All posts by Scott

Disregard for cool

The world needs to hear this: skateboarding isn’t fucking cool.

With the announcement that skateboarding is now going to be in the Olympics and various celebrities skateboarding around their private jets before they board them to get away from their fans, I thought it would be a good time to remind everyone of the worth of standing on a plank on wheels. Skateboarding is actually so tragic that it should make someone dressed as a Storm Trooper at a cosplay convention look like Johnny Depp. And he is the coolest man on earth, known fact.

I am sure to the outside world that skateboarding looks cool. It has an underground vibe to it, breaking into places, skateboarding, being arrested and then being released from custody only to do it all over again the next weekend, before going back to a job you hate on Monday because you spent so much time skating during school that you failed every exam you did and ended up writing for a blog that screams at the world, that got a little too personal at the end there.

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Magaluf Girl

A week ago Britain was draped in red, white and blue. People filled the streets waving coloured cloth in support of the armed forces. Folks stood cheering and saluting as tanks filled with bombs drove by.

“Quick, get the cameras ready, fighter jets are about to fly over. Look at the way they sore majestically through the clouds.” I only ever see planes flying like this on special occasions. Think how lucky Afghan children are, they get to see planes like this ever day and they’re filled with bombs. Lucky, lucky bastards. I will never get to see a carpet-bombing in real life.

‘Thanks to our brave boys and girls’ was trending worldwide. The nation joined in support of the soldiers fighting in a war the country didn’t want. We love the pawns fighting on the chessboard of the military-industrial complex we pretend to hate. What they do is “moral, brave and courageous. They sacrifice their life for you so you can live in freedom and safety.”

I don’t really give a shit about the war. People like to kill people, it’s a fun old sport. Paintballing is enjoyable but hearing that gunshot explode and seeing a head get blown up is way more exciting. What I have a problem with is the way people justify this with bullshit language.

An example: this week a young British lady was on holiday in Magaluf, a perfect place to be when you are young and single or not single. It doesn’t matter if you have 157 partners back home waiting for your return. You are in Magaluf and the energy is pulsating. The sun is beating down, the drinks are 40% proof, priced at £1. Fuck missing that alcohol induced opportunity because you’re 2 grams through the most potent MDMA, you are pure ecstasy, the world is love and you are too. Sex is raining on the roof, sex is dripping down the walls. You are fucking. You are fucking like an ox on steroids, no man or machine or god is stopping you from coming. Be you male or female you are pulling the vinegar face of happiness.

So this young lady I will now be calling Magaluf Girl was embracing this craziness. But the CCTV of modern life captured her in this moment; someone filmed her on a smartphone and posted a video online of her living the madness. Now the world has seen two minutes of her existence where she’s sucking the flaccid dicks of strangers for a cocktail drink.

1) Fuck that asshole for putting it up. He is a fucking creep. I’m pretty confident Magaluf Girl wouldn’t have wanted that.
2) Fuck the papers for making it a national story exploiting a woman’s right to do what the fuck she wants or in this case the want she fucks.

Magaluf Girl, this is a wonderful thing if this was something you wanted to do. Magaluf Girl, I celebrate it, you are young and beautiful and have the right to bring joy to the 20-odd men you blew as long as it brings joy to yourself. If it was something you wanted to do it was a great way to display happiness and love. We should all feel confident enough to take off our clothes, party and go balls deep into a stranger without feeling shame or hate from others. Magaluf Girl, your next cocktail is on me. Just please don’t let the bastards grind you down.

But the press and people of the Britain, like the vultures they are, have picked apart this moment and have slut shamed her. Calling her “cheap, sickening and immoral” and this is where I get back to bullshit language. We live in a culture where it’s ‘moral’ to be a hired killer for a government that drone strikes the innocent of other countries because they’re brown and don’t follow “our” agenda. It’s ‘moral’ to fire bomb and set villages ablaze. It’s ‘moral’ to stack people against their will naked in pyramids but it’s ‘immoral’ to express love with your lips wrapped a throbbing cock in a club with a buzzing DJ set.

The way humans talk tells us everything we need to know about us shaven apes. We have a lot of evolving to do.

Feathery bastard

I sit slumped in the chair, vodka screwdriver in hand. I’m filled with rage, the level of rage only a king could feel as he watches his subjects rise up in revolt. But my rage isn’t because of people, my rage is the fault of a pigeon. This feathery bastard’s shit on me.

Bird poo was on my shoulder and I’m still pissed. When folks are mad they express it. Some cartwheel their anxiety away. Other hurl themselves out of planes. I like to fill a glass half empty with society’s favorite poison, turn on the television and scream obscenities that would make Mel Gibson blush.

I’m ready for the catharsis, but wait! What in God’s hell is this? I’m staring at floral-designed, cigarette-stained chairs, clutching sunken, deflated pale orange cushions. It’s C4’s Gogglebox. I am watching the watching. I see kings and queens sat upon their thrones, commenting and snarling into the disfigured face of that medieval jester we call light entertainment.

I can’t watch this. It’s what I do; I sit, I snarl. I ramble and rant while babies are crowning their soft heads into our reality. How am I supposed to be disturbed when I know Steven and Chris from Brighton are chuckling at One Born Every Minute?

I can’t enjoy shouting at the TV because the TV is shouting louder, and it has wit. I hate it having wit. TV commentary was a game I played and won. I was playing by myself but I was still winning. Now it’s a competition, me vs the TV; who is the most creative when calling Jeremy Clarkson a prick. “Top Gear is like a rose bush, it looks pretty but it’s filled with pricks” I used to joyfully preach. Not now, no because Linda, George and Pete from Clacton-on-Sea have outdone me, the witty arseholes and they have an upstairs living room. I don’t have an upstairs living room.

I have lost my vent, my outlet. What am I supposed to do now? Get angry at people being angry? That’s ridiculous, I’m moving my anger one more stage away from the root of the anger. It was pigeon shit then rage at TV, now it’s pigeon shit, TV and now rage at people raging at TV. It’s getting far too meta.

If only I’d got that beak-headed mutant-toed fuck in the first place I could of written a poem about cats wearing mascara.

If there’s one good thing to come out of Gogglebox it’s this: it has shown me what a completely idiotic swine I am, mindlessly perplexed by a glowing box. I rant and ramble not thinking about the venom pouring out of my hypocritical skull. I am as dumb as the rest of this doomed nation and I should just turn off the TV. I will keep it off!

Until the next time a feathered foe fires faeces into my face.