Book Review!

Anne Applebaum - Gulag

Took me a while, and at the end of it, I wished I'd spent my time on something less perversely, pointlessly and counter-productively skewed/biased - like a weakipedia article.

The Sound of Music has a curious effect on me - it gets me cheering for the Nazis. It's the only thing in existence to do this, and Anne's book is the equivalent in terms of Stalinism. Didn't take long before I was cheering for little, deformed Jozef and wanting to print my own "Go Solovestsky!" t-shirts. All on account of her stupidly twisted portrayal. Any normal person would have presented the horrors of the Gulag and taken a step back from the horror in disgust. I know I would. But no, not Anne.

Let's spend more time trying to link the Gulag to Communism, Socialism, Marxism, Leninism, Trotskyism, even the British Fucking Labour Party than we will spend trying to point out the pointless, brutal corruption that was Stalinism. Hell, whilst we're at it, let's chuck in an obtuse defence of McCarthy. Stupid, stupid woman. All those resources at her disposal, all that horror to expose, and she spends a welter of her time on a ridiculous politicial polemic. She doesn't deserve the archival access she attained. But then, she doesn't deserve the eyes that evolution/god/reagan gave her, either.

A waste of resources, time, effort, brainpower and clever font. Anne? Fuck off.

Cheers, ta, bye.

Is he a Yankee? No I'm a Londoner.

I'm not really, I'm as Mancunian as rain. Still 100% Street Tuff, though.

So yeah, how are you all? Really? Sorry to hear it. Still, we all have our problems, yours aren't mine, so fuck off. I'll start again.

So yeah, hi and that. Two reasons for this post - the first is to use the title. I have more titles than reasons for posting, that one was too good to be forgotten. Hmmn, there's a song in there somewhere. A shit song, but a song all the same. Sorry, I've started swearing again. I'll go out and come back in and start anew.

So yeah, The Mutant Brain is changing. Well, not right now it isn't. Although it is, because I'm typing words into it that weren't there before, so it is kind of changing. But that isn't the change to which I refer. The change to which I refer is a different change, one that hasn't happened yet, namely a rationalisation, overhaul and general lick of heavy duty lead-based paint. Some bits will go (not the sPazAmps, there'd be nothing left for me to read back to myself and chuckle knowingly) - probably Superbean, he deserves a place of his own, somewhere where his full, incredible, largely made-up story can be told in full. Things will generally be trimmed down, and other bits will be tarted up. There will also be a new contributor, notionally to balance out my random, spiky bile-fuelled literary effluent. He's far more whimsical than I, and generally of a far sunnier disposition by nature than I can manage to pretend to be. Don't worry though, I shall carefully vet any contributions to ensure that the tone isn't lightened too far and, if necessary, stick some random swearing in. I'm a tyrant! A despot! A liar!

So be nice, and read them with dutiful care.

GET OUT.

IT DOESN'T MATTER if you just bought a fresh Bentley.

A pocket full of cheese to the first to guess the song. Note: no actual cheese will be gifted or in anyway transferred.

So, hello! Oof, that was a bit cheery, sorry. So, yeah. Hi. That's better, much better. Few things I want to get through, but I'll probably do one and then get distracted by something shiny - I'm incredibly shallow like that. In fact, Shallow could be my middle name, if it wasn't already Tiberius. It's not that, either, to be honest. Either way, it's not Shallow. But it could be. Christ what a load of old waffle. I, David Tito L. apologise.

So, just in case I don't bother finishing before being distracted, here are the top topics tickling my titanium cranium this Friday evening. Twitter, Dr. Hook, Inadvertantly Threatening Songs, Something Else That I've Already Forgotten.

So, here goes. I promise I won't be starting every paragraph with "so". It isn't a theme or anything.

Twitter
Shitter, more like. Haha. Not really, I just couldn't resist typing it. I had a sudden urge to sound like a right twat, the sort most commonly encountered down the pub expounding on Football. "Arshavin? ARSEshaving more like! Huurrrrr hurrrr huuurrr ARSEshaving hurrr yeah? Hurrr hurrr ARSE yeah? Yeah? Hurrr hurrr hurrr" [unnecessarily forceful elbow nudge] "hurrr hurrr yeah? ARSE hurrr hurrrr". They will be drinking Stella.

Anyway. Twitter. I use it, obviously. It's a means of directing my tedious waffle at an uncaring internets, so of course I use it. But it's so utterly irritating and infuriating too. How am I meant to limit myself to 140 characters? I yawn longer than that (usually when other people talk to me). But that's not the real irritant though, oh no (obviously I manage to find a use for it at times), not by a long chalk. It's the "celebrities" - and more particularly, the clods who reply to their tweets, like they're really good friends and that. BIGFATCHRISMOYLES "I ated nineteen pies today" RANDOM INTERNET SPOD "Oh LOL Chris! I luv piez 2! We cud b twinz!" Fuckers. And that's the other thing - txt spk n shit in tweets. The only really vaguely intriguing element is trying to fit something other than an update on your feeding habits into the character limit "Had breakfast. Was nice. Yum". Usin da txt spk n shit just makes a mockery of the whole challenge "Had brek 2day cocopops is gr8 they make da milk ded brwn n shit LOL RIP in piece brekfust I 8ed u so gud HAHAHA xx tb xx". I have no idea if that example is of sufficient length or not, nor do I have any inclination to check with my counting finger. Still, fuckers, the lot of them. Also, I've accumulated a random follower who already follows nearly a thousand others. Haven't a clue who she is, daft bint.


Dr. Hook
Short one, this. Hopefully. I revealed to the world, via the medium of Twitter, that I listened to two separate Dr. Hook songs today. I've listened to lots more since I got home, but that's not the point. One of the songs that the spazPod injected into my earspace on the tram home today was "You Ain't Got the Right". Meant to be sad, with wry humour. The wry humour is there, but unfortunately the sad is negated entirely by the inadvertant humour (they'll reappear in the Inadvertantly Threatening Songs section, but more on that later). See, Denis Locorriere - he's the main singer, the one without the eyepatch but with the bobbly head and stupid hair on the video for the really shit famous song of theirs that isn't Sylvia's mother, you know the one, it's always on TOTP2 and VH1 - he tries to inject some real, genuine, gritty emotion in his sings. Sometimes, he overdoes it. Give it a listen, go on. Starts well enough, proper singing, little bit wistful, little bit country, little bit good. Then Denis starts on the verse. By the time he gets to "all her pretty clothes were gone" around 50s in, the catch sneaks into his quavering voice, and the seeds of musical destruction are sown (might be exaggerating a little there, but you know what I mean. At least you do if you've been listening along), and by the time it hits Denis croaking "oh no no" melodramatically behind the following chorus, the giggles have started. He interrupts each and every chorus thereafter in a similar, and increasingly desperate fashion. It's awesome. Awesomely amusing. And just generally awesome. Oh no, no NO NOOOO NOOO *sob*

I'm listening to it right now.

What was the other thing? *scrolls up* Oh yeah, Inadvertantly Threatening Songs.

Inadvertantly Threatening Songs
This is prompted today by Dr. Hook, but is something that I've touched upon before (ooer). It all began with Tom Jones. Doesn't everything? Truly, he is the creosoted creator of all greatness. Incidentally, if you haven't already done so, I reckon you should acquaint yourselves with the Tom Jones Redemption Memorial sPazAmp (Hnngh!), which can be found here. Yes, yes, I know. You all have it bookmarked and read it daily, understanding that it constitutes the very pinnacle of my whimsically amusing output (just edging out my Colossal Cave Adventure sPazAmp of Doom. Quite depressing reading them back, I was so much funnier back then.) Where was I? I wandered re-reading my own awesomeness and listening to The Tom (looks like you got LOVE-ITIS!). Oh yes, that.

See, it began with "She's a Lady" and "I (Who Have Nothing)". Go listen to them thoroughly, then come back and carry on reading. Back? You did good, your ears will thank you (if they actually do thank you, seek specialist help, that isn't normal). First, She's a Lady. In Tom's world, to qualify to be a "lady" is to not ask for much, don't get in the way, say some nice things, and - if you're really lucky - he might not punch you. Oh, and be good at doing sex at him. But he'll likely as not punch you anyway, so you better have a strong chin (she can take what I dish out, and that's not easy. Cock-based boast, or thumping-based observation? You decide). It all means well, but those are some hugely sinister and orange undertones. Like Fergal Sharkey wearing a cape in a tanning salon. Still a might fine song. As is "I (Who Have Nothing)", which widdles all over the leathery lunged Shirley Bassey version (no, I'm not gay, it just sounds that way sometimes). It's all covered in the other post, but it bears repeating.

All very dramatic and heartfelt, enough to stir the most unstirrable of cold, slimy, walnutty hearts (like mine). But then - "he can take you anyplace he wants, to fancy clubs and rest-o-ronts, and I can only watch you with my nose pressed up against the window pane". So there you are, having dinner, possibly with a swoonsome, foxy tycoon type. He treats you right, buys things (like diamonds, bright sparkling diamonds), and feeds you food in rest-o-ronts. You couldn't be happier. You're being swept off your feet, seduced by talk of the Riviera and Venice. You're very likely moistening. And then, oh, and then. You look up. There's a pair of starey eyes, a mop of unruly hair and an oversized circle of condensation with an orange leathery Welshness splodged against the window pane behind it. It'd put you off your nosh at the very least, and possibly lead to a restraining order.

And then there's Dr. Hook. Short and snappy, it's all in the song "A Little Bit More". When your body's had enough of me, and I'm laying flat out on the floor. When you think I've loved you all I can, I'm going to love a little bit more. In fact, I'm going to wait until you're asleep with aching thighs, then I'm going to slip it in when you least expect it. I'm a sex pest! I sleep on the floor! Surprise sex! My friend Ray has an eyepatch! Sordid.

No, I can't remember the other thing. Still, I reckon that's enough - if nothing else, it contains links to the twin peaks of musical witterings, with pictures.

BEGONE.

Weh mir, oh weh

That's German, that. You can have that nugget of linguistic marvel for FREE, motherfucker. A little bit of polyglot self-pity, just for you, and you, and yooooo-hoooo-ooooo. Sorry, turned into Jim'll Fix It, there. Hopefully your head is as full of jewelry-bedecked old duffers in tracksuits bouncing nippers on their knees and leering at them as mine is. It would only be fair.

See, that's why I could never call this blogging. It's also why I could never write anything of any actual note. A cheap quip waves cheekily at me from across the textual way, I go steaming right in. I can't resist. Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native would have been a HELL of a lot funnier if I've written it. It would also have never have been published.

Anyway, I realised I hadn't stained the internet with any of my brain juice this year (well, I have, just not here), so I thought I should rectify it. And now I have.

Weh mir, oh weh indeed.

What a Debaucherous Bunch of Ruddy Loons!

Yeah, lyrics again, no special pertinence. And yeah, I preferred it when it was Judge Dredd swears, too.

You know what I noticed today? Well, not just today, I've noticed lots over a large period of time. I'll start again. Next paragraph please.

You know what I clearly noticed enough to be moved to come home and type at the internets about? Well, I'll tell you. There aren't half a lot of steamingly ugly people around. I have it on good authority that it is acceptable practice to peep about the place when you're sat on the tram/bus (or whatever) with your headphones on (or not, as the case may be) clocking people and briefly, idly evaluating them. Y'know "would, wouldn't, probably would, ugh no that's a man, eight pints would", that sort of thing. Well the only words that seem to pop into my head are things like "waxen-headed harpy", "plastic-faced troll", "sow-visaged mutant", "good christ, what the FUCK is that all about", "balding, orange, ham-armed midget". Most unpleasant.

Yes, I know. It is a good job that I'm perfect.

Another box of Mr. Kipling's Mince Pies appeared in my kitchen yesterday (I think they must be on offer at the Spar or something. Well, it's actually a Nisa now, not a Spar, but whatever). Leaving aside the fact that they are criminally horrible (quite pleased that Christmas has now fucked off, to be quite astonishingly frank), the competition and prize plastered all over the offending box quite intrigued me. See, the prize for the competition (can't remember what the competition was, probably a quest to see if you eat three of them without pulling a disgusted face or something) took the form of family tickets to see your all-time favourite pantomime. Well, what if my all-time favourite pantomime happened to be "Hot Danish Festive Lesbotic Lady and the Seven Equally Lesbicious Minge-a-holic Dwarfs"? Firstly, I think it is outrageously, nay, criminally irresponsible of Mr. Kipling to want to send a family to something like that - a family might reasonably be assumed to contain children, and I hardly think that ninety minutes of lusty midget ladies having a go on each others lady bits is suitable fare for children. Secondly, I think it is a quite ludicrous proposition of Mr. Kipling to offer me tickets to something that patently doesn't exist.

And that concludes my report on Christmas 2008. I'd like to thank a bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive it with minimal long-term damage. Thanks, Bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive Christmas 2008 with minimal long-term damage. There, I did it.

Now all we need is for New Year's Eve to fuck off, and I'll be a happier man. Well, marginally less rancorous, at any rate. I mean, really. What is the point? What is the strange passion that grips people and sends them out in their droves, grimly determined to enjoy themselves no matter how unlikely a proposal it is? I know, let's go to a pub/bar/club/brothel that we like, one we often go to and actually do have fun. Only for this one night, let's queue up for three hours and pay £30 for the privilege of entry even though it's free the rest of the year (if you chose brothel, then that bit probably doesn't apply. You probably have to pay for, ahem, "entry" most of the rest of the year, too). And then struggle to get drunk enough to be able to delude ourselves we're having fun, failing in the struggle because getting served takes three hours because they've let about a hundred more people than the fire safety licence actually allows, and you're trapped, pressed up against hordes of grey-faced sweating retards, equally grimly determined to convince themselves and the world that they ARE HAVING FUN. So grimly determined that they may occasionally attempt to hug you, or put their arm around your shoulders with an inordinate amount of force, squeezing tightly to try and squeeze the reality out of their tiny, malfunctioning brains. In one last, stomach-turning hurrah, one final assault on the Fortress of Fun, they'll sing. But they won't just sing, they'll be possessed an urge to hold your hand with their wrong hand and pump it violently whilst bellowing out the first line of Auld Lang Syne over and over because they are too feebly mongoloidy to know the rest of it. And heaven help if you don't want to sing. They'll probably shove a chair in your face for being a SPOILSPORT, a SCROOGE (even though that's Christmas and cock all to do with New Year), and RUINING THEIR LOVELY FUN. Grim-faced twats. Then, to top it all off, you have to wait nineteen hours in a freezing cold taxi rank with the retards, get bottled and/or stabbed, and pay the driver £80 for the privilege even though the same journey only costs about £12.

Reckon I'll stay in tomorrow.

See you next year! Hahaha, haha, ha. Ha. Ohhh, I'm so FUNNY.

Black is the Colour (of my Cat's Fur)...

...is just one of the songs on this album, apparently. It's a real, actual, purchasable album. And really, you have to ask the question.

FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK WHY?

Also, neither of your cats appear to be black. Racist.

Conundrum

No, not the kind that Carol Whoreface Vorderman would do inbetween flogging debt and margerine-based phantom cholesterol cures to poor people in adverts. Do I do a post about the awesomeness of Grant Hart (erstwhile drummer from Husker Du [apply your own umlauts, fuckers], heroin addict and top-drawer musicker), or do I do a sPazTune?

Poor Grant has less than a thousand listeners on Last.fm. I find this utterly criminal, as I secretly passed a law making not registering your love for Grant Hart on Last.fm a crime. It also makes me sad, as he's a talent that your ears crave, cleave to and generally want to have ear sex with.

Well? Hurry up, cementdudes, it's already gone midnight. Oh, you can't suggest until I've posted, can you. By which time, I will doubtless have decided, and the whole matter will be redundant. Oh well, much as I hate to disappoint my readership (hi millie, if you're still reading. If you are, why? Go and have your head felt), I shall plough on regardless and you will doubtless see the fruits of my ploughing in the next post. I somehow doubt it will be a crop of turnips. Crock of shit, maybe, crop of turnips, less likely.

Alternatively I could do something about the persistent box-based irritant that is safety matches, or wibble on about Kingmaker.

Oh, decisions, decisions.

You Gotta Categorize

'strue, y'know. Something to do with the Credit Crunch - so important that I've given it capitals. Not entirely sure what it is - either a tasty new cereal or a complete fabrication caused by people like Robert Sodding Peston (to give him his full name), fuelled by speculation, ill-informed media-type-hype and retarded middle-class Daily Mail readers obsessed with the relative price of their houses. In that sense, it's much like economics and capitalism in general (in the made up sense, rather than the crunchy cereal way - although if Weetabix have rebranded as Oatso-Discontinued-Line-of-Credit since I last looked, then I apologise). Like a simpleton running about a 747 shouting BOMB! BOMB! TERROR BOMB! SHOES! BOMB! only featuring all of your money and all of Iceland's money. You've no personal, attestable evidence of the SHOES! BOMBS! or TERRORS! but it's a fair bet you'll start acting like you do.

Quite where I'm going with this, I don't know. It could get worse - the mere mention of Robert "Self Aggrandising Menace to the Markets" Peston has got me all angried up about Nicky Campbell. And the idiots that populate Radio 5 Live in general. Bloody idiots.

Anyway, yes. There'll be a couple of new categories along soon. How soon, it's too soon to say, but soon. They'll be lovely, I guarantee it. I also guarantee you'll hate them/ignore them (delete as applicable), which is, after all, why I do this.

BYE.

Comments!

Comments, yeah! That's my enthusiastic way of informing you (yes, you. The nebulous you that I am entirely uncertain exists in any corporeal or measurable form. Sort of a person version of the concept of Russell Howard's alleged "talent") that I've actually responded to all the comments that had been left. Even the one I completely didn't understand (you know who you are, Flower Travellin' Band Fan). Leave more. Go on. Please? Look, I'm paying attention now, I wasn't before. I'll actually read them within about a week of being left, not the six months it was previously. Look, don't make me beg. Again.

Returning to Russell Howard. Do I mean Russell Howard? Russell someone at any rate, and I know I don't mean Brand, Grant or Harty (who are, incidentally one of the oldest law firms in New Zealand). Tell you what, I'll describe him, and then we'll see which Russell I mean.

The boz-eyed, gimp-faced horse-tickler of a comedian. The one who isn't a comedian at all, on account of him being a bazillion times more irritating than he is funny. The one who pops up on panel shows, the one who doesn't fit in, the one who seems like the fucking irritating younger brother of your mate - the really spoilt one who always had to be allowed follow his brother around and join in, despite being FUCKING IRRITATING, because if he wasn't allowed he'd tell his mam and ruin everything (including the glue-sniffing), the one that was constantly trying to show off and being embarrassing, the one desperate for approval and acceptance, but going about it all wrong and MASSIVELY PISSING YOU OFF in the process.

The one who looks like he'd be better suited to presenting Blue Peter. Blue Peter in HELL.

Is that Russell Howard?

I'm listening to Metallica. And enjoying it. Sorry. Still, at least it's off Ride the Lightning (it's "Creeping Death" if you're interested), so it has guaranteed ginger riffs. I mean RIFFZ. Sorry again.

Holy moly what the...JEFF!

It's a satanic Most Haunted thing, you wouldn't understand. There is a missing sPazAmp, and this post is here by way of apology and, perhaps, explanation. See, it was all to commemorate the passing (in a football sense, he's not dead or anything) of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer - the man, the myth, the legend, the baby faced assassin, the pretty darn good United striker from Norway. It wasn't that funny, and had pretty much all the same songs on as all the other ones. But it was my little pointless way of commemorating the glorious playing career of one of our most faithful servants. Cheers OGP, you had a shuffle, and it isn't on here. Soz, chief. Back shortly with some further pointless ramblings.

Bye!