Freakspotting

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would they want to do a thing like that? They chose not to choose life. They chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got Cosplay?

Yes, Cosplay, the biggest threat to the country since Hitler and his sharply dressed army. But, unlike the Nazis, this lot know nothing of discipline. In fact a good dose of National Service would sort them out. If you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. Cosplay is the attempt by people with nothing to wake up for in the morning to dress up as their favourite characters out of comics or TV series. It probably all began with Trekkies dressing up like General Kirk or Doctor Spock, but has gotten all out of control with people dressing up as minor characters in the Legend of Zilda or E.T. The Extra Testicle. It gives them a sense of being, a belonging in a world that hates them. They gather together and perform strange little rituals, usually at comic conventions. Which is where I gazed into the face of madness. I was attending Thought Bubble, 'an annual celebration of sequential art in all its forms' (LOL. Just call them comics!) Ninjasaurus Rex had brought it to my attention and he was desperate to get to a Japanese restaurant in Leeds again, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. If only we'd killed one hundred Cosplayers with the same stone we would have come home happy men.

I arrived at the plaza between the Royal Armouries and the new Savile Building and gazed on what looked like a scene from the Fourth Circle of Hell. The avaricious with their cossetted material possessions danced about to the tuneless horns of Mars. Dressed as Manga characters. I panicked and telephoned Ninjasaurus who had been struck immobile by the scene of human degradation. Seeking comfort in numbers we banded together quickly and watched one anothers backs like hawks. Our fear was soon dissipated by the sight of the very chair SIR JIMMY SAVILE sat in:

Not only his Chair, but his car as well!! This was a man who was living the dream!

This was without doubt the best thing we saw all day and was well worth the ten pounds admission fee alone, but was nothing to do with the Comic Con. Which, frankly, was just loads and loads and loads of comics for sale. But then, what else did I expect it to be? Ninjasaurus saw some of his friends from the dark world of comic publishing and I bumped into the Big O, who rather kindly gave us a free comic each!

Cheers big man!!

Outside, the swirling mass of madness was gathering it's momentum and here are a few pictures to illustrate just what we saw. I beg you, gentle reader, do not allow your eyes to linger too long on these images...

Aren't you a little shit to be a Stormtrooper?

I wanted a photo, not a pose...

Electra's arse and Mario and Luigi. The mind boggles...

Is that a lightsaber or a lipstick?

Wrap up warm, love...

Interviewer: So what is missing in your life?

We retreated into the Armouries to look at real weapons, rather than over sized foam hammers and realised that we had a vantage point over the assembled freaks. After a few minutes of playing 'spot the tard' we both said in unison 'I wish I had a rifle.'

Sargent, three rounds rapid!

I was going to run up to him shouting 'Help! Help! Judge, I've just been raped in the Armouries toilets!' to see if he'd help, but I bottled it at the last minute. 

We finished the afternoon off by a visit to this authentic U-Boat which had surfaced in the docks.

It was captained by this fellow:

 

Over the Top!

I have had a busy couple of weekends recently and have fallen behind with updating this blog on that score, so here I shall try to remedy it. It may turn into a long post, if it does, I don't care. Suck it up, use your phone to call someone that fucking cares, etc. I have been up and down the country in the past fortnight, I have been as far north in England than any man has ever been and I have also been so far down south that I actually ended up in France. Now, if you settle down in your seats, I shall tell you how...

Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up...

Knowing full well what crimes against humanity Tarquin Sheen is capable of I have dutifully avoided ever going to his house in Durham. I was duped, however, the other week when he invited myself, Moogdroog and Helen out for what he called 'a day of fun' at Lindisfarne. I assumed that the company of others would lessen the blow of horror that awaited in that dark corner of the country. I was wrong. His idea of fun was forcing me to drive for hours and hours even though I hadn't slept for four days. He kept me awake at the wheel by screaming at me through a megaphone every time I would start to drop off. Himself and his brother Nole, would punch me in the back of the head at every opportunity, usually when overtaking a large goods vehicle... Having been forced to drive to the edge of England (apparently Berwick is NOT in Scotland, no matter how many people I asked. Why they are flying Scottish flags all over the fucking place was never successfully explained, however...) and back down to Holy Island, he then frog marched the group over hill and dale to look at the Lime Kilns. He wouldn't even let us stop to admire the villager's jam collections. Moogdroog was concerned about this in particular; 'what if there was a jamergency' she was heard to say... We were death marched into the museum and had to wait whilst he read every single word on the museum displays. Since he can't actually read, this took quite some time. I amused myself by looking at the Viking stones on display:

Best thing in Lindsifarne

Back at Sheen's dungeon we were subjected to a two hour battering of the shite that is Game of Thrones before I was finally allowed to collapse into a fitful sleep on his cold damp cellar floor. The following morning Sheen and I went into Durham town, saying sad farewells to Helen at the cathedral. Tarquin gave me his own personal tour of the cathedral, which appeared to be split between the Catholic, Jewish and Greek Orthodox churches, if his explanations were to be believed. He also did it in a German accent for some unfathomable reason.

What a dump

This weekend just passed was the 1st of July and I hot footed it out of the country to France and the Somme, to the commemorations that were happening there. I have a passing interest in the Great War. I also have a passing interest in the aviation of the First World War. It came as a great delight and surprise that Peter Hart would be joining us for the trip. An eminent historian from the Imperial War Museum, Peter had written two books of which I was rather fond: Bloody April and Falling Aces, so it was with baited breath that wanted to meet him. What a fucking disappointment he was. All he did was swear at everyone, get drunk and belligerent and call everyone he knew 'a cunt'. I have never been more shocked in all my life. I never ever swear, especially in public, and to hear this man turn the very air blue gave me a funny turn. I will never look at his books in the same light again.

I used to like your books...

Weird things always happen when I go to France and this time was no different. We were sitting there relaxing, having a nice drink when a bunch of French farmers pulled up, eager to show us something once they found out there were archaeologists amongst our number. From out of the back of their car they pulled the fuselage tail section of a BF-109f. In immaculate condition...

Om nom nom...

They invited us to come and have a look at the other 'special stuff' they had in various barns across the countryside. Between them they'd built a museum that housed several aircraft engines they'd pulled out of the ground, all restored and displayed as only enthusiasts can...

Double om nom nom...

We were then took around various other farms to look at barn doors with Great War painting still intact, more rusted metal from various airplane crash sites, Great War graffiti on church walls and best of all a still working cannon from a BF-109 that had lain in the ground for seventy years!

DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!!

Yes, being a nerd can sometimes have its advantages. To see more pictures from France, CLICK HERE. The rest of the weekend was made up of visiting the sunken lane at 7.30am on the 1st and paying our respects to the men who fought and died there. I also attended the Ulster Tower memorial service, where I got my photo taken with a real life Canadian Mountie and won a two Euro bet with Dr Kenyon, who egged me on to get my picture with her. Unfortunately I didn't win the five Euro bet which would have seen me wearing her hat...

The Mounties always get their man...

The afternoons and evenings were swamped with booze and I am still recovering two days later. Sorry, I've just realised none of this is actually funny. So I'll stop.