Thursday, 23 December 2010


Yesterday all the news channels were bleating on about that Vince Cable thing - especially Sky, because it was about them, how exciting. I'm not going to comment at all on the way that the whole thing has been blown out of proportion and that when you think about it he didn't really do anything at all, and that the press has hungrily made a huge deal about the fact that he said 'declare war,' practically shouting it repeatedly at the camera. I'm just going to draw your attention to that recording they played continuously. The best bit about the whole thing is when he mentions the thing about 'declaring war,' and the female reporter spy laughs. I can practically hear the disbelieving and selfish glee behind that laugh. Imagine what she would have been thinking when she realised the massive evil plot she had revealed - causing her to laugh just slightly too much for the fairly average 'funny' comment he made. That laugh completely embodies the thirst and greed for stories that I think reporters have. It is funny and desperate.

Tuesday, 21 December 2010


I've just realised that seconds are too long. I have realised this because whenever anyone attempts to count seconds, they go too quickly. Whoever invented seconds was obviously too laid back, thick, or had an unnaturally slow heartbeat. I propose that we speed seconds up slightly. Minutes and hours will remain unaffected.
I might be getting one of those poncy digital SLR cameras, most probably Canon. So I am issuing a formal warning: it is highly likely that, if said camera comes about, there will be a barrage of sub-standard amateur photos (with extremely high contrast) of profound raindrops on leaves, wilting flowers, and ugly industrial buildings. I might even stoop so low as to take one of those hipster/indie photos in vile mismatched vintage clothes. Upside down. In a mirror. With inturned knees and hunched shoulders. I will endeavour to make this a complete parody, but there will be an inevitable underlying element of self consciousness, desperation, and extreme vanity.

Monday, 6 December 2010

Extensive efforts bring slight elevation of the disappointment

We have found a way to lessen the ugliness of our Christmas tree. By hacking off large proportions of its mass, draping it with forty different colours of tinsel and shining a high powered tungsten filament lamp directly at the tree for the duration of its stay, it we can lift it into the realms of mildly disgusting rather than heart-breakingly repugnant. This was helped by an envy-fuelled rampage of tidying my mother carried out* after visiting someone else's compulsively tidy house.
*Was not successful in finding a cool way of saying mother. I considered 'mum,' 'mummy,' 'maid,' 'parent' and was very close to 'female parent.'

Saturday, 4 December 2010

Christmas tree brings sickening disappoinment

I just decorated the Christmas tree. After an hour of intense work I stood back to behold a miserable drooping creature, the vivid and sparkling baubles disappearing into an overpowering mass of disappointing green. Sequinned owls, glittery pine cones, glass spheres, droplets of diamond, gold parcels, and vile red stars from Matalan which I put round the back - all absorbed by its fat pervading branches. What I especially dislike about our 6 foot bush is the way it is wonderfully corpulent at the bottom, but tapers into disheartening sparseness above the halfway mark. Like an anorexic with a beer belly. My mum asked for a 4 foot tree but I decided 6 foot was closer to 4 foot than 4 foot. The excess 2 feet are an ugly branchless peak, like some skeletal finger that I will probably cut off eventually.
The highlight of the Christmas tree process was undoubtedly the net machine. At B&Q a man took our Christmas tree from us, and while we looked on in protective and loving concern, he passed it through some sort of cement mixture with a net at one end. When the Christmas tree came out the other side, it had a net on. It was magical. Elated, we wiped tears of bliss from our eyes and took our tree back into our trolley, stroking its belly. Unsatisfied with a mere pot, we also bought a chavvy gold stand which I detest even more than the tree.