Wow, blood takes AGES to wash off, doesn’t it.
Wow, blood takes AGES to wash off, doesn’t it.
No, this is the most scouse thing ever. I was in PoundBakery in St John’s Shopping Centre (don’t judge, the pies are nice and 2 for a quid, alright?) when some baghead nicks a couple of pasties from the basket out front. They guy behind the counter says, not unreasonably, “Aw mate, come on, they’re only 50p”, to which the baghead goes ballistic, protesting innoncence, threatening staff and requiring the security staff to be called. When they turn up, he runs about, gets mobbed and disappears under a melee of flailing arms and legs, screeching at the top of his voice “THEY’RE NORREVEN FUCKIN’ BAKED!!”. (not even baked) as if the cooked/not cooked status of the stolen pasties had anything to do with it. Awesome. Only in Liverpool.
Loading ironing boards onto the machine that puts the rubber feet on them. 8 hours a day at the end of a conveyor belt, clanking machinery so loud you couldn’t even talk to people 5 feet away and total monotony. Lasted a week. But the WORST was running a machine that made fibreglass rope. Three strands of fibreglass rising from hoppers to be plaited and wound with fibreglass string by machine, all of which would break at random, so you couldn’t take your eyes off the thing or the whole rope would be f**cked. Particles of airborne glass everywhere. 110 degree heat. No radio or conversation. And did I mention that although fibreglass is itchy to everyone, I’m actually allergic to it too? I had to wear a boilersuit, double latex gloves, a respirator, goggles & a hat - and packing tape at my ankles and wrists to stop the glass fibres getting in, none of which really worked. All this in monotonous, noisy, conversationless, humourless, smelly heat. Physical and mental torture. Lasted 10 days and I don’t know how I managed it. People, I know the rent has to be paid, mouths need feeding, futures need to be planned for, but don’t put up with bad jobs. You could be stuck doing s*&t like this for years and for what? Low pay and no respect. You deserve better: go get it.
OK, a little background. My ex-wife could belch like a trooper, and more than that, could swallow air to burp on command. When she did this, she’d burp/talk and say things like “GODZILLA”, recite the alphabet and “BOLLOCKS” (the English slang for balls, for my US friends reading this). I know, classy, right? Anyway, we’re all at my Dad’s 60th birthday party, lots of people my Dad’s age, quite genteel, y’know? and my ex stifles a burp, all lady-like for a damn change. Just then comes one of those moments when all the conversation in a crowd dies and the room falls silent. That’s the exact moment my (then) 3yr old son pipes up and says “Say BOLLOCKS, Mummy!”. She was mortified; I was so impressed I bought him ice cream.
Yeah, OK, fair point, Buzzfeed is primarily an entertainment site BUT in that case, why does the writer dress up this article with apparently science-y factoids? In addition to being a marine biologist, I’ve also been a professional writer in my time, hopefully an entertaining one, and repeating lame or untrue BS isn’t the way it’s done. If you’re going to include science or facts of any sort in a piece, you’re supposed to get them right, that’s all. Be funny, be entertaining, but be correct. Entertainment site or not, it’s still journalism. Lazy writing, lazy fact-checking, lazy sub-editing. I don’t want Buzzfeed to be Scientific American or PLOS, but I do expect better from a big site like this. See the comment from sassylobsterhands above about a similar Cracked.com article, which I also saw. Same pictures, same funny, but no attempt at any fact back-up and obviously “OMG Look at this weird s**t!” rather than this article, which attempts to drop some science on ya. Say and write what you want in an article, sure, but make sure that what you say is as correct as you can know it to be.That’s all I was trying to say.
Hi, I’m a Marine Biologist (no, really) and whilst I agree that many of these cool and interesting creatures look, er, like your worst nightmare, they do so for good reasons, like no light and little food down there in the deep. Also, the reporting here is waaaay sloppy and in places, untrue. The writer has lazily just repeated sensational soundbites from other websites or bad tv. For instance, out of 130 giant squid measured by Steve O’Shea (google him for squid truth), none had bodies larger than 7.4 feet, with tentacles none larger than 42 feet. They’re big, as squid go, but they ain’t godzilla big, and most of that length is tentacles, not actual squid. Also, they don’t eat whales. Any whales. Ever. The biggest squid couldn’t eat the teensiest whale. Nope. Actually, the reverse is true - giant squid (and colossal squid) form up to 72% of the diet of sperm whales, especially the big bulls which live in the south atlantic and antarctic seas. Finally, humans wouldn’t be squashed to pancakes by the deep sea pressure. We’re made, mainly, of water - which is incompressible, pretty much. The air in our lungs and other gases trapped in our bodies would get squeezed to tinyness though, and that wouldn’t do you any good. Pancaked though? Nah. As I said, lazy-ass writing. The writer could have extolled the wonder and strangeness of these remarkable and rarely seen animals, but just went for the cheap shot. Lazy, boring rubbish. Shame on you!
Nope. Probably because Joy Division - regardless of the timeline - were really post-punk/new wave, both musically and in terms of fashion and movement. And if you’re about to have a thrombosis about my opinion, it’s only an opinion, but I am from Manchester, mates with John Robb of the Membranes, Goldblade, a nodding acquaintance of Hooky and old enough at 46 to have actually been there and remember it. Oh, and a music journalist. So, whilst I apologise for the shameless name-dropping, I do know what I’m on about.
Hawksmoor by Peter Ayckroyd
I Was Dora Suarez by Derek Raymond
True Grit by Charles Portis I don’t want to say too much about this trio of deadly, fantastic little books, other than True Grit is so much more than you might think it is, Peter Ackroyd is one of the finest writers alive today - and that the Sargeant Sargeant series of novels by Derek Raymond, of which this is one, are some of the darkest, most brutal explorations of the human psyche I’ve ever read. Wrapped up in the tropes of gritty, grey police procedural (maverick, disaffected cop, grimy streets, violence, bloody crime scenes and even a serial killer), what Dora Suarez actually is, is a paen to wasted life, and the terrible impotency of those who rage against that waste. There isn’t an ounce of glamour or murder-fetishism in it (murder is sordid and disgusting, it says) and the killer is… well, go read it. You probably won’t thank me for suggesting this book, but you will come away feeling punched in the gut. Awesome, in the genuine sense of the word.
the easy way out, cowardice, man up, pull yourself together, ultimate selfishness… these are all outdated, cliched, damaging and degrading stereotypes of misunderstanding about depression and mental health issues. In those blackest, darkest last hours, when the illness finally wins, there’s no selfishness, just a desire to be rid of the pain and to not be the worthless burden, dragging down on everyone who loves you. Even in the grip of vicious illness, it’s a way for you to make their lives better by not being around any more. A kind of courage-“you’ll be better off without me” in extremis, fucked up final compulsion to just be fucking done with it. There’s no amount of “manning up” that will cure this or any other illness, yet the invisible nature of these awful diseases are still stigmatized as “all in the mind”. The mind. The thing which is you, you are it. Injure a limb, get cancer, you can lose the limb and still be you, nuke the tumour, cut it out and you’ll be the same person in remission. But how do you treat cancer of the self? Leprosy of your self-confidence, spiral fractures of the personality? By pulling yourself together? Flip it - you’ve got liver cancer? You need to buck your ideas up. Get out more. What, you have a fractured spine and a crushed pelvis? Take these pills and try to think positive thoughts. Have you considered Yoga? Fuck all that.
Shepard Smith is indeed a fucktard for his comments, both in relation to Robin Willams’ untimely and tragic death, and to the wider sensibility that those comments represent. It really is a case of “out of sight, out of mind”, he can’t see it, so it ain’t real. The “telepathic vampires” who screamed into my friend David’s ears all night, every night weren’t real either. He knew he was schizophrenic, knew he had an illness. I knew it was “all in his head”, but none of that stopped the voices, screaming, destroying his self-worth, urging him to vile acts over and over until he did the only thing he still could, before he “went & hurt somebody”, the last loving act of the last part of him that was still really him. David died of schizophrenia, not an overdose. Another close friend died of massive trauma to his childhood. He made it to his 20s, but the damage was too severe and he succumbed to soul failure. There was nothing the doctors could do. Robin Williams, funny, manic, endlessly inventive, wise and childlike in the same moment, one-of-a-kind, died today. Some sources have been reporting that the cause of death was “apparent suicide by asphyxia”, complete with detail-rich descriptions of how his body was found, emphasising that he was “fully-clothed”. I cried for him then, as the dignity which should attend death was pulled back like a nudie show curtain and thrown to the baying crowd. I’m so sorry Robin, I wish I hadn’t heard all that. And I’m here at least to put the record straight. It wasn’t asphyxia that killed Robin Williams, actor, comedian, husband, father & friend. No, Robin Williams died of severe, chronic, incurable depression. A terrible cancer of the spirit combined with a virulent, medication resistant virus of the mind. To say otherwise is to miss the point, to disrespect his sudden and tragic loss, and to turn your back upon every other person who suffers from these deadly, life-changing, life-destroying, too-often fatal diseases that are “all in the mind”. Shame on you Shepard. Do fucking better. As should we all.
I didn’t even find out this was a Springsteen track for literally years, and even though I’d grown up listening to this version, one listen to the original and it suddenly made sense. They can have The Mighty Quinn as a better version than the Dylan original though.
if you hadn’t said it, I would’ve had to…
BBCs reboot of Sherlock, Tool’s cover of Led Zeppelin’s No Quarter (Heresy I know, but true nontheless), Stevie Ray Vaughan showing Jimi a thing or two on Voodoo Chile (yup, I said it.). Orange Juice - Pale Blue Eyes, Burning Spear - Estimated Prophet, Christopher Nolan’s Batman Trilogy, Liz Frazer/This Mortal Coil - Song to the Siren… aaaand many more. Oh, Gram Parson & Emmy-Lou Harris breaking hearts on Love Hurts. Boom.
I refer you to my earlier post. Nope.
Not forgetting the epic, fevered, grand guignol version of the same by The Sisters Of Mercy.
Are you fucking kidding me? Just…no.
What? No Smiths? No Pixies? Meat Is Murder and Caribou/Surfer Rosa saved my life when I was 13. Seriously though, if you’re 13 and reading this, go listen to EVERYTHING. Keep an open mind and disregard trends, let the music speak to you, embrace it, feel it. Music can be your best, your only friend sometimes. Music and books can show you that you aren’t alone, that there are plenty of people who feel like you do and see the world in the same way, whether you’re the most mainstream person or the biggest misfit. And whatever, whomever you are, you’re never wrong for being what and who you are and loving the things you love. This is the best thing you can find in music - validation, consolation and bliss. Like Frank Zappa said (listen to him too), “Music is the best.”. Even my parents didn’t get it, it was all, get a trade, blah blah. So I did, I’m a music journalist. Thanks, music. Oh, and if you’re into pure beauty, don’t forget Mozart, JS Bach, Beethoven, Philip Glass and Mazzy Star. But remember, WHATEVER you love, it’s all good. Go to it, young’un’s.