How to Fight Like a Man (Like Me)

I’m a man.

See?

So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.

Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.

Violence

Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.

It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.

Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.

Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.

Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.

Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.

Footwork

See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.

You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.

If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.

It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.

Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.

Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.

That’s another vital point…

Assume a Moral Victory

Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”

This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)

In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).

Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.

A ‘Fair Fight’

What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.

Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.

Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).

Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.

And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.

In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.

Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.

It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.

Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.

The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.

Which comes from people.

Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).

Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.

Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.

Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.

Perplex

I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.

Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):

“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”

He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).

Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.

Cuddle the cunt.

Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.

Do Not Let Go.

Laugh About It

Make jokes constantly.

Don’t let up with the zingers.

The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.

Especially if you’re getting beaten.

If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.

Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.

Be a Lover, Not a Fighter

Be the gentleman.

Be the poet.

Be the victor.

When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.

Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.

No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.

DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.

Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.

Pardon Me If I Conclude

End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.

Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.

What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.

All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.

Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.

Thanks,

Sam

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I’m about to go Skydiving and…I’ve just been Skydiving.

Tomorrow I’m going Skydiving.

That’s not the odd part.

The odd part is that I feel relatively fine…and I’m about to jump out of a plane.

I thought I’d give a commentary as much ‘as it happens’ as possible, so am starting with the night before the jump so as to give some insight.

Night before…’meh’.

I have a feeling I’m about to be develop a deep and loving relationship with parachutes and meeting the ground slowly, but am also sure that a sincere freakout is on the way, at 12,000 feet.

I’m hoping that the adrenaline and sensation won’t cause me to say something stupid afterwards when asked “What’s it like?”: “Uhm. Er. I…It’s like having the fan on”

I’ve heard that you’re supposed to scream as you jump- so I’ve been thinking that I might as well sing a song on the entire way down, it’s just a matter of fixing onto which song for the journey down.

Now, it’s about 10 minutes from plane to Earth, so I’m thinking either two songs with some supreme guitar solos (‘Freedbird’ or ‘Stairway To Heaven’) or three sweet songs to help with the plummeting.

Other than that I’m pondering the following: ‘Afternoon Delight’, ‘Breath’ (Pink Floyd) and ‘Why Do Fools Fall In Love’. For a 9 AM jump at this time of the summer- they should go down hopefully just as well as I do.

Other than that- all I have to do is make sure I’m wearing clean underwear (in case of post-mortem) and bid my loved ones farewell.

As I said before- I still feel fine, but have a sense I’ll be feeling distinctly unusual in about 12 hours time. I’m going to have to get up early. Maybe being sleepy will help with the fear. Sure as hell is a good way to wake up- don’t think I’ll bother with coffee.

See you tomorrow.

Sam

Day Of The Jump.

Day of.

I was supposed to wake up at 6 and awoke at 5 instead.

Last night my wife asked me very nicely not to die “Please?”- I shall do my best to do as she asks, as a favour to her to be later called in.

I have bid my friends a facebook farewell and now feeling pleasantly excited about the forth-coming experience, though I am also glad that it is apparently over and done with in the grand total of 20 minutes.

There were some thoughts floating about my head in bed as I tried to sleep, thoughts reminiscing my bungee-jump from a year ago. A feeling of missing a step for about 6 seconds and, far from a scream, a deep guttural lurching sound from my depths. Not quite ‘Afternoon Delight’ as I am hoping. We shall see.

Although I am fully confident that by mid-afternoon today I will either be sipping a celebratory drink with my co-jumpers or sitting back here in my living room do much the same as I am right now…but there are still those necessary nerves that I hope will be quashed by the adrenaline I know is also soon on the way.

So, until afterwards guys…

Sam

I’ve Been Skydiving.

I feel goooooooooooooooooooood.

Feeling good with a capital ‘fuck yeah’.

Let’s run through what happened to me a few hours ago.

I arrived early at the air-field, signed in to at the front desk, was made a provisional member of the Parachute Association (“I got my provisional!”) and promptly made my way to the nearest lavatory so as to use the hell out of it. I think I lost about a kilo in there.

I was weighed and measured and told to wait for a long time- about an hour, at which point I was sent to a post-jump briefing for those first timers amongst us.

Much like the ride for a roller-coaster, this was the most terrifying part of the experience. About an hour in all went by until I was called to be suited up and to meet my professional.

The suiting up, the brief plane-ride up to 12,000 feet and being tucked up into a flying tin with a dozen other leapers was of little consequence to the experience. Aside from when the winks and handshakes began making the rounds- bringing with them about a little comradery as though we were of some fellowship bound together to return to Earth smiling and alive.

I felt fine until my pro wished me luck- which I felt a tad disconcerting. Why would I need luck when, if the worst and squishiest were to happen, that would be your responsibility and, my word, my mother would make knowledge of your name and pursue you. I didn’t tell him that.

“When you get to the rim of the door, tuck your feet under the plane and scream”

Quite an instruction, which I looked to heartily obey.

We sat with our legs out of the plane, the noise furious, the wind awakening and the view endless, we rocked back…and then forwards…

The screaming, they said (and as I discovered), was very necessary as not to do so would result in a sky’s amount of air cramming its way into your lungs as you go hurtling.

I found this to be true, only the scream I made was not a conscious effort (on my part anyway), whereas the breathing certainly was.

The sensation of the free fall (lasting about 20-25 seconds) is about as much as you can feel with the entirety of your being. You don’t think- you can only feel. Feeling is all you can do, aside from the scream. “Remember to breathe” was not a sentence uttered in my head- it was an equation grandly smashed together within my noggin which activated my nerves and made my upper-torso go: “Breath now”.

This was not just a matter of air rushing in and your lungs trying to cope with that- it’s also because you’re getting distracted by the 130mph plummet that’s happening to you right now.

You fall fast. You really do. You fall so fast you forget things, like breathing. I descended so quickly I forgot I had brown hair and am male. That is some good falling.

As I was a tandem jump- I was required to have a stern pensioner strapped to my back, whilst this same poor gent was made to wear me as a belly and crutch warmer, a lifestyle I hold very little merit in. No one told me I would have to sit on this man’s lap as though he was an armchair. He was so armchair like, he was even pleasantly leathery with reasonable wear and tear.

This man was my pro and his name was Clem- a former cabbie who was convinced by a military friend of his to jump out of a plane for charity in 1981, a thing apparently unheard of at the time. On that first jump of his, Clem immediately arranged a sudden change of career and has been doing this ever since.

“It’s a good deal safer than being a cabbie” he told me whilst winding up the parachute. “I’ve never had a knife pulled on me in this job”. I felt inclined not to change this- Clem being a lovely guy and I didn’t wish to disrupt his quality leatheriness.

Following the jump, and the immediate manner in which one attempts to explain the sensation to others, you realise just how over used superlatives are. The sensation of the fall was far beyond such now-meaningless words as ‘Amazing’ and ‘Incredible’, this being why all I can think of for it is to say perhaps “Unreal” and to encourage others to try it. As I said earlier- all you can do is feel. At 120 miles per hour. Powerful.

My throat still hurts- the fact that I could hear my own scream (and I swear I could hear myself laughing as well) means that I must have been loud and my sore throat qualifies this as likely true. It turns out that your own personal volume is surprisingly easy at 12,000 feet. Why was I laughing- some sort of jolly hysteria perhaps, but I am left to assume that this speed is just funny.

Like when you receive, with no invite, a swift shin to the bollocks and your being is screaming at you: “SAM?! ARE YOU STILL IN CONTROL BECAUSE THIS FEELS LIKE YOU’RE NOT!” and all you can do is reply: “AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH THIS IS HUMOUROUS!”

And then Clem let loose the parachute and we slowed down incredibly and the only uncomfortable moment of the experience occurred- not the sudden grabbing action upon my testis, but the potent realisation of how fast my heart was pounding. Struggling to get one’s breath back and to allow time to process what just happened- you are bound by only one thought which cancels all worry: this is lovely. Messing about with parachutes.

Clem allowed me to steer as well- doing what are called ‘fast turns’: “Pull the right handle to turn right, turn the left handle to turn left, do not pull them both or we will crash, and don’t look directly down”.

To give an idea of the height and speed, four of these ‘fast turns’ (lasting about 5 seconds each) equated to dropping the height of Canary Wharf from top to bottom.

It was following the ‘fast turns; and now on the slow decent that Clem casually stated in my ear: “By the way, we’ve lost a highly important piece of equipment”

“Oh. Oh, okay, well it was a pleasure knowing you Clem…”

I realised that the ripple of terror throughout my being was surely lessened by the adrenaline I could still taste on my tongue, before Clem assured me the equipment was missing from the air-field only- not from us.

Upon landing and returning to the canteen the taste was stronger and I felt compelled to combat this with an orange ice-pole. At this point, with my certificate for jumping in one hand, my dripping ice-pole in the other and the enlightening sense of potential in myself and in the world made me feel as totally complete as I have in many years.

As it turns out, for future reference, I’m a jumper.

And ‘face-first’ is once more proven to be the preferable way to go about something.

On the ground Clem and I embraced, folded up the parachute, and enjoyed a brief debate about how natural this all was.

I argued that the Skydive itself was unnatural, but that skydiving was like a joke- the fear of uncertainty and shock followed by the relief of the enjoyable comfort that makes you laugh, and this was natural. That and the 130 miles per hour that happen to your face-first whilst you’re essentially just lying down, mixed with the accomplishment of curiosity- once more- a natural aspect of the dive.

Clem argued that super-markets were also unnatural and so we left it there.

“Is that the fastest I’ve ever travelled?” I asked Clem.

“Not if you’ve ever travelled in a commercial plane before, but it is the fastest you’ve travelled without mechanical assistance” he replied.

“Didn’t the plane help quite a bit in getting us up there then?”

I countered, for the sake of it really, and the debate began to ensue once more before the bus back from the field to the canteen arrived to collect us. As it turns out, squeezing an unfolded parachute into the front compartment of a bus is one of the more amusing things to watch someone attempt to do. Poor old Clem.

In summary…Skydive.

There we go, that should do it.

Maybe it will feel different next time, which will surely happen soon.

Thanks to Skydive Headcorn.

Sam


The Metaphors Are Rusty.

I’ve been up a mountain.

It didn’t help.

No change to my personality or outlook occurred, nor do people sense a degree of empowerment about the way I walk now.

I meet challenges in the exact same manner as I did before.

And so it was that I came to realise- these metaphors…they are bollocks.

A mountain is the literal poster-boy of determination; the metaphor used by those to say: “you should probably respect me because I went up that, you know”.

Climbing a mountain is one thing that takes determination for some. It is only relative.

This was one of those metaphors that one simply encounters in life, and it has no bearing on the way you perceive your events and course. Climbing a mountain- something that for some is the establishment of ‘Let’s do something tricky’, is for many others a challenge that is not apparent as such.

For many others, a greater challenge would be what consumes their interest. Like a woman that sits down one morning and decides that the only way to continue is to eat only things that are alive and really rather wriggly when encountering a fork.

That is tricky.

Now, I’m not saying that for me climbing a mountain is easy, though it is one ‘helluva’ (that’s right- ‘helluva’) lot easier to walk up one than to climb up one. It’s just…what’s the pay-off?

Well, in this you have two main aspects.

To begin with, finally you have the view from the top. That’s a big one, though interestingly enough you need to be atop a mountain with the view a bit further than the end of your nose. Fog, mist and cloud cover might get in the way of what there is to see, although as well, perhaps the fog is what there is to see. I suppose it’s a little weird, so I suppose it’s a little enjoyable.

And this leads me onto the second point. The interesting things that might occur to your person as you make you way up and down.

I was nearly blown off a mountainside in a torrent of rain and punch of wind. A tempest you might say, only punchier.

Here, the acquisition of the summit mattered not- it was the danger and activity at all other points that made me smile. The pay-off was the wandering, not the arrival.

And so it might go as truth to say that all the pleasure of the journey could have been achieved by avoiding the top. Should anything of value to you occur at the top- then that is due to luck rather than likelihood.

Yet, for so many the summit seems to be the entire point, whereas one might argue that, aside from what I have already, the point is in striving through the climb and having a really bad time. If you don’t do that, then the reason for the climb is lost for so many.

“I hope you nearly fall off the mountain. That’s why you’re going isn’t it?”

And what other metaphors and sayings amount to a severe need to be reconsidered?

‘Sheep’?

The question: ‘Sheep?’ is a good one.

Yes, sheep are like the people they are aligned to in metaphor. Running to and with the crowd. Gnawing upon crud, doing little else. Being fairly thick.

But you’d better believe that for some reason, out of nowhere, out of some-hellish-blue those woolly fuckers will head-butt you and any part of you.

The average man in the street is not of this ilk. He will not head-butt you here, there or anywhere, whereas I prefer to assume that a sheep is going to head-butt some portion of my person. This is from valued, ugly and- yes- regrettably woolly experience.

As for a next step from here, now that we all know what’s really going on, it is apparent that we should establish a whole bunch of new metaphors and, as such, sayings.

“Eiffel Tower It” is a saying that I hope will come into pass one day when someone does something vital at the time to someone else using the Eiffel Tower. Whatever that thing is, and it will likely involved thrusting, I hope the saying lasts.

“The Metaphors Are Rusty” is evidently an appropriate saying for when the components of the old world crumble in the face of actual experience by each new generation. “The Writing’s On The Wall” in this case, that a thorough and piercing re-evaluation of what words in a certain order were previously ours.

So “The Metaphors Are Rusty”, and I’m about to make like a banana.

You may find me making like a banana at neither the top nor bottom of a mountain, but everywhere in-between.

Sam.


How Many ‘A’s Is Appropriate?

How many ‘A’s is appropriate in the written utterance of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH”?

Apparently 9.

Is there a need for the ‘G’s and ‘H’s?

Is an exclamation mark welcome?

I can’t think of any much worse than inserting an inappropriate number of ‘A’s in to…anything. I mean- that could really ruin a apple-pie.

You see- I’m going carving at the weekend. A buddy and I go to a patch of woods that we might happen to find. Silverbirch a’plenty. I’m going to take this term to the trees.

Scarring them with a term- from what I’ve found to be way up on the list of pleasant things to do to a tree.

Tree-graffiti.

I noticed the term “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” to be an oft-repeated phrase throughout human history. It is the natural human cry- relevant in joy, fear, birth and murder.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” transcends dialect, accent and human divisions, even alternative species. Africans, Europeans, Americans, Asians, apes galore- we all let loose an occasional “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH”.

It suits us.

Therefore- the truly meaningful…thing…that I was looking to carve into the fallen branch I had found, was born. And I think ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ would be a wonderful term to sit on.

Obviously, perhaps owing to our shared and celebrated sense of creativity or our shared and accepted sense of laziness- we knew that we would be sitting on this branch at some point.

Owing to its transcending of most signals of emotion (fear, joy, murder, birth, pain and pleasure)- it has only one true definition that is undeniable to all that hear it. No matter the reason for it’s being uttered- the translation is forever: ’SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And that’s it. It translates as: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

To hear this cry is to be aware that a person (or something apishly-similar) made it, and is therefore likely nearby. And it means this…loudly.

No matter the root of cause for it- the root meaning of it is: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And who wouldn’t want to scream that?

Got something better to scream?

Ok, fine. That’s a good one too, but I’m sticking with the traditional: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’. Or ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ to be more dramatic.

This one could be on T-shirts.

And this is why knowledge of how to actually spell the term is important to me right now. Because I’m going to carve it, and I’m going to carve it onto T-shirts.

So, once more- with feeling: ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’.

And you can quote me on that.

Sam.


I’m Not Going To Reminisce About The 00’s.

Oh fuck, the 00’s.

What are we going to do now? All we have in relation to something worth talking here about is war and computers- and I’m not good at either of those things. Computer illiterates in foxholes equate to me wondering why more things aren’t to do with long walks and pretty girls- generally.

Those are the few things that set me apart from people who are set to perfection in the previous decade of ours. ‘Pretty girls’- generally, is a common passion, but is something that I find hard to omit owing to being something of a self-composed poster-boy for virility, an image that takes time, trousers and embarrassment to accumulate. I like accumulating things though- it amounts to something.

As for the good longs walks- they remind me of being an ape (an essential quality in someone worth knowing) and of being some sort of dignified author that would actually have done nothing for the cause of female emancipation from the drudgery of being slammed with the dick of ancient history till now. Another thing about the 00’s: penis trumps vagina. A good long walk might remind you of that, but in the meantime (whatever that is) it will promote that ‘distinguished author’ look that you’ve been trying so hard to maintain. Put that pipe away.

You wouldn’t have gotten these things from the 00’s. The 00’s amounted to, as far as I can remember: war, computers and Robbie Williams being really popular. Possibly more popular than Diet Coke, which is impressive, and something that I can only hope for this blog to me someday. I say more popular than Diet Coke because I’m realistic. Regular, full-blooded Coke doesn’t need to advertise, it just needs to be guaranteed.

Perhaps if females and walking had been promoted as much as the 20-teens has begun to, we might have missed out on the following.

It turns out we do have cultural contributions to our species that goes beyond Robbie Williams. We have the music videos. Music video’s with sheer-white backdrops, metal bands and boy bands both wearing black and both trying to look tough and dangerous (whist both trying too hard at that). Baggy trousers- coming from an age of men trying to conceal weaponry, to boys trying to look like men trying to conceal weaponry, and finally to children attempting to look like most other older boys do, whilst also using the opportunity to hide their physical frame from the world because they’re only kids, and kids are stupid.

This was a time in which things were made glossy and I don’t know why. The perpetual addition of cheese to foodstuffs (and barely, thankfully, limiting itself there) was a component of the times.

All those dead Iraqi’s really ruined the decade for me, as well as those about the rest of the planet that were butchered for all the other just causes that some god likely encored. What really twists the blade for me here is the fact that this is not a 00’s exclusive, but it is…is…an example of a generation that knew it had the means to alter and chose not to. The excessive’s of laziness were on the eye-watering rise throughout these pitiful ten years, and the blame lays not at feet, but lays in the lies of the minds of those of us that know what I’m talking about. Myself included; it does feel lovely not to be annihilated on a Sunday afternoon. What a…foreign thing to happen. This was the war aspect. Very happy that no cheese was added.

So long playing in the streets. Hello, latest acquaintance of the species- massive heart disease, diabetes and general paleness. The revolution of video game sophistication amounted to the heaviest generation that we have had for a long time. Mother’s loose a third of their body weight at birth and all children can be heard walking from afar. As they walk- their foreheads jiggle.

This is what the 00’s gave us, and what’s even worse is that it gave us…us. Apologies, but we are the generation prior that laid the foundations for the end of children and the start of wars by regrettably not being as astounding as the technology that raced alongside us. Albeit that we have learnt to share, and to learn and to give a little grace when required, we are still very willing to lose our ape-ish-ness and indulge in raising fictional crops on a figurative place, inviting others to waste their time and insisting on yourself giving up the fun you were born with rights to. This has been the computer aspect.

Don’t you dare blame the 60’s- that’s not your job and if you even think about blaming the 40’s then your laughable, it was the 00’s, purely on the basis that this was the latest decade do nothing but withhold and indulge.

We haven’t even legalised Mary Jane yet. And that’s our fault. That’s all our fault. Fucking do something you shitty little population- nothing would happen if it weren’t for you taking part, why should this be any different. The 00’s was the perfect time to do that and, my word, wouldn’t it have helped.

Let’s ‘hark’ back now, something I don’t often do, but since we’re reminiscing we might as well ‘hark’ simultaneously along with that. It’s good for your vocabulary. Let’s hark back to the ‘penis trumps vagina’ situation.

We’ll you’re right- women and their vagina’s are doing fairly well these days, indeed, they are doing for themselves- but therein lies the issue that I have with the 00’s here. Why was it up to key particular women to do this? Why not all of them? Why not all of us- men and their penis’ included (naturally- never omit a man’s junk)?

You see, we are the time that we live in, and without the positive action of a massive population, spurred on by those individuals that seem to matter for some reason, there will be no change. Don’t leave change up to individuals because it is knackering and depressing to do so alone. Just look at all those dead people you’ve heard of; that’s why you’ve heard of them and that’s also a substantial contribution as to why they are dead. And the centuries probably did them no favours either.

You, the population over there- hiding behind the Apple store! Go outside and make change, but for the love of all that is worth mentioning- don’t let advertisers see you do it. If you do- they’ll claim you and say you’re using their phone or their network to be the essential repetition of ‘new generation’ (being cool and free and buying our product just like you should. Keep watching your TV and shut up, you filthy little consumer).

This mind-set of sit-down, consume and distract yourself was all over the 00’s, and the brilliance of technology has had a central goal of luxurious entertainment, equating to all meaningful progression becoming a side-line to the main game. This is why women are paid less- because blasted by Angry Birds and Netflix- you really don’t give a fuck.

So now we’re in the 20-teens and so far I’m liking it. I think people are getting to grips with being apes and being in charge. Just look at the US. Here comes Mary Jane. Well done.

War and computers, eh?

Sam.


‘Face’- reasons and their consequences.

There is, I believe, a distinct over-use of the term (not the word) ‘face’. Perhaps most notably we have the insult that a friend is likely to give: “So’s your face!”.

Forgive me for mentioning it.

“In the face”, “directly in my face” and…”face” are all similar examples of the over-use I am referring to.

But why is this? I have an idea, and this is, I suppose, a view on current society and for that I am surely some sort of pretentious prat that deserves to have his blog ignored but for the sake of my self-esteem I am going to have to face….damn. Well, I guess that at least means I’m a part of the society I’m talking about. How pleasant.

Again. Why is this? The dawn of the company named ‘Facebook’ was massive as it began, but the prominence it has now gained is beyond the term of ‘household name’ as it has passed into the population’s mind to the degree that the lexicon is altered. The ubiquitous state of Facebook has earned it a place deep within our latter generation, though without permission, so that ‘face’ has therefore trounced other words in the race from the mind, to the tongue, and so out into our world for us all to hear- regrettably.

How else? I will also suggest that the means that Facebook reached us- the internet- has dragged us dancing into a world in which all the information we need is ready and waiting for its it’s pining-for by us. The information is both great and terrible at once, and it can have a habit of hitting you full-frontal and without mercy. In other words, you receive a face-full of this information  and the directness and impact of it, encompassing everything you need to know at that precise moment is therefore able to be described by a term from which we previously drew all the information we could: the face.

Now for slapstick. I wouldn’t say that slapstick is improving by any means- as only the appreciation for the humour can be said to have changed.

“Directly in her face”. Here comes the unfortunate use of the term, the use that comes with the assumption of originality and hilarity. The physical side of this slapstick is actually miniscule, though reasonably funny owing to it being slapstick and therefore we are human. But the alternative side, the telling of the tale afterwards- with some friends and some beers, is the worst this situation has to offer. This side demonstrates to us that presence of originality, courage, intellect and pity can all be removed from the comedy of the moment and be replaced by the simply insertion of the particular terms. Should one go about a story based around the play of “Insert ‘face’ here”, then their success is assured, and the battle is lost.

There is also a change in the meaning of the term ‘face’, and this is to mean ‘utterly me’. If something happened to/in/at your face, then it was complete and total. Your face is your identity, you are your face, therefore if something happens to your face, it completely happens to you.

And finally, the act of the ‘cum-shot’ onto the face. Why the face? It is complete, final and personal. Your face is you and ‘you’ are covered in cum, and that is all.

I think that fairly well sums up what is going on.