Happy 50th Bill Hicks

This is the last picture to be taken of Bill, Christmas Eve, 1993. He has his arm around his father. Happy 50th Bill, your words still burn a hole through all the bullshit.

Andy Milonakis' Big Grapefruit

The most incredible thing has just happened. Andy Milonakis replied to me on twitter. I asked him whether or not he'd be making a Big Grapefruit Part 3 video at any point in the future. His response: "yes eventually". Fucking awesome.

You may be wondering what exactly the 'Big Grapefruit videos' are. Well, why don't you see for yourself:

Big Grapefruit Part 1



Big Grapefruit Part 2



Pure genius I think you'll agree.

Life. What’s The Fucking Point?

Boredom and death. Two inevitable cornerstones of the human condition. The solution? A good old fashioned moan.

I’m bored. So very bored. A profound existential boredom that’s corroding my soul. The monotony, the routine, the grey calendar of existence, the blah blah blah more boring words, BORED!

I’d like to share a quote - taken from The Dice Man - that captures exactly how I feel:

“Life is islands of ecstasy in an ocean of ennui, and after the age of thirty land is seldom seen. At best we wander from one much-worn sandbar to the next, soon familiar with each grain of sand we see.”

I’m drowning in an ocean of ennui. And the closest I’ve come to a cure is HBO. Yes, Home Box Office, the American cable network. HBO offers some of the highest quality escapism there is. The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Boardwalk Empire, The Wire, Band Of Brothers – in other words some of the best TV ever made. All wonderful, all offering momentary respite from the grinding reality of life. But once you’re done watching The Pacific DVD boxset, what then?

What other brightly coloured baubles are there to distract us from our slow inevitable slide into the grave? Sex, food, porn, booze, - an endless list of comforting self-indulgence , each performed with mechanical regularity to help divert us from our meaningless trudge towards oblivion.

Knowing too that others have articulated this age old battle with boredom better than I ever could - Nietzsche, Camus, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, to name a few. The helpless realisation that the more you learn, the more aware you are of your own ignorance, and the equally sickening epiphany that life is simply too short to do much about it, to even scratch the surface.

Begrudgingly accepting that there’ll always be someone better than you, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you sweat and toil and fret over a personal undertaking, there’ll always be someone who’ll undermine your effort.

And secretly, perversely, enjoying the fucked-up pointlessness of it all. The helpless frustration, the ridiculous unbearable boredom. Somehow there’s a freedom in it.

And that is why I am lost.

Yup, it's not easy being a human being. Ever since evolution saddled us with self-awareness, we've been wallowing in existential angst. Why are we here? What does it all mean? What's the fucking point? Life is complicated enough without the added burden of unanswerable questions plaguing our every thought. Add to that our inherent ability to feel guilt, shame and paranoia and you begin to wonder how we ever make it through the day.

So then, how to cope with the problem of being a living breathing human being? Well, if you're a veteran curmudgeon, like me, you'll write whiny articles, like this. Because writing about people, and why those people are such insufferable bastards, is undeniably cathartic.

When the simpleton in front of you takes longer than five minutes to withdraw money from the cash point, they should be put on the sex offenders register. All those humourless wankers who write to The Daily Mail because they were offended by a joke they heard on TV should be rounded up and bulldozed into an industrial meat grinder.

When confronted, day after sodding day, with this endless conveyor belt of cunts, it takes an iron will not to indulge the murderous fury that lurks deep within our souls. And so I write, to help ease the pain, and the red mist of rage dissipates. But one day, when words are no longer enough to tame the devil inside, and I finally snap, I hope you're not in the immediate vicinity. Because, baby, it's gonna get messy.

Tom

The smiling surgeon approached Tom brandishing a black marker pen.
            “Have to make absolutely sure”, he said. “Pop yourself on the bed for me young man."
            Tom sat on the hard mattress. He was naked beneath the flimsy hospital gown.
            The surgeon, still smiling his benign smile, said, “Human error is inevitable, even in the esteemed echelons of ontological surgery”. He uncapped his black marker pen and lifted Tom’s gown.
            “There!” he declared triumphantly. “Didn't tickle too much I hope". He scribbled on his clipboard and disappeared behind the curtain rail that surrounded the bed.
            Tom was alone now, the walls of his isolation strengthened by the chipper surgeon’s departure. Since his diagnosis, Tom had done everything he could to avoid being alone; it gave him too much time to think.
            In his darker moments, during that awful purgatory before sleep consumed him, Tom understood that, one day, and maybe far sooner than he’d hoped, he was going to die.
            By God he was going to die.
            Not that God had anything to do with it. What kind of benevolent, merciful deity would allow a cancerous cell to flourish in the testicle of a blameless young man? Only an omnipotent prankster, dark and foul of thought, would treat his life with such callous indifference. 
            A beautiful black face appeared in the curtain. It was the ward nurse.
            “How are you feeling sweetheart?”, she said.
            “I’m fine." Despite his dread sense of impending annihilation, Tom fought any outward sign of weakness. He would not break character, not now.
            “Okay my dear, I’ll come get you in ten minutes”.
            Ten minutes.
            Ten years.
            Ten millennia.
            All insignificant, arbitrary units of time when compared to the infinite, unknowable universe. Tom felt acutely attuned to the crushing indifference of the world around him. Time would eventually consume everything, including itself.
            One day it would all be gone.
            Charles Darwin’s brutal hammer blow to creationism; Albert Camus’ measured response to the profound absurdity of it all; Bill Hicks' righteous indignation; every homicidal religion and all our conjured Gods – all of them lost, plunged into the void from which they were born.
            The day would eventually come when some hapless soul had the historical misfortune to utter humanity's last ever words. But when faced with outright extinction, what words could possibly suffice? A proud and noble tribute to humankind's greatest achievements? Or would civilisation's final spokesman scream in feral terror as the encroaching darkness smotherd him forever?
            Tom lifted his gown to inspect the surgeon's handiwork. An ugly black 'X' stained his inner thigh, like an obscene treasure map.
            What was it the surgeon had said to him?
            'Human error is inevitable'.
            Quite, but did he have to be so blunt? It reminded Tom of those cheesy hospital dramas where the Doctors conversed in cliché.
            'Unforseen complications'.
            'He put up one hell of a fight'.
            'We did all we could'.
            Cosy euphemisms to placate the pre-watershed audience. Stock phrases spoken through ice white teeth. Bloodless bandages, pristine wards and Hollywood nurses – anything to distract the masses from their slow slide in to the grave.
            But Tom was all too aware of the horror stories. A sleep-deprived surgeon might amputate the wrong limb - or remove the perfectly healthy testicle. And sometimes the surgeon would doodle on the moribund appendage using a black marker pen, to avoid such catastrophic mishaps.
            The sudden swish of the curtain rail startled Tom from his solipsistic stream of consciousness.
            It was time.
            Tom began to shuffle off the bed but was interrupted before he could plant his feet on the floor.
            "No need to get up sweetheart", said the nurse. "These beds have wheels. You just lay back".
            She pulled the bed away from the wall with minimal effort. Tom gripped the sides of the mattress.
            "I'm fine to walk, honestly", said Tom. "More than happy to walk".
            The nurse had seen Tom’s haunted look of apprehension a thousand times before.
            She said, “It's no trouble at all, sweetheart”.
            The nurse wheeled the bed out of the ward and in to the main corridor.
            No trouble at all, thought Tom. What the fuck do you know? I'm having a nut removed, you clueless bitch.
            Tom looked up in to the Nurse’s face and smiled. He restrained the swelling impulse to scream and spit and swear; to leap from the bed and run; to rage against the piss-soaked unfairness of it all.
            The fucking injustice of it all.
            Why me?
            WHY ME?
            The nurse pushed Tom through the double swing doors at the end of the corridor.

The Butcher

Isn't it exciting that out there, somewhere, there is music, beautiful life-enhancing music, that we've yet to discover.

One thing I've learned: It's no use trying to persuade someone to like your music. I guess discovering a song for yourself is part of the magic.

But maybe this will be one of those songs, something you've not heard before, but once you have...BOOM. Bliss city

OMG! With Peaches Geldof

Had to scrub my eyes with bleach after watching that vacuous, over-privileged twat spouting her tiresome brand of self-congratulatory wank.

April Fool's Day

April Fool's Day. An opportunity for tiresome dullards to exploit the terminally gullible. Treat any suspicious Facebook update with the contempt it deserves.

Dedicated Misanthropist

It's hard being a human being. Ever since evolution saddled us with self-awareness, we've been wallowing in a boggy mire of existential angst. Why are we here? What does it all mean? What's the fucking point? Life is complicated enough without the added burden of unanswerable questions plaguing our every thought. Add to that our inherent ability to feel guilt, shame and paranoia and you begin to wonder how we ever make it through the day.

So then, how to cope with the problem of being a living breathing human being? Well, if you're a dedicated misanthropist, like me, you'll write ranty blog posts, like this. Because writing about people, and why those people are such insufferable bastards, is undeniably cathartic.

When the simpleton in front of you takes longer than five minutes to withdraw money from the cash point, they should be put on the sex offenders register. All those humourless wankers who write to The Daily Mail because they were offended by a joke they heard on TV should be rounded up and bulldozed into an industrial meat grinder.

When confronted, day after sodding day, with this endless conveyor belt of cunts, it takes an iron will not to indulge the murderous fury that lurks deep within our souls. And so I write, to help ease the pain, and the red mist of rage dissipates. But one day, when words are no longer enough to tame the devil inside, and I finally snap, I hope you're not in the immediate vicinity. Because, baby, it's gonna get messy.

My Trip To The Dentist

My dentist was blunt: my teeth are in a ruinous state. Just spent an hour being injected, drilled and lectured. And the worst part? I saw the whole gory spectacle. There was a tiny reflective panel in the overhead light. Morbid curiosity held my gaze; I was complicit in my very own, extremely intimate, snuff movie.

And while I recover, left side of my face paralysed like a stroke victim, I think about the inevitable deterioration of the human body. It comes to us all eventually, the stark realisation that we are, in fact, mortal.

But I can handle the existential angst, the aching jaw and the belittling lecture. It’s the sodding great bill that truly brings a tear to the eye. I won’t divulge the cost (I’m a little embarrassed by it if I’m perfectly honest), but let’s just say I’ll be shopping at Lidl for the foreseeable future.

RIP Nate Dogg

Yesterday was a sad day for hip hop. My nigga Nate Dogg shuffled off this mortal coil, no doubt with a blunt and an entourage of fine bitches. The cause of death is still unkown, but I have my suspicions. The next stop is the Eastside hotel. Peace out home boy.

Reality VS Escapism

Secretly, deep down at the bottom of our souls, we thrill and quiver at the sight of destruction. The human eye is lustful; it craves the novel, the unusual, the spectacular. Probe the dark recesses of the internet and you'll uncover the rotten underbelly of humanity; the entire gamut of depravity there for all to see. Reality, however grim, holds a perverse yet undeniably mass appeal.

You'd think I'd be surprised then that a movie trailer for Super 8 has topped Twitter's trending topics, even in the midst of one of Japan's biggest natural disasters. Surely all those live news feeds depicting graphic images of epic destruction would be enough to push it to the very top?

But no. JJ Abrams' movie takes pole position. Why? Because however much the grim realities of life might fascinate and compel us, escapism is always the preferable option. Get the fuck out of dodge, away from all the bullshit and hate. After all, "the best stories in the world are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape." (Walter Bagehot).

Let us escape, if only for a while.

The Social Network

Most surprising thing about The Social Network? Hard to choose. The flawless casting, the zippy zingy dialogue, the satisfying and staggering insights into the messy birth of facebook, that girl in the red hot-pants, the genuine feeling of enlightenment as the credits roll - all are worthy contenders. But I'm plumping for the soundtrack. Trent Reznor whips out his disco stick and pisses funk all over the shop. My film of the year so far.

The Man Who Murdered God

Inspiration can strike at the most unexpected times. Today I woke up with a most peculiar thought. I’m not sure if it was a residual echo from a forgotten dream or simply the result of my atheist brain. Whatever the case, here’s the thought I couldn’t seem to shake:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him.

You may disagree, but I think that sounds like a really juicy opening line to a novel. And given that the thought keeps pestering me, prodding and poking my brain like an attention starved child, I’ve decided to nurture it. Yes, I’m going to attempt to write a novel about murdering God. This may very well be a total waste of time; a self indulgent exercise by yet another aspiring novelist. However, there’s a chance – an infinitesimally slim chance, yes, but don’t stop me ‘cos I’m on a roll! - that it could be the best opener to a book since Tolkien scribbled the words “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit”.

Tolkien, of course, had no idea what the sentence meant. He had never heard of “hobbits” and hadn’t the foggiest idea what a hobbit was. And yet it spawned the greatest mythology of all time. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, right?

So, here’s my opening paragraph. Let me know what you think:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him. And before you accuse me of plagiarising Friedrich ‘God is dead’ Nietzsche, let me make myself crystal clear: I stabbed God in the chest with a kitchen knife. I heard the last breath come wheezing from His punctured lung.

The Beauty Of Bordeom

I’m bored. So very bored. A profound existential boredom that’s corroding my very soul. The monotony, the routine, the grey calendar of existence, the blah blah blah more boring words, BORED!

I’d like to share a quote - taken from The Dice Man - that captures exactly how I feel:

Life is islands of ecstasy in an ocean of ennui, and after the age of thirty land is seldom seen. At best we wander from one much-worn sandbar to the next, soon familiar with each grain of sand we see.

I’m drowning in an ocean of ennui. And the closest I’ve come to a cure is HBO. Yes, Home Box Office, the American cable network. HBO offers some of the highest quality escapism there is. The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Boardwalk Empire, Band Of Brothers – in other words some of the best TV ever made. All wonderful, all offering momentary respite from the grinding reality of life. But once you’re done watching The Pacific DVD boxset, what then?

What other brightly coloured baubles are there to distract us from our slow inevitable slide into the grave? Books, movies, sex, food, videogames, holidays, porn, booze, music, clubs, work, facebook, youtube, twitter, blogs, stupid pointless blogs that no fucker wants to read, especially when that blog pisses and moans about what is possibly the most boring subject known to man: BOREDOM.

Maddening circularity. Familiarity that breeds contempt. Knowing too, that others have articulated this age old battle with boredom better than I ever could - Nietzsche, Camus, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, to name a few. The helpless realisation that the more you learn, the more aware you are of your own ignorance, and the equally sickening epiphany that life is simply too short to do much about it, to even scratch the surface.

Knowing that there’ll always be someone better than you, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you sweat and toil and fret over a personal undertaking, there’ll always be someone who’ll undermine your effort.

And secretly, perversely, enjoying the fucked-up pointlessness of it all. The helpless frustration, the ridiculous unbearable boredom. Somehow there’s a freedom in it.

And that is why I am lost.

Mid Morning Matters with Alan Partridge

Can someone please tell me why Alan Partridge's Mid Morning Matters is sponsered by Fosters? Everyone knows it should have been Tonic Water...with some ice...and a segment of lemon...and topped up with some Gordon's Gin. Followed by a pint of lager and a shot of Baileys. Ah, Ladyboys.