Up All Night

I think I can safely say this isn't one of the high points in my short little life. Sat at my kitchen table at two o'clock in the morning wide awake and drinking Carlsberg. This isn't what I wanted, I wanted to be cosy and warm all tucked up in my nice-ish comfy bed. But clearly I'm not, and that's because I dabbled with the forbidden art of napping.

Earlier on today I gave blood. Not that unusual, I've done it a couple of times before, and I've always been feeling tickety-boo afterwards, save perhaps a little bit of light-headedness and my left arm feeling a bit colder than the rest of my body, but never before have I returned feeling as tired as I did today. You know that feeling when your entire body feels like it's going to just shut down whether you're laying down or not? Well, I wasn't quite that bad, but bugger me* I was knackered. Come five o'clock (that's 1700 hours military time Mat), I decided to bite the bullet and go to sleep. Before now, I've been able to sleep for fourteen hours straight with relative ease, but for some reason, my body must have finished making all the blood it needed, because it decided to wake me at eight. Not a problem, I thought, and I decided that I'd just go to bed at my normal time and wake up a few hours earlier. After all, it's an excuse to see the sun rise, isn't it? And I'm sure you've guessed, I didn't manage it. Six hours on from waking up and I'm still feeling like I've had a full night's rest, and that's just bloody unfair.

For those of you who don't know me personally (and that's a depressingly small minority), I am a very good sleeper. I can fall asleep pretty much anywhere and strangely I actually sleep better through thunderstorms, but this is most likely due to the fact that Britain's thunderstorms are about as threatening as week-old piece of celery. Regardless, the feeling of not being able to sleep is very alien to me, and hasn't occurred in many years, but affects several of my friends, most of whom cope with it very well. Unlike them, however, I am not practiced in the art, and the only times I can remember being up this late in the past twenty four months would be either for work or at a party where I should have been in bed hours ago. Suffice to say, this is pretty new ground.

Usually I welcome time alone, but recently I've had a bit of a lull in my number of shifts at work, so I haven't had the stress levels that I've become used to over the past few months, and it's just occurred to me that I'm not entire sure where this is going.

I could ramble on and on in order to use up some of the time I've got left before my body lets me fall unconscious and hallucinate vividly, but that's not the nub of what this post is about. No, this post is about a very serious matter indeed, and I need your full concentration to help me work out what it is, because I've no bloody clue.

Should have though about this a bit more before I committed to writing it really.


*Please ask first, I don't like surprises

Working Nine 'Til Five

I posted this a few days ago, but for some reason it seems to have disappeared. Most likely something to do with the fact that Blogger went down yesterday. Not one to complain, I thought I'd just repost it in its entirety. I knew there was a reason I made backups. Sorry, but the thousands of comments you all posted cannot be saved, and will forever be lost in the internet. Diddums.

Anyway, enjoy:

-

Tempting way to make a living. I've just got back from a shift, and despite my muscles being annoyed at me for standing up and my liver twitching because I haven't been drinking, I'm enjoying it. How long have I been at this job now, two months? I can tell you, it feels a lot longer than that. I may enjoy it, but let's be brutally, brutally honest; I'm doing it for the money. If I could have the same amount of money that I get from working for sitting on my arse playing Dragon Age II all day, I'd run there right now and hand in my resignation, but unfortunately it matters not how many sovereigns and silvers I collect from hurlock corpses, real money is worth infinitely more. But I digress, the main point I want to make is simple, and that is the fact that education does not seem quite as worth my time as working.

I am looking forward to university with every fibre of my being, but at the same time there's a part of me shouting "Stay at the hotel, if you become full time you may even get a manager's position in a few years time!" from the back of the theoretical crowd in my mind. Now a manager's role may be pushing it a bit, but all my bosses seem to be thoroughly impressed with my work, and it seems every couple of weeks I take on more and more responsibilities. I feel that despite the short time that I've been there, I've already left an impression on the place (or at least the staff), and it would be a shame not to exploit that and drain it of every ounce of life it has.

Of course, the path I will take (because it would be sheer madness not to) is university. With any luck in three or four months time I'll be living the vida local in Canterbury, learning all sorts of fantastical nigh-on non-existent words and their obscure classes, or giving an aardvark a skin graft. Then, the year after I'll be setting sail to Brussels to learn the ancient way of the sprout and gain disgusting amounts of weight with all the chocolate and child abuse*. Yet there's still that part of me that wants to cling on to the job I  have, and to make more of a career out of it, and live a normal, boring life.

Then again, I've just remembered that wedding reception we had where ugly, annoying people demanding terrible alcohol until four o'clock in the bloody morning.

...

I'm going to uni.


*Mildly obscure film reference. If you know it, leave a comment below

Chocolate and Resurrection

Charming. Every year we pay homage to the death and reanimation of our lord Jesus Christ. Even if you're not religious, you'll most likely give or receive some form of confectionary, or if you're unlucky, something inedible but ultimately Easter-themed. If it's not some sort of amusing fluffy chicken near-embryo with googly eyes akin to any worthwhile Nintendo 64 platformer, I'm not interested. If it is, I'm interested temporarily until the novelty wears off and it become just another piece of tat for Stuart Ashen to review.

It's not all bad though, there are many things about Easter that we can enjoy and be thankful for (unless you're a selfish arse like me). Why, roast lamb alone is a reason to get out of bed, without even taking into account the chocolate and other wonders. My favourite part of Easter though, despite the obvious controversies that were raised concerning it's content being 'blasphemous', is what has been known as one of the greatest comedies of all times. That's right, my favourite part of this momentous holiday is the most celebrated of all of Montgomery Serpent's works: Life of Brian.

Most people from bally old Blighty have seen the film, or at the very least heard of it, but for the sake of our foreign friends, the basic plot follows the life of Brian (unsurprisingly), a man who is mistaken by many people to be the son of God, after posing as a prophet and philosopher to escape the Roman guards. After unwittingly performing numerous 'miracles', those following him grow in number 'til the streets are filled with his 'disciples' and 'subjects'. I shan't spoil the ending for you, but it's more in keeping with Easter than you might expect.

As I said earlier, the film attracted a great deal of controversy by being 'blasphemous'. Now, if you've seen the film, and if you were paying enough attention, you'd know that on several occasions it is quite clearly stated that Brian is NOT the Messiah, he's something else entirely. I can never understand why so many people are so offended by material that's out of their comfort zone, and it does my head in. I'm an Anglican, and as I'm sure you can guess the film does not upset me in the slightest, and I don't know anyone who has. I'm currently sat here watching the film with my parishioner grandfather who is laughing and appreciating every satirical reference, every pun and every slapstick gag*. It makes me sick to the back teeth when people complain about such fine entertainment, something that seems to be slowly fading from out screens.

So, mild rant over, a happy Easter to everyone out there in interwebsland! I hope you all manage to get through the day without choking on your confectionary.

What's your favourite part of Easter? Leave a comment below and I can pretend to be interested.


*That's a joke, not a respiratory issue

It's Not What You Know

Shoot me. It's been far too long since my last update, I know, but time has escaped me and I've only just managed to track the little bastard down. Don't worry though, he's locked up safe and sound in my airing cupboard with Keeley Hawes and Basil Brush.

What I wanted to talk at your about today is a new scheme to expand the audience of this charming little website on the big, scary interwebnets. I have been in contact with several other British (and possibly Irish, I'm all about political correctness, me) website owners in order to create a spread of affiliates, including the lovely chaps over at A Sitting Duck. I must say the interest has been phenomenal, and I have been literally inundated with a reply, and who knows, when the big difficult switchover occurs I might make more internet 'friends' and make the whole world a more popular place for everyone. That's right, I'm not just a blogger anymore, I'm a revolutionary.

So what does this mean for you lucky, lucky readers? Why of course it means that not only will I be updating more often, but you'll be able to make lots of new friends in the comments boxes (provided they load correctly, I really need to look into that). If you could possibly want more, you're a spoiled nobody who has never known anyone to truly love you who will die alone and unwanted upside-down in a wheelie bin desperately trying to cover your shame as mobs of those you thought were your friends laugh at you and make vulgar statements that question your sexuality.

If any of you are interested in affiliating with Surface of the Sun (or know someone who might be), please don't hesitate to drop me a quick email. Top stuff.


*404: Snippet not found

Poetry in Motion

The modern poet. To proclaim as one is to commit certain social suicide, as poetry seem to be restricted to depressed inadequates who walk around wearing black and listening to Dirt Pram or SlipperyRope or whatever it is they listen to. Tis is a real shame, because as a nation, poetry is our national art form. The French have their paintings, the Belgians have their chocolate and the Americans have their ignorance, but we English (sorry Scotland, Ireland and Wales, I'm sure your sonnets are lovely) can safely say we hold more prestige in the poetry world than any others. Unfortunately, it seems to many that poetry is a dying art. I mean, the are bags of poetry competitions about, but poets don't get the same recognition they would have a century ago.

Or do they?

It depends what you class as a 'poet', but if you follow my view, you can't help but agree that one medium has made poetry more popular than ever, and young people literally worshipping the most renowned. After all what is poetry? It is a verse with a deeper meaning, or sometimes not even that! A good example is The Little Vagabond by William Blake. It means what it says, that churches should be more like pubs, and if you can read some deeply ironic meaning throughout the whole piece, let me know by posting a comment, because I sure as Hell didn't see it.

No, poetry has taken on a new guise for modern times, and there are an extremely select few who don't know of it. You may know it simply as 'music'.

Think about it, if someone were to show you the lyrics to a song you'd never heard (providing it didn't talk about "bros n der hoes"), you could be forgiven for thinking it might be a poem. Don't believe me? Try this 'stanza' on for size:

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

And now let's look at a modern poem:

I begged you to hear me
there's more than flesh and bones,
Let the dead bury their dead.
They will come out in droves,
But take the spade from my hands, and
fill in the holes you've made.

Not a huge difference really is there? That's because they both have rhythm, both of these examples have enjambement (where a line ends without punctuation) and end-stops (where a line ends abruptly on a full stop), and they both hide a deeper meaning. I'd analyse them for you now, but I'll leave you to do that if you so desire.

It'll never be accepted by the poets society, but when bands like Mumford and Sons can write more meaningful words than William McGonagall, those in charge can do what they like, it's not going to make Mumford run away crying. Bear in mind though, there is a lot of modern music I wouldn't call poetry because they hold no meaning or real soul, and this is true for a lot more of the 'popular' music. Let's be honest though, N-Dubzzy Snoopy Dogg are more popular than Great Lake Swimmers, and Carol Ann Duffy is more popular than Simon Armitage. You can work the maths out for yourself.


*Super special bonus points for anyone who noticed that the example poem stanza and song verse were in fact the wrong way around. I really am a cheeky devil at times, aren't I?
'It Ain't What You Do it's What it Does to You' belongs to Simon Armitage
'Thistle and Weeds' belongs to Mumford and Sons

Be a Man, Man

These days with feminism on the rise, it seems that men are expected to prove just how manly they are, but still remain sensitive, caring, and most of all it seems, domesticated.

That's right lads, you've got to learn how to cook. But don't worry, there's nothing saying what or how you have to cook, so here's my how-to on making a manly meal for men who, like men, like women. Man.

It's simple really, you just have to remember the five steps of MANLY cooking:

Meaty
And
Nutritionally
Lacking
YEAH

Follow these guidelines to the letter, and soon you too will be a man of the kitchen. That's right, A MAN!

Still stuck? Not to worry, here are a few traditional recipes with a manly nipple twist to them to give you some inspiration.

-

Chicken Chow Man
Cover chicken in batter
Deep-fry chicken
Head butt pan of water repeatedly to bring it to the boil
Spit rice in boiling water
Mix chicken & rice
Add gravel
Cover in salt & HP Sauce
Serve on corrugated iron

Muscle Stew
Boil own arm year-old chip fat for 30 minutes
Serve in cupped hands

Mansagne
Basic lasagne recipe with the following changes:
Replace mince with steak
Replace roux sauce with chilli sauce & Branston pickle
Replace pasta with photos of loved ones*
Serve

Leather Jacket Potatoes
Pick out the three largest, fluffiest and most delicate potatoes you can find
Galvanise potatoes
Cover in best-before 1981 olive oil and light
Build bonfire around potatoes and leave for thirty seconds
Climb into fire and retrieve potatoes
Serve with bark

Steel and Kidney Pie
Attack frozen steak and kidney pie with steel girders until sufficiently heated through
Serve

-

Got your own recipe idea? Post a comment below or email me, and maybe (just maybe) I'll give it a go and post a review on a future update.

UPDATE: These lads have the right idea


*Of course (being a man), these will all be self-portraits

Counter-Sausage Measures

Chatroulette. We all know it, and a lot of us loathe it. If it's not sweaty fifty year olds trying it on, it's a laughably sized phallus staring you in the face. Of course, we've all heard the legends of the man on the piano, and people with something genuinely interesting to say or an amusing hand puppet, but do we ever see these elusive figures? Of course we don't. How to make Chatroulette worthwhile then? Well it's quite simple if you're not a completely useless bastard: take the initiative to be one of the interesting people. Easy enough, you may think, but it'll require some enthusiasm and a lack of shame. Here's a few ideas to get the old creativity flowing...

Place a sheet over your face and pretend to be a ghost

Place the webcam in your mouth*

Read passages from the Bible and claim to wreak God's wrath upon your chat partner

Treat men as women and women as men

Selotape your face into obscure positions

Throw rice at the webcam and laugh manically

Draw a Hitler moustache on your screen at random and wait for that beautiful, fleeting moment when it lands on someone's top lip

Lower the lighting to disguise your face, and make sexual advances to people whilst keeping the subject of your gender ambiguous

Dress as Paul McCartney and convert people to vegetarianism

Attempt to baffle your chat partner with card tricks

Cover the webcam lens with jam and cream, and lick it off without using your hands to hold it

Pretend to have an epileptic fit


*Best with a throat infection

A Matter of Time

It had to happen. That's right, it's quintessential audience interaction day! Or to put it another way, it's time for a re-think.

What with me branching out into the vlogosphere, I'm getting my thinking cap on in the direction of a complete design overhaul. That's right, Surface of the Sun is going to be re-designed with a brand new layout for the modern man and/or woman. Georgia's out, and that'll probably mean Helvetica is in, but enough of this talk of fonts, I'm looking to create a more visually appealing and functional site for you lot to have a lovely little browse on.

The thing is, I can't get started until I've had some input from you lot. What parts of the site do you like best, and what other features would you like to see? A homepage for example? An immediate link to my latest blog entry/video?

The fate of the site rests in your keyboard, so get cracking!*

Better still, if you know anyone with experience in this sort of thing, get them to drop me a line: alexolney@surfaceofthesun.co.uk


*Don't actually crack your keyboard, tithead

5000 Views

Five thousand hits. My blog has received five thousand hits? I'd scarcely believe it myself if I hadn't been monitoring the progress since I made it, but nevertheless, it's arrived. A real milestone in my eyes. The fact that there have been five thousand occasions where someone has clicked on a link that I made staggers me, and I couldn't have done it without you lot. At least, not without an auto-refreshing script and no consideration for my pride.

In honour of this, I'm pleased to announce a new direction for Surface of the Sun in the form of vlogging (that's video blogging, oh I'm so witty). Don't worry, a majority of the updates will still be your good old fashioned text form, but every so often I'll treat you all to a lovely poor-quality vid.

You lucky sorts you.

Anyway, here's the first of what could be many videos I'll be making for this. Enjoy.




*Third 'S' not available in any countries

Celebrate Good Times

It's that time of year. Every couple are exchanging romantic presents (read: a teddy bear holding a heart) and expressing just how they feel about one another. Nice, isn't it? Even as a single man I do enjoy how this one days brings people together, despite all of the commercialisation of it. I can understand why people get angry over how tacky most celebrations seem to have become, but no-one is forcing you to buy any of this tat, you buy it on your own accord. What's stopping you, say, making a handmade card? Unless you don't have hands, in which case you can make them a footmade card. Now that's dedication. There are so many different ways you can express your love to someone* (or something), so be a little bit different.

To celebrate the death of St. Valentine (that's right, he died on this day), I've rooted through records and peeked under rugs for all of the events that have fallen out of tradition in modern society, so we can start reliving the good old celebrations of yore. Aren't I lovely?

Harrington Sunday (2nd Sunday of July)
Named after sir Harrington Harrington, Harrington Sunday is the one day of the year which is dedicated to the recycling of all organic and synthetic mucus. For one day a year, the descendants of sir Harrington collect the nation's mucus, and turn it into a delicious and nutritious broth, to be served to anyone who wishes for it. The ceremony was sadly dropped after NHS reports deemed the practice 'unhygienic'.

Postman's Day (26th January)
In years gone by, it was customary on this date for the people of Wales to be conscripted into the role of postmen and postladies, and to deliver small gifts to their leader, Lord Cardiff. Cardiff has of course passed on since this tradition was exercised, and so did the celebrations. The Welsh are now free to do as they please on this day.

Dilworthering (3rd October)
On this merry day, it was (and still is in certain parts of Lancashire) traditional to approach young and attractive strangers in the street and engage in sexual congress in the traditional Dilworthian way (on a tandem). Memories of this day ring clearly in the minds of famous persons such as the Duke of Wellington, Frank Sinatra, and of course Anubis, god of the afterlife.

Blarmalade Blunday (5th Monday of November)
Almost unheard of these days, Blarmalade Blunday is the anniversary of one of the greatest scientific discoveries of last generation, the invention of fruit preserves. Founded by Sgt. Armbrad of Basingstoke, Blarmalade Blunday gets it's unusual name from a speech impediment that caused him to be completely unable to pronounce the letter 'm' at the start of a word. Armbrad discovered the art of preserving fruit after an enormous radioactive blast caused a pulverised nectarine and a bag of sugar to somehow combine on a molecular level. These days the same method is used, which is why jam making is such a dangerous profession, and should never be attempted at home.

Opposite Day (CLASSIFIED)
That's right, Opposite Day isn't just a ruse your friends and family member used to pull on you. Allocated with the mysterious Tlentifiti calendar (which has long been forgotten), only a handful of officials and whippets know when this actually occurs. In my efforts of discovering this day, I also uncovered the date of this event, but for the sake of my own safety I cannot repeat it to you. If you should find me acting suspiciously on a particular day of the year, you'll know why.


*The missionary is so last winter

Fix You

Is it really that easy? I've always been very sympathetic towards people struggling with addictions, be it gambling, alcohol or (most commonly) smoking. Usually they get pressured into trying it, and before they know it they aren't able to go a day without at least thinking about their vice. I understand that nobody (with half a brain) wants to be addicted to anything, and I myself haven't fallen prey to any such raptures, I simply don't have the patience or determination, but I had thought the other day...

How does someone become addicted to something?

Obviously the thrill is the main factor, and becoming reliant on it to remain in equilibrium taking a firm second, and all those lovely chemical reactions that make our brains so delightfully interesting and complicated are interlaced into the whole palaver, but why are certain people more susceptible to the clutches of addiction than others? Is it a biological reason or is it ourely down to willpower? Is it perhaps the same drive that causes people to commit heinous crimes? I decided to investigate and present to you some fairly conclusive facts and statistics* which you can read exclusively here:

7/20 men under the age of 25 are addicted to embroidery

50% of women are metaphysical kleptomaniacs

Hedgehogs are unable to perform any act of sin

7 in 3 people gamble using primary school maths skills

Vegetarians are actually just addicted to performing acts of indecency with botanical paraphernalia and posting them on internet forums

25% of all alcoholics make up one quarter of all those addicted to alcohol

All but one of drugs in the class A category contain sheep's tears

Those who are addicted to wool are referred to on the news as 'paedophiles'

23% of latex bondage gear is based on fossilised stone blueprints

Suicide is the most effective method for giving up smoking

The word 'addict' derives the Greek 'adicctus horridium', meaning someone who dips one's testicles in hot porridge

After extensive analysis of the facts above, I simply cannot determine whether addiction is a mental or physical anomaly. You're going to have to draw your own conclusion I'm afraid, I can't do everything for you.


*All of the facts in this article are true, apart from this one

Freud Would be Proud

The theatre. It's been a fair while since I've been. I think the last thing I saw was a performance of James and the Giant Peach (minus Joanna Lumley, plus a cockney centipede with a boot fetish), which was performed at the Sundial Theatre, which just so happens to be in my college. Now I've always loved the theatre, but I've generally orientated towards either comedies or I've been taken to pantomimes as a child, but last night changed everything.

I went to see Oedipus, a Greek tragedy which most people will know the story of (boy is abandoned, unwittingly kills father, unknowingly marries mother, bears weird mutant tomato children*, discovers the truth, gouges eyes out to prove a point), but even so, this sort of performance is THE reason why film and television will never reach the level of meaning and depth as the stage, even with all this new-fangled 3D technology.

In a bid to promote my friends' certain future careers, I strongly urge you if you can to go and see the show tonight (Wednesday 26th Jan 2011) or tomorrow (you work the date out). Hell, if you're a full-time student, it'll only cost you four hundred of your new English pence, and let me tell you that it is easily worth that, and then some.

To Alice and Alex, you've restored my faith in the performing arts, which certain people (McCallum, Calder, my office, now) had all but destroyed. Sod your ridiculous horror films made by hapless retards who don't know what an 18k light is (yeah) and get your arse down to see some proper performing. Be moved to tears by fleeting actions such as suicide or self-blinding and watch Oedipus at the Sundial Theatre tonight or tomorrow. It's in Cirencester College, performed by students who express more skill in a wobbly bottom lip than most of the filth people call 'actors' on these snazzy, new, modern programmes have in their entire repertoire of shouting "g'day, mate, I'm in Neeeeeighbours" in high pitched voices. It's not often you see a show where the chorus who have seen the show ninety-nine times before are blubbing as Oedipus holds his beloved daughters/cursed sisters for the final time now, is it?


*I wasn't joking

The Best of... The Nineties

I have an opinion. I know, it's controversial for me to express myself in such a way, but just bear with me and all will be explained.

There have been many periods of time, the sixties and nineties to name a couple, but for all three of the decades that I've sampled (and you have no idea how old that makes me feel), the latter tops my charts any day of the week. Were it not for those glorious ten years, not only would I not be around, but neither would many of my nearest and dearest. Having said that, the only competition it faces is the nouts (I refuse to call it the noughties), and our current decade, currently without a title, so I have taken the liberty of giving it one. As our third millennia races towards adolescence, I have lovingly coined the time 'the pubies'. With the pubies barely starting to grow, and the nouts being the age of imbalanced hormones for myself, they don't really have much going for them.

In honour of these fine ten years, I have decided to share with you (you lucky, lucky person) a completely objective view of the very best of the nineties. So turn your baseball cap around, plug in your VCR and pour yourself a glass of Sunny Delight. You're in for a mildly thrilling ride.

Sooty
Sooty is the stuff of legend, a small yellow bear with a heart the size of the moon, albeit with a little mischief buried in his psyche. Anyone who hasn't been blessed with any knowledge of this little bundle of joy quite simply has not lived, and should type his name into YouTube immediately.
Sooty is the longest running children's television character, and coupled with his friends Sweep the dog, Soo the Panda and every so often his pesky little cousin Scampi, he has managed to find a place in the hearts of every self-respecting human in Britain.
Although he was not the first to don the puppet, Matthew Corbett will always be the man I associate with this charming array of characters. His warm, loving exterior and the mind and heart of a true parent made him an unforgettable asset to Sooty and his crew. His father, Harry Corbett, designed the toy to entertain Matthew when he was only a child, little did he know that his creation would be remembered for generations upon generations to come.
More recently, Sooty has adopted a much more modern approach, and now without a television show, he appears only on stage with new mentors and characters by his side. The new ones are simply not the same, unfortunately, but nevertheless, Sooty lives on, and will be available on tape for many, many years to come.

The Neverhood
An underrated gem of a computer game, The Neverhood was released in 1996. I'm including it on here as a bit of a cheat, as I never actually played the full version of the game until a few years ago, but believe me when I tell you that I had the demo on a disc when I was seven. Anybody who wants to argue, take it up with my parents for not conceiving me sooner.
Back on topic, the game itself is a point-and-click adventure with fairly standard gameplay, and nothing exactly to write home about. The reason this game is what it is is quite simply the humour and visuals are unmatched by anything I've played since. Ok, there are funnier games and games that will have better graphics, but the simple fact is that no other game to date (that I know of) has been so adventurous as to make an entire game using stop-motion and claymation for it's graphics. The sheer charm of the design is more than enough to sell the game, but the comic elements make the cut-scenes something historical. Who doesn't want to see a man made of clay running from an insect-like monster twice his size, scream like a girl and run into a closed door?*
The game didn't sell very well unfortunately, and the only real way you can find it these days is the bastion of everything out of date, eBay. If you're looking for a laugh though, you won't find anything more likely to perk you up on Windows 95 than this. Speaking of Windows 95...

Windows 95 and the Birth of the Internet
Anyone who owned a computer with 95 running as the operating system will know all too well of the words "It is now safe to turn off your computer", but whether they'll be emblazoned on your retinas like me is unlikely. A computer that can't turn itself off would be complete madness today, but yes, they existed, and they had a whole load of loveable crap on them as well.
Running with only 256 colours, old computers could barely display anything without having to use interlaced dots to show colour mixes, but we loved them. Remember floppy discs? Happy days...
The internet was also just appearing, allowing us to have dial-up connections to the entire world of human knowledge (or as it was back then, Encarta). Ashamedly, I can still hum the sound my phoneline as it struggled to make contact with the outside world.

Pokémon
What sort of a man would I be if I didn't mention the very fabric that I was raised on? Pokémon revolutionised our lives with 151 quirky Japanese critters that didn't mind fighting on command and having their molecular structure disassembled so they could fit in our Pokéballs. That sounds a bit unsanitary now I look at it again; perhaps the creator was a bit frustrated and lonely.
Pokémon Red and Blue versions were released in 1996 on the most amicable of consoles, the Gameboy, and was the biggest boom the video game industry has ever seen. Anyone who was anyone had at least one of the versions, if not both, and don't even get me started on how many of the trading cards I bought (and still own).
Pikachu was the face, of course, and no matter what anyone did, he always seemed to come back to us. Even my friend who lost his Pocket Pikachu at school managed to find it again years later, and it worked to boot. It seems that no matter how many new and shiny (pun intended) Pokémon they make, Pikachu will always be the one everyone knows.

Pogs
Here's a slap in the face with some hot, throbbing nostalgia. Those little discs brought us all so much glee, and best of all, to get them you had to eat crisps. Joy!
These funny little pieces of card (or plastic, I can never remember) were so popular and fun to play with, yet unbelievable simple. For memory, you had to make a pile of pogs, and somehow hit them with a 'slammer' and do something. The person who knew the rules or had the strongest left hook won.
I don't think anybody really knew how to play, it was just something to do whenever you were bored in the playground, I mean heaven forbid that we play with a pack of cards, that would encourage gambling and ruin our futures forever.

The Full Monty
Ok, so I wasn't exactly 15 to watch it when it came out, but a little insignificant detail like that wouldn't stop me. Or my dad. Known as one of the greatest British comedy films of all time, and quite simply, I would say that a title like that doesn't do it justice.
Set just down't road in modern Yorkshire, it tells the tales of six unemployed steel workers looking to make some quick money so that they can see clear of their pressing problems, be it child maintenance, debt, or just being a fat bastard. We're treated to some absolutely stellar acting by Robert Carlyle (as to be expected), along with some of the most hilariously awkward and clumsy stripping you'll ever see, including Carlyle's character Gaz trying to take a t-shirt off with a lit cigarette in his mouth.
This heartwarming tale of six desperate men paints a picture of modern British determination and the importance of sticking by your mates, so if you haven't seen it, you can probably get it from Amazon for the latter half of a fiver. Do it. Do it now.


*Go on then

Shiny Happy People

I'm not going to deny it, I am a consumer. I consume and consume and consume, especially if it's something I believe to be worth having, be it a rather lovely cut of pork, or even a lovely brand-spanking new piece of kit to make my blogging easier, I'm a sucker for quality. What I'm not a sucker for though, is tat. And there is oh so much tat out there.

Not too long ago I curtailed myself into the dreaded lands known as 'Poundland' in order to buy something, I believe my nose was running and I needed a tissue if my memory serves me correctly. As I wandered around aimlessly like a bemused child muses the power tools in their father's garage, I took a closer look at some electronic items that they had for sale. A headset and microphone, headphones by the number, and more memory card readers than I have teeth. Every single one of them was a pound.

How on Earth can you manage to produce a piece if hardware like that for such a ridiculous price? I see absolutely no logic behind it whatsoever, their turnover must be mere pennies per item sold or somehow less. Just why do you torture me with your cheap, ineffective goods like a £5 prossie every time I gather enough strength to enter you Poundland? I know deep down I will not be able to use any if this, but that price makes me want to grab several items just to see if they work, and if they don't to make a rudimentary rocket-propelled SD card launcher. Actually, that's not a bad idea... I digress, my point is that there are entire companies that seem to be able to sell such rubbish, and people buy it! Perhaps they have the same SD cannon visions as I have, but more likely they're in the habit of buying the cheapest solution to everything. Is that too cynical? Who knows. All I know is that this has to stop, and I'm waging war on crappy goods starting this day!

No longer will we have to suffer with toys of our favourite comic book characters crudely assembled by sweaty men in string vests only to be put i the wrong boxes so they get put in the 'My Little Pony' section by mistake. No, we will be free of those that lack quality, and our children will learn to respect everything we buy them and everything they buy themselves. All too often these days I see more and more young people going through Xboxes faster than Steve Jobs after a long, hard day of selling us sparkly pretty things that twinkle in the light o a 40w bulb, and that simply shouldn't be happening. I love my Xboxes, I really do, but they're simply not built to last. They make too much noise, the quality of the materials is below sub-underclass par, and promises to collapse inwards on itself if you happen to stand near it and cough. Something ness to be done.

Join me in the war against tat, buy something just a little bit classier than whatever happens to be in a blister pack amongst display-cased pieces of pure wonder, toss aside that happy meal and instead support a small local bakery and buy a bun that was lovingly hand-made only that morning. It doesn't take much.

Pull your finger out of your arse and get cracking.