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Posts Tagged ‘funny’

So it’s about that time of the year that those with the funds this summer take a minute and decide on what festival they’re attending. Or is it? With Glastonbury and Oxegen taking a year off and Sonisphere joining the Big Chill in being cancelled, have you decided against festivals this year? Can your purse/wallet not take the punishment? Or (perish the thought) is it your body that cannot hack the 3-5 days or so of absolute annihilation that you put it through? If any of these reasons are ringing any bells then you may be in the population of regular festival-goers that have bowed out this year only to be followed by the festivals themselves.

It appears that Reading and Leeds are going ahead as planned (hopefully at any rate, as I have a weekend ticket for the former) although tickets have not sold out, despite being on sale for over a month now. Am I the only one who can remember these tickets selling out within hours? The days of sitting in front of three screens with five different ticket sites open on each clicking the refresh button over and over? Crashing sites and engaged telephone lines seem to be a thing of the past.

Bestival, Camp Bestival, Download and V festival are among those that are soldiering on and it seems that the former two are some of the very few that are not suffering losses. The independent festivals orchestrated by DJ Rob Da Bank seem to be selling tickets as normal and the independent entrepreneur assures the public that they will not be disappointed and that “we’ll sell out again on both our shows.”

But it seems to be relatively lonely in its confidence of success. Sonisphere and the Big Chill are just some of the bigger festivals that have pulled out due to organisation and ticket sale disasters this year, whilst a host of smaller festivals too have been forced to cancel. Oxegen’s promoters too have stated that, like Glastonbury, they will be taking a year off, despite it being Ireland’s biggest and most popular festival and winning numerous awards. Sources claim that lack of ticket sales are to blame.

It seems that one of the greatest British pastimes for the summer is losing its buzz, and one shouldn’t struggle to fathom why.

The price is obviously a set back; with weekend tickets setting folks back often over £200, the initial intimidation to your bank account is surely something that has put many off. To attempt to combat this, sites such as Ticketmaster have brought in a deposit scheme for Reading and Leeds where customers can pay a 25% deposit for their ticket. Whilst speaking in an interview to NME, Festival Republic boss Melvin Benn stated that:

“It would be lovely to make [tickets] cheaper if it was economically viable but it isn’t… There’s going to be a deposit sale introduced for the March main sale, which will be the first time we’ve done that properly.”

Considering the majority of festival attendees are aged between 16 and 30 this is most certainly a wise move. However, this has not stopped 2012 being one of the worst years for ticket sales.

The spirit of festivals has declined too one could suggest, popstars who do not play instruments and rely on electronics to perform win the heart of the masses who have seen the old five-piece rock band routine all too many times.

Additionally, one of the most prominent factors that ought to be addressed is the tiny event that is being held in Britain this year known as the Olympic Games. An event with the historical magnitude such as this and that none of us will live to see on Britain’s shores again is a convincing diversion from a festival that will be held again a year after. This comes with another 60 events sprouting up to supplement the game; Radio 1 is hosting a weekend in Hackney and is charging a grand total of £0 for 100,000 lucky goers. The versatile line up seems to take Glastonbury’s absence with an appeal to many musical appetites with acts ranging from Rhianna to Enter Shikari and Ed Sheeran to DeadMau5.

Despite these issues, I for one hope that festivals do not die out and hope that they may find the spirit that is dwindling. The magic that was Glastonbury in the 90’s may have gone, where Oasis and Blur fought for control and instead of spending 1/5 of your loan on a ticket one could just climb through a bush, but we as a generation can bring our ingenuity too. And by that I don’t mean Justin Bieber and a rise in unemployment, but bringing something new to the musical table. Music has forever changed and adapted to its society and, therefore, so must its festivals.

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This is they way of things now, Wolf.” Said Red.

As he tried to clamber to his paws, the wolf glanced up in terror at the two women standing over him. He couldn’t understand.

One was an elderly woman, she was haggard in her face, a hunch in her back, but that did not cause him sympathy. Now this could have been for a few reasons. It could have been due to him being a cruel and heartless wolf, it could be that a wolf’s sympathy is not seduced by such things, perhaps. Or perhaps it could have been due to the heavy spade that the frail old dear was raising, to hit him again across the snout.

One was a girl of the age wherein childhood is but a repressed memory and womanhood a tentative cycle journey away. He felt nothing but pure dread when regarding the girl and her rosy hood. Now this might have been for a few reasons. It might have been due to the fact that despite being where he was, he felt such an affinity for her, it might have been from her long dark hair to that repulsively rapacious rouge robe that seemed to pursue him through the very wood in which he dwelled and through his very soul. It might have been this rebuked compulsion, perhaps. Or perhaps it might have been due to the eight-inch knife that he assumed the girl intended to use to remove his other ear.

This had been waiting to happen he thought. Fate had been hinting a change of play, in the way that it did, the unrelenting, unfeeling director that it was. Girls just weren’t what they used to be. No longer did they marvel at his propensities and their utilities or even fear from straying from the path. Perhaps he was no longer something to fear but a rite to simply conquer before continuing down along the passage.

He wondered why this was happening. It was in his nature to pursue and dominate (the wolf: a strong essentialist) but that didn’t seem possible these days. He even missed the huntsman. As he noted the absence of the third killing entity he noted its presence now obsolete.

As he got to his paws, the wolf looked up in terror at the two women standing over him.

“This is the way of things now, Wolf.” Red said.

He understood.

The End.

I just knocked this together in a few minutes. I’m writing a re-imagining of Little Red Riding Hood and Alice in Wonderland for my dissertation at the moment, investigating the gothic stereotype and female sexuality within the traditional fairytale. Yes, before you ask that is precisely what I ought to be doing right now.

This takes a slightly different route (obviously) in looking at the rise of feminism and the wolf as a symbol of male lust (as is pretty standard within the interpretations of LRRH), the male gaze and, perhaps, misogyny and patriarchy.

From Charles Perrault’s LRRH with its message at the end to girls to keep on the path and beware of wolves of all types makes it quite clear that to stray off the path is to lose your virginity and to keep clear of men who will try to charm you into bed. The story is a rite of passage within many different versions. Other versions take different stands, Angela Carter takes a feminist approach for example, The Brother Grimm another; the wolf usually embodies male lust and killing the wolf either symbolises repressing female lust and sexuality for safety, or setting it free to celebrate it. Nothing new here.

I suppose this represents that times have changed. The wolf speaks the voice of masculinity, intimidated by stronger women, being over-ridden and destroyed and highlights the crisis of masculinity found today. The wolf used to be the one that preyed on Red, she was the damsel in distress and fell prey to his dominance unless she behaved in a very puritan fashion. But now, despite the fact that her entrancing and arousing nature over the wolf has not changed, she is in control and exerting her femininity and sexuality over the wolf that causes him to fear her. He wants what will destroy him. The grandmother takes revenge on the wolf from her days of suffrage and it acts a form of ritual between generations as a rite of passage.

Red doesn’t require the huntsman (or any man) to save her or awaken her sexuality. Homo-social worlds are a thing of the past in this story.

The wolf presents an essentialist view upon gender and sexuality. He is confused as the lust and drive to hunt is something he was born with and therefore he is confused (to begin with) as to why he is being punished for it. Red presents a more social constructionist view upon gender and sexuality, and is performing the role she performs in every pro feminist reading of the original text(s).

Please leave comments on any other interpretations you took from it, it’s packed full of imagery and metaphors so that one and all can have (hopefully) an individual view of it!

Post Script: Sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors and stuff that doesn’t make sense, I’m in a rush and need food.

P.P.S: Thanks to this site for the image: http://www.toplessrobot.com/2010/12/the_10_sexiest_mcfarlane_toys_action_figures.php

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Morning all, or Good Afternoon, Good Evening and Goodnight to those of not on my island.

I haven’t posted anything for quite sometime I realise and for this, I apologise. I assure you that I’m not dead, not yet at least (each day is a blessing with the type of life I lead) but nearing the end of my three years of University education. Basically, that means I have about a month to do all the work I should have done over the past three years. Remaining are three assignments of around 4000 words, an exam and a dissertation of around 14,000 words. Sounds like fun? I’m literally lactating with joy it’s so much fun.

Anyway, enough of my moaning. That is why I have not posted anything for yonks, poor excuse I know. But, I have something pretty cool brewing (and it’s not the remnants of my breakfast) to put on here, but it is tied in with my degree, so it’ll be finished in a month or so, but watch this space. It’s the most challenging and advanced creative writing I’ve done so far. If you’ve read any Angela Carter (especially The Bloody Chamber that takes fairy tales and warps them beyond recognition) then this will be less shocking. The title of the essay companion that goes with it is: Little Dead Riding Hood: An Exploration into the Gothic Conventions Within the Traditional Fairy Tale. So that is to come. I also have a firework of a ghost story in the works. Just realised how much I’ve built it all up now, mistake. Scratch that, it all sucks OK? So don’t expect much at all (this way when you read them you’ll be pleasantly surprised).

Until then, I shall put up the odd bits and bobs as they stumble through my brain and onto my keyboard but don’t expect too much (not that you ever should really).

For now I shall leave you with this thought, if the duck that doth tell the trout that he serves himself alone, who doth the lilypad serve?

Image

Adieu, Chin Chin and Ta Ta for now,

Dormouse.

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Your words compel me,

Your mind does scare me.

But Samuel do you have to be,

Such a flimsy, whiny pansy?

.

I choose this adjective especially for you,

I realise it is nature you most adore.

The trees, the hills, tears of grass: dew,

Please realise it makes you such a bore.

.

And Bill too, you never cease to amaze,

How incredible you are describing what’s below me.

But sometimes I want to set your forests ablaze,

Then it won’t just be that cloud that’s so lonely.

.

To see you in your work immersed,

Is something to behold, quite Sublime.

But mountains aren’t arousing nor scary Perce,

You make me wish that eagle pecked at my liver sometime.

.

No-one is arguing about your talent and finesse,

‘The king of kings’, that title’s fair.

But you’re just so wet it makes me confess,

It’s that I look on, ye Mighty, and despair.

.

Not much matches your words for their beauty Keats,

The Love you describe is just as I feel.

But rather than touching yourself over how a stream meets,

Toughen up, and let my love heal.

.

If you took your eyes from the shoulder you cry on,

I’d look up with interest and without blasphemy.

Just grow a pair, and be more like Byron,

But perhaps without the incest and sodomy.

.

What I’m saying then boys,

Is you’re a bright bunch, especially with a rhyme.

But you’re doing my head in,

Polluting my lectures with blubbering,

So swap gender roles on your own time.

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Friday 25th November:

I’ve given it two weeks. Two weeks. I’m a dog, my memory doesn’t even last that long but I cannot get this frustratingly glorious man out of my head. It’s not even like it’s just his voice in my head. It’s his everything. I mean that’s obviously why I’ve been named after him. We’re both pretty amazing.

It’s not like I haven’t been keeping busy. I’ve achieved a lot in the last two weeks. I mean, Nick wouldn’t agree, but what does that idiot know about…well, anything? The guy doesn’t even chase squirrels, what an idiot. He wouldn’t agree because apparently completely digging up the front garden, tearing the heads off the flowers and depositing them in the holes isn’t an achievement. He called it bad behaviour. I call it landscaping. But there we go. And that’s not everything. I managed to catch seven flies that wandered past my nose, eliminate a flea in an awkward area and next door’s cat and the post man’s leg will never be the same after the incident with me yesterday. I showed them.

But despite all of this noble work, I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. OK, that’s a lie, I can eat, and I sleep quite a bit too but I feel like if I didn’t want to enough, then I wouldn’t be able to. He’s all I can think about. Him and whatever Nick’s cooking right now anyway.

I decided that I must meet him. But unfortunately, travelling opportunities are sparse for us canines. A man wants to take up and wander the world, he’s called a traveller. A dog wants to, and he’s called a stray. But I suppose a synonym of stray would be lost, and I haven’t been this lost and confused since I was neutered. And I feel, just like then, like I’ve lost my marbles.

But meet him I must, so I came up with a rather cunning plan. And considering most of my notions are pretty brilliant (eating the entire nativity display in the school where Nick works went down a treat) and tend to go as I planned if perhaps not well appreciated. But most brilliant minds are ahead of their times I suppose.

Anyway, Nick’s been seeing this girl right? Typical sort, not good enough for him obviously. I mean what can she do for him that I can’t? OK, there’s that, but perhaps a quick trip to the human vet and snippity snip Nick won’t think about it anymore? Worked for me. Anyway, he had her over for dinner last night, she tried to scratch my ears as she came in, pfft, I gave her the underside of my tail and sat in between her Nick on the sofa. It’s like I’m jealous says she. Not jealous you massively simple homosapien, you’re just not right for him. No one is, we’re quite happy thank you, so just leave. But she doesn’t. But that’s fine, I have more important things in store for this evening, and I don’t just mean her reaction when she sees the little gift I’ve bestowed upon her shoes.

As Nick babbles along about himself and his life to this ridiculous excuse for a companion (who’s man’s best friend again Nick?) I decide it’s time to my make move. I remove myself from the comfortable seat of Nick’s feet and cease drooling on this unsuspecting girl’s handbag and make my way casually over the desk. Here I discretely paw the remote control on the seat causing the stereo to come on. No prizes for guessing what album was playing.

As Nick discusses his love for the Boss of which it seems she also shares, (as if they know what love is, spend the last two weeks in my paws and then they’d know) I saunter along and place my head in his lap. It doesn’t take him long to realise I have something in my mouth, and not a sock or a dead bird this time. A newspaper. Yes Nick I realise that it’s funny that you can’t teach me to bring the newspaper from the door at breakfast time when  you want it. Yes I realise that I shouldn’t have it now. Please just take it from me you fool, I won’t even play tug of war. He takes the paper and sees what page is open. A certain someone is touring the UK, yeah he is.

As Nick stumbles in his conversation with the hitherto unaware girl, I wait for him to process what he’s just read and how much of a fantastic date this might make. Come on Nick, it doesn’t take a genius. There we go, and we’re in. Date is signed, sealed and delivered. They’re going to watch Bruce Springsteen, live, in Hyde Park. Park. That’s right. What does park mean? I’ll tell you. It means one simple sentence: Dogs Allowed bitch.

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So a friend, who shall not be named for purposes of his ‘reputation’ and my own already questionable sexual orientation, has asked me to write a poem about him. I have ergo decided to submit to this wish and write the second fasted poem I ever have, so I wouldn’t hold your breath for it.

Ode To The Captain

It is few, perhaps, who understand why,

The name Captain to him we gave.

And it is with a fitting sigh,

That I divulge the secrets of this nautical knave.

.

It is many that know him, of course well,

Of his technical and website ways.

But as a ladykiller? His sauce? Why the ladies befell,

Under his nautical and sure-sight gaze.

.

It is several that know him, of that I am sure,

For his supreme command of not just ships, but booze.

But perhaps not that many have seen, as has truly yours,

His head and sea legs, that he doth lose.

.

If there was a prize, for the one who is most fair,

Alas it would be such lies, if the award was his cross to bear.

Do not, nonetheless, assume this old sea dog is rank,

Or hearken here, you’re under arrest, and be forced to walk the plank.

Because whatever this chap’s in, he’s no rogue, no chav,

It is now known he is the Captain! And one of the best mates we have.

.

It took me 18 minutes……


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So there’s this little theory that I’ve been sitting on for some time now. Theory? It should be fact. Biology, pah, just because when you open up someone this isn’t there doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, even if it is only in a psychological sense.

My little theory is this: we humans, in fact have (at least) two stomachs. I realise this is far from popular opinion, but, who cares about that? Certainly not I, and neither should you.

I came to this state of spiritual awakening when eating a take away one time. I say one time, I tend to indulge in take aways far too often. But it was one time that I thought of it, so why am I even arguing it? I don’t know, but then again, what do you know? I could say I’m secretly Spiderman and you couldn’t prove that I’m not. I’m not, I’d definitely be Batman over Spiderman. But I digress.

It was a few minutes after I’d completely dominated this chinese take away we’d ordered, I myself was very impressed. Lying there, panting, clutching at my stomach as ‘the sweats’ truly started to take hold, I was pretty sure I needed an Oompa loompa needed to roll me off like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was at this time, that my girlfriend enquires if I would like anything else. Has she completely lost it? I can’t even feel my face I’ve eaten so much. Yet when she suggests that we have some chocolate lying around, suddenly, this seems like a most attractive opportunity. It wasn’t as if I felt any less full, and the thought of anything savoury made me want to grab the nearest bucket, but something sweet? There seems to be a previously undiscovered part of my stomach that is prepped and ready for some for dessert. Bizarre.

Now, thinking that perhaps it had been a one off, I awaited other such occasions and people to use as experiments. The same occurrence. Every time I’m full fit to burst, feeling like I need stirrups and a midwife to take over, I seem to have room to accomodate a bit of something sweet. I have discussed this with others and it is certainly not just something that is part of my own strange body, it seems to be a common thing. Who knows if there are other stomachs? If I end up over-indulging on alcohol, at the end of the night if someone suggests a night cap, glass of whiskey for example, I feel it’s a fantastic idea!

Have a think, and the next time you’ve eaten a large meal, and your main course stomach is full, think of dessert or sweet that you love (chocolate’s usually a good one) and see if your pudding stomach calls to you. Food for thought.

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