Radiohead-ism - The King of Limbs

EVERYBODY SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO LISTEN TO THIS GREAT ALBUM

The lucid daydreams I've gotten out of listening to Radiohead were on some of my worst days turned awesome.

Radiohead have formed to share the eccentric dream experience of what appears to start as dark tunnels channelling through at an unmeasurable speed to peak at then end and burst into rainbow sparks. It burns the spray of colourful fireworks onto your retinas so when you close your eyes, you see the outlines and experience something dramatic all over -  a cold sweat breaks out from your clammy skin but it slowly washes over, and it develops into chillingly sweet euphoria. Their music taps your brain with neat tricks and you can hear quiet bottled anger in the symbol crashes and snare snaps. Thom Yorke reaches out with his lullaby choir voice and electrifies your nerves until they tingle, so that the hair on the back of your neck stand up with attention and salute.

I'll be inflicting you with more at-bottom-of-the-'coke'-bottle-there-is-life-somewhere songs from wonderfully insightful bands and artists as I see fit very soon into my blog but this one needed a special mention as Radiohead don't churn out commercial crap like what today's bands do; they've preserved their awkward style and melodious creepiness and tweak it slightly that makes each album truly memorable - and then come the altered strangely pleasant dreams again...

SHOCK HORROR - Legal Permission To Drive? Bad Idea Possibly.

Well, I did not see this coming. I passed my driving test this week. Woo for me!

And all of a sudden, a warm fuzzy feeling came from everyone I was force to tell. It was that natural gushy mushy kind of love and care and astonishment for my success.
At one point it was so sickening, that I saw more teeth and gum than I could handle from the unpleasant faces I felt repulsed to greet and considered future piggy backers.

My dad didn't expect it. My mum prayed and sang good luck from the door but her pretence smile didn't last long. My instructor wore her 'shut the feck up and just drive' look and was ready to boot me out as soon as she had the chance - fair play, it was 8 in the morning, so it made me out to be a real rebel nuisance. I was beginning to think it was gonna be a shite day.

Not very positive thinking, but I had nothing to lose - I had already booked a facial for the evening, my Environ lady was setting up my fix for the month. So whether I passed or not, I'd be in Chesham 6 hours later having my face sweetly walloped with vitamin paste and lovingly squished to softness with warm patty hands and having the stress shrugged away.

So let's rewind --> 5.46AM

Eyes wide open and I see slits of orange light coming through the blinds. I get up and see Daddy Khan is set to go to work so I avoid him by walking into the bathroom, out in my bedroom, looked at my face in the mirror and huffed at my crappy complexion and hit the sack.

6:23AM

I'm still awake but I'm watching the time move like a slug. I jump out and do the morning prayer then consider breakfast but then I don't what the feck happened and before I know it, the time is -

7:56AM

I'm ready. But I keep thinking I've forgotten something so I run totally ninja with my socks on to and from the kitchen to sip on coffee and try looking for something that looks like something that might've been neglected by me. By this time I'm like feck it, and I walk out the door and see that the death trap machine has found itself outside my driveway looking all menacing and all kinds of evil devil. The instructor is non-chalant at its best; she empties herself from the driver seat and plops a booster cushion on it. And off I go.

8:45AM

I've done an hours worth of driving and I've committed the worst possible crimes on the road - driving at 20mph on a 60mph to find out where my BB had gotten to under my seat and doing  twice the bloody speed on a bunch of Red Nose charity wearing schoolkids on their way to a gain a pointless education which they'll drown in drink and drugs anyway.

I almost mowed down a 12 year-old child I'd mistaken to be a red furred squirrel. He was so cutesy and tiny but made the most incredibly annoying noise by squawking swearwords at me as he trotted across over the road.

9:02AM

I'm sat in the car with the examiner who failed me last time. I might as well have given up then and there - he had his leg up against my gearbox AGAIN. It's a pisstake but I tolerated it, until I started to stall.

Throw it in first gear, no second - I had no idea what I was doing but the bloody car was still moving and I forgot to apply the brakes and then I started to shake and OH AAAH feck it, I don't care no more. I really actually don't remember what happened cause I was high on a drug called Charlie Sheen or whatnot...

9:49AM

I passed - somehow. That's what counts right? Not the minors or what I may have done wrong, I'm in the red license driving club now, who really gives a gnarly troll what I actually did, nobody actually expects me to drive after this - especially my instructor of all people jheez, who by the way is a terrible driver herself after we were going home and she had to do the emergency stop twice on different occasions because SHE wasn't looking to the right. And they say karma comes back to bite you in the ass TWICE as hard, right?

***

So I get home and then the fractured storyline staples together - Daddy is ecstatic, Mummy gains a new taxi driver, Sister offers me an ugly 1991 Suzuki Swift and now everybody is scouring the net and scrawling on newspapers for Mini-Jeeps - HOLD UP, WUT?

Yes: Mini-Jeeps - for the short legged driving generation who find it hard to peer over the bonnet and have poor judgement in parking and car distance. I found that my dad's choice for car for me slightly insulting but kinda cool on the basis I'd have a unique choice of car from those first-car-first-choice Corsas, Polos and KAs.

I mean, how cool would  that be?!? Daddy Khan is so cool :)

But I've got my eyes set on achieving a license for motorbikes... EEPS.

Trolls, be honest - am I getting a little soft in my blogs? I think I need to bring back my mean streak, I don't know how to write flowery poncy shit, you wouldn't read it otherwise, me thinks.

For a real blend of lines, friction and bumps to reconnect your brain into the better thinking and possibly the insanely amazing, and preferably listen to when you don't feel like much other than the scum on the bottom of your shoe or you feel like looking down the barrel of you mind's imaginary gun, Radiohead's new album King of Limbs is an amazing kaleidoscope of neat trips and messy movements that will blow your mind and induce you into wanting to dance like a mental patient. 'Lotus Flower' is a personal replay favourite and 'Little by Little' ticks along with my tocks, it's so mesmerising it actually takes you out and apart and then stitches you up again.

It seems Thom Yorke can be the King of Limbs if he can cut me up and put me into the groove.

My God, Why Are You So Dumb, So Really Really Dumb?

People are funny beings. The fat ones are guffawed at and rarely pitied, the skinny ones are beaten down and wound up, and the browns and blacks - well they don't get a word in edgewards do they?

So they express themselves using violence, a form poetically conveyed in tear-inducing curries and strong offensive accents and make whack nut hippity hip-hop rap about bitches and hoes and killing people for being bitches and hoes with their whack nut cracker knife for life, yeah brav.

But some people are so silly, it's beyond belief. Like the other week, I walked past Lidl in my hometown and saw a small child licking a bollard placed outside the store.

It looked as if he'd dropped some ice-cream on it so he was licking it off for all his sweet desert's worth, for his sake I hope, yeesh - only to have his father come behind him and push his face hard into it (possibly by accident, but it wouldn't have stopped me from calling the NSPCC on that dickface dadda) and tells him 'Don't lick bollocks like that, that's disgusting' - WHO SAYS THAT TO THEIR TINY KID?!

I had a right mind to say something, only that I was saying it in my mind. My mouth doesn't function on such fruity 'insert amazing clever wit comment' occasions, but it does feels the need to blurt absolute twaddle-goose when good interesting company is around. I will bitch-slap my mouth sometime, to see if the after affects of the anaesthetic from the dentist last and whether it will sprout some motivational sense into me, so the mouth functions with the ole noggin.

Or I'll wait til my brother goes, he's just as good as a chimp ready to be experimented on. And plus, I can test different speeds of slaps...oh yeah, that's going down in the diary, I'm definitely gonna try that ON HIM.

Anyhoo, some people are dumb as feck. No lie. They should come with special stickers saying 'unfit for speaking in public to anyone' or 'will yap like a freaking loonie if you don't give me a piece of your chewing gum' - the chewing gum act is a personal reference as to what happened in college.

There were some orange-faced girls, there were some nasty-ass boys. Little Miss Wotsit liked the glance of Mr. Hairy-Bum-Hairy-Everywhere and trotted over on her crusty mud dipped heels and tittered if he had any gum.

Mr. Hair (can't be fecked to type whole names, we know they so hairy) did have gum, but he wanted to flirt a little with the little baked creature, so he said in his low grumble 'I'll give you some if you give me yours.'

Yeesh, the sleaze. That was the filthiest bout of flirting to ever assault my ears. Hairy dude wanted a denture chomp test on her mouth and wanted everyone to know about it in the most disgusting way. I'm sure he had hair growing on his tonsils and wanted her to feel em out and - - EURGH! *violent vomit*

So yeah, Cheesy Hoe starts to flap those rubber dinghies she had for lips and repeats what Hairy Dude said in a nasal mimic 'I'll give you some if you give me yours' and then it all kicks off - Hairy PERKISTANKI mans don't get no rest from her mini-Wotsit friends who resembled little orange pigs in shorts and stiletto trotters.

They're all going on about how pathetic he was and how sexist that comment was and how Orange Piglet No1 only wanted a piece of gum for her porky breath but no, oh no no no - Hairy mans thinks it 'fillurting' and tries it on with the whole lot of them. They took him to the trough, never mind to the cleaners. They squealed and trotted around him with dirty delight (and in danger of indecently exposing themselves) and snatched the Wrigley's packet out of those hairy plant hands. It was all harmless fun until Hairy man accidentally pats one of them on the bum; one of the ugly angrier ones.

What a stinker of a day that was for Hairy man. Everything was fine, it was the unethical teenage chav was to flirt, but that ugly angry pig was an Angry Bird. (feckin' great iPhone app - I had to plug it, cause that's how awesome it is). She got pissed, and her piggy trot friends were ready to poke his eyeballs out. The noise that came from them on the third floor of the college whilst I had just entered the building was feckin' incredible. Like pig banshee hybrids. The trouble amounted to the point of fierce insults, attempted assaults and gang members hissing on either side of the floor plan.

I remember that day and thinking how fecking dumb are people? Some have unfortunately lowered themselves lesser than animals, which is a deepening shade of shame each passing day. It's sad what the world comes to when people can't get over the fact that they have terrible breath and are just as ugly on the inside as they are on the outside. Sick world. Sick times.

New Reasons To Procrastinate

I feel like I'm in a caustic rut right now. It's slowing sinking beneath me in a grey marbling vortex specked with all kinds of chaotic, depressing, droll, mundane things that could possibly only amuse an aloof badger for mere seconds. Only because it's found something in common; being boring.

And I'm only waist down in. In that mucky muck. In that depressing grey matter muck that my own monotone reveries. That awful boyband Nsync comes to mind...

I'm currently in a Twister-esque limbo; there is no rush to work, no push to finish and sad to say, no care for anything. It's very hard to push the lid off from the inside - look what happened to those 80's kids in Honey I've Shrunk The Kids - wasn't so easy for them now was it? Except I can happily say (I'm thinking positive to ward off the negative) that I'm glad I don't have that hair, yikes for dykes.

So this week is all about reconstructing myself, bit by bit, part by part.

This is the new me. Environ, baby. Gives me the face as smooth as silk and as clear as day and it's costing me an arm and a leg to fund this beauty treatment, which involves vitamin pizazz up my ass (not literally but it rhymed, don't whine about political correctness!).

It is the new regime treatment that will kick me off the addiction for coffee and have me lurch for the rich bursting bouts of life! There will be less procrastination, more nicer conversation, a radical overhaul of everything in the past coming weeks. Trolls, beware - there will be change; are you ready for it?

THE NEW ROSIE, COMING SOON.