That band I had a rant about below have just made me take a laughter crap all over my new cashmere implants.
They asked for...THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY POUNDS for a show recently. £320! HAHAHAHAH. megaloltastica. To put that into context, I'm pretty sure foals were charging about £100 a show when they were SMOKIN' HOT TIPPED BAND OF THE CENTURY.
What a bunch of lu-hunatics.
love,
dick turpin and the randy boys.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Monday, 10 December 2007
Musical Rants
I've been playing in my band for about three years now, played gigs with a lot of different people, and met a lot of different assholes. We played a gig in London once where the promoter refused to help us take our gear to the store room, cause "then everyone would be asking me for help!" Yeah, what an idiot. I've had the misfortune of dealing with the failed rockstar soundman, who sound checked our instruments and my vocals himself, you know, forgetting that we had to do that ourselves.
But no, now it gets worse. While booking a band for one of our upcoming gigs, we hear that their manager's been asking the promoter for an 'offer,' cause they have been offered a gig on the same date that apparently pays better. We actually asked the guys from the band if they would play in person, and they agreed, so doing this behind our backs is just rude. Anyway, the promoter bows to their managers request of a hundred quid, which is pretty cheeky, but I guess they're used to getting paid way over the odds to play coked up warehouse parties for trust fund nu rave kids down shoreditch way.
Then today, we get asked if we can make sure we advertise them as "guests", rather than "support." Do these jokers need to man up or what? Who needs to make sure people don't think that they're the lesser act of the evening? I keep getting reminded that, you know, they're nice guys really, but jesus, their manager represents them, so as far as I'm concerned, they're just as guilty. You can't pretend to be oblivious to this.
This kind of gutless bullshit makes me sick, but I can console myself with the fact that this kind of crap will eventually bite you in butt. Like when the kids realise you're not that cool, cause your dad manages you.
But no, now it gets worse. While booking a band for one of our upcoming gigs, we hear that their manager's been asking the promoter for an 'offer,' cause they have been offered a gig on the same date that apparently pays better. We actually asked the guys from the band if they would play in person, and they agreed, so doing this behind our backs is just rude. Anyway, the promoter bows to their managers request of a hundred quid, which is pretty cheeky, but I guess they're used to getting paid way over the odds to play coked up warehouse parties for trust fund nu rave kids down shoreditch way.
Then today, we get asked if we can make sure we advertise them as "guests", rather than "support." Do these jokers need to man up or what? Who needs to make sure people don't think that they're the lesser act of the evening? I keep getting reminded that, you know, they're nice guys really, but jesus, their manager represents them, so as far as I'm concerned, they're just as guilty. You can't pretend to be oblivious to this.
This kind of gutless bullshit makes me sick, but I can console myself with the fact that this kind of crap will eventually bite you in butt. Like when the kids realise you're not that cool, cause your dad manages you.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Stinky Sunday
I’ve come back to oxfordshire to do some babysitting for my parents. It beats real work, and it pays the same. There is a new puppy in my house. It’s cute and small, and cute etc, but once you get over all that, and realise it’s just a crap dog, it gets tiresome. Well, for me anyway. I want to shout at it for being incompetent. My older dog can do everything fine, so why can’t you? Oh, because you’re a baby. The thing is, It looks fairy competent. It can jump into the fridge, bite and fight with my other, full grown and real dog, and eat food, but then it does stupid stuff like falling in a bowl of water or it cries. I just wish it could work out how to walk properly, urinate somewhere other than carpets, and crap in a flowerbed cause I’M SICK OF CLEANING UP.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Wanky Spanky Nokia
I just saw a new nokia advert standing up high on a fancy billboard. It was a picture of a women, holding a dog, with the tagline:
'when something feels right...hold on to it'
I don't even know if it was her dog. The owner is probably out of shot, looking puzzled, and anway, If I see a dog, I don't hold on to it, dogs don't like that, and they bite.
Nokia's entire campaign of late seems to want to encourage the sort of uncomfortable interaction between people that this country frowns upon. The sort of impulsive behaviour that tends to indicate some form of mental illness.
F**k off Nokia.
'when something feels right...hold on to it'
I don't even know if it was her dog. The owner is probably out of shot, looking puzzled, and anway, If I see a dog, I don't hold on to it, dogs don't like that, and they bite.
Nokia's entire campaign of late seems to want to encourage the sort of uncomfortable interaction between people that this country frowns upon. The sort of impulsive behaviour that tends to indicate some form of mental illness.
F**k off Nokia.
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Sunday, Funday, Sunday, Funday, Money
Sunday is a great day. If I ever feel upset, I always pretend it's Sunday. I sometimes even trick Staz into thinking it's Sunday when it isn't, to cheer her up for about ten seconds until she realizes I'm a horrible liar and ultimately have made her feel worse. I kick back with the blinds open, and all the lights on, cause today I am the King, and I'm wearing my pants, and you cant catch me, and so on. Although I guess I'll be paying for it eventually: dearer electricity bills, and, in the long term, a better tan, but who cares, it is SUNDAY.
The only rubbish thing is that it's not a banking day. I've just managed to make £300 by selling various stuff and playing online bingo, but it's taking a good while to fall into my account. I hate waiting around for money. Other normal countries don't take 5 odd days to move numbers, but Britain still pretends that it aint got no computers, and it's all done on horseback and wax sealed and stuff. And so, after being poor for so long, I'll buy loads of stuff as soon as I get hold of it, and be poor five days later. Cue desperate attempts to rationalize wild expenditure, usually resulting in gross exaggeration of what was necessary spending, and what was not. My head goes something like this:
"So, you spent £300 in five days again. That's bad. Pretty bad. Oh! But there was that bill that had to be paid, and the important book you will never get round to reading. Yeah, the book was what, 15, but we'll call it £50 to save us some paperwork, and the bill...yeah, like, we'll call it £100. So. That's half of the money spent on useful shit! See! You're not a moron!"
But the good part of my brain knows what is true. I am a moron.
Oh, but I did win £50 of the money on bingo, by signing up for a £5 bonus, and then owning the (online) bingo hall. So that can be justifiably spent on complete nonsense.
Look, I'm doing it again, and I don't even have the money yet.
Jesus, help me, please. Get me on one of those tv shows where they go through your spending habits and tell you off.
(I think the people are knocking on the floor to make me turn my not very loud music down. Oh, now they are having an argument.)
edit: (ha ha, they are knocking on the floor. I hadn't visualized that until now. They are on their knees, or lying down, hitting the floor. excellent)
The only rubbish thing is that it's not a banking day. I've just managed to make £300 by selling various stuff and playing online bingo, but it's taking a good while to fall into my account. I hate waiting around for money. Other normal countries don't take 5 odd days to move numbers, but Britain still pretends that it aint got no computers, and it's all done on horseback and wax sealed and stuff. And so, after being poor for so long, I'll buy loads of stuff as soon as I get hold of it, and be poor five days later. Cue desperate attempts to rationalize wild expenditure, usually resulting in gross exaggeration of what was necessary spending, and what was not. My head goes something like this:
"So, you spent £300 in five days again. That's bad. Pretty bad. Oh! But there was that bill that had to be paid, and the important book you will never get round to reading. Yeah, the book was what, 15, but we'll call it £50 to save us some paperwork, and the bill...yeah, like, we'll call it £100. So. That's half of the money spent on useful shit! See! You're not a moron!"
But the good part of my brain knows what is true. I am a moron.
Oh, but I did win £50 of the money on bingo, by signing up for a £5 bonus, and then owning the (online) bingo hall. So that can be justifiably spent on complete nonsense.
Look, I'm doing it again, and I don't even have the money yet.
Jesus, help me, please. Get me on one of those tv shows where they go through your spending habits and tell you off.
(I think the people are knocking on the floor to make me turn my not very loud music down. Oh, now they are having an argument.)
edit: (ha ha, they are knocking on the floor. I hadn't visualized that until now. They are on their knees, or lying down, hitting the floor. excellent)
Driving Miss Blakey
Axl, a friend in real life, and who has a blog, considered that I was probably:
"a massive pussy around his girlfriend's parents and has more manners than a manner-tee"
Well, yeah, I am very disciplined when I go round to her parents house. I don't swear, I eat all my dinner, and say thank you loads, because I am decent. However, I do think they know that there is a monster inside of me, capable of committing wild, drunken crimes, and less wild, shameful indignities. I do my best to keep those suspicions on the low low, and I don't drive, so they don't need to worry about me wrapping their daughters face round a vintage oak tree.
Not driving is where I win though. Not being able to drive forces me into the subservient role of a crippled child, cause I need picking up and that. So, any latent threat I pose is nipped in the bud, and I am perceived as some sort of loveable, helpless scamp.
I could be seriously wrong though. My lack of automobile skills could just be seen as complete laziness, and they might think that I force Staz to drive me around all over the place, by shouting and roaring and beating my hairy chest, and am just an evil walk-shy tramp.
Dunnah mate? I'll have to ask them.
L.O.L.
"a massive pussy around his girlfriend's parents and has more manners than a manner-tee"
Well, yeah, I am very disciplined when I go round to her parents house. I don't swear, I eat all my dinner, and say thank you loads, because I am decent. However, I do think they know that there is a monster inside of me, capable of committing wild, drunken crimes, and less wild, shameful indignities. I do my best to keep those suspicions on the low low, and I don't drive, so they don't need to worry about me wrapping their daughters face round a vintage oak tree.
Not driving is where I win though. Not being able to drive forces me into the subservient role of a crippled child, cause I need picking up and that. So, any latent threat I pose is nipped in the bud, and I am perceived as some sort of loveable, helpless scamp.
I could be seriously wrong though. My lack of automobile skills could just be seen as complete laziness, and they might think that I force Staz to drive me around all over the place, by shouting and roaring and beating my hairy chest, and am just an evil walk-shy tramp.
Dunnah mate? I'll have to ask them.
L.O.L.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Negative Nancy
I wrote a film review on a website for a film called London to Brighton, and there's thing that says:
1 out of 8 people found the following review helpful:
predictable, underwhelming, 15th May, 2007
Blake Ivinson from London
I'm not helpful, la la la la la, la la la.
1 out of 8 people found the following review helpful:
predictable, underwhelming, 15th May, 2007Blake Ivinson from London
I'm not helpful, la la la la la, la la la.
Hi, bonsoir
Gutentag:
I'm super buzzed up on pepsi max, and thought I'd open up a blog web page. It seems cooler than having an online journal/diary kind of thing. I had one of those and you just spend ages trying to make your really boring day sound like fireworks and sherbert.
I'm already feeling pretty great about this blog site. When I typed in my password while signing up it said it was 'strong.' I got a nice lift out of that, cause I like getting compliments about my toned muscle groups, even if it is just from computer type boxes. Then, I had to pick a background for my new blog. I chose black, cause I want you to think I don't give a shit about stuff, and that colour is just like, an accessory, but the honest truth is that I do care. LOADS.
In fact, I care so much about things, that I sent my girlfriend, who is called Stacey, a mildly flippant text message a few days ago, when it emerged that she had failed to order the shopping, and I was really hungry. This has all been resolved, and the food is now here, but I had been living on the edge, concocting rudimentary meals like roast potatoes on a plate, and beans in a bowl.
Girls suck, boyz rule!!!!
But also boys suck sometimes, especially sandal wearing American ones. I went to watch the football today. It was West Ham vs Chelsea. I support west ham. Sitting next to me was an American sandal wearer, who had obviously adopted Chelsea while on his travels from good ol' home, and proceeded to utter learnt brit-isms. So I gave him a scare by making fists whenever he said anything, and growled. Like a bear. I'm growing a small beard, so growling is super effective to scare off sandal wearers. Also, it is winter, so why sandals? Oh yeah, because you suck.
Oh, West Ham lost, but I'm so over that now.
Peath and a bitches
xx
Thought for the day:
The new Puff Daddy advert for his fragrance, 'Unforgivable,' comes across like irreversible directed by Jerry Bruckheimer. Look out for it! Cool!
I'm super buzzed up on pepsi max, and thought I'd open up a blog web page. It seems cooler than having an online journal/diary kind of thing. I had one of those and you just spend ages trying to make your really boring day sound like fireworks and sherbert.
I'm already feeling pretty great about this blog site. When I typed in my password while signing up it said it was 'strong.' I got a nice lift out of that, cause I like getting compliments about my toned muscle groups, even if it is just from computer type boxes. Then, I had to pick a background for my new blog. I chose black, cause I want you to think I don't give a shit about stuff, and that colour is just like, an accessory, but the honest truth is that I do care. LOADS.
In fact, I care so much about things, that I sent my girlfriend, who is called Stacey, a mildly flippant text message a few days ago, when it emerged that she had failed to order the shopping, and I was really hungry. This has all been resolved, and the food is now here, but I had been living on the edge, concocting rudimentary meals like roast potatoes on a plate, and beans in a bowl.
Girls suck, boyz rule!!!!
But also boys suck sometimes, especially sandal wearing American ones. I went to watch the football today. It was West Ham vs Chelsea. I support west ham. Sitting next to me was an American sandal wearer, who had obviously adopted Chelsea while on his travels from good ol' home, and proceeded to utter learnt brit-isms. So I gave him a scare by making fists whenever he said anything, and growled. Like a bear. I'm growing a small beard, so growling is super effective to scare off sandal wearers. Also, it is winter, so why sandals? Oh yeah, because you suck.
Oh, West Ham lost, but I'm so over that now.
Peath and a bitches
xx
Thought for the day:
The new Puff Daddy advert for his fragrance, 'Unforgivable,' comes across like irreversible directed by Jerry Bruckheimer. Look out for it! Cool!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
