Thursday, 20 March 2008

Peter's third rant to the Internetians

Right, i've decided to form a collective Bible of hatred, anger and vicious seething loathing, with which I can attack all those who utterly piss me off and drive subliminal homicidal tendencies. And don't worry, this isn't all about politics ;)

The sad thing is though, it's about something just as bad. Brown nosing. The glorious act of sucking up insincerely to people, with gifts, praise and general loyalty. I always get frustrated because like most decent hard-working individuals- I am decent and hardworking, therefor do my job. I do it well, I get it all done and that's it. I'm nice, I'm friendly I do all you ask and if I want praise, promotion or raise, I let my competence and eptitude lead the way.

Only for some Kniving Shit with a box of Ferrero Roche to go and play smarmy.

The sad truth with brown nosing, is not only that it's incredibly annoying, but that people fall for it. Unfortuneately, we all do as humans- compliments are easy to fall for, especially if your a concerned person. Take me for example, my hair looks like that of a tramp who's been washing his locks in a mixture of cider and flower, and then gone for a centre parting for panache. I can't help but worry about how bad my hair is. But I over exaggerate it, and when people comment on it being cool, I go excessively happy- wildly joyous, like a Nazi with a camera outside a blazing Riechstag. I can't even feel irritated at those who fall for it, as I'm almost certain I must do. Else that or my worries of inferiority have caused an endemic mental paranoia causing me to think so. Which is just as bad!

So, here's a big fuck you to shallowness in the pursuit of cold-calculated progression at the expense of all human decency. Go and blast your tonsils out with shotguns, you festering fungal growths of the worst nature.

Oh, I'll finish this post later! Just managed to weasel £30!

Monday, 17 March 2008

Power Horse

The demand for high quality energy drinks has never been higher, and originally in search for a can of everyone's favourite, I came across the dark horse of the pack, or rather, the “Power horse!” Served in a distinctively shaped can, like a normal coke can which didn't quite grow tall enough, you know it has it's own uniqueness already in mind, not copying “Red bull's” can shape like many other clones. Containing 250ml it was already ahead of “Red bull” on quantity and was a few pence cheaper from the fine boutique of purchase I chose. An excellent start, but could it live up to it's promise?
Upon opening it, it had the same loving smell of red bull, that sugary, fruity smell, but of a fruit that doesn't exist. Ah. Familiar territory. So, with one last look over the reassuring black equine I had a swig. Fuck me and call me Isabella, what do they put in this! One gulp and my pupils are dilating at a rate of knots and I'm immediately transversing from this spiritual plane into one of taurine induced zen and frequent caffiene blackouts. This stuff is dynamite, but packs more of a punch than the afforementioned nitroglycerine soaked clay, helped by the fact it's roughly as viscous as original lucozade! Those Austrians know how to brew an energy drink! After this initial gulp my brain and body soon started to feel some good vibes, and with each subsequent chug of this electrifying amber syrup I was thouroughly getting absolutely boosted. If Red bull gives you wings, this thing gives you a pair of jet engines and breaks you through the sound barrier. I checked the can once again, looking for possible warnings of side effects, or that excessive consumption may make you speak too fast to be understood by any human being. There were no warnings, either that or I scanned too quickly to notice, and was too busy doing random gorilla poses and smiling inanely to be objective anymore. Walking down the street post beverage the world was a brighter place, and I was ready to carry on going.
However, the real test in an boost juice is how long you spend rolling in bed. Normally a few hours are spent headbanging to my MP3 player. Nothing unusual there, except this particular evening I was headbanging to folk. Not folk metal, or folk rock, but folk. 5 hours I spent sandwiched between a mattress and duvet, my head either engaged in permanent linear motion, or spinning cyclically like something being sucked into a vortex. Sometime after dawn started to break and I'd exhausted every position bar sticking my head up my arse, I finally got some sleep.
Overall, a wonderful drink for those extra special moments, but it's limited availability here in cornershops for the time being mean it can only be given an

Wednesday, 2 January 2008


Bored with chinese water torture, the rack, and Emmerdale, someone somewhere once invented written examinations. The pestilence of education. I imagine they were invented by a small, twisted, broken individual- hunchbacked from the superiors who had trodden all over him and attempted to make him spineless. As such, he responded by attacking the rest of the population with the torture he had suffered, by making them answer questions they already know the answers too frequently, with such crushing pressure as "GET THE ANSWER RIGHT NOW OR YOU DIE! YOU WILL BE BOILED ALIVE IN A LAGOON OF LIQUID TREACLE AND BOWEL OINTMENT WHILST WE SHAVE YOUR FAMILY PET AND REMOVE YOUR PARENTS EYEBALLS WITH CORKSCREWS BASTARD!"

I have exams. It shows.

But I honestly wonder how the people running examinations can't see thier futility and uselessness. Hmm, I know. Let's make everybody concentrate 97% of their resources on an extremely narrow spectrum of intelligence and knowledge so that we ensure everyone meets basic standards.

And of course, just over half of us allegedly get through these hoops.

I think those making these descisions need to meet thier own basic standards before coming up with the system of frequent examinations, the back-street aborted spawn of satan.

I am not amused.

Thursday, 20 December 2007

"Really, well I thought it worked on 9 levels..."

Recently, I have become increasingly disillusioned with the depth in which some things are analysed. This should come as no surprise to regular readers, who know by now I become increasingly disillusioned with everything. Constantly. One day I aim to reach a state of disillusionment where I transgress into another dimension which shall lead me to become a fat string-vest wearing man in a council flat with an obsession for brylcream and asprin.

Yet, political aspirations aside, I absolutely loathe the obsession some people have with finding obscurities in artistic works and claiming that they were not only intentional, but the main focus of the work.

Let me clarify a truth. The main theme, is the main focus. This is because they are both linked with the word "main." The idea that Mary Shelley's "Frankenstien" is a proto-feminist rant due to the face that she as an author was female is a big, fat, unadultered heap of horseshit.

There can be some hidden meanings. I do not argue that for a second. But does it ever occur to people that whilst you may be able to gather some evidence to support your claim, that because you are not the artist, nor do you look at the overhelmingly huge pile of evidence against you, that you might, just might, be FUCKING WRONG?

Yes, lets read into subtext. Stalin purged people because he liked courtroom dramas. Hitler killed 6 million Jewish people to be ironic on a grand scale, and Satan was cast out of heaven to show how the great inequalities in God's own creation in the transcendiant world exsist along side ours and to set the example for us to segregate good and evil, merely as a demonstration of his never ending agape towards us.

Problem is, some bastard can come and read this, my rant, and claim that I was suffering from anything from sexual repression to headlice due to the shaky spelling indicitve of frequent head movements. I AM NOT! I'M JUST TELLING PEOPLE TO SEE THINGS FOR WHAT THEY FUCKING ARE!

Any comments that don't involve the words "Meanings", "subtext", "nugget", or "perhaps what the artist meant to say..."?

Sunday, 9 December 2007

The Run up to Christmas...

...and the fun never ends.

People are shopping in Clarks and Waterstones,
Northern Rock customers will soon have no loans,
The pretentious upper classes offset thier carbon,
whilst I swear and curse, downing my bourbon.

Trees stand illuminated, glaring white,
council houses too, in the night,
And Nasa delays another shuttle mission,
as the sensors are broken, by thier own admission

A small child is missing from a portugese holiday,
thier parents use charity to make the mortgage repay,
Robert Mugabe runs a nation into the depths of turmoil,
we'll just ignore him, only take action for oil.

Gordon Brown think's he king and will run a new britain,
Crisis after crisis though, he's no longer so smitten
with a vain and romantic view of politics,
in reality run by a shower of dicks.

Dunno why I wrote a poem, but it pretty much sums up my mindset right now.

Wednesday, 5 December 2007

Snack Sized Portions

Once upon a time, a bunch of not very bright people in a room had a meeting.

Hang on, let me rephrase that. All meetings are a bunch of not very bright people in a room. I need to specify.

Once upon a time, some morons who worked in catering for supermarkets had a meeting to design new cakes. They also decided to consider the size of such foods, in order to encourage beeter efficency, and eating habits.

So, these genii went and made "micro cakes", with the seeming intention of causing RSI in the motion of moving arm to cake box continuously to take lots of small cakes because THEY'RE TOO FUCKING SMALL FOR ONE TO SATISFY!

Now, normal cakes and mince pies or scone etc are fine. They have thier purpose. What I'm moaning about is cakes which are deliberately "mini" to sound "cute" when in fact it means you have more filling, less icing, more wasted packaging holding the space between cakes and I think they actually encourage worse eating habits. If I'm eating small cakes, it's harder to judge how much I've had than if I have a huge great big "fuck off" slab of cake in front of me (preferably with a little Nandos-esque flag sticking out of the top with "cake" written on it.) which is why I find the fiddly bastards so annoying! I want cake, not "micro cakes", which are just sold to stupid fat people who think they'll loose weight by eating more of something smaller!

I may be fat, but I ain't thick- unlike the layer of pastry on a mini- mince pie. WHERE'S THE FILLING? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE? No, because the laws of volume and surface area mean smaller pie= less filling, more pastry en masse. Which means your eating paper with the heaviness of butter and less rum soaked shrivelled fruit (get any images of alcoholics and prostitution out of your mind immediately) which is never a good thing (unless in the instance of the aforementioned image I just told to you get rid of.)

Alas, I doubt my message of sanity will get through, mainly as cake manufacturers will never read this, and my ramblings are always pointless and inconsequential.

I'll just have to add "Non-minicakes" to the wikipedia "Superfood" list :D

Sunday, 2 December 2007

The information Superhighway!

I love hindsight- it creates so much humour! Anyone else remmember the old phrase that is the title of this blog post, from back in the 90's? Well, think of the irony that this was thrown about when the internet was new, and dial-up was the only connection.

Yes, the days of the AOL 9.0 "Free Trial!" discs, when you'd get about 7 in the door everyday, and end up using them all as beermat's, or mobile's for toddler's bedrooms. Made neat frisbee's too. But when you think about the old whiring connecting time of the crappy modem's, it becomes funnier and funnier how inappropriate "information superhighway" was. Nowadays, that wouldn be like an "neglected information B-road that's half quagmire leading from Norwich to Surbiton. A pretty shite transportation network i'm sure you'll agree.

And remmember how much fun the internet was? You'd look up utter crap just because you could! Garden furnishngs, how to milk your very first Yak, a brief guide to owl defecation. Well, unless your garden furnishings need some yak milk and owl crap, I don't think it was particularly useful.

Still, I miss those days when the internet itself was a marvel. But the pornographic capabilities have increased, so hey. Balances out I guess :P