So

I cut all my hair off. Mostly for shits and giggles to be honest because I was bored that day and where most people would merely go and do something sensible, I go and do something ridiculous because I like to have stories to tell. My god, do I have stories. Do I have stories? Should that even be a question?

Regardless, this is not the point.

I now have short hair. I am notorious for not giving a shit about the way I look. Alas, since I have this short hair, I've gained that "bed head" look that seems oh-so-popular amongst the people that do care - I'm not suggesting that caring about your appearance is wrong. I'm telling you. Grow up, you superficial fucks.

The dilemma I'm now faced with is that I now look like one of these people. The people who make an effort to make it look like they've made no effort.

So do I go one step further? Do I make an effort to make it look like I haven't made an effort to look like I haven't made an effort? Does that sentence even make any sense?

On that note, I'm going for a skate. Don't expect to see me back here alive.

So, guess what?

That's right. Something has pissed me off. Imagine my surprise, right?

So, I was out in Camden on saturday. That's not the whole story, of course, but it's a damn good start and it certainly wouldn't aid my mood.

I went to Proud. It was my friends birthday. I felt obliged, as she is a legend who I absolutely fucking adore. Considering there are less people that I can say that about than I have fingers, sans thumbs, that certainly counts for something.

It's a standard pretentious fuckwits haven. It's a gallery by day and a money swallowing vacuum by night. Sorry, club. That's not even what pissed me off. The fact it was so hideously expensive to drink kept me more sober and a little more level headed.

I'm digressing.

I went outside for a cigarette with a friend who shall hereby be known as Col. As that was his name. Stood by the door was one of the wonderful ladies who had been emptying my wallet so thoroughly all night. Being behind a bar , I had not had the opportunity to observe quite what she was wearing.

Of course, when she was out from behind the bar, I still struggled to see what she was wearing. Because it was practically non-existent. To call it underwear would be doing a dishonour to the amount of dignity that underwear can afford.

So, curious, we felt the need to ask if she had to wear that.

She did.

What the fuck, people? I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate the female form. Quite a great deal, in fact. I can't deny that for a moment and I'm fairly certain that a fairly significant proportion of people would be lying if they said that they didn't. However, I don't really feel that being forced to wear something that would make a pole dancer embarassed is going to help anyone. If people WANT to wear such things, fine. Have at it, I'm not going to stop you, it's your body, do what the fuck you like quite frankly. I may think you're an idiot for feeling the need to do such things, but that's purely my opinion so whatever, right?

Do they honestly think this is a wise idea? Ignore the fact it's fucking freezing outside, which they clearly fucking can't, as they're wearing fuck all. Can you possibly think of any situation where putting a nigh-on naked girl surrounded by drunken fucking idiots is ever going to be an intelligent idea? A lot of people don't need any more help to objectify women as it is, before they're intoxicated and being served by an individual who is essentially being treated as a piece of meat.

Oh, also, you'll be shocked to learn, I didn't manage to observe anyone of a slightly larger size wearing such outfits. I fucking wonder why.

Seriously, people make me fucking sick. I'm never going fucking back there again. Fuck the lot of you, with your overpriced entry, drinks and cost to human fucking dignity.

Please, someone help restore my faith in fucking humanity, before I feel the fucking need to leave this place.

Which I will have to fucking do anyway if the damn Lib Dem-Tory coalition happens. Fuck that.

An open letter to Katy Perry

Hi there Katy. Do you remember me?

No, probably not. I'm that little voice that keeps nagging at you, telling you to stop doing what it is that you're doing. No, not your conscience. That's given up quite some time ago, I'm sure. I'm that dissenter who keeps pointing out just how abhorrent a person you are.

Sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you with so many big words. I can wait here while you look them up, if you'd like? I'm not telling you, as that would just defeat the object - You'll never advance as an individual if people continue to hand you the answers to everything.

I couldn't help but notice that, despite my constant complaints, you've continued existing. That saddens me. What depresses me more, though, is that you've gone and released another album.

Did I not make it clear enough last time? Despite how hideous I found everything that you released into the charts, I still had to listen to the album before I gave a real judgement.

I regretted that decision instantly. It upset me. There are so many wasted opportunities for many great pop songs on that album - believe me, it pains me to admit that anything to do with you could be good - but they were ruined by your presence. Your hideous voice, your painful intonation and your atrocities of the english language that you call lyrics.

So, imagine my surprise when I found myself enjoying your new single.

No, I'm joking. I'm happy to say that you're even worse than you were before, somehow. You've taken all the positives from your previous album and just stricken them from the record. You're an idiot. You've actually ruined my day. I didn't think it was possible for you to do that. Along you trot, though, with a mention on the radio and the autotuned, pseudo-dance song that you call a single and I call a crime against music.

Please, I'm begging you. Reconsider the release of your album. I'm certain that it's probably banned under the Geneva Convention as a cruel and unusual punishment anyway. At least save some face and make sure that it doesn't see the light of day. It's for the best. For you and for music.

Yours,
Jacques.

P.S. - I'm not sure if I made this clear enough, but fuck you.

Tonight...

I met a man more pretentious than me. It was amazing. I finally got to have a taste of what it's like to be like anybody that has ever spoken to.

He tried to tell me Warning was the worst Green Day album. Needless to say, I tried to tell him that being on fire is not going to be beneficial to his health. He didn't listen to me.

At least he kept me warn for the evening whilst smoking.

Sof keeps complaining my blogs are too short. So I'm ending it here to spite her, despite having a great deal more to say.

Ra-ra-Rasputin!

Seriously, why aren't you listening to Boney M right now?

What are you? Racist?

I bet you voted BNP yesterday, didn't you? Cunt.

To whom it may concern.

Fuck you.

This is a blog for Sof

Hello Sof! Have a blog! It's no masterpiece, but you get what you pay for, really.