Read part one HERE
The festering bank of shops loomed ahead of me out of the mist like a row of ghoulish grinning faces beckoning me to my doom. This vista accompanied me as I began my search for a
grocery in order to restock my now slender larder. The initial search concluded that
this town appeared to consist only of money lenders and second hand stores. A
sure indication that times were hard for the population, if indeed, they had ever been good. This conclusion was also easily reachable by examining the state of the crumbling and fading
façades of the residencies here abouts. Once proud had this town been, but now left to ruination by some untold and ancient occurrence. Presently my searching carried me
to the forecourt of a large and brooding building with what appeared to be heady, heathenish activity
therein. Above the rusticated and putrefying frontage it bore a faded and
peeling sign. Once bright green letters spelt out the word MORRISONS over a putrid and
foetid yellow background. I fear that I have seen that particular rank shade of effervescent green before,
although at the time I failed to make the connection. Yes, my now clear
recollection is of the Satanic paintings of the mad Erich Zahn and the viscous green he used in
his depictions of that accursed ancient Demon-God Cthulhu! Had I made
that cerebral connection as I stood before that ingress I would never have stepped over that
hexed threshold and I would not be in my present miserable state of mind.
But, step over it I did and it took no
small amount of time to navigate unto the interior of that
rotten edifice, that unscrupulous temple of depravity. The doorway, if indeed it may be called a doorway, was such
that every angle looked wrong, as though a fourth, fifth and even sixth
dimension were at play there. It was as though I was trying to step foot
over a gate out of space, a portal beyond time. How I wish now that I had the wherewithal to stop
myself from entering, before the malodorous events that took place inside had
over come my weak and frail human mind. Man is always wise after the event and in this situation I am no
different, but I know now what I didn't then and fate bore me away to my present state in this cold and dark asylum. Oh! You accursed Elder Beings! You Star-Spawn of Yuggoth! How I loathe Thee!
Inside the sepulchral edifice the light was low but I could make out shapes which I took to be human despite their appearance to the contrary, to have supposed otherwise would have only served to invite madness. Feeling along the edge of the graven wall I came upon a stack of metal baskets, the top one of which I grasped firmly with the aim of using it to load with groceries. Pulling it away from the tangle of similar objects I realised I was not the only one intending this basket for my own use. A second 'hand' pulled the basket stiffly away from me and I reached my other hand out to double my strength in this test of will-power and brute force. It is with retrospect that I wish I never had now, for my hand landed squarely upon the thing already gripping the handle of the basket. This episode replays in my mind during my sleep and I awake with screaming fits that are only calmed with a heavy dose of Laudanum. It was not a human hand that I felt but a slimy and glutinous tentacle like protuberance, dripping and oozing as only a cyclopean monstrosity could. I am ashamed to say I screamed and loosened my grip on the handle for which I had fought, this abhorrence had made me temporarily forget my normally placid state. In abject horror I shrank back against the wall and felt it better to let the repugnant nameless creature take its reward for whichever grim and festering end.
Calming myself somewhat, if one can truly be calm in such an alien and oppressive atmosphere, I regained a modicum of composure and recommenced my exploration of the cavernous edifice. The lack of light and dank conditions ensured that it was difficult to assess correctly but I thought it reasonable to suggest that this ancient carven structure extended several fathoms beyond the edge of my sight and I silently cursed myself for not having the forethought to bring a torch. With the fullness of time I am able to see that it would have been folly to have brought a flash-light to that encounter and I would have readily sunk into madness far quicker and deeper than I actually did had I the ability to see what awaited me in those pitiful depths.
A nauseating breeze blew through the place which carried with it the smell of a dank and dead sea and the faint sound of the lapping of waves from some unnameable and abominable ocean was to be heard. From deep within the bowels of the building I could hear faint and sinister music. Reedy and otherworldly it was similar to that same dread music which I had heard played on the Polynesian Island upon which I had been stationed back in '23. It was the same music in those foreboding months preceding the sea borne catastrophe when that elegant island sunk beneath the waves never to be seen again. Unknown star-borne forces were to be blamed for that engulfing and this ominous familiarity with such a heinous music made my entire body tremble uncontrollably from a nameless and dread fear.
To be continued...
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Monday, 4 June 2012
The Supermarket Out of Space Pt.1
It is with great dismay that I I find myself encased within this foetid and dank cell deep within the foul corridors of York asylum. I have little recollection of the exact circumstances which led me to my current incarceration and even less knowledge of the foul language I was speaking when I was brought here. I have been told I was babbling some un-Godly discourse in the manner of a barbarian or tribal jungle dweller. During the course of my treatment my doctor happened to play me a recording of this loathsome patois, but even this did not jog my memory of me doing such a thing, nor unfurl from the darkest recesses of my mind an identification of this treacherous prose. Four months have I languished here in this harsh womb of concrete and slowly have I pieced together the final fatal moments before my complete mental break down in that nauseating chamber of untold horror.
I remember the lead up to the event clearly. Having recently given up my lodgings in the leafy and magisterial surrounds of Nicholas Gardens due to the sale of the rented accommodation in which I languished, I was forced by fiscal matters to move further out into the suburbs. My new abode was in the dead centre of the ancient hinterland of Acomb. As Innsmouth is to Newburyport, Acomb is to that fine city of Kings, York. The people of this place carry the 'Acomb' look. A distant view is held by their eyes, as though not looking directly at a person, but through them. A slouching manner is their countenance and a shuffled gait is not uncommon in a population so queer. One would be wise to avoid contact with these 'folk', their manner is gruff and sharp and their fists quick. The dwellings in the town themselves speak of evil, with permanently shuttered windows overlooking dank streets and gloomy alleys. Every other building is either in derelict condition or boarded up, a home only for rodentia and Irish vagrants. Amongst this scene of degradation feral children with wild eyes and slavering maws scream obscenities at passing gentle folk. Yes, Acomb can be called the pit of human despair as recalled by the Mad Arab in his hateful book, The Necronomicon.
So it was my fate to subsist in this accursed precinct. I spent the first two days unpacking my wretched belongings, mostly in an effort to ignore that malodorous community outside my mouldy windows. Busy and engrossed as I was with this task I failed to notice that my supplies had grown short and it was upon the morning of the third day that the slow aching realisation dawned on me that I would have to set foot outside to find further sustenance. Slowly opening the front door I saw that the sky above hung low and dark, like a filthy and greying blanket. No break in the clouds would allow for the sun to penetrate and it was with this framing that I took my first tentative steps towards the centre of the village and the boutiques that stood therein.
As I strode along the street to which my new abode belonged I could feel the filthy curtains in the windows on either side of me twitch as unseen shapeless faces peered and then disappeared behind their drapery shields. A cat-like creature mewled from some unseen location, I say cat-like for I have never heard such a noise come from a feline before. I looked in vain for the creature but saw nothing except what I can only describe as a fungus like mass disappearing behind an outhouse attached to one of the rickety slums which made up my neighbourhood. Shaken, but sure I was mistaken, I quickened my pace in order to put as much distance between myself and that formless horror I thought I had espied. It must have been lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind, I reasoned, but still I could not stop my brain from slowing my step.
To be continued...
I remember the lead up to the event clearly. Having recently given up my lodgings in the leafy and magisterial surrounds of Nicholas Gardens due to the sale of the rented accommodation in which I languished, I was forced by fiscal matters to move further out into the suburbs. My new abode was in the dead centre of the ancient hinterland of Acomb. As Innsmouth is to Newburyport, Acomb is to that fine city of Kings, York. The people of this place carry the 'Acomb' look. A distant view is held by their eyes, as though not looking directly at a person, but through them. A slouching manner is their countenance and a shuffled gait is not uncommon in a population so queer. One would be wise to avoid contact with these 'folk', their manner is gruff and sharp and their fists quick. The dwellings in the town themselves speak of evil, with permanently shuttered windows overlooking dank streets and gloomy alleys. Every other building is either in derelict condition or boarded up, a home only for rodentia and Irish vagrants. Amongst this scene of degradation feral children with wild eyes and slavering maws scream obscenities at passing gentle folk. Yes, Acomb can be called the pit of human despair as recalled by the Mad Arab in his hateful book, The Necronomicon.
So it was my fate to subsist in this accursed precinct. I spent the first two days unpacking my wretched belongings, mostly in an effort to ignore that malodorous community outside my mouldy windows. Busy and engrossed as I was with this task I failed to notice that my supplies had grown short and it was upon the morning of the third day that the slow aching realisation dawned on me that I would have to set foot outside to find further sustenance. Slowly opening the front door I saw that the sky above hung low and dark, like a filthy and greying blanket. No break in the clouds would allow for the sun to penetrate and it was with this framing that I took my first tentative steps towards the centre of the village and the boutiques that stood therein.
As I strode along the street to which my new abode belonged I could feel the filthy curtains in the windows on either side of me twitch as unseen shapeless faces peered and then disappeared behind their drapery shields. A cat-like creature mewled from some unseen location, I say cat-like for I have never heard such a noise come from a feline before. I looked in vain for the creature but saw nothing except what I can only describe as a fungus like mass disappearing behind an outhouse attached to one of the rickety slums which made up my neighbourhood. Shaken, but sure I was mistaken, I quickened my pace in order to put as much distance between myself and that formless horror I thought I had espied. It must have been lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind, I reasoned, but still I could not stop my brain from slowing my step.
To be continued...
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Under Mars' Red Sky
Fucking London!
I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!
This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!
At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!
Final insult was the advertised full English breakfast turned out to be an individual box of Coco-Pops. Fucking London! To finish off the musical weekend, it was Eurovision weekend, Sweden won, but the better acts included the Singing Russian Babushkas, Jedward's Golden Shower and Gary Oldman as Dracula singing for Albania. I spent the night at Lauren's squawking racist abuse at the TV until it was all over for another year. Not the best contest I've seen, but still the musical highlight of the year.
I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!
This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!
At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!
FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!
Sunday, 20 May 2012
The Pity of War
As I have been working out in France and Belgium for the past nine years I thought it might be a good idea to show my parents what I have been doing and the work that No-Man's-Land have achieved over the years. But before I could go anywhere, I called up to Mr Main who was frothing at the mouth about the new bass he had swapped some of Pedals for. I have to admit it's pretty fucking cool as it was sent from the bassist from Fu Manchu. We also discussed the slight possibility of getting back stage at the upcoming Slayer gig. Watch this space...
As part of the trip out to the Somme, we stopped off in Cambridge for a look about and the worst lunch I've had for a long time. The next stop was a hotel in Folkstone close to the Channel Tunnel. We realised why Folkstone is called Old Folkstone for a good reason when confronted with the instructions for summoning assistance in the hotel:
And to help those forgetful enough to leave their windows open:
My room would not have been out of place on the set of Barton Fink and I half expected John Goodman to come bursting through the door surrounded by fire during the night. The following morning's tunnel crossing was no problem, as usual, and we found ourselves at Vimy Ridge. I did some work here a long time ago, but we weren't able to access the site as it was on private land and had to content ourselves with looking at the imposing memorial. You'd think the Canadians won the bloody war, given the size of it.
A quick history lesson for the folks and then a trip into Arras and the Brussel's Cafe for lunch. As usual, it was cheap and cheerful. We called into the Town Hall to see the underground tunnels (Boves) under the hall itself and met Arras' giants. They were pretty quiet, but I suppose it was the end of a Bank Holiday, so they may have been a bit tired by then:
The Boves under the Town Hall had an exhibition based on the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The results were staggering:
We were really lucky to catch this show. Pushing on we arrived at Ocean Villas, our home for the next few days. My folks were to meet the legend that is Avril Williams, who as ever was a convivial host. The following morning was trip up to the Ulster Tour and Thiepval Woods.
Carol had arranged for Teddy and Phoebe to give us the keys to the new gate so I could do a private tour.
Apparently as we were going into the woods, we were spotted by a battlefield guide and word spread quickly back to the Tower. At least they are vigilant about intruders going into the woods. Interfering bastards. A trip up to the Thiepval Memorial was on the agenda next:
This was followed by a look in at the Glory Hole where Peter Barton was running an excavation there. I was introduced to Peter, who shook my hand and told me he'd heard of me. I have absolutely no idea how. The excavations looked interesting but we didn't get a chance to go down the tunnels as structural engineers were working down them making them safe. Following this we called in at Lochnagar crater.
By the time we had a cup of coffee it was time to head back for dinner. A busy and successful day!
The morning brought a short walk over to the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park, we had a chuckle at the 'danger tree' and I explained to the folks that the trenches they were looking at were probably from 1918 rather than 1916. Also, as we were standing at the Caribu monument waiting for our turn to take in the view I was earwigging a tour operator pontificating about his travels up and down the battlefields of France. His story involved taking his six year old son down to Verdun and allowing the lad to, not only, pick up potentially dangerous explosives, but ferret about for human remains. I'm not sure if he was an approved tour guide or was doing it out of the back of his beat up transit van. I assumed the latter.
We walked over the hill to the Hawthorne Ridge were we bumped into the two bikers that were over at Avril's the night before for dinner. Nice guys, but they were from Lancashire, so I refused to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. In fact, we saw their bikes at the bottom of the hill and I put sand in their petrol tanks. That'll show them.
I showed my folks the highlights of my favourite part of the Somme and explained what had happened there through the medium of printed period photos from the Battle of the Somme film.
The Lancashire Fusiliers at the Sunken Lane:
Hawthorne Ridge mine explosion:
The next stop was the large cemetery on the Pozieres Road, with a glass of beer at Le Tommy Cafe. We had stopped here in order to see the 'museum' that Dominic has in the back garden. I've seen it before and it is certainly a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. He seemed to have recently built a breeze block wall around his garden and was now charging five Euro to go and see the original First War uniforms rotting away in the rain. So we declined this offer and had a quick run out to Delville Wood to see the last surviving tree then back to Avril's for dinner.
As with all holidays the end comes around very quickly and Friday brought us the sights of Mailly-Maillet Church:
Then a drive over to Serre Road Cemetery number 2 to see the grave of the British soldier I helped excavate back in 2003:
Down the road I showed my parents the No-Man's-Land memorial erected for Albert Thieleke, Jakob Hones and the Unknown British soldier all found within metres of one another in 2003.
After having a look at the Sheffield Pals Battalion memorial and the Sheffield memorial park, we drove out to Fricourt German cemetery and called in at the Games Workshop designed 38th (Welsh) Memorial at Mametz Wood.
A quick call in at the Butte De Warlencourt was required as I had never stopped off there in all the years I have been going to the Somme.
The final night was marked by my father nearly coming to blows with a dumb Daily Mail reading bloke who was also in residence at Avril's that evening. I was talking to him after my mother dragged my father away to bed to diffuse the situation. He was very apologetic and I put him straight on a few of his misunderstandings of the First World War. In all, we had a great time, even if I did spend the entire time making everything up as I know fuck all about the First World War. I told them the British attacked on the Somme whilst riding elephants, that's why they lost so many men, as the targets were so big. And the entire British population was wiped out on the 1st of July 1916. Or summat like that.
As part of the trip out to the Somme, we stopped off in Cambridge for a look about and the worst lunch I've had for a long time. The next stop was a hotel in Folkstone close to the Channel Tunnel. We realised why Folkstone is called Old Folkstone for a good reason when confronted with the instructions for summoning assistance in the hotel:
And to help those forgetful enough to leave their windows open:
My room would not have been out of place on the set of Barton Fink and I half expected John Goodman to come bursting through the door surrounded by fire during the night. The following morning's tunnel crossing was no problem, as usual, and we found ourselves at Vimy Ridge. I did some work here a long time ago, but we weren't able to access the site as it was on private land and had to content ourselves with looking at the imposing memorial. You'd think the Canadians won the bloody war, given the size of it.
A quick history lesson for the folks and then a trip into Arras and the Brussel's Cafe for lunch. As usual, it was cheap and cheerful. We called into the Town Hall to see the underground tunnels (Boves) under the hall itself and met Arras' giants. They were pretty quiet, but I suppose it was the end of a Bank Holiday, so they may have been a bit tired by then:
The Boves under the Town Hall had an exhibition based on the gardens of the Palace of Versailles. The results were staggering:
Les Jardin des Boves
Versailles
We were really lucky to catch this show. Pushing on we arrived at Ocean Villas, our home for the next few days. My folks were to meet the legend that is Avril Williams, who as ever was a convivial host. The following morning was trip up to the Ulster Tour and Thiepval Woods.
Carol had arranged for Teddy and Phoebe to give us the keys to the new gate so I could do a private tour.
Apparently as we were going into the woods, we were spotted by a battlefield guide and word spread quickly back to the Tower. At least they are vigilant about intruders going into the woods. Interfering bastards. A trip up to the Thiepval Memorial was on the agenda next:
This was followed by a look in at the Glory Hole where Peter Barton was running an excavation there. I was introduced to Peter, who shook my hand and told me he'd heard of me. I have absolutely no idea how. The excavations looked interesting but we didn't get a chance to go down the tunnels as structural engineers were working down them making them safe. Following this we called in at Lochnagar crater.
By the time we had a cup of coffee it was time to head back for dinner. A busy and successful day!
The morning brought a short walk over to the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park, we had a chuckle at the 'danger tree' and I explained to the folks that the trenches they were looking at were probably from 1918 rather than 1916. Also, as we were standing at the Caribu monument waiting for our turn to take in the view I was earwigging a tour operator pontificating about his travels up and down the battlefields of France. His story involved taking his six year old son down to Verdun and allowing the lad to, not only, pick up potentially dangerous explosives, but ferret about for human remains. I'm not sure if he was an approved tour guide or was doing it out of the back of his beat up transit van. I assumed the latter.
The Caribu
We walked over the hill to the Hawthorne Ridge were we bumped into the two bikers that were over at Avril's the night before for dinner. Nice guys, but they were from Lancashire, so I refused to speak to them, or even acknowledge their existence. In fact, we saw their bikes at the bottom of the hill and I put sand in their petrol tanks. That'll show them.
Fucked
I showed my folks the highlights of my favourite part of the Somme and explained what had happened there through the medium of printed period photos from the Battle of the Somme film.
The Lancashire Fusiliers at the Sunken Lane:
Hawthorne Ridge mine explosion:
The next stop was the large cemetery on the Pozieres Road, with a glass of beer at Le Tommy Cafe. We had stopped here in order to see the 'museum' that Dominic has in the back garden. I've seen it before and it is certainly a sight to behold, but for all the wrong reasons. He seemed to have recently built a breeze block wall around his garden and was now charging five Euro to go and see the original First War uniforms rotting away in the rain. So we declined this offer and had a quick run out to Delville Wood to see the last surviving tree then back to Avril's for dinner.
As with all holidays the end comes around very quickly and Friday brought us the sights of Mailly-Maillet Church:
Then a drive over to Serre Road Cemetery number 2 to see the grave of the British soldier I helped excavate back in 2003:
Down the road I showed my parents the No-Man's-Land memorial erected for Albert Thieleke, Jakob Hones and the Unknown British soldier all found within metres of one another in 2003.
After having a look at the Sheffield Pals Battalion memorial and the Sheffield memorial park, we drove out to Fricourt German cemetery and called in at the Games Workshop designed 38th (Welsh) Memorial at Mametz Wood.
Sheffield Pals Battalion Memorial, Serre
The Red Baron's plot at Fricourt German Cemetery. He was later moved back to the Richthofen family plot in Germany
My Dragon has 30 hit points and a strength of 14. You need to roll over 16 to hit it on a D20...
A quick call in at the Butte De Warlencourt was required as I had never stopped off there in all the years I have been going to the Somme.
The final night was marked by my father nearly coming to blows with a dumb Daily Mail reading bloke who was also in residence at Avril's that evening. I was talking to him after my mother dragged my father away to bed to diffuse the situation. He was very apologetic and I put him straight on a few of his misunderstandings of the First World War. In all, we had a great time, even if I did spend the entire time making everything up as I know fuck all about the First World War. I told them the British attacked on the Somme whilst riding elephants, that's why they lost so many men, as the targets were so big. And the entire British population was wiped out on the 1st of July 1916. Or summat like that.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
BANG!!!
I went to see Avengers Assemble last night with Nathan. I'd tell you more about Film Club, but the first rule of Film Club is 'There is no Film Club'. Or something like that. Anyway, he sat through it with a grin on his face like the idiot he is, except when he told some other popcorn munching idiots next to us to stop talking. Then he went back to grinning. I enjoyed it a lot more than that last pile of trash Joss Whedon wiped on the screen and here my favourite bits of it:
There you go. A review as deep as the film itself. Now, I'm off to France on Tuesday to show my folks what I have been doing out there for the past ten years so I won't be replying to any texts or emails, since the free texting/internet bundle that I have only applies to Orange in Britain even though it's the same fucking company in France and they see fit to charge me about forty times the normal price.
There you go. A review as deep as the film itself. Now, I'm off to France on Tuesday to show my folks what I have been doing out there for the past ten years so I won't be replying to any texts or emails, since the free texting/internet bundle that I have only applies to Orange in Britain even though it's the same fucking company in France and they see fit to charge me about forty times the normal price.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Does a Cabin Shit in the Woods When No One is Around to See?
I have been going running for the last week, it's the first time I've done it since I lived in Dublin. I lived next to a park then so it was easier to do, as I have spent a career on my knees, running on roads is a bit dodgy for them. But needs must and I have been running around the streets of York, so if you see me running past you, red faced, clutching a MP3 player and sweating like the proverbial pig, then you know why. I'm not being chased by the Police. Not yet anyway.
As part of my get fit drive I have decided to go vegetarian. I am going to drive out all the toxins of my body and return it to it's temple like status when I was born. So to help you with getting fit I am going to provide some recipes for the vegetarian meals I have been preparing. I was always scared of vegetables but have found that they are a diverse and versatile food group, so I am educating you lucky readers with my discoveries.
Cheese and Onion Delight
Serves one
Preparation time less than two minutes
Ingredients:
Two slices bread (Brown or White)
One Packet Cheese and Onion Crisps
Butter or similar working class margarine spreadable substance
Method:
Open Packet of Crisps, put to one side to allow to breathe.
Spread Butter/Margarine on both slices of bread.
Lay crisps over one slice of bread.
Bring other slice of bread over the top of first slice.
Crush down with hand until top slice is flat.
Serve immediately.
Beef and Onion Delight
Serves one
Preparation time less than two minutes
Ingredients:
Two slices bread (Brown or White)
One Packet Beef and Onion Crisps (Make sure they have the 'V' symbol, if not, make the meal without them)
Butter or similar working class margarine spreadable substance
Method:
Open Packet of Crisps, put to one side to allow to breathe.
Spread Butter/Margarine on both slices of bread.
Lay crisps over one slice of bread.
Bring other slice of bread over the top of first slice.
Crush down with hand until top slice is flat.
Serve immediately.
So there you go, vegetables are your friend. Have five of those a day and you'll be as fit as me.
I went to see Cabin in the Woods the other day with Nathan. I went on He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named's recommendation. He told me he'd have given it 3. I asked him out of what and he answered 1,000,000. My dad had also said it was the worst film since Avatard, which I thought was a bit harsh as I would genuinely rather have paving slabs dropped on my feet than sit through that pile of shit again. Strangely enough it had got really good reviews universally, so I thought they both were trying to be cool. I have to agree with He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named's score though, even though I think he was being generous.I really cannot be bothered to break it down why it is shit, but I think ultimately it comes down to the fact that it was so self-satisfactorily smug. It was as though it was giving you cheeky little winks and nudges all the way through (ey, ey, see what I did there? Ey?) and that just annoyed me. Cabin in the Woods? Shit in the Woods more like. Nathan liked it, but then he would, he's an idiot.
RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!! THE MARTIANS ARE COMING!!
As part of my get fit drive I have decided to go vegetarian. I am going to drive out all the toxins of my body and return it to it's temple like status when I was born. So to help you with getting fit I am going to provide some recipes for the vegetarian meals I have been preparing. I was always scared of vegetables but have found that they are a diverse and versatile food group, so I am educating you lucky readers with my discoveries.
Cheese and Onion Delight
Serves one
Preparation time less than two minutes
Ingredients:
Two slices bread (Brown or White)
One Packet Cheese and Onion Crisps
Butter or similar working class margarine spreadable substance
Method:
Open Packet of Crisps, put to one side to allow to breathe.
Spread Butter/Margarine on both slices of bread.
Lay crisps over one slice of bread.
Bring other slice of bread over the top of first slice.
Crush down with hand until top slice is flat.
Serve immediately.
Beef and Onion Delight
Serves one
Preparation time less than two minutes
Ingredients:
Two slices bread (Brown or White)
One Packet Beef and Onion Crisps (Make sure they have the 'V' symbol, if not, make the meal without them)
Butter or similar working class margarine spreadable substance
Method:
Open Packet of Crisps, put to one side to allow to breathe.
Spread Butter/Margarine on both slices of bread.
Lay crisps over one slice of bread.
Bring other slice of bread over the top of first slice.
Crush down with hand until top slice is flat.
Serve immediately.
So there you go, vegetables are your friend. Have five of those a day and you'll be as fit as me.
What a friend we have in vegetables
I went to see Cabin in the Woods the other day with Nathan. I went on He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named's recommendation. He told me he'd have given it 3. I asked him out of what and he answered 1,000,000. My dad had also said it was the worst film since Avatard, which I thought was a bit harsh as I would genuinely rather have paving slabs dropped on my feet than sit through that pile of shit again. Strangely enough it had got really good reviews universally, so I thought they both were trying to be cool. I have to agree with He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named's score though, even though I think he was being generous.I really cannot be bothered to break it down why it is shit, but I think ultimately it comes down to the fact that it was so self-satisfactorily smug. It was as though it was giving you cheeky little winks and nudges all the way through (ey, ey, see what I did there? Ey?) and that just annoyed me. Cabin in the Woods? Shit in the Woods more like. Nathan liked it, but then he would, he's an idiot.
Oh! There's a massive twist at the end that you see coming before you've even walked into the theatre!
Sunday, 22 April 2012
Nerdism Squared
He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was whining about seeing more photos from the Stormtroopers, so here they are some behind the scenes shots:
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