Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Monday, 21 May 2012

Why We Must Keep Grot in Our Woods

A little while ago I was working for a games company and I went to this convention type thing and there was  this little cunt playing Guitar Hero.

The screen was going ape shit crazy, psychedelic circles flying towards the screen on a fretboard conveyor belt, whilst some virtual prick ponced about in the background. I was having an acid flashback and his fingers were flying - he was breaking all records.

As he wandered past afterwards, expecting veneration, I said "you do realise that if you'd put all those hundreds of hours of practice into learning the actual guitar Kim Kardashian would be sucking you off right now". I didn't really, I just thought it and snarled at him. The point is, Activision have discontinued the game and those fingers are now good for nothing but a data entry job and the relief of anal itches. Who's the winner? I'd like to say me, but we know that's not true.

I thought, why the fuck are people so happy to spend so much of their lives gaining skills that in the real world are absolutely useless? Is it a niche thing? All the real positions are taken, so people console themselves with being the best in a virtual world, and if you're shit in that too then you can just create play offline and be the best in your own little universe?

Or is it because everything is now on tap? Am I thirsty? Yeah, better go to the shop and get some sugary orange flavoured piss down my gullet. Have I got a dick? Yeah, turn on the laptop, type in any two words and insert hand into pants.

Is it demotivating? When I was a kid we had the sugary pisswater, but the smut was a scarce resource - we had to work for it.

I'd go on these epic bike rides with my mates – our folks probably thought we were training for team GB, but we weren’t thinking of the Olympic velodrome, we were just looking for the nearest patch of wood. If we saw more than five trees within a foot of each other we were off those bikes and scratching around.

We did it because then there was a code of chivalry. As soon as you had a regular girlfriend, or got married, you'd get your stash of porn and you take it to the nearest wooded area, you put it in a carrier bag, along with a pair of soiled knickers, to prove that you are now fucking someone, and you'd leave them there for some hormone crazed teenagers to discover. Of course, if you were the teenagers discovering them you couldn't take them home, mum's radar was too powerful, but you wouldn't hide them in the woods either, fuck no. You'd hide them in ditches.

We had a network going that was more comprehensive than the fucking ley lines. I could be anywhere in the county of Essex and know that I was never more than half a mile from a hedgerow wank, and when you’re fifteen that’s an important thing to know.

It was a motivating force for an entire generation. Because of its scarcity it encouraged competition and creativity. At weekends you could see different groups of kids applying different tactics. Some adopted sedative type strategies, paralyzing their parents because they suspected there might well be a stash lurking in the house somewhere. I wanted to be one of those, but my dad was too straight. I found a mag in my mum's drawer though, but that only had Italian men with massive wangers in it and, frankly, that was scarring for me and my transitional cock. So I had to tag along with the fucking bikers.

 I didn’t want to but it was my only avenue. My ninja climbing claws hadn't arrived from America yet and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to be one of the cunts that just walked into shops and ordered it. That was the approach of another mate of mine. He couldn’t come on the bike rides because his parents never taught him to ride, so it was his only option. But it fucked him. He didn't have to graft - like him it came too easily. In order to avoid wanking himself into dust he had to up the stakes. By the time he was eighteen he couldn't get off unless it involved a gran having a piss over someone.  But we went miles for ours – we earned every wank, and so a pair of tits and a bum were always enough for us. Except one.

As soon as we found our first stash that was it – he was hooked. He’d take off every evening and weekend on his chopper, then go home and thrash about with his other chopper. Before long he was touring the whole country.

Whilst I can't tell you his name I can say that it’s served him well -he's now a Tour de France legend. One of the greatest cyclists of his generation started out scratching around Essex with us lot looking for smut. And I wonder - is it still the motivating force? Is it the prospect of what might lay around the next corner the thought that carries him up all those mountains? Every time I switch on the telly to watch him compete I’m terrified he’s going to catch an errant carrier bag out of the corner of his eye and that will be it – he’ll be off his saddle with his conscience in his hand, pumping away, and his tour will be over for another year.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

What the Fuck is up With the Super Rich?

Whilst I was doing some research for my radio play I came across the news story that an Australian billionaire is making a Titanic 2 - not the movie, the ship - and I thought, 'quite fucking right, why the hell aren't the rest of them doing the same?'

For example, Roman Abramovich, the Russian oligarch is worth 9 billion pounds. What's he doing with it? Buying massive yachts and football clubs. What is this - you can either have money or an imagination, but you can't have both?

Fucking hell, if I was him I would have twenty big dicks surgically attached to my torso so I could fuck ten women at once. I would have my anus removed and replaced with a solid gold one. I would set up a laboratory to explore space travel and I would build a life sized Millennium Falcon in my garden, complete with gun turrets, so at least I could blow away any troublesome pigeons that dine out on the ostentatious discards I would litter my garden with from the night before. I wouldn't buy a football team, I would buy the league. I would decorate my team with useless old fucks and make sure they won every game.

Bill Gates is worth 50 billion. Why hasn't he bought Alaska? He could employ 500 million Indians to walk there and build a 50 mile high pyramid, made from obsidian and marble, complete with a 2 mile wide plasma TV, offering split screen viewing, so he could watch the baseball and keep an eye on his share prices at the same time. If I had 50 billion dollars I wouldn't rest until I was the first human being to physically fly. With that kind of cash I could get scientists to attach actual workable eagle wings to my back. Whilst they're working on that I'd get them to insert miniature hovercrafts into the soles of my feet so at least I could embarrass Dave Blaine in the meantime.

Hmm, maybe that's why they've got billions and I haven't.