Smellmycheese's Blog

Archive for September 2010

 

Hang on, that’s wrong. Surely nothing says ‘don’t cheat’, like ‘just say no’. If anything, it’s pretty much anti love. I mean, if you love someone and they love you, you hopefully don’t need to be giving them that advice. Unless you’re Coleen Rooney that is. 

HA HA, topical football joke. How hilarious. 

Rapey connotations aside, I think it would be fair to say that ‘Just Say No’ isn’t the most romantic of sentiments.

Nor is ‘Grow Up‘. 

Not so, according to the makers of everyone’s favourite heart-shaped sugary confectionary (probably): Swizzels Matlow. 

Yep, that’s right folks, I’m talking about Love Hearts. They’ve changed. Oh, how they’ve changed. 

Long gone are the halcyon days of yore (so pleased I managed to shoehorn that phrase in) when we frolicked happily amongst the green, green grass of home, dishing out Love Hearts willy nilly, with such sweet and innocent phrases as ‘Be Mine’, ‘Sweet Cheeks’ and ‘Hot Lips’ written upon them. 

Granted, ‘hot lips’ is possibly a slightly dubious phrase for a child to use (whether it be via the medium of confectionary or otherwise) and I have never frolicked in my life. Stomped, marched, fallen: yes. Frolicked: no. However, the point remains that Love Hearts used to be, if not necessarily all about love, at least about crushes and compliments. 

Not so any more. And I blame the internet and Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. 

Actually, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan can be blamed for many things. Including making me wish I could reach into a TV screen and vomit into the face of the person currently on it. 

Point is, ‘You’ve Got Mail‘ may be a good film (if you hate your senses and want to put as many of them through as much discomfort as possible for two hours: sight sound and touch, because you’ll be hitting yourself in the face repeatedly in order to avoid falling into a coma), but it is not in itself a romantic sentiment and has no place on my Love Hearts thank you very much.

Same goes for ‘Text Me’. No, I don’t think I will text you thank you very much. And stop trying to give me sweets – it’s all a bit Gary Glitter. 

That’s not the worst of it though. As well as Love Hearts 2.0, we’ve got a new breed of Love Heart that simply does not make a scrap of bloody sense.

 Granny P loves you

 

Yep, you read that right folks: Granny P. 

Three questions: Who the fuck is Granny P, why is she on a Love Heart and I can’t think of a third one. 

Answers on a postcard please kids. Or on a shit love heart. 

And remember: Just say no. 

x

This weekend I came to the realisation that walking five minutes to and from work every day does not constitute proper ‘exercise’ and that sweating because your email’s down again, the internet has decided to have a little sleep or you’re faced with the fail whale (one for all you twitter lovers out there) for the 50th time in as many minutes, does not mean you’re doing a ‘work out’.

I came to this realisation because I attended the wedding of two old school friends – the ideal breeding ground for many a Bridget Jones-esque blog post on the joys of being two years off 30 and having NOTHING. [That's not true, I don't have nothing, I've got a Bagpuss hot water bottle cover that acts as a fairly good substitute for human affection on those cold, lonely nights.]

But those posts are for another time (something to look forward to, sure you’ll agree), back to the original ‘point’: I came to the realisation that I need to start moving my arse further than the front door, five minutes down the road to work and then back again (with the occasional added foray to the supermarket in-between the two) when I managed to break* both my calves during a spot of Kaylee dancing.

Me

For those unaccustomed to this particular genre of dance, Kaylee is also spelt Ceilidh and is basically like a massive version of the Hokey Cokey, but with a load more dance moves thrown in and a man with a beard who talks you through the moves at the beginning of each dance only for everyone to instantly forget them and revert to running round in circles in pairs and lolloping into the middle of the room like disabled, geriatric cows, trying not to bump into one another.

By ‘everyone’, I mainly mean me. Also the man with the beard probably isn’t compulsory; a lady with or without a beard could do the job just as well, I’m sure. Facial hair and/or genital persuasion didn’t appear to be essential for the role.

Anyhoo… five minutes into the first of these dances, various nerves twinged and snapped (probably) in both my calves. Obviously I couldn’t stop dancing and go and sit down, thus admitting I’d strained my leg muscles because I never fucking use them. I’M 28 FOR GOD’S SAKE. So on I carried, like the trooper I am. At this stage, my mouth had decided to run out of saliva and my lips were stuck to my gums, so it was a pretty attractive package all round for the poor sod lumbered with me as his dancing partner (and here, we can read ‘ dancing’ as ‘limping, gummy, sweaty mess’).

As a result of which, for the past two days I’ve been walking as though I’ve shat myself.

And no one wants that.

Thus the moral of this tale is: you don’t have to be obese to be a sweaty, unfit mess, you just have to be lazy as hell.

*break/strain… whatever.

Someone wise (or whose name I just can’t remember) once said that wasps are like chavs with wings, and I can see where they’re coming from to an extent: irritating, pointless and prone to unprovoked acts of violence.

I’ve yet to see a wasp in Elizabeth Duke playing donk out of its mobile phone on the back of the Number 1, however, but you never know. 

For the uninitiated, donk is a bit like a mix between techno and happy hardcore, which is pretty much the same as saying it’s like someone taking a dump in one of your ear holes, whilst shouting BASSLINE into the other.

It’s quite amusing though. As is someone taking a dump in your ear (your ear, not mine). For a prime donk example, check out this Blackout Crew video. Turn it right up and watch it all and, if you’re anything like me, you’ll get a strange, guilty pleasure from it.

I especially like the albino chap in black on the left. That’s right dear, you put a donk on it.

As for Elizabeth Duke, it’s jewellery that can be purchased from Argos for those extra special occasions when you need just the right item of jewellery to complement your outfit.

Such as a massive fucking clown pendant.

We’ve all been there.

massive fucking clown pendant

It's my birthday in just over three months folks... (hint, hint)

As usual, I digresss. The point is, I don’t know if wasps wear wasp-sized clown pendants and listen to donk, but it wouldn’t surprise me. What I do know is that they scare me far more than any chav ever will.

For one, a chav has yet to creep up on me unawares and attack me with its venom, causing me to develop a massive comedy hand for almost a week. Nor have I ever been swarmed by shitloads of chavs trying to get into my drink whilst I sit in a beer garden. Although though that does sound like something they might try to do, granted.

Below are a couple of pictures of my massive comedy hand for you, following the entirely unprovoked attack just last week.

comedy hands

comedy hand

I took these photographs for a couple of reasons.

  1. Sympathy. Obviously. What’s the point in being injured if people don’t know about it? It’s like self harming where no one can see. Pointless.
  2. Proof. If proof be needed, which apparently it does (amazing grammar there – sure you’ll agree), that wasps are vindictive, evil little bastards and my fear of them is 100% justified.

 

If anyone ever tries to tell me ever again that wasps ‘won’t bother you unless you bother them’ I’m going to take the cast of my massive hand that I’ve had made and smack them around the face with it.

Seriously people, it’s total bollocks. If a wasp flies near you, don’t just sit there like a lemon waiting to get stung, bloody run!

For now, I leave you with this awesome video from the vastly talented Kersal Massive, who sum up with dazzling lyrical profundity and an insight belying their years, what it truly means to be a youth in today’s Great Britain.

I challenge a tear not to creep to your eye at the line “Got on the bus with my day saver…”

Touching stuff.

Kersal Massive

"Fancy a spot of grand theft auto old chap?" "Why the devil not! After Countryfile though old bean."


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