I DID IT!!!

The last month has seen me going slowly insane trying to complete this year's NaNoWriMo, the first time I've attempted it.

Basically, the idea is to write a novel in 30 days (well, 50,000 words, but that was good enough for the Great cocking Gatsby, so what the fuck?) .

And today I crossed the 50,000 line (I've still got a couple of chapters to flesh out, and the novel itself is actually bollocks right now and will need either substantial editing or possibly burning) and I'm reet chuffed.

But I really don't feel like writing right now.

I'm fucking knackered. I'm going to go and play some games.

Excuses

I was trying to come up with an excuse for not having updated this bugger in so long, then I found this collection of ready-mades!

We want MORE DOGS ON THE PITCH. And less football players.

I'm trying to avoid the World Cup. (Curse you, Freeview, for denying us our live Big Brother feed on the weekend the damn thing starts!) As I write this, there's apparently a match on, so the streets are lovely and deserted. Wasn't even a queue at the cashpoint. Sheena's loving the emptiness of the local parkland. It's great. For the first time in weeks, I've managed to leave the house without being collared by someone who expects me to actually give a shit about how well "we" may or may not do. Newsflash- I'M NOT FUCKING PLAYING. And neither, I'm fairly sure, are you, strange drunk man in the park. I can't really see you having made the team.

Look, it's like this. If you're gonna insist on taking the credit for something someone else did as a representative of your country, it should be all-encompassing. And I mean all-encompassing (which, I guess, is why I said it in the first place). Next time someone expects me to be impressed because "we" are doing well, I think I'll respond "well, congratulations for that... but I believe I still owe you a kick in the bollocks for invading Iraq". Look at it this way- at least with the government you can claim to have had a say in the selection process.

Anyway, in my atempts to avoid the football, I've been downloading tons of stuff from eMusic. And I've rediscovered the wonderful album "Teenage Snuff Film" by Rowland S Howard. And it's really rather ace. I've also been listening to a lot of 60s girl bands- The Ronettes, the Shangri-Las, and all manner of people I'd never previously heard of who appear on the album "Music For Pussycats", strangely selected by industrial Nazi and Satanist Boyd Rice.

And in a wonderful piece of synchronicity, Mr Howard covers The Shangri-Las' "He Cried", though he does a little bit of gender reassignment. And it's when sung in his wonderfully sneering voice that the true nastiness of the song is revealed.

I mean, part of the appeal of the genre has always been the sinister aspect, the constant threat of fiery motorcycle-related death, or suicide, or being shipped off to Vietnam... but this is just mean.

The narrator doesn't dump her boyfriend for any better reason than that another boy has "caught my eye". Caught her eye! Not some hard-to-resist fumbling after the school dance, or a gradual blossoming of friendship into something more- it's not like he even bought her a fucking pint! He was probably just wearing a funny hat or something! No wonder "he cried". I imagine he used a certain amount of harsh language as well.

And it gets worse! I don't know where she lives, but it's far enough away from Kansas City that some other dude has to get a train there. And, in the song about said vehicle, she makes it clear that she's done nothing to hint that when he gets there she's gonna drop the "dumped" bomb on him- she's not even planning to do it slowly and tactfully. She'll be back "in the time it takes to break a heart"!!! If I was the guy she's singing to, I think I'd be feeling a little insecure myself.

And don't even get me started on the "support our boys" stuff.

Of course, when Ronnie Spector sings on her new album about her ex-husband's cell/hell (depending on which verse) being filled with pictures saying how well she's doing, it's slightly different, as the ex-husband in question is Phil Spector, who quite frankly deserves it.

But as I said, it's the nasty undercurrents that really make it for me. Even the really nice songs sound like they should be used ironically in a Rob Zombie movie to add some counterpoint to scenes of hideous carnage. Or maybe that's just me...

Anyway, I'm going to go and try to find a shop that still has cold beer. These football fans are so selfish. Those of us who need cold beer EVERY DAY, and have loyally supported the brewers no matter what the season, have to put up with shortages caused by fairweather drinkers. They should run some sort of loyalty system, they really should.

Just who are these fucks anyway? And why do I care?

Okay. Once a week from now on. Even if I have nothing to say weekly, instead of once every few months.

This summer sees me once more descend into a kind of vampiric half-life as Big Brother comes back on. I managed to avoid this for years, but when last year's run turned (with the help of the magnificently-breasted Craig Coates) into the back-story for the best true crime documentary I have yet to see, I got sucked in. And this year's no exception. My days are split between sitting in front of the telly, walking the dog and arguing on message boards and at work about whether Sezer's a misogynistic fuckstick (he is), whether it's a good thing that posh guy who hated transsexuals and people slagging off the royal family left (it was) and whether Bonnie got a raw deal (she did).

It's weird- for the next few weeks I'll no doubt be obsessed with these morons, but it's a fleeting kind of obsession- this time last week I was fighting back tears as I watched Bonnie getting her largely-undeserved marching orders. Today she was interviewed on telly and my first thought was "I'm sure I've seen her somewhere before, but I can't quite place it". Probably the best way to be remembered, though- being forgotten by the public has gotta be better than being remembered for being the hairdressing world's answer to Ed Gein (Craig, last year).

I'm unreasonably excited about the prospect that Sezer might be out this week, though as soon as he goes I'll have no idea who the object of my disgust ever actually was. Come autumn I'll be thinking "whoah, what happened to summer? I must have done TONS of drugs, I can't remember a thing!" And then I'll realise I didn't, and I'll no doubt feel a strange sense of loss. Although at least this way I miss the fucking World Cup.

And hey. It's working as kind of an anti-drug for World of Warcraft.

NEW PUPPY!!! NEW PUPPY!!!

Yes, I am aware that I promised to update this bugger more often once I got broadband.

However, getting broadband coincided with my life being eaten by the magnificently addictive World Of Warcrack.

And then by something infinitely less sad:


This is my NEW PUPPY!!! Her name's Sheena (as in "...Is A Punk Rocker") and so far she hasn't eaten any of my comics. Part lab, part collie, part puli, all ROCK.

See, I really wasn't planning on getting a puppy. Then a friend of mine phoned me from the vet's and said "they've got this lovely little puppy here that needs a home, and they thought of you" (which was quite flattering in itself, really). Out of politeness I agreed to go and at least meet the little monster- of course, from that point I was doomed. They came out with this tiny little ultra-cute thing and I actually found it physically impossible to say anything other than "yeah, fuck it. I'll pick her up on Tuesday".

She's been here for a month now and I still haven't regretted it for a second.



BUT the most important thing, obviously, is to settle the eternal argument over who'd win a fight between a swan and a badger.

Even Bob's Animal Fights wasn't coming up with an answer.



IN THE BLUE CORNER...



Known on the circuit as "The Arm Breaker", for its much-vaunted ability to- no shit!- break people's arms, according to the Daily Star (and ABSOLUTELY NOBODY ELSE) regularly eaten by asylum seekers, ladies and gentlemen- THE SWAN.


IN THE RED CORNER...



Needing no introduction from me, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one known as Stripy Death... THE BADGER.


It was quite a hotly-debated question in certain circles. (Well, more of a triangle, really- there were only three of us). Eventually I asked the boyfriend-in-law, who's an ornithologist, and- you would have thought- would have had a vested interest in the one with the feathers. His considered opinion? "Badger. Anywhere except on open water, and even then, well..."

So there you have it. Badgers are harder than swans. Science says so.

(9x9 answers coming later today).

MERRY FUCKING X-MEN!!!

Just to point out... despite what Geldof may say, there WILL be snow in Africa this Christmastime. Do you remember Hemingway's classic novel "The lack of snow on Kilimanjaro"? No. Of course you fucking don't. Who'd win in a fight? Bob or Ernie?

You KNOW it's true.

Anyhoo, tis Christmas. And time to listen to the Ramones.

It just IS.

And I promise to update this fucker more often now I have broadband and it isn't such a chore. Well, when I get my life back from World Of Warcraft, anyway.

My point, really is...

...erm...

...non-existent.

Um.

Merry Christmas, motherfuckers, anyway.

And so, like The Beatles, it appears The Two Ronnies are also dying in the wrong order

Ronnie Barker has died.


I don't care what any of you fucks think, Porridge was damn funny.