Last night was an A1, tip-top, clubbing jam fair, followed by a sandwich of bacon.

I woke up at about 1:30pm. I got up, with great difficulty, got dressed and went into the kitchen to make me a bacon sammich. Two, actually. But on my way, I realized I was stumbling. As I looked around, I knew that my vision wasn't all there. I was still drunk. Not just tipsy. Pretty fucking drunk. So I made myself the bacon sandwiches, went back to my bed and fell asleep with the bacon sandwiches beside me. I awoke at nearly 5pm and ate the bacon sandwiches. Needless to say, they were cold.

And that's how I began 2009.

Actually, technically, I started 2009 being carried through my door by two of my good friends (according to my mother, there were three, but I really don't remember this), as I was barely able to do it myself.

But hey, maybe the rest of 2009 will be better, eh?


Is it a cat or a rabbit? No-one knows! Actually, I know. And the answer is a baffling one.

Hopefully, 2009 won't actually consist of a giant monster attacking the planet, as Cloverfield would suggest. Well, I don't think it actually tries to suggest that a giant monster will attack the planet in 2009, but still, it's a pretty scary thought that is very effectively put into our heads with the camerawork and surprisingly convincing CGI. That was a fucking good film, and it was actually quite scary. I just wish the hell I had gone to see it at the cinema, but hey, my 37-inch will do. Heh.

Poetry time? Ya plz!

2008 Sucked
2008 wasn't really that great.
It was a burning bun devoid of fun.
It will take many a beer to make up for this year.
And a fuck-load of of money to make it funny.
2008 made me quite irate.
The abundance of glitches made me want to shoot bitches.
This horrible dish has made me wish
For a better time in 2009.

Moneypenny, grab your innuendos, we're going shopping.

Doosh.

Doosh.

Doosh!

DOOSH!

Those were the words that escaped my mouth as I grabbed four DVDs from HMV that were on the cheap. I got No Country For Old Men for £4, Cloverfield for £5, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street for £5 and The Green Mile for £3. I think I'm the only person on the planet who hasn't seen The Green Mile. But that will be fixed shortly. Well, it might be fixed shortly. It is three hours long, and I don't want to stay up that late tonight, to be honest. No, I'm not being a pussy.

But how did I buy these DVDs? Wherever did I find the money that I was so desperately lacking just days before? Well, I got it from Christmas and birthday money. Obviously (although, to be fair, getting at least £17 in the space of a few days isn't that much of a surreal occurance). Which gracefully brings me onto the subject of what I got for Christmas. What did I get for Christmas? A brand, spanking-new laptop, for which I can't be bothered to list specifications. I will point out that it uses Vista, but hey, it's still a laptop. A laptop that I am currently writing this very blog on. It makes me feel more like a writer. I'm supposed to be writing blogs on a laptop.

It's going to feel pretty crazy writing blogs on a desktop from now on, just like that time that cheese guy did stuff.



I've personally never had any trouble putting my laptop on a desk. Sometimes, it's just more comfortable that way, as it can cause discomfort and unwanted heat to your lap. And it can't be that good for your balls, either. So, if I were to put my laptop on a desk, would it then become a desktop? This can be taken in two ways. Either:

a) whatever you put your laptop on top of will affect what you actually call the hardware, for example, putting it on a desktop would change the name to 'desktop', putting it on a chair would change the name to 'chairtop', putting it on a cat would change the name to 'cattop'...you get the idea. Or...

b) if you put a laptop on a desk, it will change its shape and capabilities and literally become a desktop computer.

I was going to take this somewhere, then I forgot why the hell I even started talking about this whole laptop thing. Probably because my balls are getting hot.

He's unoriginal, man. Don't follow his lead, you'll become as boring as him.

Jimbob

Jimbob.
He thinks he's original; a true visionary.
But he only makes love to girls in the missionary.

Jimbob.
I expect to see The Dude, maybe Dante Hicks.
But his movie collection just consists of White Chicks.

Jimbob.
His shirts are all white, his socks are all black.
Poking is his form of a vicious attack.

Jimbob.
He only bets pennies, he won't push his luck.
Go back to bed, Jimbob, you unoriginal fuck.

It's currenly 00:50 on the 25th of December, 2008. So, yes, it's technically Christmas Day. I say technically, but there's nothing really technical about it. Although, in America, it's not Christmas yet. Does that mean we're in the future or something (compared to them, I mean, we can never technically be in the future)? I mean, it is pretty weird that we get a good six hours head-start in 2009. We're just about to pass out from the excessive drinking while they're counting down from ten to mark the dawn of a new year. Still, this being England, I imagine a lot of us pass out from the excessive drinking before our own fucking countdown.

Anyway, I was just washing dishes and I felt the need to write a poem. So I finished that washing up (I am a manly, manly, manly man, and no amount of dish-washing and poetry can take away from that, so fuck you), came on here and wrote what came into my head. It's pretty deep; pretty beautiful. I imagine by the time you've read this blog, I'll have been hired as a songwriter for Elton John and be a millionaire.

So, what is it like to write a blog at eighteen years old, Matthew? The big one-eight. Well, I'm not actually eighteen yet. Call it clinging on to my childhood, my innocence, whatever: the fact of the matter is, I was born at approximately 9:30am. So, it being 1am now, I have a good eight-and-a-half hours before I turn eighteen, growing an extra foot and sounding like Don LaFontaine whenever I speak. Because that's what happens when one becomes a man (by 'grow an extra foot' I mean 'grow in length by another foot', not literally 'grow another foot', as in the things you walk on. And by 'grow in length by another foot', I mean getting taller, you dirty-minded bastard).

PROTIP: If you're not in bed by the time Santa comes to your house, and you see him walking to your stocking, don't think he doesn't have an AK-47 that he's ready to fuck you up with. He doesn't like witnesses and his magic powers do not include memory-wiping. The way he sees it, a bullet to the brain is a pretty effective memory-wiping technique.


I was safe, because I was in the kitchen with my iPod blaring the sweet, sweet sounds of Queens of the Stone Age into my ears. I was going to listen to other stuff, throw a bit of variety in there, but I felt it to be too much effort at the time. That wheel takes a lot of precision, man.

Facebook is making some very drastic improvements.

Have a look at this screen-cap from my adventures on Facebook last night (you'll have to click on it to see it all). How I got to a Tim Westwood-hate group, I'm not sure. But whatever. Have a look. You may notice a few things are a bit wrong. If you have not noticed, then it's okay, because I am going to point them out to you. You simpleton.

1) It's a group that is hating on Tim Westwood. Why is this? Tim Westwood is awesome. In his own ...special way.

2) I'm learning to play a Kings of Leon song on guitar. This would seem more odd a few days ago, before I realised their latest album is actually quite good.

3) I haven't censored out the names of the people who are on display in this screen-capture. You're supposed to. NOW PEOPLE MIGHT DO EVIL THINGS!?!?!?

In all probability, you probably didn't take note of these things. But, there is a chance that you noticed the fourth thing that is, well, wrong. Look at the time that Mr. Spencer posted his semi-well-written but potentially offensive comment. 12.41am...

...tomorrow?

It would appear Facebook can predict the future. And why, of all the websites on the Internets, has Facebook been bestowed with this power? Well, why not? Imagine how awesome it will be when this power is fully realised. You'll be able to tell your future, your friend's future, your enemy's future...hell, if Barack Obama gets a Facebook, you'll be able to pinpoint the date of his assassination (let's face it; he will probably be assassinated sometime in the coming year. As horrible as it is and as big a shame as it will be, I think it will be extremely likely that he will be assassinated. Mind you, he can't as hated as George Bush, and he seemed to do fine, I don't think he was even assassinated once).

Anyway, as I didn't deliver a beautiful piece of poetry yesterday (which I'm sure crushed many of you), I decided I would write one for you all tonight. I'm going to use the 'Random Article' function of Wikipedia to help me pick a subject.

Low Brass
Oh, low brass, low brass, low brass.
I have no rhymes for you in my head.
So I'll give up on this poem here,
And listen to some P!nk instead.

M!ssundaztood. It's a fucking brilliant album, kids.

All the refreshment of Coca-Cola with a delicious cherry flavour.

If there's one thing I have learned this week (although, to be fair, it should go without finding out through intense listening), it's that, if you're feeling miserable, then you should put on some happy tunes. Just stick on an album that you can lose yourself in, with smiles and laughter and fond memories. For example:
'Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not' by Arctic Monkeys. With it's lack of heartfelt ballads and abundance of punchy, catchy riffs, it can't really fail to cheer you up. Unless you're a certain someone.


'Odelay' by Beck. It's too weird and wonderful not too cheer anyone up. It's also one of the greatest albums ever made. And that's official.

'Turn the Radio Off' by Reel Big Fish. I'll let this one speak for itself. They do have an album named 'Cheer Up!', but the lyrics are too self-loathing to be included.

'The Good Times' by Afroman. To be honest, I don't really remember much of the fond memories associated with this album.

Any one of these albums would suffice. But no. What album am I listening to? Right now, even as I write a blog complaining about my listening to it?

Yeah. That would be 'OK Computer' by Radiohead. Regarded by the people of Britain as the best album of all time it may be, it isn't half depressing. But I feel compelled to listen to it anyway, despite the fact it's, if anything, making me feel somewhat worse. Some people would regard it as appreciating a work of art, despite the many setbacks it inflicts, and call it clever. I regard it as appreciating a work of art, despite the many setbacks it inflicts, and call it fucking stupid. Maybe I'll stick on the new Kings of Leon album. But that's not exactly the most cheerful album of recent times. And I'm not even supposed to like Kings of Leon.

One thing that has helped me get through this terrible week (I say it's terrible, despite Tuesday being the day I finally got those fucking braces off) is the great amount of Cherry Coke in my house. What possessed us to order so much Cherry Coke is beyond me, but I do love Cherry Coke, so I'm not going to complain. Okay, I could find a complaint to make: I prefer Pepsi to Coke. I like it much more. So where's all the Cherry Pepsi, I ask? Well, they don't sell Cherry Pepsi. Well, in the United Kingdom, anyway. I'm willing to bet they do it, or have done it, in America.

*checks*

Motherfuckers. I have discovered, through not-very-extensive research, that not only do they do Wild Cherry Pepsi (not just Cherry Pepsi, Wild Cherry Pepsi), but they also do 'Black Cherry French Vanilla'. That's crazy. That's actually quite absurd. They also have Strawberries and Cream. Strawberries and Cream Pepsi. That's ridiculous. And I really want to try it. But surely that must be disgusting? Strawberry Pepsi sounds reasonable, but putting cream into the mix makes me feel extremely skeptical. They should do Egg Custard Tart Pepsi.



...actually, no, they shouldn't.

BOSS NIGGER.

I hope that got your attention. Although, to be honest, I hope you didn't stop paying attention initially. I finally watched it today with The Legendary Joe Fielder, fulfilling a dream we've had for at least a couple of years now. I would write a review, but to be perfectly honest, I shouldn't have to reccomend it to you. The urge to watch this film must surely have struck you by now, from just the title and the poster. So, I'm going to leave it there. Next up on the blaxploitation-classics list: Black Shampoo. Should be a good 'un.

I'm going to finish this blog entry now. I was planning to write a beautiful piece of poetry to go out on, but to be honest, I can't find the motivation and I'm really not in the mood. Although the auto-saving of drafts that this blog service provides is extremely comforting.

The smoke alarm in my house is too loud.

When I feed my cats, of which I have four, I give the black one, named Dylan, more food than I give the rest. Is it because he's black? If so, is it because of a deep-seated race issue I may have, or is it because I'm merely giving in to my superstitious side and avoiding the wrath of this dark-haired feline? Or do I simply prefer him to the other cats? Is he cuter? Is it because he is the oldest, at around 8 years old, and may need the extra nutrition?

The answer is none of the above. He is simply small and thin. Possibly too small and thin.

As my sister annoys the various cats that have finished their meals and my mother whinges about a recent shocking discovery (that Viva Piñata 2 is not much different to the original Viva Piñata), I sit here and write a blog, which I have titled 'The smoke alarm in my house is too loud'. Which begs the question: is there really such a thing as a smoke alarm that is too loud? While it would initially seem that the answer is 'no', because regardless of how rudely awakened you are by your smoke alarm, the important thing is that you are awakened, as opposed to burning alive. However, if the alarm is loud enough to deafen and/or disorientate you, then that's not going to be much use at all. Then it is too loud. My smoke alarm doesn't do that. So it's not TOO loud. But it is very fucking loud, and causes my ears great pain.

PROTIP: If you keeps your Sims in a hot tub for around 36 hours, they WILL catch fire. If they don't die, they will feel depressed, during and after.



As I continue to use this blog, my posts will hopefully become more interesting, as I will actually include notes on my day, my life, stuff like that. But nothing happened today, so I didn't write about today. So I shall head off. For now, have a nice night kids, and stay off the crack.