I was up in a hot air balloon today. I won’t bore you with the wonder and niceness of it all. And I won’t pretend that the pilot was a paradigm of the stereotypical outdoor adventurous type of bloke. But he did, in his own innocuous and inoffensive way, carry with him a few of the traits that make most of these types quite tediously fucking annoying.
I’ll be frank. I believe that people with the LEAST capacity to be interesting feel the MOST compunction to involve themselves in adventurous pastimes and extreme sports, just so that they can PRETEND that they’re NOT boring. In fact, it PERFECTLY GIVES THEM THE RIGHT to accuse all of us less adventurous types of BEING BORING. These charmless oafs have cashed in personality for a life of adrenalin-chasing pursuits and forever chant their fatuous mantras in our faces: LIVE LIFE TO THE MAX!
Fuck off!
Sub-dividing this socially retarded species into two, we find that there are LEADERS and DO-ERS. The Do-ers just pay to do it. They turn up with bleached blonde hair and Chinese tattoos and all the right clothing to either bungee or surf or quad-bike or snow-board or whatever other WANKY bit of DICKING about makes them feel like they have BIG COCKS. And they start every conversation with, “I’m a bit of an adrenalin-junkie.” A bit of a twat, I then think.
I mix my tiny shot of jealousy with a large tonic of pity for these stereotypes. My chief disdain is reserved for the leaders. The men (I have nothing against the women) who fly the balloons, run the bungee club or teach others how to windsurf or paraglide or jet-ski or generally TRY TO LOOK COOL at either a huge height or break-neck speed.
These blokes tend to have beards. Bill Bailey types. A bit Dungeons and Dragons, but less insipidly stay-at-home pale. And slightly BO-whiffy. And they have this ENORMOUS knowledge of BOLLOCK-BORING stuff about their specialist adventurous pastime AND about EVERYTHING ELSE EVER that you’re likely to talk about when you’re outside the house. And they want to just talk AT you when you make that fatal mistake of naively asking a question to which a simple YES or NO answer would suffice. The sort of question that they interpret as PLEASE TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT EVERYTHING SO THAT I CAN BE IMPRESSED BY YOU. (In a way that no one was impressed by them at school, when they were bullied and smelt quite BO-whiffy then too.)
There’s a galling sort of arrogance that comes with such a compendium of boring knowledge, so much so that you want to pour petrol on the bastard’s fleece and set him alight. Especially when he continues to fire off droll comments at your expense to belittle you and make you feel less of an interesting person because you’re just doing whatever dicking adventure thing it is just the ONCE and he does it all the time. And has a t-shirt saying as much. “I DO IT TEN TIMES A DAY.”
But he actually looks like he didn’t have sex until he was 32 and since then he and his gruesomely wretched-looking wife have gone the whole hog and become sex people, going to swinger parties with other couples that they know from the pub quiz in the village local. Yuk.
But anyway, like I said, I wouldn’t like to attribute all these qualities to my hot air balloon pilot today as he was barely scratching the surface of the stereotype. But he WAS called Gary and I bet they’re all called Gary aren’t they?
Tuesday 26 July 2011
Tuesday 12 July 2011
The Magic Shit Goblin
If you could have one superhero power, what would it be?
This question is unarguably TRITE and DESPERATE and gets inserted into awkwardly silent gaps in social situations as a conversation-inducing enema. But it CAN throw up intriguing answers.
I’ve considered all the usual responses. I wouldn’t want to FLY, because I damn near shit my pants last week going just 200 feet up at 80 mph on STEALTH at Thorpe Park. I wouldn’t want superhuman STRENGTH, because I’m such an easily provoked, bad-tempered and self-righteous bastard, that I’d be constantly beating up blokes as if I was Batman on crack. And the idea of being INVISIBLE in order to spy on women getting undressed, well... that’s just perverted and creepy. (I’d much rather just ACCIDENTALLY stumble into that kind of situation.)
The other problem with having a superpower is that it can only lead to a sense of elitist arrogance and egotism that would make me just one incident of anal sex away from being David Starkey.
So, what I would rather have instead of a super power is my very own MAGIC SHIT GOBLIN.
My Magic Shit Goblin would be magic in that only I can see him. He is totally invisible to everyone else, as is his MAGIC SACK OF SHIT. What’s magic about his magic sack of shit is that it is full of an infinite number of turds – of every possible texture, consistency and tensile strength – all of which remain invisible when hurled by my magic shit goblin until the point of IMPACT, when magically they assume absolute clarity of existence.
My Magic Shit Goblin would accompany me everywhere and await instruction as to whom (or at what) he should throw a shit. I SAY THE WORD, HE THROWS A TURD. (Can you see what I did there?) He’s also clever enough to select whatever type of poo I ask for and to hurl this with whatever degree of force I instruct him to use. He’s a bit like a golfer’s caddie in that sense.
My Magic Shit Goblin would require some subsidiary magical powers in order to fulfil his function. For instance, he must be able to remain rooted to the roof of my car in order to hurl shits at the inordinate number of wankers I encounter EVERY TIME I drive anywhere. On my prompt (which might have to be telepathic seeing as he’s outside the car and I’m in it) my loyal and trusted goblin will be broadcasting handfuls of crap at every tailgater, wrong-lane-changing over-taker, speed-limit-spanking twat-racer, white van driver, sports car owner and those inconsiderate lazy cunts who never indicate. SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT!
I’d take my Magic Shit Goblin to the pub so that when you get one of those ubiquitous moments when some selfish oaf arrives at the bar AFTER you but allows him/herself to be served BEFORE you without having the fucking decency to say “He was here before ME,” then the self-centred COCKBUCKET won’t see the lump of REVENGE TURD until it actually submerges in his or her glass and starts to break up like the wreck of the Titanic.
I’d even take my Magic Shit Goblin to the supermarket and put him in the baby seat bit of the trolley and have him primed to offload the odd dump into the momentarily-abandoned trolleys of those thoughtless and blinkered bastards that block the aisles. A great big nut-laced plop right on top of their tins of cat food and organic celery sticks.
Now, you might be thinking that I have wasted a wish here. I could have chosen to have some magical power or superhuman feature that could be employed in ending war and poverty and repression in the world. It’s true to say that even if I could send my Magic Shit Goblin on long-distance missions, a lump of shit in Colonel Gadaffi’s couscous is not going to save Libyan lives. Nor is a multiple raining down of plops over a Taliban hideout going to save us all from terrorism. And those societies that still stone women for adultery and homosexuals for being homosexual, if my Magic Shit Goblin lobbed some plops in their direction they’d just use them once they ran out of stones.
I could set my aspirations lower, I guess, and seek to rid British TV of all primetime shows that involve talentless twats trying to get attention for themselves in an elimination competition that moronic members of the public text in to vote for. I could indeed send my Magic Shit Goblin to those TV studios and pepper the producers and presenters with a torrent of turd, but I would expect one of those turds to consequently pull in the most text votes and win the series before going on to enjoy a 12 month popularity rise and find itself photographed on the beach in Ibiza with its cellulite showing.
So, selfish as it seems, my Magic Shit Goblin will serve only my own petty purposes. That is until he has his mind corrupted by ideas from Twitter which encourages him to question the nature of his servitude and ultimately turn against me, backed up by the full arsenal of the contents of his magical sack.
If I do get myself a Magic Shit Goblin, I’ll be sure never to let him go on Twitter.
This question is unarguably TRITE and DESPERATE and gets inserted into awkwardly silent gaps in social situations as a conversation-inducing enema. But it CAN throw up intriguing answers.
I’ve considered all the usual responses. I wouldn’t want to FLY, because I damn near shit my pants last week going just 200 feet up at 80 mph on STEALTH at Thorpe Park. I wouldn’t want superhuman STRENGTH, because I’m such an easily provoked, bad-tempered and self-righteous bastard, that I’d be constantly beating up blokes as if I was Batman on crack. And the idea of being INVISIBLE in order to spy on women getting undressed, well... that’s just perverted and creepy. (I’d much rather just ACCIDENTALLY stumble into that kind of situation.)
The other problem with having a superpower is that it can only lead to a sense of elitist arrogance and egotism that would make me just one incident of anal sex away from being David Starkey.
So, what I would rather have instead of a super power is my very own MAGIC SHIT GOBLIN.
My Magic Shit Goblin would be magic in that only I can see him. He is totally invisible to everyone else, as is his MAGIC SACK OF SHIT. What’s magic about his magic sack of shit is that it is full of an infinite number of turds – of every possible texture, consistency and tensile strength – all of which remain invisible when hurled by my magic shit goblin until the point of IMPACT, when magically they assume absolute clarity of existence.
My Magic Shit Goblin would accompany me everywhere and await instruction as to whom (or at what) he should throw a shit. I SAY THE WORD, HE THROWS A TURD. (Can you see what I did there?) He’s also clever enough to select whatever type of poo I ask for and to hurl this with whatever degree of force I instruct him to use. He’s a bit like a golfer’s caddie in that sense.
My Magic Shit Goblin would require some subsidiary magical powers in order to fulfil his function. For instance, he must be able to remain rooted to the roof of my car in order to hurl shits at the inordinate number of wankers I encounter EVERY TIME I drive anywhere. On my prompt (which might have to be telepathic seeing as he’s outside the car and I’m in it) my loyal and trusted goblin will be broadcasting handfuls of crap at every tailgater, wrong-lane-changing over-taker, speed-limit-spanking twat-racer, white van driver, sports car owner and those inconsiderate lazy cunts who never indicate. SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT!
I’d take my Magic Shit Goblin to the pub so that when you get one of those ubiquitous moments when some selfish oaf arrives at the bar AFTER you but allows him/herself to be served BEFORE you without having the fucking decency to say “He was here before ME,” then the self-centred COCKBUCKET won’t see the lump of REVENGE TURD until it actually submerges in his or her glass and starts to break up like the wreck of the Titanic.
I’d even take my Magic Shit Goblin to the supermarket and put him in the baby seat bit of the trolley and have him primed to offload the odd dump into the momentarily-abandoned trolleys of those thoughtless and blinkered bastards that block the aisles. A great big nut-laced plop right on top of their tins of cat food and organic celery sticks.
Now, you might be thinking that I have wasted a wish here. I could have chosen to have some magical power or superhuman feature that could be employed in ending war and poverty and repression in the world. It’s true to say that even if I could send my Magic Shit Goblin on long-distance missions, a lump of shit in Colonel Gadaffi’s couscous is not going to save Libyan lives. Nor is a multiple raining down of plops over a Taliban hideout going to save us all from terrorism. And those societies that still stone women for adultery and homosexuals for being homosexual, if my Magic Shit Goblin lobbed some plops in their direction they’d just use them once they ran out of stones.
I could set my aspirations lower, I guess, and seek to rid British TV of all primetime shows that involve talentless twats trying to get attention for themselves in an elimination competition that moronic members of the public text in to vote for. I could indeed send my Magic Shit Goblin to those TV studios and pepper the producers and presenters with a torrent of turd, but I would expect one of those turds to consequently pull in the most text votes and win the series before going on to enjoy a 12 month popularity rise and find itself photographed on the beach in Ibiza with its cellulite showing.
So, selfish as it seems, my Magic Shit Goblin will serve only my own petty purposes. That is until he has his mind corrupted by ideas from Twitter which encourages him to question the nature of his servitude and ultimately turn against me, backed up by the full arsenal of the contents of his magical sack.
If I do get myself a Magic Shit Goblin, I’ll be sure never to let him go on Twitter.
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