They 'av taken liberties...

I suppose that this came about when I was playing a football game on a console. Talking to my opponent, the game became heated (in a friendly way) but the idea of football violence arose to me! I mean I am a devote Norwich City fan, but this is a club renowned for its 'family values'. This was apparent when I went to a match in October and my brother and I were shouted at by our own fellow Canaries to pipe down! This sparked me to shout 'Go sit in the away end!' Whoops! Anyway we went on to win 4-0 so all was good in the end.

What I am getting at though is football violence. Like I said, the most violence you will see at Norwich is an angered stare if Delia's half-time pie is not hot enough. But, this 'mean-streak' thinking was definitely more apparent in the 70s and 80s - showing from the video above! Cockneys having it out with planks of wood down Old Kent Rd! Sure. In light of all this, the other day I was watching TV and a 'Oi! I'm Danny Dyer' special was on about football gangs in Russia.

There Danny was prancing around Russia, being all hard, meeting football gangs and necking litres of vodka... Then came the Spartak Moscow Vs. Zenit St. Petersburg match that he was pumped to go and see. Hilarious. He started shitting himself before he had even got in the ground, and by half-time he had got his production team to get him out of the crowd. Flares were being fired, violent chanting. Stuff Mr. Dyer should be able to take in his stride... Coz he is aaard right?!

Turned out that a bunch of Zenit fans had spotted him in the crowd (Moscow end), and gestured a slitted throat. Well, there was always hope... Ha. But I suppose you can't begrudge the lad though for trotting off, especially when you take a look at this...

Is it just me...

Right. Well, I am not going to lie, but when my sister got my family and I tickets (for Chritsmas) to go to see "We Will Rock You", I was a bit of an ungrateful sod, and did not wholly appreciate this gift at the time. However, when it came round to 'family-trip-spend-some-time-together-day' (today in fact), it actually turned out to be a pretty good crack. The sibling train banter alone was hilarious?! Whilst the performance was pretty inspiring too!

Right, putting the fact that Queen are rock greats aside, and that the loss of Freddie is a tragedy... The musical (written by Ben Elton?!) is what I wanted to mention. I mean I haven't been to the theatre in a while, a couple of years ago or something, so I had lost a grasp on how these things go...

The lights dimmed, curtain up, we were soon into the first act(?!) - if that is what it is called? And, to my surprise, scantily glad 'Gaga Girls' it would appear. I was surprised mainly because I was totally unfamiliar with the whole WWRY story-thing?! Anyway, these (pretty erotic) dancers were interspersed by the token homosexual male dancers, obviously. As I watched these ladies there was that light bulb moment. I am sure it was the same one that I had (probably) when at Grease, aged 11, and all the other plays I have seen up until now. Women! Not wearing much! (Plus, everyone has a thing for bird who can sing!)

I had locked on 'the one'. You know, the one that you find most good-looking, the best body, nice face. From that point on, in your red comfy seat, in a room full of strangers, binoculars... you lock on! Always looking for the same girl in each scene. For me this time, it was a tasty brunette in the chorus. You monitor her every move, costume change, flash of flesh etc. What's more hilarious is that all the time you are further convincing yourself that they are sharing this same mental relationship with you... ?! Mental I know.

They are not! Never! By the end, it feels like you have had mental sex with them, studying their every twist and turn, curve, and imperfection. This is why at the end of the show, as they wave their farewell, you always feel a bit empty. Well I do anyway. The curtain comes down for the final time. They disappear. Whisked out of your life, as quickly as they had come into it! Bam, they have gone! So... despite thoroughly enjoying the show, I walked out of the stalls (good seats this time) feeling confused, and slightly cheated?!

Luckily it was a matinée showing, there is always the evening... Alas, I didn't make the evening show. Instead I spent the train journey home scanning the programme frantically (which I had bought on the way out), trying to judge which poorly taken, sepia mug-shot is the bird out the chorus. My crush, my love, my everything... Fuck.

The End.

The year has finished. I have penned my thoughts. Now what...

After a few days of 2010 I have decided not to continue as a diarist. Sad I know, especially after dedicating myself so committedly over the past 12 months to my '09 effort. However, this doesn't mean that I haven't learnt a great deal, or that I will stop writing. Instead, I think this choice will drive me to write more. To further indulge in certain topics, controversies, feelings, and emotions...

I doubt anyone will ever see what was written about them, good or bad. Or what I have done, perhaps shockingly(?!) I don't know. Primarily, my diary was set as a challenge to myself. I thought I would fail to complete it, but it became important, integral. A secret place to confide in. I have a newfound respect for people who annually dedicate time on these daily write-ups...

But for now my book will sit as a point of reference. '09 was a fun and interesting year for me. Thanks to everyone who made it pretty cool...

Show me your money...

So... The Yuletide holiday's bring people together(?!), everyone gets merry, and generally we all over-indulge heavily right... (This year, chill out on the sherry Nan, please!) O, plus debauchery of some sort usually takes place too! God love Christmas!

Back to debauchery...

The meaning: 1 a : extreme indulgence in sensuality b plural : orgies 2 archaic : seduction from virtue or duty.

I met up with some mates the other day. We took some time out of the pre-Xmas craziness to enjoy some un-festive pints, and discuss what has been going on in our lives... (As none of us ever stay in touch throughout the year - leaving me at times wondering if any of us actually like one-another...)

Well, anyway, everyone has a 'lad' mate, and ours did not disappoint... I mean I knew he had gone to Spain this summer, like Ibiza or somewhere, but the story he had created for himself was quite genius!

We all know the agenda when visiting these Spanish 'Party-Isles' - sun, getting shit-faced, and most importantly sex, check. After infilling with details from some of the more 'mediocre' nights, my mate decided, that on his next conquest he would refrain from any gawdy-looking British birds (the sort with the crispy-fried bikini lines) and instead, take on the might of a Spanish whore-house...

He said, that week he had been eyeing the place up (prices were competitive at between €80—€100) Suitably gassed up, he went stumbling towards the noted district and ventured in... It was grimey, dark, and seedy... Two old blokes sitting in the corner getting dances!

The conversation:

"Oow much?" my mate asked.

"€80..." replied the whore-secretary...

"Deeal" came the reply.

He was taken to a little side-room, lowly lit, crimson walls... (so all the clichés are true...) He had half and hour to have his way...

He had lined up a Hispanic-Latino, and claims he 'strapped up' - but became a tad sheepish when asked this question?! When she turned round, apparently she was startled by the size of his rager (I am skeptical of his cock-sureness, as he is only a small guy...) He reckoned she rarely got any young and feisty lads, just the usual old spunkers... Eurgh!

Once there though, he said any thought of coming-quick left his mind. To quote, "I drilled the shit out of her, she was loving it!" - her head smacking against the headboard, screaming! But, in spite of his determination to see-out his 30-minute filling, he failed! 12 minutes! Poor...

Hats off to the boy though! I mean sitting in a local pub, at Christmas, surrounded but fellow punters, but also some families trying to have a nice Crimbo (I hate this expression) meal, and we're louting about roaring at each detail from his adventure, tearing some bird to pieces... So lads, Magaluf in the summer...

Cigarettes & Sofas

Whoa, this image is nuts. I really can't explain how the hell I did this... I think it must be something to do with shutter speed?! It literally looks like a painting! Well, pretty glad I ran out of Ash's flat to grab my camera... Luckers.

Bruv... Chek ma bare rude kicks!

We have all been there... You walk past the garish Soccer World sign, the shit type of sports shop that you only ever find in bad Malls, which incidentally always sell rogue Rubin Kazan footy shirts from 1992, and store footballs in big football bins! Basically, they are terrible, yet you always seem to find yourself going in... brilliant!

I am there, in front of the wall of trainers, Chavs either side of me eyeing up the Air Max. Sore thumb doesn't even cut it! Anyway, I look down the wall of Reeboks mentally selecting the ones I would and wouldn't wear... I turn around, there they are, a classic pair of black Fila trainers! Boom. I am literally thinking "too good to be true".

The sneaks in question have everything. A comfy inner-sole, a thick enduring heel. They are the type of shoe you find stacked up in boxes with one demo-shoe on top. All this for the small sum of £10. Crazy. They even had my size too. So, I suppose what I am getting at is that although Soccer World's look, and genuinely are bloody terrible, you can unearth a retro bargain!

On a side note, you always get some heavily made-up Chav-bird cashier. You know, the type of girl that wears gold doll necklaces, and have terrible chat. Always a laugh. On a serious note though, I do think Chavs have the right idea. Their aesthetic, all about comfort and warmth. They are no mugs. Joggers, hoodies, beanie hats, shock absorbing trainers. These are guys that like to take care of oneself!

Sir Patrick Moore would think...

As I stare out my window (with my ears), into the shoegaze-y sky (keep with me here...), I become distracted and infected by a certain constellation - a musical one, known as Washed Out. Or more specifically/scientifically, it shall be named The Ernest Greene constellation, whose lo-fi chillwave (yes, it is being touted as that!) has proved thoroughly engaging.

My reason for drawing spatial euphemism’s in this post is necessary. The vast topic of space and the universe has a sort of synonymous link to this genuine, homemade, 80s-sounding dreaminess. Floaty synth repetition in track "Belong" bought me to two things, being lost in the thought of space in the early hours, coupled with being whisked away to a desert, standing in front of a mirage thinking why the fuck is my vision all blurred?!

This is why I like it. Greene's tracks provide an escapism, confusion, and have a general incomprehensibility about them. It is probably best to just sit back and let "Feel It All Around" and "Good Luck" take you.

Drift away...

Washed Out