Category: VENT!


A Quickie

All those people becoming fans of “Remove Yourself From Those Scammy ‘Become A Fan To See The Picture’ Groups” – you’re a total disgrace.

Most of those aforementioned groups deal with embarassing or upsetting sitatutions – my personal favourite is When I Found THESE CONVOS on My Girls Page I DIED INSIDE. So you want to see what caused this reaction so damn badly you a) Become a fan to see it and b) Have a whinge when it’s all a scam and you don’t get your injection of smug detached laughter? I don’t particularly care about people, usually, but when two types of stupidity collide, I have an issue.

Mind your own damn business, or else wake up and don’t become “fans” of detrimental shit. You really want to see people “failing” THAT badly? Kind of twisted, not in the fun way.

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Angry Post

I CAN SMELL DAMP. EVERYWHERE.

My “double-glazed” window is COVERED in a sheet of water droplets – I just tried wiping them off with a cloth and the moisture immediately slid down and pooled on the sill. It’s fairly disgusting.

My dehumidifier sucks up A LOT of water, and I have to have it on basically whenever I’m in the house. It fills up over the course of a few hours, is emptied, and still gets filled up again. WHERE IS THIS WATER COMING FROM?!

I tried airing clothes in my room – they smell slightly of damp. Great. A tumbledrier would be a fucking bright idea right now.

You know what really gets me? The fact that my landlord apparently called my mother “a nightmare” after she’d phoned to ask for some changes. What did she ask for? A jacuzzi? A hot tub? A treadmill hooked up to a giant stereo system? Did she fuck, she asked for a new bed for me because the other had black spots of damp and mould on it and a dehumidifier to take out the damp. This is because her sister stayed in a similar sort of room when she was younger, and now has attacks of bronchitis every winter without fail. Yay.

Now, my mother’s ability to piss people off is really quite fucking something, but asking for two things to preserve my health? Wow, that’s REALLY out of order, isn’t it?!

ALSO someone keeps using the downstairs toilet, which has no sink, and then WASHES THEIR HANDS IN THE KITCHEN SINK. I can hear them. I have no idea who they are but I can hear them. I’m sorry, but basic hygiene? Please?

The bathroom’s design is also comprised of fail. Even though I shower with both windows open and the extractor fan on, little spots of mould are still appearing. This is because the main window is too far away from the shower itself to be useful, and before the steam gets to the window, it gets to the wall. The wall is not all tiles. The wall is subsequently suffering.

Long story short, I cannot wait to move out next year. It’s a shame because I have brilliant housemates, but the house itself drives me a little bit more insane every day. At least I know what I’m looking for in a house next year.

Canzone

A song outside the general dramatic action.

Dear Fucktards of the Internet who went to see Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens and thought that they changed the ending of the play and are subsequently complaining about it in your blogs –

If you cared to read the original novel you would find out that Peter forgets EVERYBODY who he ever gave a damn about, including but not limited to Tinker Bell and that’s why, children, that’s why the story is a tragedy. And yes, Tinker Bell IS two words, not one.

Why don’t people read any more?

People. Are. Morons.

Spam comments can suck my invisible cock, they’re fucking annoying and, if you’re going to post them, kindly contract something nasty and wheeze yourself to death. Thank you.

Lots of baby pictures have been appearing on the old Facebook feed of late. Dear new parent(s), your brats are hideous and squishy. They would be quite nice on toast, I expect, but other than that they’re uglier than Brundlefly and twice as productive in the vomit sector. Therefore, kindly stop assailing my eyes with photographic evidence of your active genitalia.

My life is being wasted thus. It’s driving me to distraction. I am in love with those little pink blocks that symbolise all my frustration and hatred.

I’m not doing Italian as an elective anymore, YEEHAW! It was really starting to bore me. Too much grammar and, even after a year of doing it, the sparse Italian I can speak was learned from phrasebooks and the internet, and not the course itself. Someone needs to address the way we approach and teach languages in this country – it’s a failed system. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no wonder Europe hates us. We’re a lazy single-language island of fail.

Instead, I’m looking at operas and film scores. And next term, CHARLES I YAAAAY. Though not as hot as his son, and shorter than even me, Charles I is still groovy. “In spite of his intelligence and cultivation, Charles was curiously inept in his contacts with human beings. Socially, he was tactless and diffident, and his manner was not helped by his stutter and thick Scottish accent, while in public he was seldom able to make a happy impression.” Bless him. Awkward Scots for the win.

Heeeeee. :3

My corset came, it makes me thin, I am so happy.

The five pounds of weight I thought I gained were actually errors by my scale, and I have in fact lost an extra pound rather than gained anything during the time I’ve been here. Still considering joining the gym. Still agonising over the cost and whether I’d actually go or not. Pole dancing starts soon. I am excited.

I have a Magenta costume. I qualify as being cool.

My seminar groups and teachers are all good, with intelligent people rather than idiots who think they know it all but actually don’t. Huzzah.

I have a four-day weekend. Even bigger huzzah.

Coming up fighting.

Thank fuck they haven’t set us dry, irrelevant, tedious texts this year (Daniel Deronda, I’m looking STRAIGHT at you). Madame Bovary is actually riveting. I’ve got about quarter of the way through in relatively few hours, and it’s written beautifully. New favourite methinks.

Better than studying the Bible, that’s for sure.

I have noticed an interesting feeling developing recently – that of the unwelcome tag of “third wheel” settling uncomfortably on my shoulders. If you’re inclined to input the phrase into a search engine, you’re likely to come across various unflattering descriptions and “how-to” advice on avoiding the sensation. As unpleasant as it is, denying it would be churlish, and thus I must work through it and deal with it like an adult rather than a little girl.

It’s strange for me – my past circles of friends avoided males like the plague. I still do, on the whole, although it’s now less a matter of being scared of them and more of not being able to find common ground with them. I find the majority of them to be arrogant tossers, and the only reason I’d want to get remotely close to any of them would be to punch a gap in their front teeth. This majority clearly feel the same way about me: there is nobody out there tripping over themselves to enter into a relationship with me. Unless they’re drunk Asian men. Again, denying this is fruitless. I know what I know.

The obvious way to remedy the feeling of being a specimen of social outcast is probably by getting a boyfriend.

Fuck that shit, if I may.

I wouldn’t be able to deal with it. I have a fairly limited capacity for social interaction, and after the timer goes off, I require a sizeable period of solitude. If they disagreed with me on something, I’d either snap angrily at them or simmer and start to resent them. If they started acting like a limpet, I would start having visions of breaking their hands, and you get the gist of what I’m saying here. I’d be unhappy.

I’m aware that this sounds like fervent, lying denial, but you’ll have to trust me when I tell you it isn’t.

Not only would I be at breaking point if I ventured down that road, but for most of the time, I like being a distant, singular entity. Various reasons have contributed to this:

a) the defiance of social norms. Nineteen-year-old female university students are sort of required to have a boyfriend/partner/whatever you call it when you’re not ten years old, I’m out of the loop. People expect it. Hell, my family seem to anticipate it. Oh no no no, you’ll not catch me in that trap. Merging my identity with someone else’s because it’s “normal at your age”? NO.

b) the defiance of my family. As I said above, they appear to expect me to enter into a relationship fairly soon. They keep dropping hints about being “the one left on the shelf”, which only recently lost its sting. My mother, at one stage not long past, hinted at two people she’d like to see me with. One was a Christian version of Harry Potter, who fortunately is engaged to someone equally as lovely and normal and kind and responsible and boring as he is, so may they be very happy and all that, and the other was nice enough, but not my type. At all. Like I’d rather kiss my cat than kiss him. For this reason in particular, I intend on holding out as long as humanly possible.

c) the preservation of my integrity. Last year I did so much of that fucking awful drunken dancing with randoms that I actually want to hurt myself as punishment, in all seriousness. Where the HELL did my respect for myself go? Why did I do that to myself? Why could I not see that they only engaged in such behaviour with me AFTER they had downed a large quantity of alcohol? No more. I refuse point-blank to do that any longer, and similarly to compliment, to simper, to sycophantically laugh for anyone. No fucking more.

I do realise of course that not all men are hideous drunk pussy-scouts in clubs. The ones I actually speak to are decent people. It would be exceedingly unfair on them if I did group them with all the other males I know of.

The huge positive side to all of this is that any bitterness or hatred I feel can be easily converted into academic energy: “angry studying”, as I think of it. The pent-up frustration can go into reading and researching, and can drive me through inspiration dry spots. I like things that are useful, and so I must learn to like the namesake of “third wheel”, as it will be my sustenance.

I would like to inform everyone that yesterday, I almost bought all of the Tank Girl comics, and the only thing that stopped me was a total lack of disposable money. Blast.

One day…ONE DAY…!

‚ÄúNothing brings more pain than too much pleasure; nothing more bondage than too much liberty,” according to Benjamin Franklin, and DAMN he was right. I. Am. FESTERING. With boredom, I truly am, three months, no job, nothing to do except lounge and study, except we all know that studying never happens when you have the time to devote to it.

To all the unemployed chavs out there, HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELVES? Your brains must be rotting away in your skulls. Is this why you breed so much? Nothing else to do? Really? Because I can believe that, I really can, I’d have sex constantly if I was locked in a house with nothing to do except watch Jeremy Kyle. I mean, really!

Exercising, writing, reading and moody wandering have been my primary activities. It was fine at first. Then one month developed into two, then three. Everyone seems to be raving about their marvellous summers, but I am on the verge of doing something stupid.

I am a person who NEEDS to be kept busy. This was why I was happy at school (when I wasn’t a target for the cowardly underclasses) – I had a solid, day-filling routine. Nowadays, you can only clean and vacuum and dust and sweep and organise alphabetically so many times before you rise up and cry, “That’s IT! I have had ENOUGH!” Believe me, my inner voice has been screaming this for the past five weeks. It’s tedious.

I cannot WAIT to get back into uni. I will plan reading and writing and extra-curricular activities around my classes so that I am never just “being”. I want to learn to sing. I want to participate more in the drama side of things. I want to STIMULATE MYSELF SO I DON’T GO BARMY.

Two good things have so far resulted from today’s activity of being awake – one, I received an email from one of my college drama teachers, who informed me that she misses my giggle and that my version of George in Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George has put Beryl Reid’s version out of her head…for now. I was greatly moved and excited.

The second was that I was able to open up my vacation ‘reading’ list for my European Film and Literature course – and the teacher had grouped The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari in with the films “dir. Fritz Lang”. Silly teacher. All self-respecting German Expressionist geeks know that Caligari was dir. Robert Wiene.

“Hello, I’m Robert Wiene.”

…the fanfags of Burton’s Alice in Wonderland update. Just go on the IMDb board for it. Go on, I dare you. You have to try and read all the posts without sinking into a violent fantasy world in which you’re dismembering the scene kiddies with hot pliers, minus anaesthetic and a valid surgery qualification of any sort. Please let me know if you’re successful in this, because I sure as hell wasn’t.

She loves Lewis Carroll so much.

I shouldn’t hate these little darlings for wanting to discuss their absolute favourite thing in the world, should I? They’re just expressing their opinion about it. And arguing with each other over it. And ejaculating over their favourite actors in plain view of the rest of the internet and oh Jesus, you know what? Sod freedom of speech or whatever, somebody gag these children and lock them in their bedrooms with some intelligent books – some Shakespeare, some Wilde, some Gaiman, Clare, Allende, Banks, Sebold – until they’ve safely passed puberty and can contribute to society without trying overly hard to be “dark” and “different.”

The pen is mightier than the Paramore, you know.

(Unfortunately, some may remain dark little bunnies into adulthood. Case in point is, unluckily, me. Although I should point out that this isn’t due to overdosing on Tim Burton, not like these disgusting little worms [I like ‘Corpse Bride’, just not a great wanky amount]. It’s due to the five-plus years of physical and emotional bullying I endured in my formative years, coupled with the fact I was an overweight, acne-ridden, bespectacled child with braces. You couldn’t make up a character to rival how awkward and nerdy I was. And being cornered by a boy three years older and repeatedly whipped with an elastic band doesn’t really make little girls into happy adults who openly embrace attention and affection from the opposite sex.)

Women who post birth videos on YouTube.

Apparently, this is a popular trend now.

Erm…

What the fuck?

Why would you expose yourself in that manner TO THE WORLD? What’s WRONG with these fruitcakes? What possesses them? What makes them think, “OOH, you know what the internets will love? My mucus-covered black hole of a vagina!”? These women need to be told that, look, YOU think birth is a wonderful, sensuous, beautiful process; some of us (i.e., ME ONCE AGAIN) do NOT. In fact, we feel sick when you lumber towards us, doing a brilliant impression of Jupiter, whilst we’re trying to eat, and then you and your…spawn-in-progess lounge in plain view while I attempt not to projectile vomit at your swollen feet. I don’t want to see your livid stretch-marks. I don’t want to hear about your overwrought bladder. I certainly do not want to witness your brat slithering out into the world whilst you bellow like a heifer before snotting all over your hospital-issue gown because you’re so emotional.

“Don’t search for the videos, then!” I fear they’ll cheerfully tell me, should I be unfortunate enough to enter into conversation with these breeding cretins.

No.

DON’T POST THE DISGUSTING THINGS IN THE FIRST PLACE, say I in this hypothetical exchange. Keep it behind closed doors. You know, like a normal human being! That way, you’ll only have to pay for your husband’s therapy. Cheers.

…I’m actually too angry to write anymore. O world, you’re full of lovely individuals!

The Picture of Dorian Gray
Fantastic Mr Fox
The Lovely Bones

Those are three titles that you might recognise from recent television and internet advertising. And this is due to the ghastly fact that they’ve all been made into films.

Films that look THOROUGHLY AWFUL.

I’m not even stooping to post their trailers in my blog – if you’re that morbidly curious, go and Google them. (That’s like me telling you to Google ‘harlequin babies’ or ‘prolapsed rectum’, actually, isn’t it? Your pupils are going to be raped either way.) Hold on tight, this one’s a VENT! and it’s even got sections.

Whatever Happened To Sneaky Dorian?

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is something I just finished recently, and it totally didn’t take me two years to do so. Ahem. Just from the trailer – and I may be judging too early here, but I’m fairly sure my opinion wouldn’t change even if I DID see the whole thing – it looks like ‘Dorian Gray’, the film “adaptation”, is a very, very ghostly imitation of Wilde’s excellent little tale. If you haven’t read the novel, a) DO, and b) the character Dorian himself is a curious young gentleman indeed. He not only manages to charm and bewilder a great number of the supporting characters, but the reader into the bargain. Wilde wrote him extremely well. Ben Barnes, on the other hand, whilst looking fairly acceptable, is just…pathetic. You’re screwing a laydee in a back alley? WOW REALLY I’M SHOCKED YOUR HAIR IS VERY SHINY BY THE WAY. When Dorian weaves and ducks through his various merry bloody exploits in the book, I actually want to find out the consequence. Point is, I don’t care what one-dimensional film!Dory gets up to. It doesn’t sicken me to my stomach. Book!Dory is, however, enchanting, scheming and foul.

The power of the written word supports the secretive nature of characters – anti-heroes? – like Dorian Gray. In the immediacy of film the intrigue and suspense goes the same way as Basil Hallward’s career. HAW I just made a geeky inside joke – now you’ll HAVE to read the book. Won’t you? Won’t you?

Purely Boneheaded

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold potentially will fare better on the big screen – but the trailer gives the story away entirely. Sometimes, I think that’s a good thing. Shakespeare’s plays, I believe, need to be read and comprehended before you see them in performance. They’re so beautifully complex that it pays to know the destination so you can enjoy the journey we undertake to get there. But in the case of The Lovely Bones, giving away the whole premise of the thing takes the punch out of it. The book did this wonderful thing of ‘darting forward, pulling back’ – feeding the readers tidbits of information that promised to go somewhere before retracting or, in many cases, the chapter drawing to a sudden end. Also, Saoirse Ronan plays Susie Salmon, and she’s not pleasant to look at. Though, obviously, that’s my personal bias.

Well, They Foxed That One Up

Now we reach the part that stings me in my little literary geek heart the most – the animation of one of my favourite childhood stories, Fantastic Mr. Fox. To save you the pain of watching the trailer – it’s horribly Americanised, by which I mean things explode inappropriately, Mr Fox is made into an annoying smartarse and George Clooney does his voice. The trailer does not name Roald Dahl by, well, his name, but relegates him to the position of “the author who brought us Charlie and the Chocolate Factory“. It’s just nasty to witness.

I’m aware that Dahl worked on Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory – that’s why that particular film is nothing short of an awesome mindfuck. But Foxy was never destined for the big screen – it’s not possible to turn that terrific little tale into a feature-length film, or at least, not one that’s any GOOD. This is when we’re going to see kids forsaking the actual texts in favour of substandard adaptations – in most cases that’s all right, I suppose, some of older children’s books are outdated (I hated Barrie’s Peter Pan as a child. “Too much description,” I wrote in my reading diary. Clearly I wanted more swordfights). But Dahl’s stuff is GENIUS. It’s sick and twisted and funny. There’s no mercy or dumbing down for children in his books – that’s why they’ve stuck around.

TOO LONG, DID NOT READ

So yeah, I’m pretty much in favour of sticking to the book and ignoring the badly-executed silver and small screen versions – and I know for a fact I’m not alone in this. Though he mentions televisions in this poem, this magnificent children’s writer’s words can be applied to the cinema just as easily…

The most important thing we’ve learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set —
Or better still, just don’t install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we’ve been,
We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone’s place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they’re hypnotised by it,
Until they’re absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don’t climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink —
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK — HE ONLY SEES!
‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!’
We’ll answer this by asking you,
‘What used the darling ones to do?
‘How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?’
Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?
We’ll say it very loud and slow:
THEY … USED … TO … READ! They’d READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching ’round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They’ll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start — oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen
They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl