I lucked out at life

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This unread blog may be a barely relenting moanathon, the sort that will make you not call a friend because they are too depressing, and you wouldn’t really be bothered if they killed themselves anyway, you heartless fuck. But actually I consider myself to have lucked out at life due to a few reasons:
1) I was born in the UK
So not much in the way of danger to life and limb, good healthcare and government institutions that mostly function. It could have been Indonesia, which is so shit that despite the overflowing number of people there they need to import Welshmen to make decent martial arts films. Maybe it’s un-Islamic to touch cameras or something.
2) Free university tuition and grant
Yeah, we used to get PAID to go to university. You didn’t even need to be that good at exam papers, some careless enrolment officer accidentally stamped me in with A-levels of C, C, D. Christ. And that was the proper Manchester University too. These days you can kiss £30k goodbye for just swapping UCAS numbers.
3) Managed to buy a house when it was humanly possible without 25 years worth of debt
Back in the days of yore you could look at a slum Victorian terrace and pick one you liked for £45k. Then as long as you could stomach the office grind before you went insane, you could throw money at the mortgage and get the thing payed off. Of course, if you decided that things like garages, neighbours you can’t hear and inside toilets were more to your liking, you were still screwed with a £100k mortgage, but hey, at least you had the choice to buy one you could afford.

Penny

Penny, acrylic on canvas

Penny, 2012.
Acrylic on canvas.

I painted this picture of a friends wife’s dog. Then they broke up, so obviously I had to take his side, and couldn’t Brutusly back stab him by giving her the picture. So I kept it. All the bits that look hard were easy (fur, collar), all the bits that look easy were hard (background). As usual I took about an hour trying to get the signature right. I should buy a pen for that bit.

Centenarians, your longevity opinions are useless

military veteran in a wheelchair

Periodically someone will jam getting to a hundred years old. The senile old fools are then accosted by lazy journalists and asked what the secret of a long life is. You may as well ask a foetus what the secret of not being aborted is, “I have always strived to shy away from anything remotely coathanger shaped, this is also why all my shirts are lying on the floor”.

“Luck” buddy. That’s your answer. Not smoking a cigar every day, or a glass of wine, or rubbing olive oil in your eyes. You may as well just ask these melting, shrivelled near deads “What can you remember roughly doing every day so I can clock off early and get down the pub”. You will get the same single data point replies.

The video reports are the worst: some wispy haired old maid who hasn’t kissed anyone other than a child struggling to escape her clammy grasp since Mugabe took power, her paper thin skin ready to bleed profusely but dilutely at the slightest paper cut, the sunken yellow eyes that remind you of that disease from The Rats, the twisted scoliosis hidden beneath an ill fitting dress.

And talking of lazy “journalists” I have a load of ideas for interesting blog posts, such as, “how exactly do perfectly good houses whose only fault is a murder or two in the lounge get demolished?” or the perhaps nonsensical “what are the long term environmental effects of stealing wind for wind farms” or going through screen caps of that amusingly 1970’s episode of The Professionals, and drawing the wrong, extremely racist conclusions from this excellent piece of drama. But these are all far too much work when I can just spew diatribe instead.

Percy

Percy, acrylic on canvas

Percy, 2012.
Acrylic on canvas.

My next door neighbour at the impressive age of 89, before he inconsiderately died before I got around to giving him the picture.
His fancy woman was only 87, and they had dated for 10 years, so I gave the picture to her. They used to walk to school together when he was 12, circa 1935. That’s an impressive long game he played there. I took notes.
I have accurately rendered the white hair sticking out of his nose (click the picture for more old man nose detail) but I made up the medieval style god rays emanating from behind.

BBC marketing deliberately spoils Dr Who

river song spoilers

One of the TV shows I love to watch when crowing about not paying a TV license is Dr Who, its “might be a fantastic episode“, “might be utter dog shit” format really makes those 45 mins an exciting roll of the dice.

Apparently now past it’s 50th anniversary, if we count the years when the BBC couldn’t be arsed making it, which is equivalent to saying I recently celebrated my 20th anniversary dating someone, if you don’t count the 15 years in between when I never spoke to her and attempted to bang the unfortunates who were desperate enough to seek inept male company from Rent-a-friend.

Anyway, amongst Dr Whos greatest strengths are its unfailing ability to cast white men in the lead roll, which soon even the BBC is going to be hard pressed to continue. However, the BBC marketing department makes it their business to plaster spoilers all over the BBC news website whenever the current incarnation is quitting, and this isn’t even a salary negotiation tactic, they just get sick of getting up early and working long hours and want to pursue a career signing autographs and trying to fuck groupies at conventions instead. Then when the BBC chooses another actor (£50 on it being a black/yellowAsiatic/bird this time), they plaster that over the website too, because god forbid anyone can actually keep a fucking secret and people might like a surprise. So come the end of the series, you know the doctor is going to “die”, and turn into someone else well before it happens.

Hey BBC, how about you stop spoiling your own TV show and being so disrespectful to your audience? Other organisations will go to some lengths to try and keep this sort of thing secret, but to the BBC marketing department, it is a ready made lazy press release. I bet they have a template by now.

And whilst I am on the subject, you should have stopped the series with emotional punch when the doctor ran out of his 12 regenerations, and picked it up a couple of years later, rather than fudging your way past it to keep sales of deus ex machina screwdrivers going.