Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Topical? Neigh...

Horse meat. Now there's a topic I can get my teeth into. ***Pun alert, pun alert, the word 'Horse' will be censored for your own safety***. Certainly not a task I'll balk at. No sir-ee, some would choose not to flog such a freshly dead CHEESE, certainly would be in bad taste, yet I am not one such to get on my own high CHEESE. Straight from the CHEESE's mouth dear folks, I will most certainly address this most contentious of issues, deaf to the cries that I'm closing the gate on the matter after the CHEESE has bolted.

To begin with, I must attest that I am well aware of the seething hatred that this issue has roused within the general public, I mean, who couldn't help but notice the mass Tesco bans, the burger burning (that might just be my cooking) and the general outcry? Wait. None of that happened now did it? Could this be another occurrence of media disproportion? Surely not. That great champion of public morality would never incite baseless hysteria, would it now? Well, perhaps my thinly veiled sarcasm is not completely apt in this circumstance, it would appear that numerous cases of dodgy horse from across the EU has entered the food chain, so a moderate level of hysteria might be warranted. But in all honesty, if growing up on the mean streets of London has taught me anything, you'd be lucky to know whether your meat came from something with 4 legs, let alone the species. When you've eaten a kebab at 2 am completely rat-arsed, you loose all complaining privileges.

I'd pay good money to eat a horse. Hell, I'd pay good money to know that the meat I'm eating is from a creature that I couldn't beat in a fist fight, makes me feel mentally adequate for once. You might not  like to admit it, but more likely than not, you've probably ingested all sorts of unique meats. There's more meat in a banana than in some of those godawful things they try to pass off as pork products. Don't even get me started on chicken; two words, reconstituted meat. So yeah, a little veterinary medication in the food chain never hurt anyone and look on the bright side, it turns out we exported most of our poisoned meat to the french! That's gotta count for something.

Joke to show just how late to the game I am

Q. Why was the calander anxious?
A. Its days were numbered

Friday, 18 January 2013

New year, new problems

Angst. I once thought the limitless wells of first world angst that filled my veins would be the steam that powers this ramshackle vehicle of poorly thought out ideas. Turns out,  I was wrong. Yet, it would seem that I was not content to  leave things there, because as you may have noticed, I had dragged a willing accomplice into this chaos before jumping ship myself. Now that, my dear and valued reader, is what is known as a poorly thought out idea. So, I've decided to try and write again when I can, I might not have the anger resources of a disgruntled gerbil anymore but I can damn sure dredge up enough bile to suckle you numskulls.

Lots of big changes been occurring since I last checked in, namely that I've begun life at university and that I am now the proud owner of the supervisor title at work. Lucky me. Now, either thing in isolation would be a cause for celebration, it is not every day you shimmy up the greasy pole, nor is it a regular thing to have a vague success in the realm of academia. No, my problem does not lie with the what, I'm concerned with the damnable when. Every single time, every single thing I do in life, something has to sour an otherwise sweet situation. My current schedule essentially reads the same thing every day: best wake up ridiculously early or you're fucked. I'm not talking Monday-Friday kind of fucked, I'm talking full blow, 12 hour shifts Saturday/Sunday sort of fucked. It would appear that the universe conspires against the sweet sweet partnership of me and sleep once again.

University is proving to be a fun old jaunt too, met a bunch of lovely people, some not so lovely, and some you just want to bludgeon with a rusty spoon. Besides, the course itself has been a doddle thus far, except for the fact that due to my time constraints (totally not because I'm a lazy bastard with a tendency to procrastinate), I've made no notes whatsoever. What could possibly go wrong, eh?

You'll settle for a pun and you'll like it

The smallest pun I know - Dwarf Shortage

Tuesday, 10 July 2012

Opportunity, Part One.

While my slew of meh-ly written Halo fiction has gotten me by for a while, I've been yearning for something new, different and original to write about. After much deliberation, I've finally decided to make a start on a new story. So here you have it, the pre-prologue of my upcoming story, <INSERT NAME HERE>!
The Fried Ferret Tavern could be summed up in it's sign, which swung from a pole outside. It hadn't been oiled or taken down in generations, and squeaked relentlessly in the night wind. The sign depicted some kind of rodent, presumably the titular ferret, sitting by a mug, with the words 'WECLOME ALL TRAVLERS' inscribed into the wood beneath. Spelling errors and inaccurate animal depictions aside, it had remained there for many a year, a sight for all journeying into the capital from the main highway. Recently, it had come to the owner's attention that someone had, by some miraculous feat, scaled the ancient pole and scrawled an obscenity over the sign.

After various attempts to remove the red paint had failed, it had, as most things were in those parts, been blamed on wizards. Unexplained and inexplicable things usually were. So, that was the sign. Old, squeaky, slightly crooked and defaced. The Fried Ferret Tavern, though appearing on the outside to be fairly regular by the region's standards, even called 'modern' by some of it's more verbose clientele, was exactly that on the inside, albeit with alcohol. It was said to tourists passing through the capital that on a good night you could watch the spectacle of some of it's more rowdy patrons being forcefully ejected. Bets were even placed on how far the drunkards would soar across the street once the bouncer had picked them up bodily and shown them the door. Face-first, usually.

The inside of the Ferret, currently twenty four times the legal maximum capacity, was a noisy, cheery, and very drunk place. Should a tourist or outsider venture in, and by some miracle acquire a seat at one of the near-mythical tables, they could easily pick out the wide variety of patrons that favoured the bar. In addition to the general crowd of regulars, people whose only purpose in life seemed to be for filling out these places and making up the bulk of mobs everywhere, there were several 'forn types', huddled in the corner wearing hooded cloaks and speaking in hushed voices, a group of men with poorly concealed weapons, likely sellswords of some sort, and a few young women, likely ready to sell themselves to the sellswords at some point, once the overpriced beer had taken it's toll and the mind cannot warn the body of impending danger.

These people, however, were nothing special. A trip to the tavern three streets away would likely reveal a similar scene, though lacking the fried rodent that this particular establishment had long specialised in selling. However, sitting in a booth, in one of the darker corners of the crowded room, was someone very special indeed. Currently, he was adjusting his hat so that it overshadowed his eyes without obstructing his vision. After fiddling with his headgear, a wide-brimmed red straw hat, for some time, the man gave up, and went back to searching for his beer, which he had purchased an hour previously and was drinking at the same rate a fish might climb a mountain. A clank and the trickle of liquid confirmed the location of his mug, followed by a string of hissed expletives. Perhaps extinguishing the lights in his corner had been a bad idea.

Getting up, the man clicked a small silver device several times against the lamp, until it ignited, finally giving him some light. Seeing the pint as a lost cause, he sat back down again, eyes roving around the room. The silver lighter had gotten him some dubious looks. In these parts, the people were more akin to crows than actual human or near-human beings at times. He placed the hat back on the table and attempted to brush the hair from his eyes. That got him some looks as well. Shoulder length hair was generally reserved for practitioners of the arcane arts, women, westerners, or subjects of intense ridicule. The hat was swiftly replaced. It had been a waste of a day, really. All the time spent here today had been wasted. Sighing, he took out a small notebook and pen, and scribbled a brief sentence before stowing it away in his rucksack. Looking up, he locked eyes momentarily with a man halfway across the room, who had been watching him intently. The man, who had the build, and from the dull expression in his eyes, the brain of an ox, began walking towards him, followed by several others.

"Oh, bugger"

The other men stopped at his table, spreading out and surrounding it, giving off the general sneers and malicious grins that could only have been achieved in a lifetime of picking on smaller beings. The leader, who probably attained such a prestigious rank through a dim flicker of initiative and raw strength, leant over the table, his grin revealing a row of mismatched teeth, and letting out the familiar stench of someone who had long  since abandoned any kind of oral hygiene. That said, he was not a good looking man, though such types rarely were.

"Well well well" he said simply, leering at the smaller man. "What have we got here then?"
Completely ignoring the rhetorical question, the man smiled pleasantly and tipped his hat. "Alendrian Barnes. What can I do you gentlemen for?"
This took the larger  man by surprise, causing his lackeys to look at their hero in blind panic for a moment before he glared at his now-mortal enemy. "Ooh, fancy name, eh boys? Well, I've been watching you, I have"

"Have you? Whatever for?"

"Well, me 'n the boys here, we don't like people like you coming in 'ere, getting a whole table to yerselves and doing things we don't like"

Looking back on his obviously unforgivable crimes committed in the last minute or so, Alendrian realised that  diplomacy would be tantamount to suicide right now. He tried once more, putting on that same disarming smile. "Come on boys, there's no need to be like this. How about I buy you all a drink, eh?

The response wasn't exactly what he had expected. While your average drunken patron would be delighted at the prospect of someone else buying a drink, this lot didn't even seem to consider the offer. This wasn't good. While most normal men could be bribed, coerced or begged into considering other options, the five men facing Alendrian right now were of a different breed, that of a pure, moronic thug. Given the chance they would probably be prime employees for some kind of crime boss or evil overlord. The leader took this offer, as he did with most things, as a final insult, his hand moving for the knife that hung from his belt.

"Have it your way, then" Alendrian said, bored at the prospect of fighting people as bland as this.


There you have it. My apologies to McGee for the excessive length of this post. I intend to write up the second part at some point in the near future. Here's the bloody joke:

Q: What kind of tree grows in your hand?
A: A palm tree!

It physically hurt to type that. I may have acquired some kind of fatal disease. You bastard.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

The will of the Gods part 1

Part 1/?

“A dank, pervasive miasma filled the air, threatening to quench the dying flames of resolve left within the unfortunate lot who resided in the courtroom. Three hours had passed, yet the volley of thinly veiled insults and half disguised threats between the accusatory Illusionaries and the defending Magi of fate continued with no end in sight. “Enough!” cried Thom, “Those glorified cultists, broke the agreed upon pact!” the source of this outburst, the most senior of the silver robed Illusionaries’ half dozen, was a bespectacled man of advanced years, with a terrible fondness for frequently caressing his wispy waist length beard, “Decider, is it not plain to all that this farce has continued for far too long? Use your judgement and punish these heathens!” a murmur of disquiet emanated from the Magi opposite but before it ignited the flames of a further three our discussion, I intervened.

Apostle of Judgement, at least that’s what I am meant to be. Mine is a revered position, thrust upon me by the governors of hope, tasked with deciding the fates of men brought before the small courts. My faith is no different to any other, my prayers to the three primes and six lesser for guidance and protection from the three evils is completely normal. Yet here I sit. A wooden throne of aged timber to elevate me, my mediocrity acts as a lacklustre beacon for the ignorant, I find myself encircled by the throng of the bored, bemused and otherwise bothersome onlookers below and encased within this windowless coffin of this dilapidated courtroom. The very anti-magic runes engraved upon the walls to supposedly protect my hallowed position had long since lost their illuminations and were slowly fading, much like my interest in this case.

“Silence!”, I announced, the sudden lack of clamour seemed odd considering the order emanated from my small frame, the slightly thinning tuft of brown hair, wholly unbefitting someone in their mid twenties, did not help improve my timid aura, nonetheless, all eyes were now on me. “I’ve heard more than enough of you all today and I’ve made my decision after careful examination of the facts”, another expertly crafted lie of mine, were it not for the punishment I’d face for desertion of my ‘holy duty’, I’d have called this kangaroo court to an end long ago, “I’ve heard charges against the Magi of fate, and have found the evidence lacking to state they have broken the pact of the Gods”, with this statement, a burst of light crackled through the air, splintering the mid-section of my seat, sending a sudden surge of energy outwards that sprung the seemingly dormant crowd into a frenzied panic. “No! Aeya, goddess of illusion will not stand for this!”, shouted Thom indignantly, his five younger followers clamouring to their feet around him, “Your judgment defiles the very name...”, “Oh will you please shut up”, called a red-robed man of the Magi, emboldened by the wall of hapless onlookers between Thom and himself and with a flail of his arms, an eerie red goo leapt forth, arcing from his palms towards the silver group.”

A magical joke to top things off

Q: What did the prince say after the witch turned him into a frog?
A: Ribbet! Ribbet!

Friday, 29 June 2012

Oh God, not this again...

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Without exams to circumscribe,
I’m free to write a diatribe!

Hello, hello, hello dear readers! The joyous days of my repeated attempts to entertain, confuse and, if the past posts are anything to go by, fail miserably to write in an effective, coherent manner, can once again commence. Had you bothered to read to any semblance of depth, you’d have noticed the previous post was concluded with a godawful joke. Now, before you think my flawless joke record besmirched by that abomination, it was, in fact written as the conclusion of the first post by my brand spanking new co-author, Brodie.C *insert appropriate level of fanfare here*. Hopefully his peculiar mind will birth posts as stillborn as my own, can’t have him outshining me now, can I?

Exams. The bane of my existence till not so long ago, yet with the great beast slain and my time finally wrenched from its all encompassing tyranny, I am left without my greatest motivator for updating this infernal time wasting dohicky; procrastination. My time is my own and now that I fill it with whatever and whichever pointless banality that my feckless mind deems fit, I have no reason to return to this platform in refuge under the crushing weight of responsibility. Meh, I guess I’ll just have to write spurious nonsense out of a misbegotten sense of purpose rather than whatever stupidity I previously thought constituted a tenable reason instead.

It is precisely here that I have run out of interesting things to tell you all, “You never let that stop you in the past!” I hear you cry, to you I say, “Fuck off, you try better”. However, I have decided a decent use for you, my bumbling collective; a tool of shame! That’s right; I shall divulge my goals to you in an attempt to shame myself through the laziness barrier, over the time wasting straits of procrastination right into the sweet bosom of self fulfilment.  First and foremost, exercise; my rolls could stock a large bakery. Secondly, learn maths; my skills with said matter are so bad, were I to die, humanity’s collective mathematical ability will actually increase by a sizable degree. Thirdly, write more of this bollocks. During the course of the summer period, I plan to get a fair few posts written of a quality unrivalled by anyone bar the mentally challenged and the illiterate.

There you have it; your summer of fun has just begun. Yay...

A joke twice as bad to make up for the previous post, hint hint, my humour impaired compatriot:

Q. What sort of tiles cannot be stuck on walls?
A. Reptiles!

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

What a Witty Title, Bravo!

Well then. As the readers of this blog may have noticed, the description has been changed to 'we'. No, McGee has not become schizophrenic since the last post, nor has he begun to use the royal 'we'. Actually, that's something that I would probably do, going by the title of 'Lord' for some time. Anyway, after a lengthy discussion yesterday, transforming a quip about me eating individually named jelly babies into some kind of Lovecraftian horror, I was offered the position as a writer-helper-person for this blog-o-matic, which I accepted, my own rambling blog about video games having staggered around for a bit before falling into the dirt. Anyway, that's enough of the friendly introduction, now to my bitter angry self. Yay!

So, as someone with far too much free time on their hands usually does, I spend most of my days sitting around, browsing web forums, watching cartoons and shouting about conspiracies to all who will listen. Or haven't managed to untie themselves yet. As such, I find myself as quite an angry person at the worst of times. I have, after much research, tracked down one of the main sources of my inexhaustible rage. Buses. Now, as someone who makes use of the bus often, embarking on the 45-minute journey to college at the beginning of each day, I have become accustomed to my mode of transport; never breathing too deeply or inhaling at any time, and generally avoiding those who look as though they would bother me. So, that's most people to my paranoid eyes.

Well, as my college is paired with a school, there is the deal of putting up with the packed bus each day. Well, there is only ONE bus that goes in my direction, and is usually filled with a variety of screaming children from both my school and a nearby one. The moment that bell goes at the end of the day, I'm off, powerwalking to the second stop to get a seat, which is usually available. It's these same kids, however, that every day run straight from school to the bus stop and jump on, determined to make as much noise as possible. It's times like this that I feel more like one of those old 'get off my lawn' type of person. I'm not a big fan of anyone who is younger than me, really. I haven't a bloody clue what to do with babies either. My mum put my baby cousin down on my bed while I had relatives visiting and walked off, leaving me alone with the potato-headed dribbler. Then it cried. Yes, we all cried as a baby, wah wah wah, but being an arrogant bastard at the best of times, I'm still going to complain about it. There are far too many babies these days anyway. People running around and dropping litters of these mewling cabbages everywhere.

Moving on to other things, it has come to my attention that most decent films these days seem to get pushed aside by those with larger financial backing. Last week, I went to the premiere of Iron Sky, a film that for some reason was only on for one night. Now, I had been largely unaware of the film until a friend told me about it the previous night, and I must say that it is the best I've seen in a while. However, it was only on once at my local cinema, one showing at night. You know what was on about six times that day? Piranha Double D. Yep. A film with David Hasslehoff, a man who probably doesn't even know where he is half the time, and boobs. That's the film."Oh, it's a comedy!" There's comedy, then there's shit. And I know my poop, ladies and gentlemen. I'm detecting a big hint towards Idiocracy (Another not bad film) here.

Ah well, that's it for today's nonsensical rambling rant. Maybe I'll have something reasonably coherent next time, something that isn't just me shouting at things that make me angry. Oh, and I have to make an obligatory bad joke at the end of every post. Okay, here's one from 'Russian Political Humour':

"Comrade Stalin goes to a football game. It gets cancelled at half-time. This is because he killed everyone."

Saturday, 18 February 2012

The ravings of a psychopath

Blah, blah, blah chemistry... Blah, blah, blah retakes... Blah, blah, blah terribly hackneyed, repetitive excuses. Now with all that bollocks cleared up... Wait, my thinly veiled attempts to divert attention away from the fact that I haven’t written anything since last year are failing? Well screw you buddy, my life’s been a little hectic and as such, I didn’t deem this most grand housing for the brain farts that I call blog posts worth a visit. Fortunately for you, I’ve found a brief lapse in this crushing waste that I call a life to let you catch a whiff of the latest rumblings that have been brewing for some time.

I’ll level with you; my last few months have been tearfully monotonous save the odd moment of general absurdity. Now, I must proceed with caution henceforth, I make it a policy of mine to not explicitly state the names of people involved in various situations, namely to prevent embarrassment on their part but also to stop those I count as friends from being linked to the ravings of a crazed half-wit. Now, to the situation itself, essentially I lent a friend a pound to buy a gift for my ex-girlfriend who was going to give it to her new girlfriend, whilst sitting next to her most recent ex who also happens to be one of my best friends. It’s fucked up, I know. Apologies to any of those who recognise themselves in the piece, it was far to fucking surreal to pass up.  I’ve seen politicians speak that is less convoluted than this. Who am I kidding? That was a simile too far.

If that wasn’t strange enough, I’ve had another occurrence with the current women in my life. So, the other day I returned home to my humble abode to the chattering of my mother. She starts telling me about some panorama show about a brain scanning technique to test for psychopaths, says that the main scientist found out that he was one. Then she has the gall to suggest that I, Mr Sensitive, may be one such a character. I know right, she couldn’t be further from the truth! Alright, I may have only realised she was really ill with a cold when I happened upon her coughing a few weeks into it. Ok, ok, I may be coldly indifferent to the trivialities of the home but who could blame me? Distraught, I sought comfort from the one person I knew would have my back, come rain or shine; my beautiful girlfriend. Casually, I brought up and explained the situation to her, looking for some reassurance; she turns to me, looks me dead in the eye and agrees with my mother! How could they both say that! Fair enough, I did kind of make light of a friend of her’s recently deceased mother to lighten the mood. I’m also able to lie perfectly on cue now that I think about it... but that’s not the point!

The way things are looking, I should give up on the whole science biz and invest in hockey masks and sharp things...

Joke I heard recently and had been dying to share

Q. Why was the stupid basalt happier than the clever calcium?
A. Because igneous is bliss