraved bastards. We are the damned, and yet we choose to squalor rather than break free. Where many may wish to enter the houses of the rich and successful, to become one of the aptly named ‘glossy posse’, we are the ones who throw bricks through their windows, kick down their doors and crash all their parties. We are the doomed generation and we could not be silenced, though our songs are discreet and our moods erratic. As Hunter S. Thompson once wrote, “It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.” If that is indeed the way this gut-wrenching world works, we are sitting, poised in our useless position, at the proverbial anus waiting for the first sickening mouthful.
The sounds of sex were deafening. It was like being on the set of some gratuitous fetish production with no holds barred. They weren’t even conventional sounds, more the cries of dying animals being ravaged by gross-looking hunting types deformed by years of inbreeding. As quick as the onset had been it had stopped. I was told afterwards that I had collapsed due to dehydration though I’m not sure that’s possible at all; I’d been drinking all night. The headaches are always at their worst after the collapse. It dents the spirits of a more than desperate individual to find that not only have you had your wallet stolen, but your bitter self-loathing brain wants out as well. It’s something that one just can’t prepare for. I stumbled out of the kitchen and back into the lounge. The music took me again and made me feel nauseous. This kind of self destructive lifestyle isn’t something you can keep up for long without bits of you giving up on the rest. However, if you do it well enough, you last long enough to enjoy the ride.

Family Birthdays are Decadent and Depraved

2008-08-03T17:52:00.000+01:00

I knew as soon as the invite came through the door that this would not be an enjoyable event. I mean, I get on fine with my family, but that doesn't mean Saturday night stuck in a knackered old Working men's club with every stinking one of them is something I find in the least bit favourable. I like seeing my family in dribs and drabs, the way it's meant to be. All at once is all a bit much for everyone. Nobody seems to know who they should be talking to. The host always has to talk to everyone at least once.. I always play games with the host, darting away as soon as I see them making a direct course for me. They either deem this insulting and ignore me in the most obvious way - standing almost next to me and talking to everyone around me - or they are baffled to the point of upset. Poor individuals.. they have too much belief that what they feel is right. This is rarely the case. The secret to living a bearable existence on this piece of shit half destroyed planet is to be ignorant. Of everything possible. This is the secret of it all, and it shall stay that way until we destroy what's left of this god awful existence. Here in the UK we don't have a dream, but if we did it would certainly be as meaningless as the one stateside. There is no hope of moving up any sort of social ladder. Oppression is everywhere, and always will be as long as we have a vicious, pointless monarchy and therefore a social class system. Equality, my friend, left the building , though it's certainly questionable that it was ever here at all.

Then comes the dividing into the little groups you will spend your night with. You will NOT enjoy this. Your are not meant to. No, you're only meant to bear it, and still only barely. Of all the places I could be, this is on the list of worsts. I do hate to moan, but if I don't, someone else much. Just look at it as me giving you a break from moaning by venting it myself. It is at this point that the erratic watch checking begins. Firstly, it's all subtle glances, some excuse or other to check but eventually, you forget that etiquette if really required and resort to plain rudeness. Of course, the host doesn't mind because they're doing exactly the same thing. It was never their idea to throw such an event, but an age old ideology from parents and elderly relatives alike says that such events have to occur. The elderly are always thrilled at the idea of a large family event, yet at the point of impact, they detest loud music, and the thought of everything anyone has ever done to wrong them suddenly seems so fresh it's as if they're back in that conflict they were never a part of originally. For my father it was Vietnam, grandparents? the big one. I don't know why no matter where they were in the world, even years after, they always try hard with their stories of conflict they never saw. All they did was hear the news, see the pictures of a disaster so unnatural the Earth itself makes life hard for all the tyrants involved.

The DJ is always too old for any taste, yet so mentally unaged as to think music from the eighties, the worst period in history, is an acceptable crime to commit. Nobody dances. I'm not sure anyone can actually dance. In fact a love of dancing should be classed as a form of mental illness. Nobody says anything, and conversation isn't allowed to be anything other than education and work. Anything else would constitute something bearable, and no one wants to give the impression they're having a good time.

By the time an acceptable time comes around to leave, you don't feel like leaving. Your body has adapted into the lack of comfort and the never ceasing boredom, leaving you stranded in a limbo of states. Stuck in a situation where, although you want nothing more than to take the high road out of this stuffy fucked up room full of inebriated family members, you are so apathetic as to be physically incapable of doing so. Once this is overcome, however, you make the worst last impression. You make the mistake of taking full advantage at your body's final ability to get the hell away, and end up rushing all the goodbyes you are forced to make by the eager and beady stares of relatives you despise. As soon as you get out of the door and feel the cool evening wind blowing on your face, you feel the relief of being out, and never having to go back

I fucking hate family functions

Musically challenging

2008-07-31T14:20:00.000+01:00

It's not often that I find myself out around the town centre in an evening. I always seemed to prefer the quiet drug taking environment of my own home. But when a dear friend asked me out to a 'pound a pint' night, how could I refuse.

Now for some facts that might make my night clearer. My alcohol of choice is whiskey, not beer. I like the slow on set of whiskey more than that snappy headrush drunk that beer causes. I like to be cold, especially whilst eating and drinking. I think this is more from ignoring the heaters when I was a child, and spending alot of time outdoors. I don't feel that comfortable in blistering hot temperatures, unless I am outside. Also, I feel the need to mention that I have always been a sociopath, ignoring and even shunning situations whereby I would be cast into the mental prisons that are the deafening crowds of babbling idiots. So why I thought this would be a good idea, I do NOT know.

I met my companion early, and we conversed for hours about the ins and outs of our everyday existence, the vandalism and the anti social behaviour that makes us more like everybody else. We walked and walked and, for no reason, ended up at his most humble abode. We sat and had some wonderful tea. If there's one thing I couldn't live without, it isn't whiskey, it's tea. Tea is my opium...well, opium is my opium but Tea is pretty fucking close.

We met with some more bearable people later in the early evening and started the approach.. the approach to the end. I remember thinking whether these people really got me, or whether I was to be compared to Bez of the Happy Mondays, foaming at the mouth and moving irrationally. When we reached the bar, I was silently stunned. The mess sprawled on the street made this warlike, people crawling and clutching at your clothing, blood pouring from gashes that could only have been made by artillery shells. I kicked off an over fashionable victim of this conflict, and pulled open the heavy door, passing the two baboon like terrorisers who called themselves doormen, yet I knew it was their job to start the trouble. If the terrors outside brought me to shock, the visions of interior events would have caused me to crumble... if I hadn't taken myself out of the situations I was involved in.
There were over three hundred people in a bar that would barely accommodate two, all jostling for position to attract the attention of the barkeep, like rats jumping for a piece of cheese. Or a piece of rotting flesh, I can't decide which is more relevant. They all seemed completely oblivious to the fact there was fresh meat entering, for the time being at least. They just needed their fix. Their opium. But it wasn't reaching them fast enough.
The people were wearing a queer style of battle dress, and it was almost impossible to establish who was allied with who. They all seemed to have forgotten their allies for the time being in order to fight their own good fight to get their fill. My acquaintance jostled through, and, what with being of a bigger structure than the average mercenary, got our fix and brought it over to an enemy outpost we had procured from the smoking watchman. We were all quite relieved by his addiction, as there had been nowhere else to sit if he hadn't have had to leave.
We all dragged away at our foul tasting, but cheap, beverages, and soon enough were back amongst the mercs, fighting through the crowd which seemed to have grown more desperate, obviously they were in the grips of some sort of withdrawal, like that panic for air when being drowned.
This was the way things progressed for the next few hours. Our party got less and less as the time moved on, yet our conversations grew louder and louder, til there were two of us, just shouting at each other over the outpost while the mercenaries looked on in bewilderment. But I no more noticed this than knew what I was saying. It was just a feeling that whatever it was was relevant, and it seemed to do, as my companion seemed to respond warmly.
Suddenly, a moment of panic! Everyone seems to have left, and the baboons from the door are saying 'time to go, mate' Have we really been here that long? What the hell kind of time is it?! I have refused to wear a watch, as I think anything that tells me acceptable times to do things should be destroyed.
We leave, half thrown out, and stagger down the high street, desperately searching for another drink, or a taxi, whichever came first. Something came. It was the latter. Though I haven't seen my companion since.

o2 festival

2008-07-27T19:48:00.000+01:00

So we arrived in London. Got off the underground at the wrong stop so ended up walking for what must have been hours to get to the hotel. Posh place, too posh for me. But nevertheless quite a comfortable stay. I check the time. Shit! Late already.. already missed most of the terrible excuse for music used to fill up the time until the seasoned professionals come out of their 5 star dressing rooms that turned out to be porta cabins of strange proportions. Fuck me, the walk there was hard. Up more hills than I care to remember, then you think youre there... You're nowhere near, my friend. This is now Hyde Park. The gargantuan freak of a park. No normal park is this size, and why is there a road running through the middle? I prepare myself for the painful knowledge that I now have to share my oxygen and to a greater extent, space, with a few thousand trend setting twenty somethings with sticks in every orifice I can imagine. And all the rest, if you know what I mean.
So Im surrounded by a sea of people possibly more drunk than me, and definately more stupid. How I know? I dont, all I do is guess, but guessing's what Im good at these days. Nobody needs to think if they guess well enough. How I got here, I cant remember, let alone guess. That should give you some idea of just how drunk I appeared to be. The music was no longer important. Survival was my goal. I felt alsorts of limbs flailing at and around me, and suddenly I was taken to the forests of Cambodia, and it was kill or be killed. I look around me, not recognising anything that could constitute a face, let alone an individual person. I was in a blur of something, and it was moving in convulsions.
Suddenly I was lifted fromt his place. There is still music, but it's different. I can still tell the difference between genres at this stage. I started to scribble on my notepad. Anything that could be used would be a blessing, but I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days when nothing works. Fatboy Slim is here somewhere, should I try and find him? Try for an interview? Or should I listen to more music.. "Drink more" says a little voice in my head, so I obliged, never having let down my own voices before. Next to my amazing ability for guesswork, I have found my instinctive voice my greatest friend, and my worst enemy. The beer hit me hard for no reason other than the too many more sitting inside my belly. I need to puke, or even better, piss.
The music has come to a halt, though there are still voices and some sort of bass hammering in my ears. Is it really outside? Or is this my own creation? It doesnt bear thinking about. Suddenly Im running. From what, I dont know. What I do know is I guess something has happened, and I guessed it would be a good idea to run. My guesswork is second to none. I run down every one of those son of a bitch hills I had to climb up. All the way down to the hotel. The woman on reception struggles to understand my slurred accent and over tranquilised walking style, yet eventually, after several looks and a couple of phone calls, hands over my room key. Stumbling into the elevator, I realised an interview, my sole reason for going, was really off the cards now, and that Norman Bates, or whatever that old Fatboy Slim man is calling himself these days, is probably sitting in some helicopter, moaning about how diverse his fanbase isn't. Whilst deep in this contemplation, I realised two things.. I had now been joined by an elderly couple, and I'd missed my floor.
The more important thing I realised, however, was that an intervew with an old man who is clutching at youth through his samey music noone listens to anymore isn't what I wanted. I wanted an interview about the experience. And not the performer's experience, or the trend setter's experience.. my experience. The average experience.

Alonze

2008-07-25T18:23:00.000+01:00

So I hear you asking, what is polaroid journalism?
Well, it is a little concoction of mine that aims to improve, or at least expand the realms in which your average journalist has to work.
Polaroid journalism is free, but fair. No papparazzi pressure tactics, and no provocation. We report on what we see, not what we provoke... the way it should be.
The other aspect of polaroid journalism is the speed at which the story should develop. You see something happen, and the report has begun. Within hours the story should hit the internet in it's first form. Of course, paper form could be a problem, and yes, alot of major newspapers work to quick deadlines, but over editing cannot be an issue. Before the truth is veiled with well placed words and manipulated by overpaid editors.
I have no idea of how many people will or should read this. I think this is a step forward within the realms of journalism, and it should change the face of the future from mr best of fifty photographs to one shot, one release, and the story is out for the public.