Andre the BFG sets gob

Don’t flog the blogger
Current mood: Vapid

Aye, well. I've been indulging in one of my periodic absences from the internet. I hooked up with one of these virtual detox programmes for a while and they cleaned me out good and proper. My imagination is now firmer than a politician's promises and I no longer suffer from premature expostulation. Not only that, but my tolerance for bullshit has increased. I can now read an entire page of the Daily Mail before feeling the urge to emigrate.

Some of you have unwisely speculated that the latest love of my life has been keeping me on a very short leash. Well, there could be a grain of truth in that. Others may have mistakenly spotted a suspicious coincidence between my silence and the start of the uni calendar, and the need to drag my growing metaphysical entourage north once more. There could be a grain of truth in that as well.

But there isn't. The real truth is that I have the attention span of an investment banker and I was doing something else for a bit. I even have the scars to prove it.

So what brought me out of self-imposed retirement? Well, simply that I was tagged!

Now BFGs don't get tagged very often. In fact I've only been tagged twice before in my short Myspace life, so it's like a red-letter day for me. It's like being asked to open for Mastodon, or to co-star in a bathroom appliance advert with Angelina Jolie. And, as with all MySpace tags, you HAVE to honour them. It's the one thing that binds the myspace community together, whether you be onanist, shiite, parthenogenic, or republican.

Never mind "your 10 favourite albums", the tag was to document the 5 things that turn me on. I've inadvertently let one of those slip already, so I guess I only have four left. Here goes:

2. A glimpse of hispid oxter

The armpit is one of the body's prime erogenous zones as far as I'm concerned. Us BFGs like our pheromones - it requires a heavy charge to get the blood really flowing into our outsized organs - and armpit hair does exactly what it says on the packet. I cannot bide those shaven, depilated, plucked'n'waxed expanses of candida-laden chicken skin that most lasses in Britain try to fob off as attractive. Put your top back on love. I'd rather forgo goggling at your magnificent tits than be faced with the stark realization that your armpits have gone BALD. So chuck away that pink razor. Trim the fuckers a bit if you must, but keep the musk. Aaaah!

Ironically, it doesn't work for me further down. Call me irrational, but much as I love beavers in their natural habitat, they don't look good doubling as a vulval muffler. I reckon blokes are intimidated by cunts, and the bigger and brasher the bloke, the more he subconsciously shies away from the mysterious depths from whence we all emerged. My ideal lass, physically any road, would be like a wookie up top, but her beetle-bonnet would be polished like the seat on a pair of blogging trousers.

3. A wicked sense of humour

Since many blokes have a wicked sense of humour, I may seem to be declaring that I get turned on by Mervin Pumpkinhead and Doc Handsome. Let's just not go there right now, OK? What I'm trying to say, redblooded male animal that I am, woof, is that lasses who like a laugh will find me fair game. The po-faced PC brigade doesn't turn me on, no matter how glacial the beauty or how cutting the intellect. Don't get me wrong. I'll respect anyone who earns my respect, but just insisting on your rights doesn't do the trick. And I'm not talking about getting cheap laughs at the expense of the disadvantaged. I'm talking about lasses who can shred the establishment, who can deflate the high and mighty, and do it only by flashing their naked wits at them.

4. Performing

Now I'm not saying that being onstage physically turns me on - although it would certainly give the ticket-buying public something to talk about if it did - but that it gives you a charge that carries through to your sex-life, as any performing seal or president of the USA will tell you. Why do you think the Stones are still playing?

There's two parts to it for me. One is the satisfaction you can get from being part of a piece of music that WORKS, contributing a tune or harmony or groove or riff or even a scream to the whole, and getting carried away with the result. The other is being in front of a crowd that is responding. YES YES YES.

But there's nowt worse IN THIS WORLD than trying to whip up a dead crowd. And it's a REAL bugger when it's actually your own fault, because the music isn't working properly. Being on stage amplifies everything - the highs and the lows. When the lows become too frequent then you give up. But you still miss the highs. Shit do you miss them. Where did I stash that fucking fender?

5. Creating pleasure

This sounds like a really sucked-up, tossed-off and spun-out thing to say, but the thing that turns me on the most is seeing the lass I'm with really enjoying herself. Maybe its because I'm a big bugger I'm driven to be protective or something - I haven't analyzed it. I just get off on other people's orgasms. You want your toes sucked? I'm your man.


And that's 5 things that turn me on. None of it is true* of course, but don't let that stop you reading what you will into it.

I'm still a bit internetorially-challenged, so don't get too upset if I don't respond to comments right away.

*One hint that should give away the fact that its not true is that I'm actually a Gibson, not a Fender man.

10:56 PM - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

We were crap before the ship even sank
Current mood: willing to go quietly

Platypus task? Gerraway!

Miss Potter has given us quite a selection of titles to choose from for our essays this week. I know the marks count towards the final result and I really really want to please my mam by graduating this year. There's only so many decades you can stay in the infants, and she's threatened to stop breastfeeding me if I fail again.

Oo. Such a phantasmagorical (pls xcuz the non-anthropomorphism) plethora of choice. It would take the wisdom of Solomon to pick the right one and maximise my chances of getting high marks, so let's just take it from the top ...

1. "Write about your favourite blogger, and how you would like to kill him/her"?

I have a bit of a problem here. I don't HAVE a favourite blogger, so I can't join in. Trouble is, I hate all bloggers. In fact I hate you so much I'd like to kill you all, so if I picked this title I'd have to write a blog so incendiary that it fried your eyeballs in your skulls... a blog so poisonous that it removed your will to live ... a blog that provoked terminal dysentery in every commenter. And writing a blog like that would take years of research. And possibly a contract from the Department of Homeland Security (Anthrax Division).

Let's face it, blogging is one of the most pathetic pastimes to be stocked on the shelves of the Western Affluent Society. It was bloggers they were thinking about when they wrote the Matrix - those pathetic humans used as power-packs by a post-sentient digital network - scorned even by Keanu Reeves. I despise bloggers with every hadron of my being. And therein lies my second dilemma. I can't use the second suggestion:

2. "Write about a pet peeve which you yourself have done"

... because I might inadvertently reveal that I am an hypocrite (as well as being an hairy man) and that some of my best friends are dirty bloggers.

Which leaves us with (moving down the list in order, as my obsessive-compulsive disorder dictates)

3. "They Could Have Been……".

As Miss Potter explains: "Choose someone who has died too young, and write about how you think their life would have evolved if they hadn't. This can be someone you know personally, or a celebrity."

But let's turn it on its head, shall we. Those who SHOULD have died young, but DIDN'T. Lots of opportunity for bile and vitriol there.

Roger "hope I die before I get old" Daltrey: Should have followed in the footsteps of Keith Moon and gone out onstage in a blaze of glory (silly bastard lit up a tab straight after necking a quart of overproof azerbaijani absinthe), but decided to become a role model for responsible adulthood and graduate to pipe-and-slippers. Even a headlock from Paul Weller failed to kill the tough wee bugger.



Courtney "I'm with Kurt" Love: What's the point of a suicide pact if you palm the pills? There was Cobain in agonies of constipation, deciding to end it all with 5 chinese crackers and a pointed stick "if Courtney paid the ferryman", and she goes and stands him up.



Michael Palin: should have been devoured by a polar bear, or shagged to death by a matelot while in transit across the Tasman years ago and then his daughter Sarah might have grown up a bit different. Mind you, that Monty Python upbringing takes a lot of shaking off. It could be in the blood. Expect her to don a knotted handkerchief and complain that "MY BRAIN HURTS" any time now.


your face are all belong to us lol

My brother: for some reason has so far resisted my attempts to persuade him that Russian Roulette played with 6 chambers loaded is a really cool game and will make him incredibly attractive to the opposite sex. Technically I'm correct if we're restricting the field to NECROPHILES of the opposite sex, but he refuses to believe me. I may have to do the job myself if he persists in borrowing my pedal board and returning it covered in phlegm.



I'd leave titles numbers four onwards to next week, before making a pathetic decision not to do any of them.

9:06 AM - 28 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Addicted to MySpace
Current mood: anthropological

"The world is carried on the back of a giant tortoise, according to the Omphalomphong people of East Sarawak. If you imagine the tortoise to be Tom's Server Farm under the Greenland ice-sheet and the world to be MySpace then you may JUST start to perceive why everything seems broken."

Those words were typed by someone in the last throes of a MySpace overdose. Someone whose addiction had become so profound that even the most meaningless utterance seemed to rock. It must rock. Thousands of people read what he wrote.

And they left comments. Sure, these commenters were all talking to each other, and what they said bore no relation to what he had just blogged. But they were on HIS blog. He MUST be popular. He couldn't get enough of that popularity. It made him feel SOOOO good. The condescending name they had given him at school was buried under a pile of glittering kudos. He not only rocked. He ruled!

He typed on a rickety laptop propped up on bricks in the basement of a derelict tenement to the steady drip ... drip ... of rat's blood from the gnawed carcass that lay forgotten on the table beside him.

I observed him from my hide in the corner. Damn. The lens on the scope was getting fogged. Would he notice if I broke cover to clean it? Maybe. I fired up my own profile and "Dredette, the Megatitty Enforcer" jiggled her enormous orbs. Carefully I wiped the sweat from the choice piece of hedgerow literature that I had been sitting on, and fed it into the scanner. That should hold his attention when Dredette pasted it into his comments box.

Yes. It was working! As his hand wandered southwards I carefully eased myself out of the hide and went round the front to wipe the lens. And got back under cover just in time, as he started looking round blearily for the kleenex box. "Fuck", he mouthed, as he recalled that the last kleenex had given out weeks ago. The drip drip ... drip drip ... became binary.

My water bottle was nearly empty, and the mosquitos were starting to bite. In the distance a police siren nagged, and then abruptly stopped amid the sound of a crunch. The dingle dingle dingle of what sounded like a rolling hubcap became louder and louder until something clanged against the street-level shutter. My quarry didn't twitch. His attention was fixed on the screen and the only sign that he was still alive was the occasional flaring of nostrils and the barely discernable clicking of his mouse finger.

What grace! What economy of movement! But what a tragic evolutionary dead-end!

"William! You're dinner's ready! Come and get it!"

The voice floating faintly down the stairwell and through the padlocked door sounded resigned - half-hearted - as though it had uttered the same words too many times without response.

I scribbled furiously in my notebook. Hot damn! This was going to be one fuck of an undergraduate zoology project report!

I just hoped that I had brought enough formalin to preserve the specimen.

A typical MySpace blogger's apartment, yesterday

7:06 AM - 26 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

UPDATE - Translating the Trolls of Troy - yet another 2 pages
Current mood: voluminously phlegmatic

I deliberately haven't introduced you to my other profile because it was meant to be the place where I finally posted some music, for fucks sake. But owing to various technical hitches (bone-fucking-idleness, having a life, etc) I haven't yet recorded anything worth posting, and so Andre the BFG's music profile lies idle.

Rather than let it gather dust (or whatever it is that unused MySpace profiles gather - unused kudos perhaps?) I thought I'd use it to host another side project - my translation of The Trolls of Troy from frogtalk into rosbif.

Given the trigger-happy nature of Tom's copyright advisers, and the unwonted attention that scanlations sometimes attract, I thought I'd better keep these pages as far away as possible in case of tragedy. Not that I give much of a fuck if I get deleted again - I've backed everything up balls-deep - but restoration is a pain.

So here are the next couple of pages of Volume 1 of the Trolls of Troy. I'll update that blog every time I add a page.

2:00 PM - 11 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Dark Side of the Moor
Current mood: Exopriapic
Category: Exopriapic Music

This little gem by Tindale-based radgerock band Punk Freud was conceived in sin, gestated in parsimony, and almost thrown out with the afterbirth. The entire album is only 23 seconds long - the sleeve notes hint at a 45 minute secret track which has yet to be discovered - but these are 23 droplets of molten ecstasy. This album's bassline seriously messes with your limbic system. The first time I heard it I had an uncontrollable orgasm, and the second time I had to run out of the shop before I was asked to take a paternity test.

I've never heard them live. Very few dare, and even fewer dare talk about it. Perhaps in future years, when those spiky oiks have matured into grumpy old gadgies we'll finally hear what Punk Freud sounded like. Let's face it, if the witless bletherings about seeing fucking Marc Bolan at Newky City Hall in 1972, by some of the geriatric farts around here are anything to go by we'll soon be hearing about fucking Punk Freud morning, noon and fucking night.

3:20 AM - 16 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Photograph
Current mood: Superficial

As I lay on the cool earth, tingling from the flames of re-entry, I reviewed my options. There weren't many. I could either raise one buttock and let loose a cumulo-flatus cloud of such greenhouse potential that all life on the planet would be wiped out within a matter of days, or I could become HIM.

Yes. I scanned the airwaves. The archetype was already imprinted on their society, his influence by now spread far beyond the point where we first left those cleverly-plotted "scripts". As a mass, these creatures obviously responded to simple stimuli in a predictable way, much like our own herd-animals. They should be easy to control. I grinned. With care, the harvest could be sustainable for years before they began to panic.

I triggered my sublingual hyperspace relay. "Tell Lisa to look up 'saxophone' and formulate something similar. And keep this short. If those South Park bastards hear about this our yield's gonna be halved".

OK. Time to get moving. Rubbing my head with one hand I sat up suddenly and said "D'Oh!"

5:45 AM - 13 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment