CLICK HERE if you can’t be bothered to read this bit.
It has been a while, but now I am back online. In developing countries such as England, moving house can be an incredibly stressful time for the companies that supply your telephone and broadband connection.
Sometimes it takes them over a month to get over the shock that people move out of one house and into another, while still retaining their desire to remain connected to the outside world.
Nonetheless, after a month-long crash course in accents and ineptitude, I am now back online to pump my cynical trolling onto your screen.
Today’s offering is a group I commandeered a couple of months ago, which has since dissappeared from facebook. If you find it, please send it my regards.
CLICK HERE for details.
An amusing article from my good friends at Kick Up The Fire, weighing in on the Lilly Allen Music debate.
http://kickupthefire.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/dear-lily-allen/
Enjoy.
Gumtree Avert
The perfect place for you!
Purgatorial chamber of limbo available to soulless, empty Londonite:
Rotting inside? Ready for the afterlife? Surrendered to the inevitability of your own unceremonious demise? I may have just the room for you. As unremarkable as your life so far, this third-floor, self-contained studio apartment offers a cosy refuge from the loud clatter of happiness outside. Rest your world-weary head in this homogeneous pod and enjoy a slow, comfortable ride into obscurity.
Why not puncture the drab rhythm of your downward spiral with the sounds of your third floor neighbour sharpening his knuckles on the face of his common law wife? Lie alert in an impotent faux-slumber, running an endless, gallant loop of celluloid rescue scenarios through the rattling projector in the empty cinema of your head.
All mod cons- compact dishwasher so you won’t take a month to fill it, washing machine, travel toaster and gas oven with plenty of headroom. Balcony with window overlooking the life beneath you as it passes you by.
Single bed, one-seater sofa, foldaway table with one small chair; just viewing this place will evoke sufficient regret to puncture a hole in the space-time continuum wide enough for you to climb back into your childhood and drown your tiny self in the bath.
N.B. The balcony will not hold much more weight than a couple of pot plants, so please only go out there if you are confident that you will jump.
Every so often, a film comes along that makes me think, ‘wow! I need a piss.’ This was one of those films; a film so great as to surpass greatness and end up right back round in mediocrity. Come with me on a magical journey through the history of movies ruining books. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll laugh again and cry some more. A close neighbour will drop by to see if you’re alright, concerned by the sustained fluctuation in loud moods, but you’ll be too heavily encrusted into the sofa to answer the door. Eventually the fire brigade will kick your wall through and use the jaws of life to extract you from the hardened meringue of three week’s faeces and as they check you into your new padded home, you’ll laugh and cry some more.
The Film needs little introduction; stop someone in the street and get them to list their eight hundred favourite films of all-time, and I guarantee you that Breakfast at Tiffany’s will be in there, somewhere between ‘The Godfather’ and ‘please can I go now’. It’s that big a film. It rewrote the rules on rule-writing, and catapulted its stars into varying degrees of financial success. Decades later, it is still acknowledged as one of the greatest love stories of all time, with the notable exceptions of Romeo & Juliet and anything with Meg Ryan. There are love stories and then there are love stories. This is a love story.
You know you’re watching an iconic moment in the history of human endeavour from the moment the opening credits finally dissolve. When Audrey Hepburn first wanders into view at six in the morning, shuffling at her underclothes to free the straw from her knickers and waddling around bandily from the reaming the night before, I confess that my heart skipped a beat. For one precious, hope-filled moment, I prayed that it might be the recurrence of a life-threatening heart-murmur that would excuse me from the balance of this ordeal, but sadly the palpitations subsided and I was forced to soldier on. In many ways, my heart was broken, but physically the left ventricle remained tragically uncollapsed.
Like all hopelessly romantic fourteen year old girls, when Hepburn came to the door wearing that gorgeous eye mask and those darling dangly earplugs, I knew I simply must have some of those of myself. I wanted them so badly. Imagine not only how fetching I would look, but how much less of this sensory onslaught I would have to endure. If they’d just do some Tiffany nose plugs to block out the acrid stench of terrible acting, then I would have been perfectly anaesthetised to undergo the procedure of subjecting myself to this bilge.
Set against the backdrop of shameless sixties brand placement deals, the film follows Holly Golightly, a loveable anorexic prostitute who lives out of a suitcase and Paul ‘Fred’ Varjak, a failing writer and succeeding cunt. There’s a party and a jewellery store and some imaginative props and the two of them reluctantly skim-read a badly-written script that culminates in a dramatic anticlimax that left me toying with the concept of assisted suicide.
Holly, played by Audrey Hepburn, is the predecessor to the delightful ‘it girls’ that stalk the nether-regions of our Sky packages, picking off roles in futureless programs on channels with strange names. She burns the candle at both ends, commonly known as melting it, subsisting on the generosity of rich gentlemen who seem to pay her fifty dollars to go and have a shit. I didn’t quite get that part. Maybe if I had concentrated on listening to the film, instead of rubbing the tray of peanuts into my eyes to elicit an anaphylactic shock and generate an excuse, then I would have understood. Nonetheless, the part suits her down to a t, whatever a t is.
She cuts a stunning figure in her little black dress, which she wears so much better than the mannequin it was stored on that, despite it’s superior acting abilities, they were forced to strip it of the part.
Audrey, the daughter and niece and clone of Katherine Hepburn, spent much of her youth in a long glass tube. Many commentators have commented that this may have given rise to her pencilesque appearance, although several attributors have since attributed that to her disinclination to consume food.
Interestingly, sometime after childhood she made the questionable leap into young adulthood, taking on the roles as teenager, young woman and middle-aged lady. Critics at the time criticised this move heavily, correctly predicting that she would go on to play older and older roles, and eventually wind up being cast as dead.
Fred is a different matter altogether. George Peppard portrays the young, ‘kept’ toyboy of a wealthy female benefactor; a writer and member of a crack commando unit, sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune.
A ‘kept’ man is basically a gigolo, worded more politely; essentially a man-whore. She houses and feeds him, clothes him in tweed and keeps him in gaudy ornamentals, and in return he gives her the seeing to that her ageing workaholic husband is unable to deliver. Sounds like a sweet gig. But so does acting in a film, and somehow Peppard manages to balls that up too. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to sympathise with his character or axe him into manageable logs for my wood-burning stove. I was largely outraged by his performance, which seemed to have been phoned in over a poor connection, and promptly added him to my fast-growing list of future victims. In a former life, I might have seized a pitchfork and chased this man from his career, but sadly the whole tragedy played out before I was even an odourless fizz in my mother’s unguarded daiquiri.
However, this hideous impression of a wooden kung-fu dummy was not the most uncomfortable nod to oriental culture in the film. That prize goes to Mickey Rooney, best known for his role in Pete’s Dragon, showing us all why he deserves a half-century career in the world of serious professional acting. As we all know, Japanese people are basically Western people with gigantified gnashers and a perpetual squint. The character props apart the sleep Ms Golightly interrupts with a succession of slapstick tea-based rituals and hilarious acts of spatial unawareness. Mr T was sadly absent from this episode; set in New York, the role would have required him to get on a plane, something he was at the time not prepared to do. Fool. Add to this the loveable paedophile, Doc Golightly, and you’ll see why this is a film to be treasured.
The story itself is quite slow to get going, and doesn’t really hit its stride until 115 minutes in, when the credits end and you get to watch something else. The best part is probably about ninety minutes into the feature when you realise that this film is still fucking happening. Other highlights include the food I ate, the wine I drank and my trip to the toilet midway through, which afforded me the chance not only to evacuate my colostomy bag, but also to cry for some time in the cold porcelain bath.
Visually, this is quite a lean piece. In line with its tender exploration of oriental immigration, a 
number of subtle contemporary techniques are employed by the director, whose name escapes my inclination to remember it. Lens flare stereoscopy features heavily in the earlier scenes, with the crew opting to use cameras for the entire film, a clever counterpoint to the rather brazen use of actual humans in some of the close-ups towards the end. A number of other firsts were notched up on set; it’s worth mentioning that before this film, dolly gripping as an art form was largely derided. Newspapers would openly mock those involved in it and women were known to turn up at the house of local dolly-grippers, to hand them a white feather or defecate through the sun-roof of their car. That all changed with Breakfast at What’s-its-name, which maintains a vice-like grip on the dolly throughout. I have not seen a dolly gripped this hard since the last time I orphaned a child.
Sadly, all this was not enough to save the film from purgatorial cinematic inadequacy. It was grey enough to have a measurable impact on my sense of hope and so long that I forgot what colour was.
That’s not to say I didn’t like it, although I didn’t, but nonetheless, I could have were it not so relentlessly shit. In truth, it was a joy to watch and made a welcome change to the endless loop of hostage beheadings that normally circulate my spank bank. I was grateful for the break. Where else do you get the chance to hear ‘Moon River’ instrumentally regurgitated for the best part of two hours? Indeed, I have spent the last four weeks riding round Los Angeles in a Transit lined with bin-bags, trying to find those accountable for this film, so that I can properly thank them in the sound-proofed environment of my windowless van.
So. should you watch it? Why should I care; I don’t even know you. How about you make your own mind up, instead of hanging around life, waiting for someone else to tell you how to make it good? Sure, you could watch this film. You could go skinny dipping in a tub of cutlery and bury your firstborn in a leper colony. Doesn’t mean you should. And personally, as long as I have a staple gun and room on my feet, there will always be a better option.
I never thought that the experience of cheese could be improved upon; nor did I think of myself as the first port of call in the quest to hurt one’s scrotum. I’ve learnt a lot from this wretched blog, and now so can you.
Click This Link to have a look at all the strange things people have googled to get to my blog.
You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll click the x in the top right corner, and then you’ll go about your day as if nothing had happened.
I will keep this short and bitter, as most of the meat is on the page in question.
Click here to see the actual funny bit.
If you don’t know what usurps are, that’s because I haven’t told you yet. But fret not; you are about to find out, just as soon as I tell you, which I am about to do.
Usurping is the infiltration of a group, forum or government, and the swift seizure of power. I have stuck to facebook groups for the moment, as the technique has not yet been refined for the transition into global terrorism.
Once you have taken control of the group, it’s really up to you what you do, but I lean towards a campaign of harassment. It is fun to see how many members you can shed and how quickly you can do so. It can be thoroughly entertaining and there are times, though brief, when I almost forget how much I hate myself.
Details of how to take over a facebook group, as well as a link to the first of several of my own attempts, can be found here, by clicking this link. The link that you’re already reading. You should have clicked by now; why are you still reading this?
Part-furnished, squalid horror-wallow available in multi-storey death-trap in wrong part of town.
Directions: Once you get to the wrong part of town, head downtown in the direction of the sordid underbelly. From there, bear left into skid row and keep going until you get a bad feeling about this, at which point you are probably in the wrong neck of the woods. Take a right into the dodgy neighbourhood and walk through the favela until you get to the street where the ghetto meets the barrio and all mortal paths to hell converge. Ours is the third slum on the left. If you get lost, stop and ask a suspicious character for directions.
Assuming that you make it through the front door, past the hooded skeletons and rat-like wallet-feeders, you’ll be greeted in the communal hallway by the familiar aroma of stale human effluence.
The bedroom is situated on the top floor. The lift is broken, as are the stairs, so access is precariously achieved through the elevator shaft using a ladder that may well not be supplied. Your room is the one with the door.
There is a bed, to some extent, but I would advise against using it. There has been some conjecture following the disappearance of the last three tenants that the mattress in question was somehow involved. It has of course denied this, but we remain skeptical of its somewhat flimsy alibi.
For the type of person who would rent this room, there is little point in wasting time talking about clothes storage, but should you ever come into money, there is plenty of space to store whatever gaudy chav-rags you people associate with success.
I would caution against venturing too far into the wardrobe to hang them, however, as you may be met by a deceptive faun and tricked into delivering your siblings into the icy clutches of the self-proclaimed queen.
Whilst we have no plans to apply floorboards at this juncture, a map of load-bearing beams will remain stapled to the underside of the armoire for the duration of your stay. I suggest you memorise it.
Washing facilities are supplied, although not by us, and a degree of discretion will need to be employed when visiting the nearby water closet, lest the occasionally sentient counter staff at the Burger King in question come to know and ban your face.
The street at the front of the house is easily big enough to accommodate whatever exercise you might need, but should you wish to smoke drugs or bury victims in a little more privacy, a thin strip of patio is provided outside.
Would suit hopeless, dejected non-student, small army of cockle-pickers or temporary mobile abortion clinic.
No pets, kids or DHSS.
More info at http://www.somethingson.com
***
You can see the ad here: http://www.gumtree.com/london/35/41469435.html
Anti-smudge screen? I'd tap that.
You can feel the excitement with a knife. Each year, around this time, a negligible fraction of the Earth’s populace decide to buy the same new phone and the collective force of the entire new media is temporarily diverted towards making it into a big fucking deal.
That’s right; the new iPhone has arrived. And this time, there’s a letter on the end. Several whole days after its official release to the general public in most first-world nations, the somethingson.com staff has managed to obtain one through mysterious insider sources, to bring you high quality unboxing photos amd this exclusive review.
A quick warning: There will be some technical terms used herein but the less tech-savvy readers should be aware that for the most part they can be replaced quite conveniently with the blanket term, ‘blah’.
When the first version of the iPhone was released, way back in 2007 AD, it swiftly replaced Jesus and Mary as the sacred image most commonly spotted in clouds, potato chips and other amorphous components of the subjective American landscape. It took the world by storm. And not some shitty Blackberry Storm either; in fact, since its arrival on our planet, several large storms have been said to have ‘taken the world by iphone’, although the practice of doing so is generally regarded as bent.
Then 2008 brought the next gen phone. Continents parted and converged, seas were forged, thousands were trampled to death on a pilgrimage to the Apple Store in western Mecca. Huge swathes of the bible had to be rewritten to accommodate its inclusion and the 2008 Pakistani general elections saw three second generation models win seats in the lower house of the Majlis-e-Shoora.
This phone has a lot to live up to.
Looks
The first thing you’ll notice about the new iphone 3G S is that it is a telephone. When you talk at it, it talks back to you, using the voices of people you know. It is for this reason that I have summoned the Council Of Elders and recommended that it be chained to the river bed and burnt at the stake.
In a masterstroke of design evolution, this one looks exactly like the last one; a bold move in the blurred worlds of fashion and technology, where people rarely spend money on stuff they already own. Combined with a clever pricing strategy that leaves it affordable to a mere four people worldwide, three of whom work at Apple, they have further ensured the solidity of their balance sheet as we enter this period of unparalleled financial collapse.
The other first thing you’ll notice is the improvement in speed. I did several lines off the front screen and I must say, once I’d dabbed the stray dust off and rubbed it into my gums, there was barely a smudge to be seen. The new screen is oleophobic, you see, which means that it has an aversion to oils. This is great for reducing the sticky thumb prints that accumulate over time to obfuscate the on-screen images, but expect difficulties in using the device to receive telephone calls, as that same oelophobic screen pushes away from your ear to escape the proximity of your greasy fucking hair. You metrosexual prat.
Click next page to continue
Hello Again.
Fancy meeting you here.
I haven’t updated for a while, and I’m sorry but I make no apologies for that. Lying in bed all week, trying to open one’s wrists with a safety razor is an immensely absorbing pursuit and leaves one with little time to squander on blogospheric trivialities.
Nonetheless, here I am, back with another one of those block-rocking posts. Another small array of comedy digestibles this time; finger-food for your thought-cauldrons.
I’ve put up page two of miscellaneous trolling, containing a few more amusing threads that didn’t get a decent enough reaction to justify their own page. Sometimes the fuckers just won’t bite.
There’s also a new topic on the FAIR WARNING!! group, entitled Off topic but good info, which you are more than welcome to look at with your eyes, should you so choose. The same goes for anything on here, really; don’t wait to be asked. Mi casa es mi casa.
In line with my stance on controversial opinion, the swiftly deleted and much-fabled Legalise Rape! group is now up to view, along with a small portion of the resulting furore. As ever, you can hate me for it by clicking on this link.
I will be updating a bit more regularly over the next few empty promises, so keep an eye out for more unsolicited opinion and tedious reviews.
Somethingson
Well, what a hectic few days it has been. So I’m told. I was in bed for a large portion of it, following an impromptu three-way with a Thai chicken and a Mexican pig. No animals were harmed in the making of this love, but I did pick up a nasty hybrid flu that put me out for a while.
No matter; I’m back now, and the fragmented nonsense will flow freely once more.
On a more sombre note, this week does mark the passing of two of my very dearest facebook profiles- Azz Somethingson and the long-standing MC Skat. What a shame; the latter had over seven hundred hard-earned, loyal, long-term friends, most of whom were found prostituting their companionship on ‘add me’ groups somewhere towards the back edge of the darker regions of Facebook.
Tragically, this means that you will no longer be able to view any of their contributions on the original groups, and any newcomers will need to take me at my word that the exchanges quoted actually took place. Well, I always edit the dialogue down to the necessary and entertaining, so you were wasting your time viewing the groups anyway.
This is par for the course, of course. Trolls aren’t really understood or accepted on the internet yet. We’re discriminated against, like black people used to be before they infiltrated the Whitehouse. Hmm. Note to self…
So what brought about this synchronised purge of my treasured sock-puppets? The full story will be available to view over the coming weeks, but it involves several hundred angry calendar slags, Kenyan presidential assassination threats and a whole shit-load of people who don’t hate Jews nearly as much as I would have liked them to.
I call them usurps, and I think you’ll like them. It’s like trolling, only much, much similar.
Watch this space for a detailed look at the usurps that finally got MC Skat booted off the site, plus some more from the archives, including the original ‘Legalise Rape’ group and the resulting furore.
For now, I have uploaded a few bits and pieces of miscellanea from the archives; trolls I’ve had on the go for a while but did not have enough success with to justify building a separate page.
http://somethingson.wordpress.com/trolling/miscellaneous-trolling-part-1/
Enjoy, and once you’re done, be sure to fuck off.
