Criminally Vulgar Shyness

I can tell it’s been a long time since I blogged on here, my last post was about Joseph Kony. Remember him? He was the guy that we were all encouraged to hate, quite rightly too. There was a slight issue though with this particular hate campaign, and that lay with the man who was leading it (or should I say still is leading it, apparently). Jason Russell – public masturbator. Yes, the man we see with the big smile on these Kony videos was actually a bit of a mentalist himself. A mentalist that took to the sunny streets of San Diego, naked. Jacking off at each street corner he reached, but supposedly still a man that we should listen to when it comes to people in this world that are distasteful. I can only hope he doesn’t rub off on his son (read that however you wish).

My usual routine when it comes to writing these blogs is to scour the BBC News website in the hope that a topical news story will jump out at me, something I can tear apart and mull over aggressively. But the only thing I see when I go on ANY bloody site these days is Olympics this, Olympics that, OH FUCK OFF! I honestly couldn’t care less about the Olympic Games. I don’t care who can jump the furthest, who can row a boat the fastest, who can piss the longest or whatever else they’re bloody competing for. And Usain Bolt, the cock. Is there any advert he’s not doing at the moment? I’m half expecting him to be the new face of Pot Noodle any time soon, before letting us all know about the troubles of erectile dysfunction (I’m on to you, Pele). At least now I know how my mother feels whenever the World Cup is on. I wonder if she wants to kill every one as well whenever it’s mentioned?

That’s all I have to say for today. Terrah!

Tumblr followers, hello! Not been on here in a while, but rest assured I’m still as boring and agitated as ever. General public fuckwhittery is still rife since my last post, and still irritating.

The latest subject to have grinded my fragile gears was that of Joseph Kony, a man who appears to be the definition of ‘cuntflap’, and a man that will soon have his face scattered all over the World via the medium of mass public outcry (apparently). Thankfully a Youtube video has brought the whole planet together in its hatred for this man, and I say well done to those responsible (Invisible Children). Mass hatred truly is the best way to unite this world against it enemies. I hope closer to the date of this ‘cover the night’ event we see some funky wristbands released for sale, with the money going to a worthy cause (the people of Grimsby maybe). Maybe we could even do a World Bake Sale as well, just so it REALLY looks like we’re making a difference. A sweet, crumbly difference. The possibilities are endless, but the ending is inevitable. Kony will be hunted down by some kind of G.I. Joe, the nation of Uganda will go back under the poverty duvet (metaphor-tastic) from which it has just been suddenly lifted from, and we’ll all feel better for it. Oh, and there’s going to be a massive clean up required afterwards, what with posters and hate banners saying things like “Get out of my LIFE Kony, you shit” scattered everywhere. Maybe those ‘attending’ the event could help with that.

In other recent news, David Cameron and his wench (Samantha, not Nick) have paid a visit to Obama’s gaff over in Washington. Without any form of research into why he is there, I’ve noticed him watching basketball and exchanging table tennis racquets/paddles/smackers with the President (who is black y’know). I can only imagine it’s some form of Political Sports Day. If that was the case, I can see why he’s left Nick Clegg back home. That guy couldn’t finish an egg and spoon race if you gave him a fucking ladle.

That’ll do, as I’m just realised I’m still not dressed and currently 47 minutes late for a lecture. A lecture I inevitably will miss. Shame. Much love!

Today, my friends, is officially the last day of Christmas. Bit late you say? I don’t, as it is my final day of nothingness before it’s back to lectures. In a month that has been filled with trips to the cinema, booking flights to Ireland, visiting museums, I decided to spend my final day playing FIFA in my underwear whilst listening to Roxy Music. Fuck yeah! But I think a bit of mental preparation would be a good idea before I simply dive straight back into my university course. As this semester includes modules on Directing Practice and Radio Production maybe I could…turn the radio on? Read up on popular directors and their pieces of work? But all of this seems a bit too much like hard work for this lazy pauper, so FIFA in my underwear is how I shall remain. Until I get hungry. Then I’ll get dressed. Maybe.

Do you know which group of people are really starting to eat my tits? Lads. They’re everywhere. If you’re struggling to differentiate between a normal young man and a lad, let me help. Whilst any normal young man might go out and get nice and drunk with their friends, apparently a lad would be ‘on it like a car bonnet’. Strangely enough, my experiences atop a car bonnet are few and far between, unlike lads, who obviously are always ‘on it’. A normal young man might make subtle jokes at the opposite sex, whilst a lad will be caught in a crowd screaming ‘GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN’ at an unsuspecting pensioner at the bus stop. They’ll probably throw in the classic ‘bus wankers’ line as well, but that’s just because they’re so fucking original. My dislike for lads probably stems from my constant affiliation with them at 42’s. They’re the ones usually dribbling on the bar after one too many apple sourz, usually linking arms with a land whale. A lad would probably get away with fisting his own sister if he simply put it down as ‘good banter’. Lads of the world, grow the fuck up.

Short but sweet today. Toodles.

I’ve mellowed. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but it’s happened. No longer than a month or so ago I was quite openly the most vulgar person on my Facebook news feed (the best way to measure somebody’s true character, surely), but my musings seem almost refreshing and somewhat positive all of a sudden. No longer am I dropping the ‘C-bomb’ willy-nilly, but instead I have taken to describing great things as being ‘raven’, and simply underlining my daily routines in an almost “I-just-ate-some-toast-LOL’ kind of way. I have become my own worst enemy. I have become all that I oppose and more. I wander freely around the city in a post-90’s Manchester green coat, accompanied by my often unwashed chinos, and I find this acceptable? I wander through the city staring into shop windows at items I will never be able to afford, possibly in the hope that somebody might be watching and believing that my window shopping is not ambitious, but instead a genuine attempt to further glamorise my already infuriatingly fashionable and wonderfully crafted life, and I find this silent lie to be acceptable? I should cut loose from all of this and go back to my roots. I should return to Rochdale, buy a shed load of Strongbow, start a file on Pro Evo (if you don’t know Pro Evo, get fucked) and just count down the rest of my days, safe in the knowledge that I have returned to a state of nothingness. This might all seem dramatic, but again, that is what I have sadly become. I am a dramatic Mancunian (shudder) with little care for those without a Joy Division album. That is the life of mellow me.

Well, that was a strange start. Morning everyone! Don’t worry, that top paragraph wasn’t actually serious at all (apart from the mellowing bit, as that has definitely happened). No, instead it was a take on what some people appear to be like these days. Overly dramatic. Whiney. Self interested. Fucking annoying. Why do I read this kind of nonsense every day, people complaining about how their life has changed (usually for the good I should mention)? It’s as if people expect nothing to ever change, like they’ll be nineteen forever. Like their tea will never go cold. My advise to these people would be to acknowledge that you’re slowly turning into all that you hate before it’s too late, because then you’re fucked. I would openly admit right now that I have become a prize bellend in the past 18 months or so, but do I care? No, suck on it. I used to hate pricks with long(ish) hair, stupidly oversized headphones and pretty Irish girlfriends, but now look at me. Whilst this may seem like a gloomy self-assessment, I can assure you I am writing it with a wonderful grin. Why? Because I’m happy. And that’s all I will ever strive to be. So quit whinging and carry on.

Since my early teens I have always been quite good at keeping face and staying calm in the craziest and most nerve racking of situations. But there will always be one week of the year that my stomach churns – Rochdale vs Bury. This Saturday we will be welcoming the bucket shaking peasants of Giggle Lane to Costa Del Spotland, and I couldn’t be more nervous if I tried. See, it’s not actually the idea of losing out on possible league points that concerns me, but instead the idea of seeing these people smile in our town. Bury is not just a football club, it’s a bastard. A bastard that finds it acceptable to sell Manchester United kits in its club shop. A bastard that has no qualms with roaming around the country begging opposition fans for money because they can’t handle simple fucking maths. A bastard that for some reason or other always seems to beat us. Well not this weekend! It’s not often I talk about football on this blog, so in a rare outburst of unrivalled love, I shout UP THE DALE!!

That’ll do for today, as I’ve clearly had my tea spiked this morning. Adios bitches.

Greetings Facebook friend (at least I assume you are a Facebook friend, as I don’t share this blog anywhere else). Quick question; what are your opinions on visits to strip clubs while you’re in a relationship? This was the question forwarded to me by my own girlfriend earlier today, and I couldn’t help but have a miniature argument in my own head about the possible answers. For me personally these places are strange anyway, and single or with-wench, I would still lean towards the side of innocence and ignorance when it comes to what happens behind the big doormen and silk curtain. I can think of nothing more embarrassing than resorting to an afternoon in a dark room watching women dance around for cash. In fact, I find it entirely disturbing that it’s accepted almost as ‘the norm’ for men to do such a thing, when in my head it forms the psychological behaviour of the world’s next great killer. ‘The Stripper Ripper’, possibly. But my own stupidity probably comes in the form of my over-thinking of the answer to this question, as instead surely I should have been questioning as to why my girlfriend actually wanted to know my feelings about such a situation. Is she paranoid about the possibility of me wandering into a strip club in Tenerife? Doubtful. Is she considering taking me for an afternoon lunch at Silks when I return to Mancunia? Wishful thinking, Bearshaw.

Speaking of murderers (my reference to a Stripper Ripper, not Bee), I’m currently reading a brilliant book about The Smiths, and more specifically the life’s of Morrissey and Marr, and at around the 100-page point it tells us about how a young Steven Morrissey had a particular obsession with murderers, namely Myra Hyndley. I couldn’t help but wonder to myself while reading this passage about whether I too am harvesting a strange obsession with anything that I shouldn’t. Sadly though, the closest thing I can imagine to an obscure obsession is my almost ritualistic daily Youtube visits simply to watch goats frolic around. It probably shouldn’t make me feel disheartened that I have nothing in my head that I shouldn’t, but unfortunately it does. I want a strange obsession! Suggestions will of course be encouraged by you all, although I do draw a line (somewhere…).

One disadvantage about writing this passage whilst in Tenerife is my lack of internet, and thus my inability to post this blog online. It is with this misfortune that I shall continue to type, totally ignorant to my previous two paragraphs, but from memory, I believe I questioned whether my girlfriend may or may not be keen for a stripper-rendezvous, and my yearning for a Hyndley-esque obsession. Therefore, with no great class or literary genius to follow upon, I move onto my next topic; social networking and technological contact systems. During a very brief 5 minutes of WIFI that I encountered this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pay a trip to Facebook and be welcomed by countless statuses telling people to follow someone’s ‘Kik’ (at least that’s what I think it was). Is this just like the Blackberry pin crap that I’m constantly bombarded with? Or the previous (and how well hidden) invites to help on someone’s imaginary fucking farm? Now forgive me for my probable ignorance (and seemingly elderly attitude), but whatever happened to just texting someone? Or simply using Facebook as a place to let people know everything and everyone that you hate (just me who does that)? If this ‘Kik’ crap is still occurring upon my return, I will not hesitate to befriend some local gangsters and acquire a gun and all of your addresses. You’ve been warned, cyber-nuisance.

Now that I’m on somewhat of a ranting-roll (and another bottle of San Miguel), I may as well talk about something else that irked me of late; Twitter as a credible reference point. I enjoy reading newspapers when I get the chance, or at least browsing the major news websites, but that has become somewhat of a frustrated voyage of late, as celebrity ‘tweets’ have become the in-thing to report on. Further annoying is the constant mention of Rio Ferdinand’s tweets in the sports sections, as if he is some form of fucking social poet once he gets into his 160-character mode. The duck faced shit. It’s even with the unfortunate passing of some of this country’s best loved celebrities and personalities that Twitter becomes the condolences book of the nation, with regular readings in the news such as “Tinchy Stryder tweeted emotionally following the death of Jimmy Saville, exclaiming that it was Saville that first taught him to rap” etc etc. I DON’T CARE! FUCK OFF! Maybe this frustration simply lies in my distain for the popular social networking site, but either way, I wish what happened on Twitter would stay on Twitter.

That’ll do for now, as I can hear the pool calling me. Toodles.

Season’s greetings you set of bastards! Let me start this entry by wishing you all a Merry Christmas (or Chanukah, maybe) and by telling you all that your presents were undelivered at my house this morning…we’ll blame the Royal Mail. As I write this it’s 6:15am on Christmas morning and I’m eagerly awaiting the opportunity to go downstairs and unwrap all those lovely gifts. I really hope somebody’s bought me a cool t-shirt this year with a witty statement scribbled across it such as; “If found, please return to the pub”, just so everyone can know that I’m a prize bellend without actually having to engage me in conversation. Or maybe a Jamie Oliver cookbook (and by Jamie Oliver cookbook I mean a book that tells me how to cook Jamie fucking Oliver). But no, I’d actually be happy this year regardless of whether I get any presents or not at all, as I’ve had a splendid couple of months leading up to this day. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s safe to say that I’ll be wearing a smile across my face throughout the festive season, and well into the new year as well. I hope you can all say the same, and if not, tough titties.

If you opened up this link hoping to find one of my usual blogs, filled with boring rants and peppered with underlying hatred for the World, then I’m sorry to have to disappoint you. I actually just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas, so from me, that’s all she wrote. Have a great day everyone.

Quite often in these blogs, I tell you all (anybody there?) about something that I have either learnt or discovered in the week leading up to writing it. It could be a wonderful piece of news from the natural world, like the discovery of a new species, or even possibly something that I have discovered that repulses me. This time around, it’s a combination of both. A wild Frankie Corcozza has appeared! I knew nothing of this young man before today, but now I can’t help but find myself frantically throwing darts at a cardboard cut-out I have of him in my flat. What a cretinous example of British youth that boy is. It’s not even his drug taking that bothers me (each to their own), or the fact that he was on the X-Factor. It’s the fact that he appears to love himself. Love himself so much in fact, that he has absolutely no shame in parading himself around Preston’s 53 Degree’s venue to a bunch of fat, annoying students, in the hope that he might take one of the creatures back to their flat for a game of ‘find the coke packet’. Vermin. I can only hope that one day he is brought straight back down to earth, and is rumbled for exactly what he is; a reality show dropout with a habit for fat chicks and expensive drugs. Bet his parents are so proud.

On a lighter note, I’m feeling Christmassy! Huzzah! Yes, so if ever a perfect time was there for you to request something from me, now is that time. So long as it doesn’t cost me money…or dignity. In fact you can have nothing, sod off. In the spirit of Christmas, I had a good conversation with my girlfriend this week about Christmas songs, and singled out my favourites and least favourites. I naturally threw out the classic Chris Rea track ‘Driving Home For Christmas’, before making the mistake of mentioning that I love ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues…to my Irish girlfriend (her eyes actually lit up like a Christmas tree, funnily enough). But then the conversation soured, as we felt it appropriate to mention some of the less festive tracks from years gone by. For example, does anybody remember the one that Destiny’s Child did? What a horror that was. But don’t worry everybody, as this year we can look forward to listening to Justin Bieber’s latest festive offering, probably on repeat. All we need now is for Rebecka Black to bring out a ‘Greatest Hits’ album, and we can all ensure that we will miss Christmas, following our inevitable suicides. HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Moving away from all things festive just for a moment, I thought I’d spend some time in this blog actually being nice to people. I realise this might seem like a shock to you, but don’t worry, chances are it’s not about you, so calm the fuck down.  I want to just give a special mention to everyone that I’ve hung around with in the last few months. It’s been a good period in my life, and one that I hope to carry on into the festive holidays and New Year, and I think I should thank all my friends and family for that. Sure, you might all be a tad annoying sometimes, and suuuure, some of you might do indecent things with lizards (I’m on to you), but on the whole, I’d say you’re all alright.

Peace and love. X

It’s taken 17 years of education for me to realise it, but today I have had that realisation. Those that work within education are very unfortunate people. You can stand there at the front of the class reading from a powerpoint for hours on end, or scribbling on a chalk board, but it will always be lost on the cretins in front of you. They don’t care about what you have to say, no no no, of course they don’t. They’d rather sit there, during time that they will eventually pay for in the future, and make plans about where to go that evening and get themselves fingered from an oppressed stranger in a nightclub. Sad really. Even now as I write this, I’m sat in front of my Spanish/Mexican lecturer, Jose. The frustration in his eyes is there for all to see, as he scours across the classroom at people talking and texting during the lecture. But not at me. He looks at me, sees a smart kid typing, and gives me a nod of approval. Poor Jose, so naïve. If I ever become a lecturer/teacher, I’d set my stall out straight from the off. All mobile phones go into a box at the start of the class. All mouths are surgically sewed together. All girls with blonde hair are told to get the fuck out. And most importantly, all lads with ‘Hollister’ sprayed across their attire, will be told in advance to stop acting like a cunt and shut up. The success rate in my class would be 100%, guaranteed. Now all I have to do is become an expert on a certain area, and get myself a teaching license…should be a piece of piss.

Quite recently, peers of mine have been attempting to introduce me to ‘the line’. Apparently, ‘the line’ is where something stops becoming funny and has actually become inappropriate or, to be put bluntly, a bit sick. Unfortunately, I am oblivious to this line. Like everything in my life at the moment, I am looking at this hindrance and asking myself; ‘will this effect me later in life”? Will my lack of morals or tact leave me stranded in a corner when it comes to forming a career? Possibly. Will it become an issue when it comes to making friends? No sign of that thus far. Will it land me in a correctional institute? Yes. And so, from here on out you will hopefully be seeing a new Eden Bearshaw. One that can differentiate between pleasant conversation and vulgarity. One that will refrain from sex jokes at Grandma’s house. One that will keep his pants on in public. When I say I’m going to change though, I only mean for one week. A trial period if you will. If after one week I am enjoying the bliss of social acceptability, then I will curb my behaviour from there on out. If however I get bored and crave the inappropriate, then I will simply defer back to my current state. A shameless student with more booze than sense.

As I write this, I am just less than 2 hours away from attending ‘Manchester’s Christmas Lights Switch On’. This year, Tinchy Stryder will be flicking the big switch, with the help of the ginger chick from Girls Aloud (I’m sure she has a name, but that’s irrelevant). Strangely enough, I’m actually quite excited about this. Maybe it’s the warm feeling I get when I see the bright lights and the happy faces building up to the festive holidays. Maybe it’s the company I will be sharing at the event, which will be close friends and my girlfriend (who is a close friend as well, but there has to be some form of differentiation). Or maybe it’s just the general, juvenile excitement I get from Christmas. From as far back as I can remember, Christmas has always been my favourite time of the year. My Dad has always put a lot of emphasis on Christmas, and a lot of effort into making sure that myself and my two brothers get everything we want, and often everything that we didn’t even know we’d want (including last year’s collection of fake moustaches that he gave me, which proved to actually be very exciting). This year however, I fear that a change is afoot. For the first time that I can remember, I am not going to a pantomine with my parents. My Dad has, quite rightly I guess, decided that I am too old for that anymore. That saddens me. Also, the sacks that myself and my two brothers got from Lapland when we were a lot younger will apparently not be used this year. Again, I insisted to my Dad that I understand this decision, but inside I was gutted. Maybe it’s not the idea of losing Christmas that I am upset about, but instead the fact that I’m no longer a kid. I’m an adult. Once this educational year is over, I will be expected to go out, get myself a 9-5 job, and eventually find myself a place to live. The panic is slowly setting in, hence why I’m considering the curbing of my behaviour. As much as growing up might suck, I can’t fool myself into thinking that I will be a child forever. If I do that, I run the risk of overdosing on drugs and wrongly having my caring doctor jailed for it, despite his best efforts to help me and my crazy life.

That’ll do for me today. Much love x

Hello everyone.

Not long now until Remembrance Sunday, and the poppies are of course out in force. Rightly so, as well. This day is obviously an emotional one for Britons all over the World, but I have a new idea for a day of great emotional pain to add to the calendar – Celebrity Remembrance Day. Who remembers Richard Blackwood? Former comedian, MTV presenter, and singing/rapping/noisy Brit sensation? He’s fallen off this face of the Earth since the turn of the Millennium, and I think it’s a damn shame, and I think the least we can do is spend a day remembering all that he did for us, and others that have had the same effect on our lives. John Major helped us all learn about the benefits of sleeping with your work colleagues, whilst maintaining the ability to run a country, and do you still talk about him in daily conversation? No. Babylon Zoo tripped us all out with their amazing ‘Spaceman’ track, but do you mention them in the same ilk as Rihanna? Hell no, you mean son of a bitch. The sooner we stop oppressing our wonderful lost sons and daughters in this country, the sooner I can sleep at night. The sooner we appreciate Jamie Theakston’s quick wit and not-at-all-shitty presenting skills, the better.

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain” – Bob Marley quote there, and a ruddy good one as well! But does it have any relevance to what this paragraph is going to be about? Absolutely not, but I just thought I’d fuck with you a bit, deal with it. The Stone Roses are back together. Cue party balloons and party rings and party poppers and party drinks and party hookers and PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY. Are we all sufficiently pleased with this news? Of course we are, I mean this is one of the greatest bands of all time we’re talking about here. But will it be a good idea? Ian Brown insisted in his Press Conference that they wouldn’t have gotten back together unless they were 100% sure they were making the correct decision, but I remain sceptical. If the new material doesn’t match up to their previous work, aren’t they running the risk of forever tainting their great name? Apologies for the negativity, but c’mon, this blog has always been a place for ‘the other side of the coin’. I personally hope it works out, and we can all regain some faith in British music. But if it doesn’t work out, just get yourself on Youtube, type in ‘I Wanna Be Adored’, and remember the good times.

I don’t have a great deal else to say really, so I’m going to wrap it up here. Enjoy, much love. X

Good evening peasants.

It’s been a while since I’ve written a blog, but have any of you even noticed? Have you fuck! A fair few things have changed since my last entry, so lets create an uber-fun list of recent developments, yes? Firstly, I’m now single (boo-hoo). I’ve started a new University course, this time in Professional Broadcasting Techniques. This basically means that I have to branch away from Radio, and actually learn about televised broadcasting. You can see me being the new Jonathan Ross, right? Knew it. All I have to do is develop a speech impediment, befriend Russell Brand, and give a respected veteran actor a phone call, and tell him that I fondled his grand daughter. I can do that!

Actually, that’s about it for the changes. How terribly dull. Speaking of dull, the Conservative Party Conference has now finished in Manchester, despite the feeling that it only started yesterday. I was hoping for something particularly interesting to happen while they were here, like George Osborne riding a hooker down Oxford Road, but alas, nothing. Did I catch a glimpse of Lord Cunt himself, David Cameron? Nope. Did William Hague sit me down and give me a lovely bedtime story about Lady Thatcher? Nope. Nothing! The only interesting thing that I even noticed was a disgruntled Asian man shouting at one of the departing Tories, with words that no man could ever understand. Needless to say, I was disappointed.

I’ve moved into a new place (probably should have mentioned that in my ‘changes list’…fuck it). It’s a neat little flat in Rusholme, and yes, before you ask, I did indeed Christen my flat with The Smiths’ “Rusholme Ruffians” track. Probably not a great song to listen to, as it’s underlying story is of a fair in Rusholme, in which people were often stabbed and mugged. Gloomy! I’m yet to encounter this fair, thankfully, although there is a strange man that plays with a remote control car next to our accommodation every day. It’s one of those strange activities that is probably hiding his inner-insanity. He’ll kill someone one day, is basically what I’m suggesting.

The new course, well, where to begin? I’m studying within Media City UK, and I have lecturers called Baldwin and Jose. Need I say anymore? I don’t think so. Moving on.

I’m still yet to have cut my hair, although I feel as though the end is nigh for my curly locks. I have the urge to pick up a pair of scissors and just go to town on this bad boy, but I suspect that I may need a professional to do it. This week, my flatmate Laura, decided to put it into a ponytail (in the middle of a busy pub, might I add). Apparently I looked like Orlando Bloom, but I quickly laughed off that suggestion. I’m considerably better looking than Orlando Bloom.

It’s often said that when one door closes, another one opens (often linked to relationships…like every famous saying seems to be these days. Bloody teenagers). Whilst I can see the logic in this saying, I also believe it’s all entirely down to your own doing, and whether you feel ready for this new door. For some, it’s a case of leaving a rusty, wooden, boring door, to a brand new shiny, touch-screen lock door, which basically had all the things that the previous door didn’t (I’ve now grown sick of the word ‘door’). For others, it’s unfortunately the other way round. My only advice on this, for whatever it is worth to those that are reading, would be to do whatever makes you happy in the grand scheme of things. Nobody likes a revolving door, if you know what I mean.

I usually ramble on about what I think about current music that is out there, but I see no real point. I still dislike Adele. I still dislike Ed Sheeran (bloody daywalker). I do however approve of the latest Arctic Monkeys album, even if it has been hovering around for a while now. And the new Bombay Bicycle Club album, also a great listen. But none of this quite matches up to my excitement about an upcoming project that is being rumoured from Slick Rick. If you aren’t aware of Slick Rick’s work, then educate yourself now. Get on Youtube, and listen to ‘Children’s Story’. This is one of the founding fathers of Hip-Hop, and a storytelling genius. I can’t wait to see if he carries on from his early 1990’s storytelling lyrics, and incorporates current day events. But then again, I am a tad sad.

I haven’t been to the cinemas in ages, what’s up with that? I love the look of this ‘Drive’ film, and I’m determined to see it before it leaves the big screen. It just looks so slick, so cool. Just everything that you’d love from a film (not to mention a brilliant soundtrack). I also fancy the look of this ‘Friends With Benefits’ film. The wonderful cast, the impressive entourage of directors and producers behind it…all of that was a lie, I just wanna see if Mila Kunis gets her cuchi out. Does she? Don’t worry guys, I don’t mind a spoiler, so long as you provide a link? Lovely stuff.

That’ll do for this blog, as the time is 05:06am, and I feel that my bed is calling me (I’m literally hearing voices, and none of you care. Bastards, the lot of ya). Toodle-pip one and all!