There's a New Boy

His name is Yuri and I like his hair. There's something loveably rough about him.

Slowly but surely, the world is getting bored of Stymest, Beech and Mohr.

Rock and Roll is dead.

Rock and Russian reigns.

The Bubble

The premise of this inane BBC semi-reality television show is simple: Three celebutards are locked up in a house without Twitter or Eastenders for a week. After their seven days are up, they're brought back down from the second floor of a bungalow with a bang, straight into a television studio to meet David Mitchell. They're then forced to guess which news stories are real and which are fake. Exciting television, i'm sure you'll agree...

Series One (hopefully of one), Episode One (Hopefully of few)
Here's the synopsis.

Comedy news quiz hosted by David Mitchell which plays on the fact that some news stories are so hard to believe you'd think they'd been made up. In this show some of them have.

Bang. David Mitchell regrets the day he signed up. Noted by the fact that Frank Skinner is funnier than him throughout.

Three celebrity contestants - a mixture of comedians, smart celebrities and wildcard bookings - are locked away in a media-free zone - 'the bubble' - for four days.

Four days. Not even a half-term holiday.

Wildcard bookings. Ie, a non-entity.

Such as Victoria Coren, a pokerjourno for G2.

Oh, and presenter of a BBC4 quiz show.

Oh, and an oxbridge graduate.

Oh, and obviously a tit.

No phones, no television, no internet access. When they are brought out into the studio, they are shown a series of news reports, headlines and images from TV, newspapers and celebrity gossip magazines.

In four days, what can happen...? Nothing. Without tv, newspapers and magazines, they wouldn't know about a ghost sighting of Big Daddy in York.

They have to identify the true stories from the fakes, but because they have been away and out of touch - just like when you come back from a holiday - they will believe almost anything.

Ie, we send three people you might have heard of to a cottage in the Cotswolds and make them partake in an inane process, loosely based on other successful quiz formats. Blah blah blah Tax Payers' Money blah. Who goes on holiday and returns to believe that the moon has been painted red and that Katie Price has shaved her hair off?

Truth is so often stranger than anything they could possibly imagine.

This is true.

It's strange that Mitchell presents.

It's strange that this show is popular on the iplayer.

It's strange that I want to see more of this car crash.

Note to BBC.

Just because there are books in the background and the topics covered are loosely based upon 'the news', does not mean to say that your program is of any merit at all. Perhaps BBCnews refused to produce fake news stories for you because they heard the premise of your program and their toes curled.

I've paid for this screenshot. And it was worth it.

A note on pandering to the masses

I am no good at blogging.
I once thought i had ADHD because i couldn't keep my legs still at night.
Or pay attention to anything for more than five minutes.
Just one of those five minute thoughts,
the ones that come when you don't expect them
and they're gone
into the air

away
off
off

this is why i'm quite taken with Woolf.

"Why illness is sexy"... Or "Will the real Slimane please stand up"

Those that know me could tell you i like my models a paler shade of yellow, with long gangly limbs. Tattoos wouldn't go a miss.


And now, to make a tedious link, comes the idea of a male body image. Us gays know what looks better. Apparently. And It's either orange and muscular or painfully thin. None of this Plus-Size lark. Why hasn't rebellion come about by now against these unhuman figures that force this fictional, dreamlike images into reality? Is this how one should look?

Whilst women force their silhouettes down to sizes 8, 6 and 4, where are the men? What are they doing? Whareas the focus is on 'skinny' for women, men must be the Adonis. A dangerous path which a few stops at obsession.

But until social changes come about, i think i'm quite content. Because, at the very end of the long day, once your hangover has dried up, men simply can't be fat. They are commodities which are REQUIRED to be a certain way because of their line of work.
Athlete
Model
An actor who can't act.

This is a woman's world.
And sex sells.

No matter if the Slimane Slims or the Macho Models prevail within that bloody 'fashion' world, there is definitely something very queer afoot.

"I dare say you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” -Queen

Westboro Baptist Church vs Twitter

Shirley Phelps vs Twitter

The GOD HATES FAGS went to Twitter, in sunny, sunny San Fran', home of everything and anything weird. Trust me, if there's a fetish you want to fulfil, go there.

Those beautiful Californians, with their speedy sign-making skills, were quick to retort back.

This is only one of a myriad of signs.

Go here to see the rest, my flying monkies.

That is all.

Love Hate Relationship

A wonderful new age is upon us. For a few months this year, when the planets align and the moon is at its fullest, there will be a time when Topman won't just be stocking photocopied basics, only bothering to alter the colour settings, avoiding what has fast became crasswalk rather than catwalk.

With the opening of a lovely new Topman in a lovely (!) new part of Eldon Square, this means a wider range of clothes than the cooker of a Topman with the annoying stairs which we already have at our disposal.

This is the iten to which my main lust is focussed. I doubt i'd wear it anywhere other than the beach, but still. I rarely go to the beach, but still. I'll look like a rookie superhero, but still.

This hot mess of a jacket is perfect. Because sometimes, I like to pretend i'm James Dean. Or just someone cooler than myself.

Ever since i was a young warthog, i've been obsessed with tying my shoe laces. Sometimes, i do it several times a day. In Primary school, i used to sit behind the girls with the longest hair and braid it for them. I was one of the early metro-sexuals, a founding member of the County Durham Pre-Metsexualite Movement. I was not gay. I longed for my mother to have the courage to send me into a den of pedophiles so i could learn how to tie knots like only the best scout leader could.

I wear clothes. Everyday.

Sometimes, i even wear two layers.

So, with me clearly in mind, Topman/Lens have paired my two hobbies together, clothes and knots, in this fantiestic blend of the two.

I don't know if i rate this checked mess very much. But i have a shirt and a scarf in the same pattern which i think would look pretty god damn fucking fly, motherheffers. I'd be an optical illusion even Escher would be jealous of, i'm sure.

The biggest challenge of this decade has been the feminine connotations with a jumpsuit. I've tried to hurdle them myself, but ended up looking like a failed, flailing drag queen at best. But now, a new age is upon us. Sir Philip has commissioned the answer.

And the answer is 'The Boiler Suit'.

(I really want to comment on how baggy, shapeless and messy it all looks. But i'm going to refrain because i'd quite like one)

Some Videos Which May Cause Death By Dangerous Eff, You and Enn-ing:

There's this new film coming out. Are you following this? In which Michael Cera seems to spend most of it semi-dressed, playing an awkward teen. I know you're following now. There's this program in America where the stars are usually semi-dressed, living out their Jersey Shore dreams. You don't have to follow the last bit. But i'd rather you did, d-bags.

Jersey Shore meets Michael Cera:

Some Pictures of a Boy That May Replace Ash Stymest as the apple of my eye will follow...

Car Boot

Every Sunday morning, somewhere near Stanley, in the deathly cold county of Durham, there happens a car boot sale of epic proportions. Obviously, the apocalyptic weather that has plagued us of recent has had a negative effect on the quality of this here gathering of bargain hunters. Although not the best location in which i've CBd in (for that award goes to the Hexham CB sale, which sprawled through an indoor cattle market), it's the size of three and a half football pitches and it the only thing i'll ever be able to wake up before ten o'clock for and happy about it. I wake up knowing that Paul Smith had me in mind when he wrote 'Our Velocity'.

On the way out, me and @ministrats like to buy a plastic bag for a mere pound and fill it with whatever little junken gems we find. Today's gem of the day was a book called 'The Universal Home Guide', published just after the Second World War.

After reading the extract that follows, I realised that I have never grown out of my awkward teen phase:

And this towering building is the factory itself:

A man whose dead wife had a scissor fetish was trying to make a quick buck:

Since her death, he has noone to fulfil his fetish, so he'd brought his sexual paraphernalia along too:

I buy books i never read

In preparation for my library.

But when the going rate is fifty pence for a fistful, I simply can't say no. Even if they double the time it takes for me to get home.

What may look like an early attempt to produce Mills And Boon's men's range is not actually a dirty book at all.

-Some Videos to Fellate Your Eyes:

The gayest duet since Elton John and George Michael:

The moment Snookums a la Jersey Shore's career gets a head start (actual punch):

Patti Smith covers Smells Like Teen Spirit:

Go North East

It is the second of January. And with this comes cold and, more arse fingeringly annoying, snow. I’m dreaming of a White Christmas. No.

This is a nightmare. It’s good to look at, yeah. But when you really want to get somewhere, the snow comes along and makes your bus ten minutes late. Then you panic and you wonder when is good to give up waiting. Heart races. Sweat drips. Breath pulsates.

And then, appearing from that corner of Lidl that leads to Wetherspoons, peers the Swift, the 45, the bus home. This is an ode to Go North East. Even in the shittest weather, in the town on the hills, this little bus slides on. Through all the lain snow and the freezing slush, on the little bugger chugs.

God loves the little engine that could.

Guess Who...

He was on telly over christmas.

He's local.

He likes to dance.

(That last statement reminds me of Nicole Kidman.)

It's Billy Elliot.

An Ode to Bethlehem

'I remember that time someone found Mother Theresa in their pasty...'

I wish i could say that, more often than not, the papers I find my self reading are filled with images of Christian deities mysteriously, perhaps heavenly, placed within every day objects. I wish i could claim that this was because I read high-brow, middle-class or perhaps even intellectual rags. I don't.

Friends, nobles, countrymen...

a feast!

Of all things Holy.

And other things blasphemous.

Mother Theresa; a pastry miracle

I

believe the general consensus would have it that Old Momma T wasn't the most beautiful of humans ever to feed the poor. Whereas the Virgin Mary, a Middle Eastern teen, scores major

'artist's interpretation' points because Photography was unheard of in and around Bethlehem and the surrounding areas, Mother T's face is as easily googleable as Paris Hilton's sex tape. No one can argue she was as ugly as this Pastry depicts her. More of a flaky insult than a divine depiction of a modern day saint.

Chocolate Jesus; Cocoa, let us adore him

Yes. It's manufactured. But doesn't the quirky, tongue in cheek nature of Christ the Confection titillate a little? Yes. For about five minutes. The chocolate will probably taste American.

Like foreign smarties. Like cardboard. Or Holy Communion.

Apt.

What do you get when you cross Christmas Dinner with the Baby Jesus... literally?

NerdHurdles has the answer.

And it is meat based.

Pay close attention.

Ignore the salad.

Roast Carrots.

White and red meat

The head is made of Minced lamb and there's a swaddling blanket of swine.

God love Canadians with Humour.

An Ode by a Thomas Lonsdale

Virginia had walked this path repeatedly over the past month or so. Today, however, was to be her last. It was to be the last time she'd pass the glorious oak tree that she had once, hand in hand with her husband, strolled past and felt a wave of something ethereal engulf her soul. It was to be the last time she would breathe the sharp air of the Winter deep into every corner of her lungs as Boreas darted from the North. It was also the last time she'd ever shed a tear as she lamented over the cruelty of Nature. The natural world which, through eyes once so optimistic, now hoisted itself up to the gallows each Autumn and pulled the lever as the hangman only should, only to resurrect itself in order to die again. Mother Nature protected herself from the melancholic Winters in a way no human ever could. Human nature had grown so twisted that, twice now, it had turned on itself in a great mass of tear and bloodshed. More poignantly for the reader however, the Nature of Virginia's mind had stumbled ever so slightly on the never-ending road to genius. Never can something so small have so little effect as it can - and so often does- on the mind. She carried on towards the river.

She grew tired by now, so she sat on the bank to rest her legs, mind and heart. She spoke to herself aloud, telling herself that she was thankful for her husband, as a lone swan danced gracefully around the corner to the left of her. He had called her his 'Swan' in the early years of the marriage and the image had never left her. It was tattooed upon her heart, inked upon each vein. This happy haunting. This woman, like the swan, who was in public so mute, could embody such moments of beauty in times of silence. She'd never considered herself as any other bird. Her father had called all of his children his 'Geese', after the favourite Fairy Tale of the Stephen children, but Virginia had never considered herself a Goose. Whereas, as her Father told, the Geese had, and still continue, to hide from the Fox behind their prayers, Virginia tackled her Fox head on, unafraid of the consequences. As she plucked stones from the river bank, she noticed the swan's wing was maimed from one or another of Nature's cruelties, life's liquid daubed upon the pure, as in her head. She rose, unable to tolerate such thoughts that now swamped it, like scarlet red on white. Onward, she went, further downstream so that neither man nor beast nor thought could distract her from the oncoming inevitability.

Whilst the thoughts in her head often dwelled upon the horrors of grown men yearning to feel the blood of an opposition on their cold hands, the thoughts of her head fought harder and with more consequences than any War ever should. The longing to kill another was about survival. The longing to kill one's self was about death, escape and freedom from the self: a final, inevitable way out. She tried so hard, as she paced head on into a nipping breeze, to forget. As many others before her and many more since, she could not. She was the Swan, not the Goose. Her proudest attribute was about to lead her to her downfall.

And so, cold hands in warm pockets, Ms. Woolf reached the place she'd learn to fly. The river was no longer than any room of her own, but she knew it to be deeper here than in any part along the three mile stretch she had walked. The current there, as the folk said, was capable of dragging a grown man so far under that his body would whirl straight out to sea within three rises of the Sun. Part of her had wanted to ask if anything less would have happened if it were a grown woman. She had stayed mute. As she stood on the river bank, she could hear only the gentle 'coo' of a wood pigeon, goading her. She waited for her life to flash before her eyes. The life didn't appear. Her doctor. She thought of the note she'd wrote to her husband. Her right foot flew forward. She thought of him. Still nothing appeared. Still the pigeon went on. Hyde Park Gate and Godrevy Point flashed. But no life. Her breath increased. The screams of London's air raids. How happy he'd been on their wedding day. Still no sign of her life flashing anywhere. Her lungs scrabbled as if for one last mouthful soul. How his soul had comforted hers. She thought of the picture on the wall. Her London house burning. Motives for actions were nowhere to be found. She clenched her hands. For no one’s actions, ever. Her siblings and step-siblings. The picture of herself. The smell of her husband's duffle coat. The stones were cold, comforting. How the mind was capable of such alienation. And her Leonard. But what good were reasons or motives? And how she would be remembered. How cruel the Winters were. But the reasons were countless. Her left foot followed. She thought of the Swans and of the soul. She thought of how doomed the future could be, is or was. And she saw the Fox, the triumphant Fox.




But there, in the air, all was silent. The quiet of corporeal, of mind and of soul came forth. Virginia, myself, died right there, in the air. My soul left my body, escaped, as I had longed it to do for so long. Left to dance with the bloodied swan, on the river where I slept, and in the air, where forever, we'll fly.

An Ode To Stardom

She's just like everybody else.
A regular 'People's Favourite'.
A nice girl.

She's boring
inoffensive
and hurrendously cringeworthy.
And that was BEFORE you read her Twitter.
@luciejones1

nanyte :) x
8:08 PM Nov 19th from mobile web
What's that Lucy? Night time? I bet you had actually gone to bed at ten past eight. ROCK N ROLL. You're as rock N roll as Louis Walsh. But that doesn't make you a bad person. Just a shit one. Kiss.


is at a gig with mcfly...love it =] x
5:46 AM Nov 14th from web
That's two 'smileys' already. And a nod to McFly. *BANG*


is online in barnsley and sheffield tonight =]
xx hope youre all well!!xx
1:44 PM Nov 18th from web

Living the life of a star. Yorkshire is
the place to be. Clearly.

Lucie Jones is a boring mother fucker.
Follow her.
She good, mama.




Today i followed JLS, Alexandra Burke, Diana Vickers and Badlashes.
Look at how good my life is...
It's almost as good as Lucie's. But not quite.

So far, she's played in Swansea, Brighton, Newcastle, Harrogate and Stockport.
What a life, ey?









For tweets like this....

Stinky nickers get ur ass here dude!!! u nobed.........i love you!!!!
2:35 PM Nov 18th from web

Follow the, seemingly drunken, @RuthLorenzo1
Remember El Breasties from last year?

Lucie's Twitter

Ruth's Twitter

An Ode to Patrick, Virginia and Wikipedia

My sister, ever the musical enthusiast picked up my copy of The Magic Position (Album) by Patrick Woolf. Here, the love affair began.



She'll never forget how her love began, unlike me.


So she comes to me with songs by him i haven't even heard and versions i never knew existed and i do the same. She, despite having the harder job, always outshines me.




Despite her recent admission/confession that she liked 'Folk' music, she's still cooler than me.
But can she solve To The Lighthouse based problems?
No.

She tottled up to me this fine Sunday eve and asked what 'To The Lighthouse' was about. (Die Patrick).
And i told her that i thought it was a bit of a folly about Virginia. And her death.



Then i realised that i'd missed so so much out.
So i sat for about an hour researching every little detail of the song and did her a nice big information overload.


One part was missing.

Saw the spike of the railings
On the 28/3rd floor.

I put it to you, my public.
That it's not
28/3RD
but
28TH/3RD FLOOR.

Virginia died on the 28th of the 3rd.
And thus, the mystery was solved.
God love Wikipedia.









Ps,
Nice to see the boy in something a little bit higher brow than what he's used to.
But lets not make a habit out of it.

An Ode to Tiresias

Originally scribed 12.10.09

"I know what we can go as...
We can dress all in black
and tie a shot glass around necks
and go as a 'shot in the dark."

I grew up as a real boy.
In a real town with its own, often real, sometimes surreal, problems.
I lived the 'Hicksville-meets-dystopian-vision' town.
I am the embodiement.
As are all of their own home towns.
But the comparative success story.
I dream of 'big disused towers, cranes and the coincidence [and beauty] of grey clouds in the distance'.
I dream of the Middle Classes, too.
And their 'Room Of One's Own' belief that any room plus a laptop makes their eyes wider and their brains engaged.

The privilege of an unprivilege life is that you see the wonder in everything.

An Ode to Taylor

PWNED!!

PWNED!!!



















PWNEDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Royally.






I don't know who she is or what she's done,
but bitch got owned last night.
And what telly gold it made for.

Don't cry Taylor.
Not only did Kanye West hijack your acceptance speech,
but you got the Beyonce "Light-Shines-Out-Of-My-Booty" Knowles
Seal Of Approval.



THINK OF THE ITUNES DOWNLOADS.



When Kanye jumped up and said what he said...
a part of me cheered.
Until i remembered i had a heart.

It's like that feeling on Deal or No Deal,
when they've went all the way to the end
and you see the £500 in their box.
And you applaud
and laugh
at
this poor, pathetic human.
(The one that's NOT Noel Edmonds)

And then the guilt seeps in:
"oh, that could have been me"
"ohh, but her sob story"
"ohhh, look how they all feel really bad for her"


But i'll never be Taylor Swift.
I've never heard her sob story.
And i'm pretty sure that SOME of the audience cheered...





Don't cry Taylor...
It could have been worse...


No charisma
is better than Lost charisma.
(Russel Brand)


And no charisma
is better than
LessThanNo Charisma
(The Twilight Zombies)










In other news...
i can sexually link myself to myself using six steps.
Possibly.
And if the news is true
(i await a text back to find out whether it is)
i refuse to kiss another man, woman or gaga for the rest of my time in Newcastle.

Further than Newcastle, actually.


Anywhere North of Leicester...

These are sad times in which we live.

IN OTHER NEWS,
this means that i can trace SIX WHOLE PEOPLE back to their selves through a series of
"Sucked off"s
and
"Had sex with"s
and
"Was in love with"s
and
(to be safe)
"Kissed"s.

Aren't I wonderfully bored?
For a moment, there...
i thought i had a seventh...
alas...
not.

An Ode to Hate

A regular feature:

When writing an essay, it is advised that you refrain from talking in the first person where possible. It makes for clumsy reading and may undermine the point you are trying to make. When writing an article, it is adviseble that you talk in the first person when needed, but without coming across as self-centred. When you're a voiceover character on a Cable television show, the more you talk about yourself, the better. The more you talk about what you had for breakfast; where you were on a particular day; who you particularly fucked; empowers you. And draws away from the fact that you are a total cock.

Ladies and gays.

She is clingy. Needy. Self-obsessed.
And a cheat.
People always forget that.
Carrie Bradshaw.




So here is one of my favourite 'I FUCKING HATE YOU' moments:

1. The one where she turns up in 'le' beret and a cringe-fest ensues.

Thinking she's 'le' hillarious,
bitch bounces in like a total 'le' douche-bag, thinking she's Queen of 'le' world,
and throws a perfectly good big mac at 'le' Big. BigMac fans of the world unite in my hate.
He should have cut her out of his life whilst he still had the chance. Aggressive behaviour from a partner should never be tolerated.
She chucked a big mac.
She should of been chucked for 'le' good.

Notice how annoying my use of 'Le' is.
Now imagine a Bitch in a red dress and a beret.

Put the two together.
Welcome to Discomfort.

"If things get real bad i'll move to Paris and write Le Sex and Le City."
Things were real bad, gal.

See?

An Ode to Woolf, Hermes and PDSA

Look at the below shoes. Take the wings off, they'd be perfect.
They are perfect. I have seen them wingless.
Wings on, they look like a ty-beanie-baby/ugg-boot cross-breed.
Stay well clear of Winged Shoes.
Even if the Stymester is wearing them.

I'll never forget him/ the leader of the pack

Clarissa Dalloway is my role model, for she is a whizz around London and good at getting-things-done. Read Mrs Dalloway. Virginia Woolf. It won't take you long.

Rule number 1:
if you spend £120 in Charity Shops over three days, you are allowed to write about it. More on this later. I await my sister's return from her friend's house to play Moss and Bailey and go overboard with the Digicam.