25
Oct 2006 - My Autobiography
1. Where did you take your default pic?>>: In my old bedroom one
night. [correct at time of print]
2. What are you wearing right now?>>: My favourite old jeans and
my newly acquired, recently stained, quicksilver hoodie. Damn spring-roll!
3. What makes you most happy?>>:It's far too late to try to define
that right now. I tell you what, I can probably look around the room and
identify the first thing in sight that's been known to make me happy.
My drumsticks - good for drumming.
4. What's the name of the song that you're listening to?>>: Take
the long way home - Bloodhound Gang
5. Has anyone you've been really close with passed away?>>: Today?
Not that I'm aware.
6. Do you ever watch MTV?>>: Bollocks to MTV
7. What's something that really annoys you?>>: When my ears burn
up like they're on fire. Suck it up lobe-bearers!
8. Middle name:>>: Kevin.
9. Nickname(s):>>: Titaniarm - Not really a nickname so much as
a name I gave myself. Great story though...
10. Current location:>>: Media Lobby.
11. Eye color:>>: Ocean blue...... I mean what?
12. Birthday:>>: About once a year... 16th June usually.
13. Do you live with your parents?>> Nope, just fellow Uni bums.
14. Do you get along with your parent(s)>>: As much as can be expected
15. Are your parents married/separated/divorced?>>: Married
16. Do you have any Siblings?>>: 1 brother and 2 sisters
Favorite...
17. Ice Cream:>>: Vanilla. Boring you may say? Well fuck you! Lets
look at the other options shall we? Mint? It's green for a start - that's
the colour of vegetation; "Oooh its so hot today, I'm gonna have
to suck on a rosebush to cool down"! Come to think of it, mint IS
vegetation... Next, chocolate... chocolate is only tolerable in processed
bar format. It has no business in yogurt pots, cream cakes, hot drinks
or ice cream. Vanilla is like default ice cream fodder, it's the original
flavour, the adam and eve of ice cream if you will.
18. Season:>>: Both. (You see, Summer and Winter are in fact the
only two seasons that exist. Leaves falling off and then growing back
again are surely signs that either Winter or Summer is starting.) Is that
it under the chapter of favourites? What the hell happened to things like
film, or band etc. Ok I'm gonna add some of my own...
19. Plant:>>: Palmy ferny type things with tropical looking leaves.
Makes me feel exotic and far away.
20.. Time of day:>>: 27 minutes past whichever hour it is. For some
reason I associate this as being 'half past' more so than 30 minutes past
the hour. It's pleasant to view.
21. Character in Scrubs:>>: Dr. Cox - he just has the best lines!
22. Natural land formation:>>: Chines are pretty awesome, they're
the closest thing we're ever going to have to that opening shot of Jurrassic
Park.
Do You..
23. Write on your hand:>>: When the need arises. Not so much now
that i've discovered my mobile phone has a reminder function.
23. Call people back:>>: I do. If that's their name. If their name
was Front however, they may feel offended.
24. Believe in love:>>: Believe in it? I'm the fucking definition
of it!
25. Sleep on a certain side of the bed?>>: The right.
26. Have any bad habits?>>: I slaughter the weak and harvest their
organs.
27. Any mental health issues?>>: I forget everything, my memory
is.... is... um...
Have You...
28. Gone SCUBA diving or snorkeling:>>: Self directed snorkeling
around the Ibizan and Greek reefs and it was kick ass amazing. Although
I did get cramp in my toe and sink. But I also defied the tides which
still confuses me.
29. Been stung by a bee?>>: Once as a kid. Right in the friggin'
earhole. Ok that's a good reason for my ears to feel on fire - but that's
it. You got that, ears?
30. Thrown up at the dentist?>>: Dentist no. Cab yes. But I have
destroyed a dentist's office once through misjudgement of furniture placement.
That was a fun day.
31. Had detention?>>: Just once, for throwing my mates pencil case
out of a window and then getting grassed up by a passing teacher. Of all
the rotten luck. It was the easiest time I ever did.
Who/What was the last
32. Movie(s) you saw?>>: The Divinchi Code - it's all about Tom
Hanks of the Carribean finding out his mate is Jesus.
33. Person to text you?:>>: My girlfriend to say goodnight.
34. Person you called:>>: Paul, this morning, to sort out what's
going on with this music video project I've done for him.
35. Person you hugged?:>>: Sebastian last friday; I accidentally
misjudged his handshake at Jamie's house and launched into mutual man-love.
36. Person you tackled?:>>: Probably my brother over the Summer,
but that was ages ago. I'm way over due tackling someone... it's on my
list of things to do tomorrow now.
37. Thing you touched?>>: The . on the keyboard
38. Thing you ate?:>>: A god-awful chinese from Jade Pearl. I'm
not a coneseur (spelt incorrectly) of the stuff and I ordered all the
wrong shit. Chicken's balls, a log with wormy things in it and toast with
seeds on it... what was I thinking?
39 .Thing you drank?:>>: A mug of Pepsi. Yes a mug.
40. Thing you said?:>>: "Goodnight"
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19
Oct 2006 - The great sandwich debate.
Sandwiches.
Love them, or hate them (why would you hate them?), there is no denying
that decent society finds itself violently torn over accurately defining
the division of such food stuffs. Why just today, voices were raised and
blood was shed when I once again drew attention to the subject, which
saw the Illustration course part like the Red Sea. To every arguement,
there are two sides...Standing proudly and correctly in my corner (and
all those who join me; Dan and Tara... and probably Sharon) are those
who have enough common sense to comprehend exactly what a sandwich is.
The inventor of the sandwich (not the Earl of the same name as is the
common misconception) explained it as nothing more than "sandwiching"
a tasty filling between two pieces of bread. I say pieces as apposed to
slices, because this obviously occurred before sliced and processed bread
had been devised and so the bread used to make sandwiches back then would
have been pulled from a home-made lump. This would obviously render the
overall sandwich as being any size, shape and dimension, as there was
no uniformed way of baking bread at this time - but a sandwich it was
none the less.
And so we fast forward to today - the generation of sliced bread and loaves.
Now if you were to select two slices from this loaf and place between
them a tasty filling, you would have made yourself a sandwich. No arguement
there. If you were then to take a knife down the centre of your sandwich,
with such force as to seperate your sandwich in half, you would create
two sandwiches. Yes, TWO. Because as previously mentioned, the sandwich
was invented without any pretense of size, shape or dimension - the mere
fact that the sandwiches now consist of cut slices does not change the
fact that the finished articles are still sandwiches.
On the opposing side to this arguement are the ill-educated and short-sighted
heathens (headed by the occupier of this link http://www.myspace.com/vidney),
who incorrectly believe that a sandwich is in its absolute entirity, a
filling trapped between two untampered slices of bread from a loaf. These
same folk possess the audacity to maintain that cutting this "typical"
sandwich in half does not give you two sandwiches, but in fact gives you
two HALF sandwiches. I mean HALF SANDWICH FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!? That's not
even a thing! This side of the arguement suggests that a whole sandwich
is and will only ever be, the size of two slices of bread, which is absurd
considering the sandwich was invented before the slice. If you were to
trap a filling between two slices of Hovis, cut it as equally or perhaps
as unequally as one desired, into 50 small squares, you would have (as
ridiculous and pointless as they would be) 50 tiny sandwiches, you would
not have fifty, fifteth's of a sandwich, as the latter side of this arguement
would protest.
Look at cake. Go on, look at one. It's the reverse principle. If you have
a sponge cake and cut it into portions for everyone, your guests would
not be eating a cake each, they would be eating a piece, as in, a piece
of the original, untampered whole cake. This I agree with, but only because
when the cake was invented, it DID have set parameters in shape and serving
directions. The cake was a cake as a whole and subsequent sections of
that cake would be pieces. But a sandwich never was, is, or has been confined
to any such criteria, other than the presence of two bread elements containing
a filling, which you would still be left with, even if it was divided.
Please post your views on this pressing matter and help solve the great
sandwich debate! http://aib.facebook.com/group.php?gid=3434685219
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26
Oct 2006 - So bloggin' funny I might just blog
Today was, in a word, hilarious.Yes, there is a gigantic hole in my face,
but despite even that, today was thoroughly enjoyable. And the culprit
of this copious hilarity? Dave finding out what a harsh mistress the Blog
really is. Since Dave de-flowered himself of his Myspace virginity, his
blog postings have been a flurry of activity. Anything and everything
that resides in Dave's 'opinion' cupboard has been portrayed in excess
across his humble (leafy?) pages, in all its politically and socially
incorrect glory. It's all top notch entertainment. However, very little
can compare to the moment this afternoon when Dave realised his quaking
world of profanity was tumbling down upon him in a shit storm. Now I have
to be VERY careful what I say here, for I wish not to follow in his grave
footsteps. By complete accident, Dave made the (hilarious) mistake of
broadcasting his involvement in damning blog-making, right in front of
one of the people under his scrutiny. Furthermore, this person is actually
a part of the Myspace network, and through a simple proceedure of investigation
could very easily stumble across their own damning blog, penned by Dave.
The inadvertant chain reaction that could follow will be astoundingly
hysterical. I'm laughing hard now thinking about it. And to make matters
worse, in a freak twist of poetic justice, said person somewhat fixated
themselves in our company for the duration of the afternoon, which amounted
in red faces and under-the-table-sniggers all round. And unseen placard
hoisting on my part (lol)! On a scale of one-to-fun, today ranks tremendously
high. Keep up the good work Dave, you stupid bastard!
TOP
27
Oct 2006 Your survival depends on it.
It pains me to learn that the general public know nothing of the inevitable
rising and take-over of the living dead and it is this pain which has
forced me to heighten people's awareness via the medium of blog. I have
prepared in this blog a short fictional conversation between myself (Andi
B) and the general public (Mr. Naive).
Mr Naive: Surely Zombie's aren't real, are they?
Andi B: Yes they are you fool of gigantic proportions! They are as real
as you or I and one day, we shall all discover that.
Mr Naive: Well how come I haven't seen one?
Andi B: If you were to have seen one it would indicate that the time of
the rising is upon us, which it is not, yet. You would know if it was
because media coverage would alert you to it sooner than you actually
witnessing it, particularly in this country. In order to see a Zombie,
today, you would have to obtain high level security clearence at an unmarked
biological facility in Sweeden, as this is where the only (documented)
instances of Zombies are found.
Mr Naive: Huh?
Andi B: Look! A rarely exploited virus was discovered by a Sweedish professor
some time ago. He studied the behaviour of this virus with alarming consequences
- it was capable of generating new life to dead and decaying cells. He
named the virus Solanum but little else is known about it, particularly
its origins. In this facility in Sweeden, there are test-subjects restrained
and monitored, infected with the virus. They are Zombies. They are deceased
human carcasses, void of any brain, circulatory, respiratory and digestive
activity. Yet they live. This is down to Solanum's most intriguing characteristic
- its complex genetic mutation. See, cells of the virus, when intorduced
to the bloodstream of a live victim, flow through the body congregating
at the frontal lobe of the brain. The virus itself is toxic and so within
24 hours (after experiencing extreme symptoms like those of pneumonia)
the victim dies, but not before the virus has set to work. The cells in
the frontal lobe mutate and construct a fresh organ upon which the whole
'host' is dependant. This new organ partakes in two main functions; providing
the necessary motorary skills to enable the host to move and to generate
the incentive to eat the flesh of the living. The host is not conscious
of either of these functions (or anything else for that matter), as its
capabilities of rationality are redundant in the dormant brain. One of
the only commonly known facts about a zombie is that it is fatal to be
bitten by one. That is accurate, for the saliva glands of a host also
carry the virus and in an attack, would pass into your bloodstream. You
then would sucumb to the same fate as the original Zombie.
Mr Naive: Don't Zombies come out of the ground in graves and dance around?
Andi B: No you jabbering ninny!!! The do not have the physical nor mental
capacity to execute such things. And the deceased do not simply return
to life. Graves inhabbited by corpses will remain that way. A Zombie is
a product of infection through contracting the virus and the host must
be among the living to contract it.
Mr Naive: I saw this movie once where Zombies can fly--
Andi B: And the director was an ill-educated dullard! Zombies cannot fly,
they do not posses magic powers, they are not beings conjured by magic
spells and they do not rise via enchantment. They do not commuicate through
telepathy or otherwise and they do not think or coordinate in any shape
or form. They do not recognise faces, objects or sounds. They do not learn,
acquire skills or remember their past lives. Think of them as machines,
they are activated and then carry out repeatedly a single task. If you
were standing at a first floor window a zombie would stand beneath you
and claw at the wall in an attempt to approach you. They are linear.
Mr Naive: But in this movie, the characters read a spell in a book that
killed them--
Andi B: Unconceivable tripe! There are only two methods to terminate a
zombie; first is to incapacitate the frontal lobe of the brain by means
of puncture or destruction. The second is to ignore it for around 5 years
as this is the average decomposition rate of a human body. Though a zombie
would decompose throughout its existence, it would eventually reach a
point where it became so decrepid that it fell apart and even then the
frontal lobe would still be an active discarded organ.
Mr.Naive now knows better about Zombies and their behavioural traits -
the basics at least. There are actually many more characteristics about
Zombies that I shall not discuss for now. Instead I shall talk more of
the rising itself. By some turn of fortune, the scientists in Sweeden
containing the Zombie specimens have been fortunate enough to hold them
at bay. But one fateful day will result in a slip up, the escape of a
Zombie and this will begin the chain of infection. The operators at the
plant will try to recapture as opposed to destroy the ghouls, which will
only result in further death and infection. Before long, the entire plant's
population will be the living dead and will spill out into the streets,
spreading over the entire country, multiplying in number. Seeing as how
any armed forces or special-ops teams will never have encountered anything
like them before, there will be no preordained contingency plans and so
they will not pose much of an obstacle to the horde. In a matter of months,
most of Europe and Russia will be rid of civilised humanity.
Mr Naive: We'll be ok though, we're an island---
Andi B: No we won't you fucking plum!!! A mere few hundred miles of H2O
will pose as no deterrent to a mass of the living dead. I have already
explained, they do not require oxygen to function. The lobe-organ is all
they require. They will simply walk into the large dark void and be swept
with the currents to new locations. So you see no corner of the planet
is safe.
Mr Naive is
now eduacted on the tribulations that would ensue a global take-over of
Zombies. But by no means does this conclude the breadth of knowledge I
possess on the matter of Zombies. I even have my survival plan calculated
to the hour. I am prepared. If you have any questions or comments pertaining
to the Rising or about Zombie in general, please forward them to me and
I shall offer a response as soon as I can
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29
Oct 2006 - I believe Lee Evans phrased it best...
I believe Lee Evans phrased it best when he said "It's already got
a FFFFFFFUCKING coat!" He was of course referring to how pointless
it is for those obsessed pet owners to squeeze their animals into those
tartan overcoats and then parade them around in public, under the guise
of hot-water-bottles with legs.
Today saw me and my girlfriend out and about on a routine shopping trip.
Nearing the end of our retail outing, we graced a Monsoon store with our
presence. While she glossed through the outfits, I found myself wandering
aimlessly around the store, counting down the moments until we would leave,
when suddenly I became frozen to the floor in absolute rejection of the
sight that loomed before me. In one corner of the store, was an ENTIRE
wall-bay dedicated to those dodgy little coats for dogs. Not just tartan
models, oh no. It seems that the market for pooch-fashions has been well
and truly spear-headed by the good folk at Monsoon. I saw complete wardrobes
for the animals including pink toggle-fastened coats with furry hoods
(yes hoods - hoods that would mask the poor creatures face if attempted
to be raised like in a human piece of clothing), black suit numbers with
winged collars and what even appeared to be bondage gear.
All for FUCKING DOGS!
Please, please, assure me that I am not insane for believing this to be
a very sure-footed low of the human design community. Dogs; animals that
spend a vast number of their daily hours investigating arses, surely do
not have a concept of fashionable appearence. I appreciate that dog's
are meant to be a man's best friend, but instead of dressing them up to
"look" like fellow bipeds, why not dress up one's self, head
out to town and make some actual fucking friends. Dressing up your dog
like a gimp is yet another firm step away from acceptable social conduct
- and that grinning bitch behind the counter at Monsoon could explain
first-hand exactly what that's like.
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31
Oct 2006 - Fun shit went down.
Greetings!
Ok so my fellow students and I needed a day away from our project work,
so we ventured out into our local surroundings in search of amusement
and jovality. Fortunately, we found some.
To kick things off, we headed over to Sega Park to shoot some pool and
hit a few rounds of air hockey. Nextly, we had a banquet at Pizza Hut
and a brief stint of shopping, before skipping merrily over to the beach
to lob a ball around. All in all, Lauren triple-fouled, Dave thought he
knew people, Tara slipped over on seaweed, Andi slugged some foriegners
with a soft-ball and Dan photographed and filmed the lot. In fact, check
out either my or Dan's photo galleries for all the coverage. On my profile
page should also be video footage of myself performing what has been affectionately
dubbed "The Andi Dance"... Don't ask. Dan's blog on the subject
should clear up any questions about that one! All I know is that by the
New Year, we want the Andi Dance to have swept the nation! www.myspace.com/andidas311
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12
Nov 2006 - Like a moron...
First and foremost... FUCK IT BOLLOCKS SHIT SHIT BUGGER FUCK!!!
Why? I'll tell you why. Those of you who know my music taste well will
already be aware of the bands I like and which seven or so of those bands
are my all time favourites. You will also be aware of which of those bands
I have previously had the pleasure of viewing live in concert. Similarly,
you can probably summize which of those bands I have yet to see and which
that I would stop at no lengths to go and see. Having said this, the severity
of the situation is cast to light when I point out that one of those bands
were performing ON MY FUCKING DOORSTEP last night. And I had no idea about
it until a mere few hours before the curtain rose on them. Yes that's
right, My Chemical Romance graced the stage at a sold out gig at the BIC.
And like a moron, I was oblivious. And my goat was truly gotten when I
learnt that at some point earlier in the same day, I was actually standing
a measly 80 metres from the band, as they casually shopped around the
Square. And like a moron, I was once again oblivious. The only element
that even remotely constitutes towards me seeing any trace of them last
night was bumping into gleeful ticket-clutching emo's on their way round.
And like a moron, I slaughtered them all.
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16
Nov 2006 - We need each other now more than ever.
Today, it would seem, was national dumb-shit day - one of the lesser heard
about public holidays and yet, one with the largest following. You see,
dumb-shits turned out in their masses today, celebrating what it is to
be a moron, revelling in their stupidity and their downright unhelpfulness.
They congregate first thing in the morning, holding important meetings
with dumbshits of the highest order, discussing ways in which they can
be jerks, ways in which they may inflict themselves on others, ways in
which they can ultimately portray their idiocy and ruin the lives of those
unwilling to conform to the dumbshit regime around them.
Upon walking to Uni today I noticed a distinct hint of dumb-shit in the
air which was infecting the minds and well-beings of the innocent. Luckily,
I was not affected directly, however, our lead tutor was badly struck
down by the vibe, resulting in disasterous consequences. She foolishly
made a point of announcing the postponement of today's lecture until this
afternoon and that no student need be present until 1pm. The students
who followed this advice to the word, myself being among them, were baffled
to learn that the lecture was long since over at 11am.
So I set sail for the screenprinting department as this is where I had
planned to create my final artwork for my current project. I was wrong.
Instead, it seems that the screenprinting department is actually some
sort of hive - a breeding ground for dumbshits. It was here that I ran
afoul of an entire dumbshit brigade, hell bent on wreaking their hairbrained
antics upon the rest of us in a bid to hinder our work. They were all
aged at least 45, clearly not students, but more simply retarded. Apparently
they were part-time fine art students, which actually means they were
manic depressant middle aged misfits, hitting the big Four Five and realising
that their existence amounts to nothing more each day than tidying up,
talking to the back of their husband's heads and crying into their daily
3pm glass of red wine. They felt that taking an art class might turn them
around, allowing them to "express themselves" and stand alongside
like-minded people so that together they may pour their hearts out through
etching plates, say retarded things about one another's mono-prints like
"I love how you've achieved such interesting colours" as if
they knew what they were talking about, whilst simultaneously believing
that they were doing something worth while under the false pretense that
they were good at it.
Well in actual fact, they were holding me up and pissing me off. Even
the ringleader of this grisly charade saw to it that I was sufficiently
disgruntled. His miserable, lethargic bumblings at times made me want
to kill myself. The whole experience left me so exhausted and numb in
the mind that in the whole SIX HOURS I was confined there, I had achieved
a mere TWO prints. Was it because these loons served as such gigantic
distractions? Partly. But it was mostly down to them harbouring all of
the equipment and the expertise of the ringleader. This has had a crippling
effect on what was already a pressured project outcome, so much so that
I've had to discard today's work from my legion of final pieces and instead
produce speedier digital pieces for the sake of continuity!
But sadly, this does not conclude my day's endevors with the dumbshit
community, for next it was necessary for me to visit the media store to
borrow some equipment. I say "media store", but this is actually
a front for it's actual title - the "try very hard to conduct a simple
transaction with a baffoon" store. Clearly, this was not a place
to borrow equipement. That place is in a location of which I may never
know. This is a place, where you come to talk to a fellow who they deem
"in charge" on dumbshit day - a fellow whos idea of student
assistance bears striking resemblance to that of someone who knows nothing
about what is, in all honesty, a very limited subject and compensates
for this by being an arse hole. I suppose the clue to prepare yourself
for this is the fact that his entire premisis for work is a window, much
like the sort you would find at a Mc Donald's drive through, or a cab
office and other such places where those sitting on the fence between
ape and evolution can be found. After painfully exploiting a gap in his
stupidity barrier, I was able to acquire the equipment I needed and leave
him to eat faeces or some other equally ridiculous hobby.
All in all I have made it back home safely, but I fear I am the last of
my kind. An un-dumbshit. If there are anymore like me, please extend your
awareness - we need each other now more than ever.
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06
Dec 2006 - I've suckled at the Myspace teat - and it is sour
Up until about a month and a half ago, I was an impressionable young lad,
free from social pressure and not one to be swept away with the various
flourishes of 'hype', as decided by the simple masses (and lets face it,
the masses of this nation are incredibly simple). I didn't plague public
transportation with hordes of my incoherent, identically attired friends,
endlessly cycling through shite-awful music on whichever mobile phone
it is that enables you to play it out loud. I didn't cross-reference every
reality TV show in my diary in order to avoid 'clashing', which could
result in me missing that fabulously obscure moment where the 'loud mouth
one who nobody likes' gets over-zealous and whips her tits out for the
girls because she had that morning announced her residence in the butch-ladies
club. And furthermore I did not join Facebook. You see, I was never one
to take to fads, favouring more the occult side of the social spectrum
- seeking the enjoyment of people's face's contorting with confusion as
they veinly tried to comprehend what Peep Show is. However, it seems that
the pull of Facebook was much stronger than the aforementioned fads (though
let's be clear - I still have no idea what 'I'm A Celebrity' is all about
and my mobile phone will play 'I'm Not Okay (I promise)' in a monophonic
tone when I receive a call and that's it), as is evident by you reading
this blog. For months, I heard nothing but Facebook this, Facebook that,
and I firmly turned my back on the notion, whilst the common people tore
into it like pigeons on discarded chips. To this day, I can't recall the
pendulous factor that reversed my decision (though I suspect it had something
to do with my collective at Uni), but I did contradict all of my morals
and filed quietly into line with the rest of the nations idiots, eagerly
awaiting my Facebook account. Peer pressure had triumphed. I was a 'common
person'. I did whatever 'common people' do. Like a hit of coke, I wanted
more. After the first few weeks of Facebook coursing through my veins,
it became my lifeforce. Updating photos, accepting friends, blogging -
oh the jovality of constructing a digital monument to my ego! The possibilities
raged on, the addiction took hold and everything else was a blur.
And then something colossal happened. Without realising it, I had sucumbed
to the underlying snare that lurks beneath all of humanity's fads. The
dark and ever-present monster embedded in popular culture reared its ugly
head... the Come Down. You see, one of the defining characteristics of
a fad is that its ecstacy value is finite. No matter what the fad is,
it will always dry up, the flare will vaporise and in its wake you are
left cold and alone, wondering how you even got caught up in the charade
in the first place.
I hadn't blogged in ages. Everyone's photos became the same 'head on an
axis, finger to the chin, bemused look', or an identity parade of hairstyles.
Comments were infrequent. I discovered a limit to photo capacity. People's
online beacons would twinkle, but I would have nothing left to share with
them. I'd become, dare I even say it.... bored.
And this is the harsh reality of the human condition; bouncing from one
quick fix to another, trying to lay claim to the next revolutionary milestone
in the journey of pointlessness - my lesson for turning my back on my
morals. I knew that the word on everyone's lips is the one to disregard
and yet I willingly partook in this game of chinese whispers. And now
I am dead inside. Take it from the empty human shell that types this blog
- fads are for losers. Cult all the way. "Leave the coffee!"
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11
Dec 2006 - Relationships can be difficult.
Anyone who's ever felt fondly about someone - perhaps even been in love
with someone, can tell you about how easy it is to get hurt by that very
same someone. You can install all your faith and trust and put in more
effort than you ever thought imaginable into a relationship - really feeling
on top of the world and completely satisfied with your life, until one
fateful day, out of the blue, the relationship deteriorates. You're instantly
betrayed and you are left surrounded by the pieces of your shattered heart,
your eyes blurry from tears and your mind spinning in confusion. Everything
feels cold and no one around you, no matter how they try, can do anything
to help you. You are isolated in the knowledge that that person is continuing
their lives exempt from the same pain you're feeling. You are entirely
alone and simply have to wait until you can retain the memories and move
on. This is perhaps one of the hardest lessons a human life must experience
and perhaps everyone can recall first hand a story about this lesson.
I know I can. I was betrayed repeatedly, in a brutal on/off relationship
which left me constantly crushed.That relationship was with Asda Supestore.
A few years back, I was living a full and content life, remaining loyal
to my local Asda superstore. I'd been shopping there for my groceries
for some time and would never dream of purchasing such goods at another
store. So intent I was in my fidelity that I was oblivious to the oncoming
betrayal. I had always been most complimentary on the store's oven ciabbata
range, ham and cheese, and cheese with tomato chunks being among my favourites.
They made up at least two of my weekly evening meals. So you can imagine
my dismay when Asda suddenly decided to discontinue these products. Honestly,
I felt lost and betrayed. I couldn't believe how raped I felt. It was
one of the biggest shocks of my life. But eventually I made my peace and
was intent on moving past the incident - every relationship has its ups
and downs right?
I remember the day of our next biggest fight well. I was trying to locate
one of my all time favourite desserts - the Mr Kipling Custard filled
Apple Pie selection boxes - to take with me to my Nan's house, when out
of no where, Asda turned spiteful and discontinued them, favouring other
Mr Kipling products. That was terribly hurtful for me, as it was always
the attention to detail that I loved about Asda. We talked it out but
to this day I still don't know why Asda did that. Even my Nan didn't know
how to react.
Since those incidents, the disagreements have mounted - the discontinuation
of garlic chicken nuggets being one of the more notable examples. The
list goes on - it seemed that Asda gained some sort of enjoyment from
restricting me from the things I loved most about it.
And now here we are. A spoilt shell of a relationship. I only stay with
Asda because it's amazing in my wallet. We both know we're using each
other for the trade. I admit I've strayed - I've shopped in Iceland before
now. It's cheap and cheerful, but doesn't leave as nice a taste in my
mouth. Tescos I've been to a few times, but that usually left me unsatisfied.
I was tempted to try Somerfield once - I got right into the first aisle
but had to leave. I couldn't bring myself to do it. It just wasn't Asda.
I don't regret these experiences though. In some ways they make me a stronger
person - they've taught me to never invest so much trust in something
that could ultimately hurt me. They've taught me to be wary and keep my
guard up - I'm now aware of my remaining vunerable areas, such as my broccoli
and cheese filled chicken breasts or McCaine micro-fries. Indeed, relationships
can be difficult.
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19
Dec 2006 - I Eat Golf
Finally the most anticipated moment in sporting history has arrived! A
Christmas treat for you all, freshly spawned on the internet! I am of
course talking about the eagerly awaited video-feature "I Eat Golf".
On Friday the 15th of December, five young friends embarked upon a jounery
that neither of them would ever forget. They ventured to the Driving Range,
to learn how to play golf.
The videos include: "The Andi Dance at the Driving Range", "The
Mother Putting Putt Off" (both available here)
and the main full length feature "I Eat Golf" (found here).
It runs a little jumpy at first, so it's advised that after a few seconds
of playback, rewind it and start again for a smoother play! Go ahead and
leave your comments too. Everyone love Youtube! Love it like it were golf.
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21
Dec 2006 - Good will to all accountants!
So Andi B decided to kick his Christmas off the right way, by partaking
in the popular social activity that is "Going down the pub".
Top Stocker Matt turned out in full force and we even (briefly) bumped
into Guy and Kellie as the night commenced. After a "Sherry Too Merry",
the festivities became something of a blur and I can not seamlessly recall
anything from the point of capping off the last pint, to getting off the
bus approximately 9 stops too early for fear of uncontrollable chunder.
So on my sobering walk through the streets, I came upon what I thought
was a sack of crap slapped across the pavement (which drew connotations
of the near identical transpirings around two years ago involving me and
two other characters that I've come to name Simon and Gavin). Curiosity
got the better of me and I crossed the street towards the dark object.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered that sprawled out on the pavement
was in fact not a sack of crap, but a man. A man named Chris to be precise.
He was simply lying on the pavement on his back, ruining his posh accountant
suit and trying to make a phone call on his mobile. Now seeing as this
is the season of good will and generosity, I dedicated the remainder of
my journey to escorting Chris home, who incidently lives about 20 doors
down from me. Like me, his alcoholic deterioration begins with body coordination
and not sensibility, which enabled us to have a hearty and coherent conversation
throughout our travels, but did require that I hold him up the entire
time and navigate him around lamp posts and parked cars. Once safely placed
in his home, I continued on to mine, with a great sense of satisfaction.
It seems that nothing really beats the thrill you receive from scraping
up a drunk person off the road, throwing your arm around them and taking
them for a walk. I recommend each and every one of you give it a try over
the Christmas break. Who knows, you too could make friends with your very
own Chris.
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25
Jan 2007 - Sex and saw dust.
Hello to all my fans.
If you are here expecting to read a blog entry with the usual calibre
of hilarity, I am sorry to disappoint you. If you are now thinking that
I am currently mal-coping with an emotional tangle and that this blog
will be nothing more than a vile discharge of my woes, again, you'd be
wrong. Instead this blog is simply a speed-up-to-bringing, chronicling
all of the major events that have concerned me since around Christmas
time.
As I sit here gyrating appropriately to the sounds of the Mars Volta,
knocking back one of the very few Kronenbourgs that remain in my fridge,
something occurs to me - I have not 'blogged' in some time. That's not
to say that I've nothing to blog about - quite the opposite in fact -
I've been so busy with my daily routines that I simply have not had time
to blog. But today is different. Today I awoke from my tedious coursework-induced
coma at the good graces of one Matt Johnson. And who is this stead-mounted
knight of pearly armour I hear you ask? He is the newly assigned illustration
tutor at my University and today he and I engaged in a non-formal tutorial
process; a basic analysis of my project thus far before it is due to be
signed over for assessment in four days.
For weeks I had been slogging my inards out onto my computer screen as
I battled to produce an animation worthy of a good grade, so much so that
I no longer had passion for it (or intestines to contain my lunch). I
began to resent my animation, until I go so fed up with it that I would
leave it at home at night, go out and find a bar, only to stumble home
in the early hours and crawl back into bed with it, not caring whether
I woke it or not. My animation grew colder, and so I began to stay out
with other animations, sleeping with countless other animations, I may
even have several unborn animations somewhere around the coast right now
but I simply don't care!
Anyway, Matt told me that I should stop. Just stop. I'd done enough. My
project was suitable as it was and any further efforts made to it would
not be critical. And like that, the weight was lifted, my identity returned
and I remembered what life was like outside of my computer monitor. It's
bright and shiny and full of wonder. Take tonight for example, a few friends
and myself are heading over to the SU to see Beckett perform (yes, those
guys, the band who I do work for). After the gig, I've got to talk to
them about working with them on another gig next month.
Rob and I are all booked up for Give It A Name 2007, as I was upset about
missing it last year (see my blog entry about missing MCR... never again!).
I'm taking an evening class which is helping me build my portfolio website
and it's coming along leaps and bounds, I will probably have it up by
Easter.
Finally, the assessment period this time around will be uninterrupted
by the commencement of the next project, which results in a couple of
days off where I might choose to complete some personal illustration projects,
go visit my brother, or do nothing but sodomize plush animal toys. Who
knows. So you see, things are beginning to turn around and I am compiling
a nice little collection of plans and arrangements.
2007, it would seem, might be awesome.
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05
Feb 2007 - Warning, this may fuel a woody.
Urban Legends.
I don't care who you are, they fucking rule.
To those of you who are uneducated in such things, an urban legend is
a tale based in your local surroundings, shared amongst the shadiest and
argueably wisest of old men who dwell there, perched in the darkest corner
of your most nautical-themed public house. It's a story which bears a
copious number of incredible and questionable elements that make it borderline
supernatural and potentially render it untrue.
Now if you are Dave, Paul, Dan, Lauren or perhaps even Rob, you may have
already guessed where I am going with this.
My inquirey into such matters begins with the 'Beast of Bodmin' - a large
black cat, panther-like in stature, which is said to roam wildly among
the vast open terrain of Cornwall. This is a creature who's natural habitat
is not usually the South West coast of these English Isles, so its presence
here is both intriguing and terrifying. I first learnt of the legend of
the Beast of Bodmin when it was discussed by Craig Charles during the
first series of Robot Wars (back before it got shite), when I was aged
11 or so. Fast forward to today and I've conducted a little research.
It seems that sightings of similar black jungle cat(s) have been made
over the last two decades in Kent - some virtually right on my doorstep
in SE London. The News Shopper (a London rag) spoke only a few weeks ago
about a sighting of the creature at our most prominent local shopping
complex. There are even photographs on the internet taken around 15 years
ago of the creature in an area approximately 25 miles from my house. More
importantly, my brother saw it in a field once.
This is alarming.
Today, another notable legend was explored. It seems that spanning the
same time period as the jungle cat sighthings in Kent, a bizzare "Owlman"
was seen terrorising small children in (once again) Cornwall. This creature
is described to be mostly of humanoid stature, but bearing an owl's head,
wings and claws. There is less photographic evidence to support this legend,
however there are in-depth comparrisons made to it with the legend of
America's "Moth Man". Owlman does feature in a handful of eye-witness
accounts and Paul, our CPC (Cornish Paranoia Consultant), can recite the
events that took place during the most infamous sighting vividly, and
assures us that the church-yard setting of the tale is "creepy".
My brother - a fully qualified MB (Marine Biologist) - believes the Owlman
to be nothing more than an eagle. And so we arrive here - wondering what
else lurks just a little beyond our very own back gardens. Are you aware
of any untoward behaviour occurring in your local vacinity? Have you sighted
creatures not from this world loitering in your street? Please contribute
to what promises to be an amazing blog which will blow this paranormal
gaff wide open!
And just to clarify, I have taken the liberty of preparing a short list
of contrasting acceptable and unacceptable urban legend content:
Ghosts - the translucent souls of the deceased caught in the transitional
channel between living and eternal rest. Verdict = real, but anyone who
tells you they've seen one is full of shit. They haven't.
The Loch Ness Monster - a dinosaur marooned in a land-locked abyss which
is too vast and uncertain for complete human exploration. Verdict = probably
true. Come on, the whole world gets vapourised by an asteroid and nothing
survives? I think we can expect that at least one dinosaur got flipped
into a giant lake and didn't decompose. He's there.
Faries/pixies/elves/sprites - all the fucking same. Short glittery gay
people who in this day and age still find the will to be consistantly
cheerful. Verdict = rubbish.
Bigfoot - slightly bigger gorilla than other gorillas. At the end of the
day, we've already got gorillas, so one more slightly taller one that
has humanistic mannerisms isn't exactly gonna fuel a woody. Of course
there's at least one monkey that behaves as we do, we're supposed to be
from the same strand of evolution. Verdict = who gives a shit?
Yeti - Bigfoot in the snow. All of the above, but even less likely. Bigfoot
would not have the funding to fly to a colder climate for his holiday.
Nor would the plane have sufficient leg room. This would spark outrage,
the ape would go expectedly ape, the passengers, flight attendants and
cabin crew would all be torn limb-from-limb, the plane would go down and
the black box would point out that a fucking big monkey was on board.
As this hasn't happened yet... Verdict = bollocks.
Zombies - the reanimated corpses of expired virus victims, operating on
a reduced level of brain activity and feeding on the living. Verdict =
VERY FUCKING REAL.
Vampires - not the stupid surgically enhanced twisted human kind, but
the bat-morphing, castle dwelling, cape wearing kind. Verdict = not happening.
Not then, not now. I've recently heard a theory posed by our local CPC,
that Dracula (head of the vampires) was nothing more than personified
sipholis (which I've probably spelt incorrectly).
Werewolves - humans bearing a curse which transforms them into large snarling
wolves under a full moon. Verdict = unlikely.
Aliens - beings inhabitting unchartered areas of space who travel around
in craft that surpass our own technological feats. Verdict = definately
true. So why don't we see them in the sky all the time? Why don't they
enslave us? What's the point? They're already got it much better than
us - that would be like the human species deciding to take over all ants
one day and try to live in their homes.
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08
Feb 2007 - I am now fucking awesome.
Many things on this Earth are awesome.
Winning the Lottery is awesome (probably), zorbing is awesome (definatley),
achieving tri-stream is awesome (hopefully). But tonight, something else
made itself known to be awesome. That something, was the third annual
Rock Circus.
The Rock Circus is an event held at the FireStation, in perfect symmetry
with the Rock and Roll Circus of days past - which featured the Rolling
Stones among other musical talents. Complete with ringleader, this contemporary
counterpart featured four local bands, two of which I had seen before
and one of those was significantly important as I had previously worked
and associated with them before (see Beckett).
Well for the last SEVEN HOURS I have been in the company of all these
bands, as they firstly set up for their respected gigs and then as they
executed their respected gigs. My purpose of presence, besides viewing
the bands on display and larking about with the musicians and crew, was
to record Beckett playing their live set so that I may produce for them
a DVD of their efforts, in exchange for a handsome sum of money. And this
is exactly what I did. In front of an audience of approximately 300 people,
I accompanied Beckett on stage and filmed their every move. The footage
is awesome and the benefits of knowing a band really made themselves apparent.
Allow me to elaborate - when knowing a band, you can join them on stage
and look fucking awesome by association to everyone who witnesses you
up there. You can schmooze with the band before and afterwards, thus heightening
your awesomeness. You can travel to areas of venues which are off limits
to the general public, such as dressing rooms which are still lined with
remnants of when they were last occupied by Bloc Party. You can wear an
orange glowing wristband which both grants you access to the stage and
cheaper drinks at the bar. You can also become better acquainted with
other bands - the list is endless really.
All that matters is that you're aware that I am now fucking awesome. Plain
and simple. I am a sizeable percentage more awesome than perhaps the last
time you saw me. Unless of course you are Tara or Lauren, then you would
have seen first hand my ascent into awesomeness, which is also awesome.
Awesome. And it is also awesome that you guys came out! Check my pics
section for photos of the night, and check back soon for clips from the
live DVD.
***This is a follow up note which I felt it necessary to write seeing
as how the blog itself was alcohol induced. You will now find it free
of slurred spellings and incomplete sentences. These corrections in themselves
are actually quite a feat when you consider that I'm hungover, my head
is pounding, I CAN'T HEAR A FUCKING THING and the only food I've had in
the last couple of days has been two bowls of cereal and fistfuls of mini-eggs.
Ah the rock and roll lifestyle sure is awesome!***
***This is a further follow up note - I'd like to direct as many people's
attention as I can towards the myspace profile of one Mr. C - he was the
figurehead behind Thursday night's Rock Circus and has a selection of
his own photography of the evening. Some of his snaps now feature in my
photo section because they are quite ace. I'd also like to announce that
editing is presently underway of the Beckett footage as I have begun composing
the first of what will be three chapters in the film. Awesome!***
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20
Feb 2007 - Shaving our parents.
In light of recent events, Andi B has not quite been himself. I had become
distressed and detatched and down-right miserable. In all our minds, the
simple question turned - what possible act of jovality would counter-act
this shift of balance? The answer, so it seems, became rapidly obvious
today.
Andi B, Dave, Dan, Paul, Lauren, Tara, Wayne and Fred combined forces
in blowing Uni out of their arses, and instead, headed en-mass into town,
to their first port of call; the pub. After nestling into a quiet den
in the corner, we quickly became lathered in hearty meals and alcoholic
beverages... so much so, that it was only a matter of time before the
conversation turned to a more sordid discourse. We addressed the notion
of a rating scheme, the impact of salt on common table top vegetation,
Paul's fetish for period-piece framed pictures (which perhaps explains
why his hot mum is on Dan's poster), "Taking it off", Tara as
a pirate... among other things. Much excessive laughter and rollicking
camera abuse later (please consult the photo section), the time to beat
a hasty retreat to the cinema was upon us.
After locating the cinema in question (it turns out there are several
incorrect ones), we made our way into a screening of Hot Fuzz, starring
my very own associate and friend Simon Pegg (again, please consult the
photo section for proof that he is in fact my buddy and that we go way
back). As I sit here now, I'm still contemplating calling good old Simon
up on his personal home phone number which I have tucked away in a safe
place, and sharing my views on what I thought was a disappointing cinematic
effort. I found the film to be average at best, which is a giant let down
when you consider that this was the same brainpower behind Spaced, Shaun
and Look Around You - which is all very funny shit. With Fuzz, I could
probably count my total chuckle emmission on one hand. So what alternative
was there to bitterly recalling the many violations that Fuzz had inflicted
upon my eyes? Why, returning to the pub of course, downing a few more
tall ones and nattering about the birds and bees and what nots. And shaving
our parents as I recall (?).
Anyway, the point is that today served as a fantastic distraction from
both coursework and personal conflicts, for which I am terribly grateful
for. Thank you to all involved - Dan, Dave, Lauren, Tarararara, Fred,
Paul, Wayne, 9.6, the jogger who should've 'taken it off', everyone we'd
like to meat, the twat-kids on their skateboards who Lauren yelled at,
and the strangely friendly bloke in the wrong cinema.
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25
Feb 2007 - Sack of dog vomit
I've just sat down to my computer having this minute returned from a fiendishly
long journey that concluded my weekend getaway back home in London. I
shall now elaborate for you, if you care to read on, a thorough detailing
of all that transpired over the aforementioned weekend getaway.
It began on Friday, as Friday is the new Saturday - Saturday of course
being the new Sunday, Sunday; the new black and the new black being the
latest version of whichever cliched verb your care to insert here. And
so on.
On said Friday, my heroic brother, alarmed by the news of my recent singlcy
(yes that is a word... or perhaps two), secured a mode of transportation
which can only be described as a car and came a-travelling, which lead
to eventual a-rapping at my door. After fouraging for lunch at a near
by sandwich parlour we made tracks towards the centre of Bournemouth town,
to bear witness to what at the time seemed to be a rather perplexing spectacle.
For those of you unfamiliar with the centre of Bournemouth, allow me to
lay on you some geographical background.
The centre itself is a hive of high-street stores, circling a paved focal
point adorned by performing artists, preaching holy men and canival managing
grifters - not much unlike London, just with a few more plants and sunshine.
We also have a Pier and a stretch of beach, but the main area of interest
in this story is the space between the Centre and the Pier. In this space
is a pedestrianised garden, complete with grass not to be graced by the
foot of man, award-winning floral beds, public toilets, a hot air-balloon,
a stream with several bridges, ice cream vendors and a whole bunch of
pine trees. And Emos. Lots and lots of Emos. It is a place of beauty and
an attraction for the peaceful eldery that cling lifelessly to the benches
at all hours of the day/night. Oh what a surprise it must have been to
those OAP's on Friday night, when tens of Rally cars came tearing across
the pathways, spewing motor-oil over their beige cagouls and shredding
their slipper-clad toes to pieces. Yes, you read that correctly, a no-bars-held
Rally car championship was being held in the pristine gardens of Bournemouth.
My brother and I, along with Tara, her fellar Si, Dan and Lauren stood
at the wayside by the river, watching as car after car flew perilously
around the bends and straights, narrowly avoiding cameramen and the crazy
golf pitch - much to my disappointment. It was a sight that needed to
be seen and one that to this very moment, I am still grappling to believe.
Dad and his Metro did not win by the way.
After we'd had our fill of heart-pounding gear-head action, Rob and I
were homeward bound, in a journey which was most comical indeed (much
musical debate being the hot topic). On Saturday, Rob and I found ourselves
up town, carrying out some essential shopping and movie renting. We watched
Sentinel, which at first glance appeared to be a sack of dog vomit, but
post-viewing, was actually a good film. The jovality continued after Rob
and I decided that neither of us had the stamina to head out for a night
in our regular haunt for a few bevies, so instead we devised an entirely
different plot all together. At this point I will refer you to my past
blog posting "Warning this may fuel a woody." As you may or
may not already be aware, my brother is a keen Marine Biologist, and so
it is only natural that he would take an interest in the recent sightings
of the Urban Black Cats in our hometown area, so much so that there has
been much talk on his part about the pair of us conducting a "hunt"
over the upcoming Easter period, in a bid to snare one of these animals,
or at least obtain substantial photographic evidence of their existence.
Or perhaps dress one up as a gentleman and pass it off in decent society.
Well on Saturday night, the forces of excitement were far too overwhelming
for Rob and we ended up carrying out a preliminary hunt - which we were
in no way prepared or qualified for.
Armed only with torches and spare batteries (less the wellies, camera,
and butterfly net which were all essential items on our initial inventory)
we set off to the first of many hopeful locations; "The Orchards"
behind our estate. It's fair to say that it's been a while since both
of our childhoods were spent in these overgrown backpassages, which is
probably why we didn't anticipate giant fencing now bordering the entire
area. Needless to say, this was an unsuccessful port of call. Moving on,
we drove over to Barnehurst Golf Course, but our search here was postponed
due to high levels of mud. And who likes mud? No one. Next was Dartford
Heath - a massive woodland wasteland distorted by WW2 bomb craters. The
peaks and troughs and dense foliage were more than likely to house the
alleged Black Cat population. We abandoned the car in a residential street
and ventured into the darkness. As far as creepy experiences goes, this
ranked very high in my book. There were numerous points where I found
my mind asking "What the fuck am I doing in the woods on a Saturday
night with nothing but a torch?" I had but to remind myself of our
goals to dispell such ridiculous questioning. Despite much lurking around
in the brambles, the most intriguing discoveries made in the Heath amounted
to nothing more than three frogs (one of which was swimming in a very
deep pool which I personally thought was awesome) and a duck, which exploded
out of a tree upon meeting my torchlight and went screaming into the air,
which at the time was a very frightening and traumatic experience for
all involved. After eventually finding the car (we had by this point become
very lost) we headed undeterred to our final destination which was an
actual recorded sighting spot of the Black Cat; namely Mc Donalds in Bluewater.
An extensive search of the area turned out negative results, but Rob is
determined to conduct a more thorough investigation when the Easter arrives.
So that was pretty much the crux of my weekend activities. Today was mostly
spent passing time, highlighting ones hair and travelling back to the
Muff. So I'd like to extend my gratitude to Rob for his companionship
over the past few days.
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19
Mar 2007 - The Black Spring
Greetings my fellow internet cohorts.
As I'm sure you've noticed, the blog capacity from the Andi B printworks
has been rather sparse of late and I would like now to offer the explanation
as to exactly why that is the case. Today saw the closure of what was
a particularly dark chapter in the Andi B chronicles, a chapter that I've
now affectionately come to call "The Black Spring." As the seasons
did change about a month ago, so too did the general positive flow of
my life, from frankly quite great, to quite crap. I'd run into more than
my fair share of burdens and only today have I rid them in exchange for
a much more ecstatic series of circumstances. Let me offer an insight
into the bad:
There was the untimely cessation of my relationship with Lisa, which sucked.
Because of the mountainous loads of Uni work that I've had to endure recently,
namely the project who's title we shall never again speak, I've been locked
away in my room. Said project, was an abomination; a violation of the
principle of "clarity", an abusive threat to the sense of "organisation"
and a brilliant catalyst for producing copious amounts of shite work and
half arsed enthusiasm. In summary - Worst. Project. Ever. Die you bastard
die. And die some more. Are you dead yet? Well die again! And so forth...
And what could possibly make the worst project ever even worserer (?).
Ever? Why, multiple other hindering projects of course, the kind that
trampled rather abruptly all over my fields of steady progress. There
was the 3rd Year symposium preparation committee that I was a part of,
the evening design class that I partook in and the introduction of a fresh
batch of suicide inducing tripe from Anna Monotone, all working together
in perfect harmony to pick, like vultures, the remnants of my soul that
hung to my relationship-torn fleshless bloody corpse. Sigh.
So for weeks I toiled between tears and tutors, desperately trying to
redeem my declining abilities in some way, shape or form, all the while
glancing towards my polka dot hanky which was tied to a stick and contained
all my worldly possessions, propped against the door.
Then today happened! The clouds parted, the darkness lifted and all that
lay beneath were smiles, sunshine and fun. First and foremost, we were
issued a new project brief and it rocks harder than I could have ever
imagined. And that's hard. It's poles apart from that ghastly 'N word'
crap and I'm really geared for it. Hooray for inspiration. Holy Mother
In Heaven what the fuck was that??? brb folks...Ok, I'm sorry about that,
my attention was hijacked for a moment there by an Earth shattering explosion
that had just occurred outside my house. No it wasn't an enormous inbound
hippo orgasm. It was two imploded vehicles that now lay facing in the
same direction, side by side in the road, after having just had a head
on collision. The body count is a disappointing zero, but I did get a
prime view from my doorway of the argument that ensued.
So where was I? Oh yes, the good. Well this rein of supremacy continues
as I have just launched my first official, eagerly anticipated, illustration
portfolio website, that I have been building since January. I shit you
not, the bitch is up and running on the internet right now. Everybody
go and check it out. The address is quite awesomely www.andib.co.uk.
I've worked out all the bugs for Safari and Firefox, and all the Internet
Explorer versions before 7, which I still need to test. So if anybody
uses version 7, some feedback on my site would be greatly appreciated.
Tell your friends!
And lastly, one final reason why I have been in good spirits of late actually
took place last Thursday night, right in the thick of The Black Spring.
Dan, Paul, Lauren, Tara and myself headed over to Poole for a night of
dinner and drinking, in a bid to temporarily distract ourselves from the
harsh reality of the monstrous 'N word' project. Well, that was sufficiently
achieved on my part, as I sank my pints and acted like an ass, much to
the amusement of all present. The details of the evening are terribly
sketchy by my recollection but I have been updated with the info that
I can not recall, which included being generally rowdy in the establishment,
requiring a two-man escort out of the pub and through the city to our
scheduled pick-up point, hollering at and pursuing passing motorists who
sounded their horn at us, establishing non-voluntary face to pavement
contact and manoeuvring quite precariously around bankments and fences.
I also awoke the following morning to a bizarre series of affairs, the
strangest being a neat structure of coins and crackers in the centre of
my carpet, and a paper jam in my printer. Answers on a postcard.
So it would seem that I'm leaving the valley and climbing a peak and about
frigging time if I do say so myself. I know this because I have many amazing
things to look forward to in the upcoming weeks. I've got friends visiting,
a week off to produce art, holiday plans, Give it a name, a quality time
with Rob, this kick-ass new project... the list goes on. So this is Andi
B, Happy Chappy, on the up and up. It's a good train, you'd better get
on it.
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30
Mar 2007 - Holding their breath and genitals equally.
I think it not too bold to claim that this week has been a belter. Not,
you understand, a belter in the sense that I've recently partaken in several
notable events each bearing a high magnitude of awesomeness which on reflection,
leaves me with no choice but to proclaim how added together, they constitute
one belter of a week. No. I'm referring to how this week in its generality,
has been a far cry from that of the now distant shadow of the Black Spring.
And also because I have in fact partaken in several notable events each
bearing a mediocre magnitude of awesomeness.Yesterday for example saw
such an event unfold. Us happy throng of lads did meet and set upon a
quest into town, in search of merriment. The throng (to overuse a humorous
sounding word) (throng throng throng, throngy throng throng) consisted
of "O Danny boy, the beer, the beer is calling", Sugar Daddy
Dave and my handsome self. On our most pedestrian of travels, we came
upon a golf ball (not as it reads), which Dave, to his horror, accidentally
punted straight towards a passing van. Now it's a commonly known fact
that I enjoying spinning a yarn, but I cannot stress enough just how truthful
the details of this story actually are. The ensuing carnage was inevitable;
the target crash zone for the ball was the rear window of the van. The
ball was cutting with force through the air. The throng did gasp, holding
their breath and genitals equally in the suspense of the moment, when
to the sheer delight of everyone present, a miracle occurred. The ball
was sternly deterred from its path of destruction by the freak and frankly
unbelievable placement of the slimmest of branches protruding from the
avenue's hedgerow. The physics are baffling as the ball clearly out-weighed
the branch, but it was undeniably a one in a million shot. The day, it
seemed, would be awesome at this.
So the three fellows embarked upon the Square, only to discover that the
Whetherspoon's of our desires was being refurbished and was unopen to
the general public. Undeterred we sloped off towards our desination of
next, the cinema. En route, we became aware of our distilled bellies,
and spied the misleading frontage of one Brasshouse. The external view
of this building is indeed misleading. To the untrained eye, it advertises
itself as nothing more than a "bar and cafe". However, on closer
inspection, we discover that the building is infact a dark and mysterious
cave, sporting lofty dimly lit rooms so large in their capacity, that
it's belivable that the punters present had in fact been roaming around
for years in an endless pursuit for the exit. There were deep set bars
lined with leather sofas en mass and an overload of tv screens, cheap
food and drink and an attractive plethora of staff. However the establishment
wasn't without its foibles - there was a distinct lack of decent music
present in favour of a calamity of 80's disco hits and 90's flat pop.
Yes there were copious tv screens, but each beamed the overbearing effigy
of cricket into my eyeballs. And the shifty looking clientele didn't exactly
bring aesthetical wonder to the place. Despite this, the throng took root
in a cavernous corner, drank and dined and conversed around absurd topics*
and lavished in the spectacular views of the place, before proceeding
to the filmeria.
The viewing of 300 was an unexpectedly enjoyable one, leaving us regaling
in the successful persuasion of the CGI battle scenes and our comparisons
to the equally entertaining Sin City. With our backs to the closing credits,
we once again returned to the Brasshouse for some more bevies and inane
chatter, while basking in the glow of most recent instalment of attractive
staff. The day came to a close when the alcohol had taken its toll, the
throng had dispersed and Dan and I gave way to the dusty trail home, where
I encountered a delightful young filly who thought my state of mild intoxication
so amusing that it warranted a daffodil, which I wore behind my ear for
the remainder of the journey.
This then, was the proceedings of the day past, however my week in its
entirety has also been a blessing - a fair mix of steady progression through
the latest Uni project alongside bouts of 'taking it easy' with some gaming
and illustrating. This, it seems, is also the forecast for the week approaching,
before the day of the 8th arrives where my agenda doth appear somewhat
more meaty. But this I'm sure will be relayed in a future blog.
Until then...
*such topics included ways in which one may present his penis in a public
sector and get away with it.
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05
Apr 2007 Fat men balancing precariously on the edge of a roof.
The grass is cut, the sun is out and the scent of barbeque is in the air.
I have a blister on my toe, my hair is presently an active refuge for
about a ton of sand and my face is most severely burnt. Yes sir, those
are signs that Summer is finally upon us (and I don't care that it's only
Easter; don't get me started on my two-season theory!)
So what better way to ring in the new season than by heading out for a
chilled out day of fun with my buddies? At approximately 10am this morning,
Dave, Dan and I headed into town to meet Tara and Paul to kick off the
day's proceedings. Upon arriving at the Square, we were most delighted
to discover that FAB ice lollies were being handed out for free. Freakin'
free I tells you! Already, I could tell it was going to be a great day.
After passing the time by proposing to shoppers that they dye my pubic
hair, studying a couple of fat men balancing precariously on the edge
of a roof of a high building in a bid to receive better reception on their
mobiles, and being variably intimidated by the close proximity at which
the passing elderly chose to instate around us, Tara and Paul arrived
and us happy-go-lucky group of students ventured into the lower gardens
to chill out on the grass.
The grass was wet. So we moved. That's better.
The gardens where a flurry of activity, with the haunting bellow of fat
shrieking foreigners, a disappearing 200 foot wide hot air balloon (it
turns out it was just in the sky) and a duo of performing Russian Circus
children who persisted to flip and tumble, all a little too impressively
across the lawn. There was also much shoe abuse, keyring inspection and
general rudeness towards our fellow man. After we'd had our fill of jovial
banter and were sufficiently rowdy to the point of eviction, the group
headed to the Brasshouse (see previous blog for a thorough dissection
of this place) for a hearty feast and amazingly cheap beer. Hells yeah!
Full of bread and tipple, we descended onto the sun stroked beach for
a game of football, of which there are a handful of pics over in my photos
section. This was a tremendous idea, as much hilarity resolved from the
partaking of (or more precisely the attempted partaking of) the sport.
Sand, as it turns out, is a particularly difficult terrain to orchestrate
any such co-ordinated footwork, and the execution of impressive ball control
is therefore greatly reduced, as we all discovered in a variety of ways.
I, for example, met sternly with the sandy ground by the face and arse
on a number of occasions, as well as majestically landing an arc of sand
into my mouth at one stage. Paul, the excitable fellow that he is, came
at me with an unprovoked and savage tackle, which landed him with a hideously
swollen broken wrist (and our immediate reaction was to take photos).
After our efforts to seek out a first aid stand and packed ice had failed,
we settled for looking at the attractive plethora of female organisms
that adorned the beach. The fun and games continued as Dan smashed his
foot into the ground pretty hard, and Paul willingly injured himself further
by refusing to retire his lame hand while in play. Tara got slammed pretty
hard in a tackle also and Dave simply powered the ball up and down the
beach. And pelted it at a child. As did Paul. Neither were asked out.
As the day drew to a close and our number depleted, Dave, Dan, Paul and
I made tracks for the dusty trail home, but not before I engaged in brief
conversation with a trio of painfully attractive girls, who for some reason
had taken an interest in out poor efforts to have a kick about near by
while they sunned themselves. Frankly, I feel the day was over agonisingly
quickly and I am saddened to be reporting on it at such an premature hour.
But on the other hand, I could view this is a simple taster for what I
am to expect on a daily basis when next term is dead and buried. So hooray
for this.
TO THE OUTSIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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29
Apr 2007 Introducing the Calm Down Dog
Oh how things have changed.
So Andi B has just returned to Bournemouth from yet another weekend excursion
to the land he calls home. Or used to call home. Or whatever. It was London
anyway, more precisely – the mighty Court of Earl. And for what
event was this being of shear brilliance in attendance? Well if you have
to ask that then you are clearly out of the alternative music-appreciative
circuit and you will require filling in. Consider this your in-filling.
On the 27th, 28th, and 29th of this here present month, the Give It A
Name festival was in full shift, and Andi B, coupled with his soldier
of social fortune: Sir Rob's A Lot, turned out for the proceedings…
well for the Saturday portion of the event anyway, for we both have yet
to develop bodily appendages with infinite cash dispensing properties.
Anyhow, after a hearty breakfast, us brothers in arms descended on Barnehurst
train station, making an audacious entrance onto a train within its final
microseconds before departure, risking amputation of our legs by way of
sliding doors. This is of course literal and harrowing. With the luck
of the gods, we emerged unharmed and rattled up the Char X line towards
our metropolis destination. Burrowing through the underground we surfaced
at Earl's Court and joined the back of what was essentially a short queue,
for you see, I had packed with me the tool of foresight and having perceived
the common tendency of rapid queue expansion at such affairs, I had insisted
that we set out on our adventure early and this was an excellent call
of judgement on my part. So with only a hundred feet or so of Emos between
us and the entrance doors to the arena, we rooted ourselves in place,
chugging bottled water in the sun.
Now what was interesting about the queue was that Rob and I were set apart
from everyone else in it. It's a widely known fact that 50% of the fun
at a gig or indeed a festival is generated from within the pre-event queue
line (see Vfest '05 and the black sky of lycra-bound Frisbees) and Give
It A Name it would seem, was no exception. Setting aside for a moment
the fact that Rob and I were a clear 3 feet taller than everyone else
there, several other differences between us and the massing crowds of
jabbering festival attendees were also apparent. For instance, Rob and
I were sporting a maximum of three hair colours between us; where as the
cohorts in all directions capped at least that on an individual basis.
"Spot the +14 year old" presented itself as a challenging and
time-consuming game. Also, not that we attempted this, but if we had,
Rob and I would have been a damn sight more tactful in smuggling alcohol
into the premises than the countless instances we witnessed of under-aged
know-nothing amateurs being turfed over the barriers by security.
But back to the fun.
Being as we were two intellectual fellows amid a sea of luminous headed,
garment clashing, unsuitable cleavage-bearing children, we felt it necessary
to assert our maturity by way of comedic vocal opinion on the aforementioned
subjects. Some brilliant banter and exceptional anecdotes were spawned
here, such as the art of prematurely entering festival areas posing as
harmless generic vegetation, unconceivable and preposterous instances
where queue jumping may be valid (covering all aspects from pregnant male
labour to the various options for make-shift urine conveyance), and not
forgetting the wonderful introduction of the "Calm Down Dog",
which is essentially a vicious Labrador contained within a wall-mounted
glass confine to be broken and released for the purposes of anarchic crowd
control.
Somewhere between Rob's swelling bladder and my unintentional "anticipation
punching", we drew some new friends into our babbling aura, namely
the outstandingly awesome festival folk in front of us who we saw on a
number of occassions throughout the day. If you're reading this, welcome
to the Blog Jen and Matt. Notably, we did not befriend the collection
of retards to our right who thankfully served as the butt of some of our
harsher and more belittling jokes. But they were fuckwits who deserved
it anyway. Beatboxing poorly from an internet tutorial in an Emo queue,
I mean really?
Finally, after enduring the bottomless humour of one "John"
the security guard (seriously wasn't a funny guy), the gates parted and
the masses surged through the lobby of the building. After Rob finished
floundering by the ticket booth at the mercy of atechnological defect,
we skipped merrily into the vastness of the showground, pleasuring at
the delights that struck our eyes.
Priority 1: Secure and eat a nutritious snack. Nutrition optional.
Priority 2: Secure and consume a paper glass of beer. Sufficiently assert
our age advantage by doing so.
Priority 3: Stake a good spot near the stage.
Priority 4: Negotiate an elaborately groomed teenager to relinquish a
glow stick for me to decorate my otherwise naked wrist. The orange did
complement the rest of my attire.
Priority 5: Delight in our once again recalled height advantage over the
crowd (dubbed our Valley of Vision).
Priority 6: Find ourselves perilously slung between two pits forming at
our adjacent proximities.
Priority 7: Employ some casual violence to "simmer down" the
group of lads to our right who were making outstanding jackasses of themselves.
A swift elbow to the ribs and a less than subtle gentle shoving seemed
to work in our favour.
Priority 8: Aid the small and frail looking girls who were literally in
over their heads and were fleeing from the carnage at the front barrier.
These were possibly the smallest people we'd ever seen.
Priority 9: Topple along with 40 other people as an unexpected surge erupted
in front of us.
Priority 10: Retaliate. Grab the said 40 people and shove them back. Marvel
in mild celebration at how just the two of us were able to shift so many
flimsy teenagers.
Priority 11: Laugh at the American solo artist as he pleaded for sincerity
whilst being peppered by festival debry from the disgruntled crowd.
Priority 12: Enjoy the music and check out the sideshows.
All in all it was a good yet exhausting day. Fresh from the din, I was
regaling in the audio works of Motion City Soundtrack, New Found Glory,
Brand New, Kids in Glass Houses, among others who were less eagerly anticipated.
Special mention must go here to Senses Fail; an American conception that
felt it necessary to dedicate their entire set to "the rotting corpse
of Princess Diana". If only I'd packed less of the tool of foresight
and more in the way of a light arsenal.
Be sure to check out my photos section, as there are a few snaps there
from the day, though stupidly none of the queue-folk who we tickled, or
my friend Holly whom I discovered loitering near the bar. My apologies
to you people for having not encapsulated your effigy via digital technology.
And also, if any one else reading this was present and didn't see me,
leave a message or something!
Now if I can only shift this headache…
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20
May 2007 - Cress can go fuck itself.
Well stop your grinnin' and drop your linen, it's Andi motherfucking B!
Greetings and welcome to what can most certainly be described as a meteorological
faction, void of sensibility. That's right, I went there. Check my mad
climate-ragging skills. You see I'd like to open today's blog with a theory
– one of many theories that 21 years of existence, stunning good
looks and wisdom acquirement have allowed me to formulate, because I am
after all a deep thinker; a mental revolutionist if you will.
I have catalogues of theories defining this video game we call life; theories
about sandwiches, theories about stripes, theories about the walking undead.
But today, I'd like to share another theory…It seems that many things
we learn during infancy we later find in our adulthood to be untrue. For
instance, at the age of four, I was informed that most common forms of
vegetation use their leaves as a conveyance for the absorption of light,
thus expelling chlorophyll from their chloroplasts and spreading a green
pigment in a process entitled photosynthesis, demonstrated by the classic
small-time biological observation that cress withers to a frail shade
of white in the dark.
I was also told about Santa Claus.
But this my dear children, is bollocks. Cress can go fuck itself and Santa
is a foolhardy sham. At the age of sixteen I was exposed to the deception
and discovered that plants do in fact (illogically) photosynthesise at
night, rendering cress as nature's retard. (And one now ponders the question,
"do goldfish photosynthesise too… 'cos they bloody well should").
I felt raped to have conformed to a curriculum that purposefully set about
delivering inaccurate information at various age checkpoints, only to
contradict itself years later under the justification of "ease of
understanding." It was hard enough hearing that same morning that
Santa wasn't real either– I honestly don't know by the end of that
day which tears were for which cause. But it goes on…The human stomach
is not where years of colour-coded paint-by-number biological diagrams
indicate that it should be, I does not come before E except after C and
now the point that I originally set out to make: THERE ARE NOT FOUR SEASONS.
There are TWO. Summer and Winter. Sun on and sun off. Flowers opening,
animals screwing and humans sneezing, is not a season. Flowers dying,
animals dying and humans… sneezing for a different reason, is also
not a season. They are merely the beginnings of the two aforementioned
uber seasons.
Although these past few weeks you will be forgiven if you've been led
to believe that all this back and forth between grey and blue skies has
constituted being denoted as "Spring". The simple reality is
that the halogen in the Sun needs replacing before the bulb blows.
So what has everybody's favourite Gemini been up to of late? Well besides
overcoming an inevitable diminishing away to nothingness as an arbitrary
depletion of essential foodstuffs grips my kitchen stock, Andi B has had
a most enjoyable and proactive period of time-passing since we last spoke.
For instance, you are reading this communiqué on the penultimate
day of my final second year project, meaning that a good majority of my
time has been spent eroding my arse down to a nub before the Summer (yes
that second season) kicks in. Now usually this is a stress inducing, hell-bent
worry fest situation to find myself in, but far gone are the days of shitty
little N word projects pillaging away at my soul. This project has been
a fair maiden from days of old by comparison - arduous and overbearing
at times but all together rewarding when wooed correctly.
But it's not just the success rate of this project that lifts my spirits.
Certainly the allure of time off as of FUCKING TOMORROW, COME ON YOU SCHLAAAAAGS!
plays its role, and definitely looking ahead to all the major plans that
I've made for the summer, the summer, once again, officially starting
TOMORROW, COME ON YOU SCHLAAAAGS! is also a major turn on, but still this
is not the pinnacle of my glee. Andi B, is one happy chappy, for the very
simple reason that he has recently had the fortune of meeting someone
new who he has grown quite fond of... because she's a bit of alright!
Lol. In fact, not only has he met this person, but he has spent a substantially
relevant amount of time with this person (despite pressing deadline),
out around town, in a field, in the home, in some bars, up the shops…
you get the picture. In the words of NFG, 'I am on the verge of something
good' and it's quite honestly the best feeling a human being has ever
encountered, YES, even better than that time I scored that crumpled paper
into the bin across the studio because I said I would shot – which
for the record, was awesome! Even dropping my shorts to pee into a cup
in the middle of the cafeteria at Uni for a strange lady I'd never met
who asked me to in exchange for a lollipop the other day does not amount
to the joviality I've experienced from meeting this person. EVEN the relief
felt after being betrayed by my Bruce Banner barnet and saving myself
at the last second before accidentally dying my hair green does not compare
to the sheer thrill and excitement I receive from having met this person.
To summarise – Andi B is tremendously happy, thanking his lucky
stars and very much looking forward to the road ahead. Consider that your
picture painted.
Speaking of the road ahead, here's a quick run down of a few other things
floating in Andi's proverbial pool of the future – tomorrow, as
stated, is the Viking funeral of the second year, but celebrations take
the form of a trip to a liquor dispensing establishment to hail the mileage
of one Laz Towner. These proceedings shall continue through out the day
and will no doubt be cataclysmically blogged through an alcohol-induced
haze. Also, my very own odometer ticks into a new resolution next month
and a beach-stylee jam is on the agenda, capped off with a swim in streets
flowing with booze. My good friend Paul is also taking another step towards
death, which will be marked by an outing of sorts, I'm sure. Once June
is put to rest, I've got a couple of holidays to look forward to, plus
commissioned work aplenty, but more on these matters another time.
So if you see me strutting my funky stuff around your immediate vicinity
in the near future, don't be shy and flash me a smile, 'cos it's gonna
be a great day!
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01
Jun 2007 - You most definitely CAN keep shitting
What fresh hell is this?
It seems that somehow, somewhere, I have inadvertently pissed someone
off. A higher authority, a superior being, a master of another plain perhaps.
Someone who holds great bearing over my daily transpirings. Whoever it
was, they obviously felt that things had been going a little too rosily
in my favour of late and that a trio of tragedies (as all bad things come
in threes) should swiftly befall me. And so it was.
KABOOM!!! Charcoal blast radiuses daubed my walls.
KAPOW!!! A thick plumage of night-black smoke swooned into the air.
KABLOUW!!! The plastic skin tore open, metallic innards were hurled through
the air and lashings of flame swiped at everyone and everything in sight,
until my entire room was engulfed in a blaze which killed me and destroyed
all of my possessions.
This is actually a dramatised account of the demise of my beloved PC –
the first of the three plagues released unto me as punishment for my recent
happy-go-lucky demeanour. You see last week, my PC was having a few uncharacteristic
tizzies, which thankfully lead me to back up most (but not quite all)
of its contents onto my external hard drive. This, as it turns out, was
by far the best cautionary tactic I've ever employed, as the very next
day, three capacitors on the motherboard erupted to the point of annihilation,
rendering the smoking tower unit a write-off. The immediate downside to
this tragic loss was that I was left without any computing power for some
time, which further delayed attention to my commissioned projects as well
as leaving me teetering precariously on the edge of the inter-social cyber
loop. But, as is evident by this well written article, Andi B has his
fingertips back on the reins of the web, thanks to the stunning awesomeness
of his brand new PC (which is still under full restoration and customisation…)
PFFDEUUUUUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuu…….. That is the sound of my Playstation
2 expelling its last cooperative breath before fading into idle obscurity.
The monumental device, which has provided me with years of entertainment
and faithful service, finally popped its sleek, black, clogs thus ushering
in the second of the misfortunes appointed to me. With now two of my most
dependable technologies defunct, the future for both my wallet and time
filling was looking bleak.
And that's when the third and final hammer fall of the righteous overlords
came into play. It was the eve of the birthday of Paul the Wise and our
regular collective (minus Dave who was shagging some golf somewhere) were
celebrating in high gears of joviality at a prominent Chinese restaurant
over in Poole. Now those who know me well will be aware that I am a man
who's beliefs are founded in his own theories about the world (check out
my previous blogs concerning seasons and sandwiches for undisputed evidence
of this fact). One such theory is key here and that is that all foreign
food is utterly and unquestionably ghastly, unless it begins with the
letter P. Now this is not an over sighted or unjustified statement, take
a moment to consider the following; pasta, pizza, prawn crackers, pepperoni…
all delightfully tasty and all commence spelling with a P. All other international
food that does not adhere to this rule is a clear violation to taste buds
the world over. Further proof of this theory in action comes from the
concluding hours of the aforementioned party night, where, after eating
a number of Chinese buffet foodstuffs originating from all milestones
of the alphabet, I found myself escaping from my sheets at night on numerous
occasions to expel the very same Chinese foodstuffs from near every orifice
I possess.
Yes, firing out at both ends as it were.
This, alongside a fluctuating bodily temperature erratically spiking between
the thermal properties of a Caribbean climate and the frozen tremblings
experienced by a victim of a wild monkey bite, as well as the inability
to stay awake longer than five minutes at a time, all worked together
to ultimately plunge the better part of my week into a living, shitting,
nightmare.
To summarise, here are the lessons I've learnt; China sucks, my theories
are always correct, you most definitely CAN keep shitting, Spiderman 3
is not necessarily shown in Screen 3, pink tinsel on your head will make
you look like a twat but at the same time acts as a welcome deterrent
from the fact that you're actually smuggling beer into a club in your
back pocket, and if you're girlfriend is able to act sympathetically towards
you when you're bowels are performing a grisly symphony then she's definitely
a keeper!
Thanks for the support babe lol.
This is Andi B signing off and shitting out.
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10
Jun 2007 - Had a Ball
Being as how it's the blossoming of the evening, the majority of my readers
will most likely be tucking into a pasta dinner, or perhaps a chicken-based
dinner, or even, for reasons I can't fathom, some sort of foreign gunk
orientated dinner. I on the other hand, am tucking into a cereal-based
breakfast. 'What's this; is Andi B partaking in some sort of reversed
routine charity fund raising event?' you may now find yourself asking…
yourself.
Well no, I'm not. I am simply having breakfast because I have only been
awake for a mere few hours, due to my retirement to bed at approximately
5.00 this morning. This comes down to the late conclusion of the previous
night's activities - an event that should require no introduction –
The Bournemouth Uni 2007 Summer Ball. The long anticipated evening of
fancy dress, fair ground rides, live music and plentiful drinking was
finally upon us all last night, and I couldn't race home from work quickly
enough to sport my familiar Shaun of the Dead guise. With my paper mache
cricket bat and authentic plastic name badge, I was suited up for a night
of zombie slaughtering action, accompanied by my girlfriend Emma aka 'Kermit
the frog', my housemate Kat aka 'Miss Piggy' and her boyfriend Matt aka
'Animal'.
A cab ride over to the field (still unclear as to where exactly this field
was, some sort of field-like holding ground that exists only in obscurity
until it is called upon for event hosting purposes I suppose) was our
first step to embarking on the adventures that ensued. The tent-populated
field was heaving with costume-clad students, ranging from the utmost
in creative design, to the down right effortlessly shite and/or odd. Notable
mentions go to the Banksy Grim Reaper, the trio of Titanic halves and
Iceberg, the DaftPunk guy, the Table Man, the spangled lycra bodysuit
people, Futurama's "Klamps" and the giant fluffy Pac Men for
their outstanding efforts and for providing much entertainment in the
way of extended index fingers and vocal accompaniment, excitedly identifying
the context of their choice of outfits.
But more interestingly, I came upon several other characters that frankly
impressed me to my very core. They were a pack of approximately seven
zombies – hardly surprising you may say. But it's worth mentioning
that there were quite a few zombies milling about last night, most of
which were simply adorned in slashed casual wear, white facepaint, heavy
eye make up and red paint thrown about. Basic child's play really.
But these particular seven were awesomely elevated in my stakes of arousal
as they were no ordinary zombies – they were the reanimated corpses
of staff working at the Umbrella Corporation (Resident Evil fans grin
with glee here). The logo, the lab coats, everything about them was a
stroke of genius and together in a synchronized moment, we spanned a void
of intertextuality in a fusion of photography, thus embracing the two
most creative veins of the zombie horror genre – Movie and Video
Game. Much shutter clicking and handshaking later, the zombies and Shaun
parted ways, but this was not to be my only zombie encounter, as throughout
the night, zombies in turn would queue to be snapped with me bonking them
on the head with my cricket bat, before pointing out that I had red on
me and then stumbling off into the masses.
I can only presume that all these photos will be circling the Internet
soon and I would very much appreciate if anybody spots one to alert me,
so that I may feature it on my own pages.
My costume it seemed was a clear hit with the undead. But it also scored
some points with another instance of Shaun who I came upon on my travels.
He was slapped up in crimson emulsion and had his tie securely fastened
around the dart wound in his skull and whilst stood beside me, we formed
a sort of post and pre slaughter paradox that would later amuse me and
leave me unable to articulate it poetically enough in a blog. After taking
yet another picture with me (see my photo section) he explained that he
had seen a third Shaun in the vicinity, but he was in a slap-dash outfit
which included shorts. What a gimp.
As us happy
four Muppets and zombie survival movie hero flounced between the various
musically themed tents acquiring alcohol, we were frequented by the likes
of Minnie Mouse Cat and her circle of course mates, Tinkerbell Kate and
her course mates, and two Lifeguards Jenna and Sarah (among other costume
students) who are friends of Emma and Kat. In our constantly altering
collection, we drank aplenty, twirled on some rides and crammed ourselves
against the main stage to watch Radio 1's Scott Mills belt out some dance
and indie numbers after a short set from the Ordinary Boys. Both "acts"
were certainly not the best examples of live music that I've ever bore
witness to, but they certainly got the job done.
Once all the funding and energy were drained from us, we made tracks towards
the fleet of Double-Decker buses awaiting to take us to the beach, so
that we could all align for the "Survivors Photo" at the first
glimmer of daylight. The sand progressively filled with students clutching
to the remnants of their defunct costumes, passing out in heaps or humping
each other in an annoyingly homosexual manner for literally hours (for
those in the know, the Year 1 Jerk was a participant in this). Some toppled
down walls to the delight of laughing onlookers, some shrieked in girlish
tones as they recognised one another beneath the body paint. Some took
to stripping off and flinging themselves wildly into the sea, some simply
sat and freezed their testicles off. I was the latter and when the temperature
fell just a little too sharp for this blog author and his associates we
admitted defeat, took our own survivors photograph and hailed a cab home
to our warm and comfortable beds. And now as I drop my spoon into the
puddle of milk at the base of my bowl, I shall say good morning/evening,
keep your eyes peeled for any circulating photos depicting anybody from
the aforementioned story, and if you too were at the Ball and we did not
cross paths, please do share your stories.
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17
Jun 2007 - Poor-man's freshly-out-of-arse-pulled shopping list
There are 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet.
22 is the sixth discrete bi-prime number and the fourth in the (2.q) family.
The atomic number of titanium is 22.
The length of a cricket pitch is 22 yards.
And as of yesterday, Andi B shares a similar likeness with these facts,
in that he has existed for 22 years.
Before I continue, I'd like to draw attention to the spooky coincidence
that is 22 being the atomic number for TitaniARM… interesting…
That's correct, yesterday was my very own 22nd Birthday and the blog that
follows will act as a literary evidencing of the fun-packed events that
constituted yesterday's Birthday Celebrations, of which I'd like to take
a moment to thank all those who participated, as well as those who wished
me a fruitful and prosperous day; you all added to the make-up (you'll
find that funny later) of what on reflection was a wicked birthday day.
Day.
So here's how things shook up – first of all I awoke from my slumber
and sifted through my birthday post over breakfast to unveil a collection
of friend-and-family-sent greetings cards that now adorn our lounge mantle
piece. Shortly after, my girlfriend graced my bedroom to greet me and
offer me my first gift of the day; a particularly sexy Atticus belt, which
joyed me in a manner of indescribable proportions. But the joy gave way
to the haste of ready getting, as within a mere few moments my next key
player of the day was due to arrive and I was still basking in my gloriously
apt birthday-suit nudity…. in the garden.
Next-door's garden.
None of that is true.
After refining my attire, Fantastic Dan appeared at my drawbridge cradling
his birthday offering to me under his meaty arms – an entire 24-bottle
strong crate of Becks topped with possibly the biggest bow I've ever seen.
The joy-ometer was climbing ever higher.
So Fantastic Dan, Emma and I took a leisurely bus-assisted stroll into
town, to join the slow forming congregation that was Sugar Daddy Dave
and Laz at my most favourite take-it-easy-between-doing-other-things-around-town
venue, the formerly blogged Brasshouse. This was our lodgement for approximately
two hours, in which time dramatically tense and spiralling games of pool
were had, snacks ranking in high levels of deliciousness beyond comprehension
were eaten, the first dribblings of alcohol were plundered (this may also
be funny later, but not as funny as the previous sentiment) and Dave emptied
his bag on the table. Literally. His whole bag, all over the table…
In Dave's bag were many things, questionable things. Firstly, there was
a homemade card portraying vandalised effigies of my face accompanied
by comical statements about said photos in ballpoint pen. Inside the card,
Dave saw it fit to attach the receipt for all the gifts that he'd bought
me; gifts which in all the 5 minutes he spent in purchasing them, were
very well thought out examples of items that represented a particularly
meaningful closeness that runs deep in the subconscious of our friendship.
He bought me two pairs of child's safety scissors, a bizarre rotary crayon
thing and a packet of 24 plastic medals.
Now you may look at that poor-man's freshly-out-of-arse-pulled shopping
list and say to yourself, those items are not a lot of cop for birthday
fodder. You may say that that is a downright crap collection of gifts
and that Dave should have second-guessed his actions. You may EVEN say
that what Dave did was nothing short of the behaviour of a grade A jackass
who's sole intention it was to buy the first bundle of shite he could
lay his tight-fisted hands on and pass it off as a birthday present. Well
if you thought those things, you couldn't be more incorrect. For you see
that very morning, my Nan sent me a card of the colour-by-number variety,
which warrants the crazy crayons as a more than worthy adherent to my
stationary compilation. The medals featured heavily in the day's proceedings
– they were offered to one and all and awarded for various tasks
and shall continue to do so until my supply is diminished. And as for
the scissors… well those were just bollocks.
From the Brasshouse we ventured over to the Gardens where we were met
by Paul The Wise, who came bearing not Gold, Frankenstein or Merd, but
a set of electronic Finger Drums as my birthday present. These now act
as a deterrent from constantly thumping my digits on the usual domestic
surfaces, much to the delight of… well anyone who spends any time
with me really. Not to mention that they kick ass!
Paul's visit was brief as he was beckoned back to work (but it was not
the last that we'd see of him), and was instead replaced with Tara who
turned up after her horse course. Beachward bound, us happy ice-cream
toting collective moved on and braved the disappointing elements to throw
some recreational plastic beach themed matter around, but with Mother
Nature being a little bitch, it was decided that cider drinking was the
most appropriate protocol and so our focus was on the Moon in the Square.
Suitably moistened, the gang dispersed to various domiciles to prepare
costumes of a fancy application, keeping in line with the evening proceeding's
fancy dress code.
Our final two destinations were O'Neill's bar for a rendezvous with the
remaining celebratory characters and then the ultimate conclusion to the
quest of a newly turned 22 year old – The Sound Circus club, where
the fancifulness of our costumes would be most greatly appreciated in
a euphoria of hard hitting dance and heavy rock anthems.
Andi B, a sword wielding, bandana wearing, eye-patch repairing, custom-made
and lent, shirt and trouser combo sporting, appropriately jewelled and
make-up bearing pirate was joined by his scrumptiously attired pirate
beauty Emma, her salty sea dogs Jenna, Sarah and Charlie, a barbarian
named Laz, Becks the cowboy kid Dan, Paul the Wise and his companion Lauren
all ventured into the club, entry-fee-free thanks to the threads, on a
mission to become liquored up and thrash around to what was honestly the
most audibly pleasing venue-based evening of my life, so much so that
containing my excitement over assorted tracks quickly became an unavoidable
issue and a subsequent arse was made of myself. Short of accidentally
forgetting to cram a birthday cake down my gullet at some point in the
day and having to wait a few weeks before seeing my family in light of
the occasion, the whole experience was a belter and one which shall not
easily be forgotten. Once again, a huge thank you to all involved - each
and every one of you has touched me in your own special way. Especially
you Paul, thanks for the finger… drums.
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26
Sep 2007 - Defrosting is for chumps
For the last few days now the Sun has taken refuge beneath a patchwork
quilt of rainy cloud, |
