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You know what sucks some serious ding-a-ling? I could say a lot of incredibly accurate things here. All of them bang on and I’m sure would be met with raucous agreement. However, for the sake of brilliant figurative word play we’ll answer my opening question with chewing gum losing its flavour. We’ve all been there. That explosion of sensory phenomena after the first crunch, the equivalent of having your face dragged through a field of luscious peppermint. As enjoyable as it may be, we’re all sadly cursed with the knowledge that with each cheerful chew we take, we feel that same high slowly deteriorating by the second. This is an unavoidable reality. What goes up must come down, and I’m afraid the television show ‘Family Guy’ is no different.
OOH THE DARK KNIGHT RISES! It’s going to be the biggest thing this July! Tom Hardy’s going to play Bane! Let’s speculate about how he’s going to perform like we did with Heath Ledger and then be outrageously surprised at the outcome! I can hardly contain my excitement; excuse me whilst I urinate all over my dog! Stop.
Granted, the last Nolan Batman film was cinematic dynamite. I would give anything to see a film as spectacular as that again. I fear, however, in all the uproar for this Batman sequel, we’ve left something very important dropping in the dark: the return of ‘Breaking Bad’. I know what you’re thinking, “What the ducking cluck is ‘Breaking Bad’?” Cease and desist from your life of living in the world’s most isolated cave. Accompany me on this glorious adventure into this appetizing slice of television chocolate cake.
I was wide awake. My veins were pumping ferociously with vitality. Hermes, God of Travel – hear my cry! Journeying since 0400 hours, I had made my way to Manchester airport. Hermes hadn’t let me down yet, but the fight with Cruel Lady Distance wasn’t over yet. It had only just begun. At the moment we were merely toying with one another – the thumb war of travel. A taxi ride was nothing. I wanted to get right to the Tyson – Holyfield ear-biting juice of it all. I wasn’t even on the plane yet, and the bus, train, other train and walk that came after to get to Maastricht didn’t exactly stir my loins with anticipation.
1967. Imagine it displayed as a jar full of ‘special pickles’ in a ‘modern’ museum of time. Our duty was to label the year with a curiously ambiguous flavour. Of course, we’d have no choice but to frantically scribble “eventful” over the dusty glass in permanent marker, without hesitation, naturally. But why, what happened in ’67? What culmination of cautiously enjoyable occurrences spurted this article? Well, Pink Floyd produced their debut album, Elvis and Priscilla tied the knot and Stalin’s daughter Svetlana defected to the USA. A lot happened. However: one issue in particular, bigger than all of those items combined, also took place that fateful year.
June 15 2012. We saddled up and hit the road around noon. It was raining, on the roads and in my heart. The 80 or so miles that lies between Southport and Leeds is a gallant and unforgiving journey which favours no man. A path of clouded and crowded motorways, uneducated drivers and, dear God, lorries the size of behemoths. Determined to not our spirits soak in the failure of excuses to avoid such a quest, we were not deterred by these hazards. We had a great deal ahead of us.
A McFlurry. Sweet Jesus of Nazareth, just look at that glistening cup of full-fatted goodness. A mole-hill of freshly squeezed ice-cream brandished in an assortment of confectionary. How could life get any better? Introduce a handful of chips. Are you terrified? Don’t be. Take those thinly-sliced potato peelings and thrust them into that soft-served dairy flesh. Swallow that salty-sugary monstrosity. Taste the unexpected heaven. Two creatures from completely different realms married together in holy-flavour matrimony. Who would’ve thought it? A sensory Superman: a maverick of after dinner treats. An individual equipped with the unique ability to create experiences thought never-before possible for modern man; a visionary. Standing on top of the hill of tradition and ‘normality’, an Ubermensch is breaking all convention. They’re snapping us out of our dogmatic trance of right and wrong, whilst paving the way to a brighter future. Now, what if I told you a similar situation was unfolding in the music industry? I imagine the skies above you have opened and a chorus of angels are singing softly in your ear; your life has changed forever. What is this new music, pray tell? Two words: Mash Up.
It’s 5am, a glorious summer’s morn. Before you: a tree. The rustling of twigs echoes above you, a little bird awakening from slumber. Travel yonder the tree, gaze deeply onto the horizon. The sun is rising, coated in all its ultraviolet glory, a solemn tear slides down your cheek. Nature and beauty are holding hands. But what’s this? Back in the tree, the little bird is twittering. What a pleasant and enjoyable audible experience the world has delivered us today. With each squeak and squawk of this melodic creature’s animalia acapella you feel yourself become content, complete with your own mortality. You can die happy. What a wondrous thing.
Beep-boop-beep. It could be any time during the day. The curtains are sealed shut, daylight hasn’t seen inside this hovel in months. The big mechanical box in the corner is making different kind of twittering altogether. An electronic evil pulses throughout the darkly dusted room. You can hear the brain cells of the opened-mouth user diminishing with every moment. You can taste the stale air. The screen flickers.
The sun was burning the pigeons. The men were shirtless and all lost beneath the field’s labyrinth of barley. Faces caked in sweat and lungs clogged in humidity; they needed a release. They echoed across the countryside as the biological rainwater nourished the crops. The relief was drug-like. From figureheads to doctors; men urinate standing up. We have done so for millennia. Its reception with society nowadays is mixed. Since the “golden ages” of Romans, Vikings and King (Mc)Arthur we have come a long way in sanitation. Perhaps this race-horse stallion secretion isn’t as welcome as what it once was.
- By Saul McArthur
‘Stop eating almonds.’
‘The English Language suffers an unfortunate nut allergy. It gets aggressive when someone defecates down its throat as frequently as you do; metaphorically, of course.’
Every time you text like a moron, a puppy dies. At least they will when I rise to power. I’m already in talks with the Dogstrust. It will count as one of the necessary evils implemented among many to reinforce the correct usage of our native tongue. Nothing riles more than receiving a text message plastered in abbreviated-numerical hokum. Some codes are too complex for even me to decrypt. I fear for my own safety whenever my phone vibrates. There’s only so much idiocy my Enigma Machine can handle. The new-age drivel produced from ‘text speak’ and its blatant two-fingered attitude towards grammar is enough to melt its massive mind into overdrive.
- By Saul McArthur
It was a grey day. The student loan was running low and I was running out of ideas. Food and fluids had taken their toll on my purse strings. I’m sure any other students reading this or those in financial hardship will relate to this situation. Reading intently to learn how I kept my head above water in such pressing times. Thank you for your concern. Now if you’re sitting comfortably I’ll regale you with the answer that you too can induct into your sad, miserable, little lives for an easy sustenance.