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