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Thoughts On A Plane

Put your ear to my ear while I’m spending 10 hours trapped over the Atlantic with no wifi, and this is what you will hear…

1.  The experience of a long haul flight is a lot like trying to tell someone you like that you like them, in that it involves a lot of preparatory time hanging around doing absolutely nothing but fretting about all the stuff that could go wrong, then sitting in silence for hours, feeling utterly out of control, too nervous to breathe or live or think about anything other than the broiling rumbles through your bowels. And at the end of it, you’re either puked into an arrivals hall or out of a Wahaca, and that desperate stink of sweat and panic is not going to get anybody laid.

2.  The genesis of that metaphor, and the reason it makes entirely no sense, sits across the aisle from me; a genuine hunk shucked from another dimension made of that bit of the early nineties when men thought that the gender juxtaposition of hooped earrings in both ears and a long, shimmery fountain of freshly-conditioned womanly hair pouring over their bare bulging chest muscles would make any girl just shut up their yapping and blow them already. Aisle-hunk orders two mini-bottles of red to go with his super-heated airplane slop of “suggestion of beef and sadness”, and secures my interest. He then calls back the steward with an equine swish of his sadly tethered mane for another bottle, and steals my heart and soul. By the time he requests a fourth bottle in lieu of post-slop caffeinated liquid heartburn, he’s the greatest hero of our times, a true altitudinal legend, and we are galloping together across the cloudy plains, the upper atmosphere crystal clear, the stallion thundering passionately underneath our entwined thighs, the pure sun glinting off our gleaming naked torsos, there’s dragons everywhere, and my boyfriend elbows me sharply in the ribs and barks “I can hear you muttering “Oh Khaleesi, my Khaleesi” over the bloody jet engines, shut the fuck up.”

3.  Going to the toilet on a plane is only fun if you wait till there is the beginnings of turbulence (or, as I like to call it, fuckoffy-air) and bolt into the bog, locking yourself into what amounts to a mirrored coffin, and look at yourself dead in the eye in as many reflections as you can as you danger-piss through a simulated earthquake which could result in you plummeting 37,000 feet into a vast uncaring ocean, all the time remembering that in the incredibly unlikely event that anyone ever finds your corpse, the one sure fact that they will be able to take back to your grieving friends and family, the one crumb of truth to give them comfort as they consider your abrupt and violent removal from their lives, is its pants will be round its ankles. 

4.  The trouble with listening to the rich and sonorous tones of them bloody talented blokes on the Regular Features podcast in an oxygen-rich environment like the inside of a Boeing 777 is that one moment you are near hysterical over the in medias res opening of a tale of the Zeno’s paradox of lowering one’s buttocks onto a non-existent toilet seat, and the next you suddenly wake up and jesus christ are they pretending to be Philip Seymour Hoffman and reading out an obituary or suicide note or something and is that still funny or are you crying because it’s sad or you just love these boys so much that it’s probably a bit tragic but they’re so funny so funny but there was that one time you met them and lost your shit completely and came across like a demented stalker with a bad vocabulary and that was a terrible thing so you should be crying you are awful and you should feel awful.

But then you realise that it’s probably just the 100% oxygen high. Still, Regular Features. Four men shoot the shit in an entertaining and amiable way and will, knowing them, one day cover the various permutations of literally shooting the shit. 10/10.

5.  ”As I lie here on my deathbed, and images from my life drift past like dandelion heads on the breeze, I see many beautiful things; I see the warm glow of sunrise over the skyline of Tokyo, I see the shy smile of my beloved on our wedding day, I see the dazzling colours of the first MS Paint collage I ever made. And I would have seen the stark and brutal beauty of a thousand square miles of untouched Canadian ice-bound plains but at that moment they came round with ice creams and I pretty much drop-kicked a toddler out of the way to race back to my seat to claim one, so. Never mind eh? Can someone get me a Cornetto now, actually? Sticking to 5:2 is frankly pretty pointless at this point in tiBEEEEEEEEEEEP”

6.  - that hipster woman a few rows down is laughing so hard at Portlandia she’s going to bust right out of her high-waisted corduroy cargo shorts and sensible brogues. I’m so glad I have the moral high ground of never having watched Portlandia. Fuckin’ hipsters.
- *ten minutes pass*
- she’s still watching it. Look at her. With all that mirth she’s flicked her perfect severe black asymmetric bob right into her perfect ironically red lipstick. The meta-Inception bullshit of the hipster watching hipsters taking the piss out of hipsters is so wink-wink self-satisfied cackled laughter over brunch in a place I would never get a table in, I want to hulk-punch straight through the bulkhead door. Godammit I’m so angry.
- *two minutes pass*
- it does look quite funny though.
- *three episodes of Portlandia pass*
- OK must google Fred Armisen’s address when we land. And that should be *just* enough blood to scrawl an oath of eternal love on this handy sickbag! *sucks on suppurating wound on own palm*

Damn. Portlandia is funny.

7.  An equation to summarise other AV fun enjoyed during this flight: the total sleekness quotient of all the hair in The Good Wife x the decibel rating of the creakiness of late-season Buffy x how little I care for the matriarchal bitch-fight bore-off of August Osage County = one millionth of the sheer mesmerising power of the four most significant breasts in American Hustle.

8.  DID I JUST SING OUT LOUD TO GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

9.  Flying is the worst and I personally despise every sufferer of any disease in human history for distracting science’s attention away from the development of a painless teleportation system or liberal attitude to ether comas.

10.  On the other hand, it’s lucky I’m a rich, middle class, London-based, Generation Y irony-drenched volume-control-deficient attention-stuffed but love-starved wah wah crybaby know-it-all one-woman mission to paper the whole internet in pseudo oh-so-spontaneous-by-which-I-mean-take-20 pseudo self-loathing-but-pixel-perfect selfies self-aware self-aggrandising self-centred wankhole, because that’s the only type of person who could possibly think that having to get on a plane and be inconvenienced for less than half a day, or even think that being given a comfortable seat on what amounts to a metal tube full of Netflix and unlimited booze and stunning vistas over unspoilt miracles of Earth’s purity on a vast unimaginable scale would even be an inconvenience, is something that is acceptable to screech and whine and ball their fists and stamp their pre-scuffed Converses over.

I am the worst person in the world!

11.  But I am the worst person in the world in CANADA! 

And at least travel doesn’t make me histrionic.

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Breathe…just breathe…

(Source: bacalaureat2012.biz#http, via televisionwithoutpity)

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"He was as tall as a 6’3" tree" and 18 other really bad analogies

usvsth3m:

These are painful:

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(Via Imgur)

I know I’m as good a writer as a something likes to do things with and pertaining to the left, as in, not a good right-er, you see, I really am the best, but I genuinely would be incredibly chuffed with myself if I had written any of these. :(

And number 18 is directly ripped off from Douglas Adams so jog on, judgmental American person who put all these together on Imgur and jog on UsVsThem for agreeing apart from if it was the one of them who I know who is lovely in which case I respectfully disagree LOVE ME WORLD

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sexpigeon:

Shut the fuck up

The dog is saying it because the world is saying it because the dog is saying it.

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pointless-letters:

BONUS UPDATE!
Urgent question being asked in the Metro.

I DO THIS COMPULSIVELY AND OBSESSIVELY.
How else, apart from the fiddling of After Eight wrappers into tiny chalices, can one make themselves feel like an artisan craftsman while one is six pints of Aspell to the good and face-down in the loving nook twixt smoky pub carpet and pissy ceramic?

pointless-letters:

BONUS UPDATE!

Urgent question being asked in the Metro.

I DO THIS COMPULSIVELY AND OBSESSIVELY.

How else, apart from the fiddling of After Eight wrappers into tiny chalices, can one make themselves feel like an artisan craftsman while one is six pints of Aspell to the good and face-down in the loving nook twixt smoky pub carpet and pissy ceramic?

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somanymaroonhoodies:

Brave dress shoe-bomber jacket-sneak hoodie combiner.

somanymaroonhoodies:

Brave dress shoe-bomber jacket-sneak hoodie combiner.

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somanymaroonhoodies:

Parent of a toddler facesucker.



Yes my middle name IS pointless new side project, how did you know? Are you psychic or something? Have you been through my bins? Why do you have my dad’s favourite jacket on? What’s that stain on it? Is that ketchup? It’s not ketchup is it? Is it? Is… 

somanymaroonhoodies:

Parent of a toddler facesucker.

Yes my middle name IS pointless new side project, how did you know? Are you psychic or something? Have you been through my bins? Why do you have my dad’s favourite jacket on? What’s that stain on it? Is that ketchup? It’s not ketchup is it? Is it? Is… 

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stevedogarty:

dog is extremely tiny

The word “extremely” still left me ill-prepared for this

stevedogarty:

dog is extremely tiny

The word “extremely” still left me ill-prepared for this

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An Exhaustive Review Of The Problems With The New Jonathan Creek

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1. The merest hint of an implication that there could have been some sort of sexual congress between Alan Davies and Joanna Lumley, which, if you have a mind anything like mine, set off a thought process which many hours later shows no signs of getting anywhere near a conclusion, being, as it is, a real-time re-enactment of what would have happened if that sexual congress was initiated and J-Creek turned out to be a lover burdened with both a darkly perverted sensibility and unnatural longevity. Because: ain’t nobody got time for THAT.

2. Absolutely everything other facet of the plot and dialogue and characterisation.

Alan Davies’ tits give a solid performance to clinch bronze.

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JapANG! Day 11: Talking Japanese I Think I’m Talking Japanese…

..I really don’t think so.

You see, to talk Japanese, you need to have a brain the size of a planet, or a Japanese person. For one thing, the greedy buggers have three alphabets. Three! More over-employment! Two of them, hirigana and katakana, are phonetic, one of which is just for foreign loan words - coffee, internet, buffet, which is actually pronounced “viking”, because even the most simplest part of their language must be wrapped in an riddle inside an enigma buried in a plot synopsis of the last episode of Lost. In Hampton Court Palace maze. When you’re on mescaline.

To talk Japanese (yes, yes, OK, I mean read Japanese, but that didn’t sound so good in the title of this post, and what did you pay for this, nothing, so maybe stop the trap-flapping and settle the heck down, yeah? Yeah? Oh god I’m sorry, please keep reading, the movement of your eyes are all I live for) you need to know a third alphabet called kanji, based on Chinese characters, of which there are anything from 13-50,000. In fact, most game shows we saw scattered around on Japanese TV seem to be based on guessing obscure kanji characters from clues in hirigana and katakana, which I suppose is the equivalent of Countdown or Call My Bluff. But of course, this being Japan, it was Countdown or Call My Bluff while standing on a thin ledge in front of a wall made of tetris blocks which poke out one by one as you get answers wrong, forcing you to contort your body into strange and wonderful positions to avoid being pushed off the ledge into an infinite abyss, and there’s 30 contestants.

Everyone in Japan is automatically more brilliantly clever than me just because they can talk Japanese, and that is a real and true fact. So you will forgive the occasional snicker leaking from the corner of my sly little facehole when coming across the odd example of the Japanese taking my native language and going slightly off-piste with it:

I didn’t mean to hurt you, Japan. I’m just a jealous guy.

This article of extreme digestive uncomfortability was found in a shop in Harajuku, which is, of course, the area of Tokyo where Gwen Stefani rattled her funky androgynous braces and gathered a bushel of hip young girls to follow her about for a year and gather sustenance from her unnaturally flattened belly, presumably by using it as some kind of teppanyaki grill. Hey, what a coincidence! We also used a teppanyaki grill while we were in Harajuku, in a strange little funky restaurant with trees growing through it, and we were taught how to do it by that humourless goth bint from the cartoon in the back of Metro!

Talking of humourless goth bints (oh, but everything is linked with me. You may think this is all tossed off in the time it takes to plonk piggy hands onto weary keyboard, but every scintilla of this content has been many years in the planning, including the fact that scintilla is probably the wrong word in that context) Harajuku is very much the Camden of Tokyo, comprising as it does of 10% on-trend Japanese teenagers hanging around on street corners looking threatening with crepes, and 90% green felt DMs, skulls on black string chokers and t-sharts saying “I love the Pontiff, the Pontiff smokes dontiff”. And this charming fellow:

Well, quite. 

Here’s another thing - just as a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters will eventually unionise to better bitterly complain about their outdated technology and get their little mitts on an iPad to Google the complete works of Shakespeare, the random sprinkling of Romanji within Japan will inevitably gang together to spell out your own name, and if you’re really lucky, capture the perky blonde bangs and heinous dead eyes that are the essence of your being.

Anyway, before I could spend too long cowering on the shop floor whimpering “Why am I Mr Sparkle?!” we were away to have one last head-butting with the great and powerful language of the Japangs; and as we gesticulated and honked and grimaced and flicked unintentional Vs at the very patient and friendly man behind the counter of the first karaoke complex we stumbled into after partaking of the bacchanalian delights of the 300 yen bar (slogan: “every drink 315 yen! Shut up about our name!”) and managed to bag ourselves a room to bark in and an unending supply of birru to lubricate our bark nodes, we thought the battle was won. After all, the last place we did karaoke in had big English buttons.

Unfortunately, the last place we did karaoke in was the Waitrose of karaoke and we were in the bins at the back of Bejam. Also, crucially, it contained people who could ask for English buttons in Japanese. Possessed of no such skills and rapidly losing the English ones, we were confronted with a dark empty room showing K-pop commercials on loop, and this:

Erk.

Somehow, though, somehow, with the aid of a lot of poking at random buttons and hearing a lot of the first few seconds of a lot of songs we didn’t know that confused and scared us and finally locating a telephone directory-sized catalogue with a whole 4 or 5 pages of English songs, we worked the damn thing out and caterwauled the night away. The war on Japanese won, at least for one day; much to the apparent delight of the guy in the backing video.

Yeah baby. I’m working that Stevie Wonder. I’m working it into the ground.

Shop That Was Closed And By Hercules’ Shins Did We Wish It Was Open Because Seriously What The Gary Wilmot Could It Possibly Be Selling Of The Day: