Love, God, and ‘Quality Frozen Pizza’: three things I’m told exist, though all evidence points to the contrary. However, I have an unflappable belief that no matter how bad things get, there will always be hope for the future. Admittedly, that faith can lead me astray. Sometimes it can result in me saying things like: “I’m sure not all people reading the Twilight series are emotionally-retarded, sexually-stunted fuckholes”.
Here’re some things I should have known better than to get my hopes up about…
England at the World Cup
The dream? Just like every tabloid, Mars Bar and HD TV salesman told me, I dared to BELIEVE. I was overcome with World Cup Fever (it makes a change from chlamydia). This was supposed to be the tournament where we’d show the likes of Umbongobongoland* and all those Diego Dagos* (*courtesy of The Daily Mail) just what Engerland is made of. The reality? The same old shit. If this was a tournament to find the most ineffective gang of moronic spit-roasters, we’d have won hands-down (albeit with a little competition from the Portuguese or Australians on the molestation front). But, put your faith in date rapists and that’s just what you’ll get. When England crashed out, I got harassed by a guy collecting for Help For Heroes, while Ashley Cole got to fuck four women at once (how? Has he got four dicks?). Still, what do I give a fuck, I’m Irish anyway.
Pavement Reunion (In Spain)
While stood waiting for Pavement’s headline set at Butlins, I could be overheard telling folk: “You know, I don’t even need to be here – in a week I’ll be seeing them at Primavera”; how I couldn’t see the point in trying to get near the front – “I’m sure to find a better spot at Primavera”; of how Bob Nastonovich was going to “personally come out and squeeze me off at Primavera”. That was the plan, at least. I’d waited ten years to see them and here I was getting blasé about seeing the ‘ment twice. Unbeknownst to me, it turned out that the festival sponsors had the temerity to admit a third more people than could actually fit into the Primavera main stage area. This had the effect of what seemed like watching Pavement on a very small TV. A TV that was in a field fucking miles away, populated by thousands of cunts who probably don’t even appreciate Pavement as much as I do. Incensed, I stomped off to watch Sleigh Bells. Turns out Sleigh Bells are pretty good. Never did get that squeezer, though…
A Threesome (That I Didn’t Have)
At some point, I don’t know when or how, my lovely, loving girlfriend suggested that perhaps, maybe, she’d be interested in inviting someone else into our bed. “Another man?”, I asked. “No”, she replied. Thank fuck, I thought, the last thing I need is someone else to compete with (least of all a proper man). “So, another girl?”, I asked. “Yes” she sighed. Boomtown. My mind was racing with erotic possibilities. I was Hot Rod Stewart. I was a dog with two dicks. If she’s open to one more girl, why not two? One! Two! Three! Three waginas to pleasurrrre!! I was Count Von Cunt. Surely I deserve at least one threesome before I turn 30, right? Suddenly, I was devising plans of how to lure women into a suitably ethical tryst. Being a straight edge, reformed rager (no drink or drugs, but all the self-loathing you can stomach), how the fuck was I supposed to go about this? You don’t hear about Ian MacKaye having watersport orgies, do you? It’s more of a Dave Lee Roth, cocaine and silicone thing than a ginger ale and tofu scene. Fuck. Before I could even begin, it was lost. Fucking ethics. Besides, if I’d been getting away with some level of success with one woman, how was I expected to keep two people happy? Sounds like a fucking hassle. What’s a threesome, anyway? It’s just an opportunity to increase the number of people you’re having sex with that hate you. What a letdown.
Jonah Hex
When I got told that a Sci-Fi Western was being made, I got interested. When they told me that Mastodon were recording the soundtrack, I got hard. The prospects were limitless – supernatural outlawman soundtracked by gonzoid prog-metallers?? I was giddier than R Kelly at piss playtime. I started telling, texting and mailing everyone who still bothers to talk to me. I checked every day on IMDB for the latest news, trailers, clips, or anything that could tell me more about this wonderfilm. This much I knew: It was due to come out in the summer, starring Josh Brolin, John Malkovich and Michael Fassbender. What could possibly go wrong? Oh, well, there was also Megan Fox… overseen by a guy who’s directorial work consisted solely of Horton Hears A Who… and two writers responsible for Raoul Moat fave Crank: High Voltage. The wheels began to fall off. It bombed on the first weekend in the US, recovering a total of $5m of whatever they paid out for this lead turd. What the fuck was I thinking? Feeling letdown by this film’s trajectory is like feeling disappointed that the holocaust didn’t work out better for the Jews. With any luck it won’t even get released in the UK (at least not while anybody’s paying attention). You think I would’ve learned from Willow.
The Remainder of This Summer, My Birthday, The New Football Season, The MIA album, etc.
I’m excited about all of these things. They’re sure to be a letdown.
