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.