Tag Archive: hate

…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.


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.


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.


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?
‘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

– Girls who blog about the “charming, quirky, offbeat, gorgeous” style of celebrities, trying to sound as though they’re experts. There’s an alarming amount of these twats on the internet. As if you’d go out wearing half the stuff you harp on about – you’re too much of a fucking pussy. You’d probably wear beige if those fucking French fashion magazines told you in was THE colour of next season. I realise of course that there may be one or two that are actually man enough to wear what they like. Good for you. I hate fashion unless it involves black, lace, leather, corsets, Victorian-governess-bondage, things that look like they should be worn around Hogsmeade and old military uniform. And boots that look like they’d disembowel someone if you deigned to kick them whilst wearing a pair.

-The “friends” I have on Facebook constantly giving the world updates about how their newborn spawn is faring. Most of them are my age. I. Don’t. Care. I could unfriend you, but I love looking at your page when I feel I’m failing at life. I think, “At least I haven’t become pregnant yet – that would really be a new low,” and instantly feel awesome. There is a positive side to this – it reaffirms how lacking my maternal instincts and desires to inflict miniature versions of myself on the world are. Damn I hate children. If I was in charge, it’d be like Vulgaria in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and I would  employ this fine man to uphold my law of NO CHILDREN:


– This house. I die a little every day inside this house. I can’t be creative or intelligent or outspoken in this house without being labelled as someone who has let university “change” them. Of course it’s changed me – I’m not a wimpy little retard who doesn’t speak up for herself now. That’s a good thing. I reject your reality AND your fucking stupid religion and substitute my own! Viva slash fiction and men too pretty to be entirely male!

Oh yeah, man. Snucius forever.

– Weight gain. Although it is only 1lb for wine/Jelly Baby/excess amounts of pork chops/a freaking large KitKat.

– WASPS. Both The Cat and I whinged like big girls until someone came to kill the wasp that was in a bedroom this morning.

…All right, so The Cat was raring to murder the wasp. I was the only one whinging like a big girl.

I love the nightlife.

OK, so one..or two glasses of wine make me roaring drunk now, apparently. As in, so drunk I pretend cushions are beards, dance like a possessed creature to songs I can’t remember the lyrics to and generally…entertain? Be glad there are no photos from last night. BE GLAD.

I saw two foxes and five rabbits on the train journey home this morning. It was delightful and I think I just turned into Beatrix Potter, please excuse me.

I helped an elderly lady with her suitcase. I feel awful about feeling so good about this. Before you go thinking that I’m a nice person, please consider the following: would I be posting this if I did this sort of thing all the time, instead of doing it occasionally and believing myself to be a saint on those rare days? Exactly.

Less than a week until I get to move into my lovely new house and tension here is cranked up so high it physically hurts my neck muscles. No less than two people talk at each other at once. People raise their voices to be heard, prompting the others to do it too. Really fucking annoying rhetorical questions fly over the dinner plates and hit me in the throat so the food gets stuck and make me feel like there’s an acidic pool churning in my guts. Whenever more people come into the house I am bombarded with the same queries at least three times. I have to retreat upstairs and scratch at the wall to wind down. I’m stressed. I’m surprised my hair isn’t falling out in great long ropes of frizz.

I analysed my heart today. I’m not AS obsessed with David Tennant as I was this time last year. There is hope for me. I have downsized from two calendars to one.

My neck hurts.

I have nothing more interesting to say, except did you know that ‘Adiemus’ isn’t sung by Enya, but by Miriam Stockley?


Have some music whilst you read:

Actual content time!

I want to get back into writing again. I went through a period in my teens during which I churned out a plethora of what I affectionately term shit poetry. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t written about faeces.

After realising I was awful at my “art” and so very,very angsty into the bargain I gave up almost entirely. Well, apart from creative writing assignments that would actually gain me marks (I got a first with one of my pieces last term – maybe I’ll stick it up here at some point). Now I’m aching to get back into it properly.

This realisation brings with it a filthy little revelation.

I enjoy lurking on ‘Worthy of Publishing’ and dredging up poorly-written, as-good-as-plotless pieces of fiction on purpose. It’s extremely therapeutic. I feel better about my abilities because of it.

So, now that you know I’m a dirty little schadenfreudette, let us proceed with the point of today’s enthralling tale. An alarmingly large number of these literary abominations begin with the following sentence. Bar my quotations marks, the average standard of grammar is included for realism and your entertainment:

“it was a cold dark night . suddenly i heard something outside my window”

And I got to thinking, ‘What would I write after that?’ And instead of quaintly terrible shadows on the walls and bumps in the night, this ridiculous piece of silliness came into being:

‘I leapt out of bed and charged at the window, seizing the large brass fireplace poker on the way. With a shriek like a hellbound demon, I wrenched open the window and jabbed the poker out into the thick evening gloom.

The result was a cry of anguish, followed by a rustle of leaves and the dull sound of a body colliding with solid ground. Gingerly, I edged out onto my balcony. Squinting in the gloom, I peered over the stone ledge.

“What the HELL was that for, Juliet?” angrily demanded Romeo, nursing a black eye.’

…Yeahhhhhh, I need much practise before I start writing fiction for real. I have no shame in stating that I’d like to write as part of my career one day. However, I feel I use TOO MANY DAMNED COMMAS, and thus, I will continue to scribble and underline, to type and to delete, to save and save as, for the forseeable future.

Now, for the promised bit about the train: why are rail journeys undertaken on Sundays always at least an hour longer? It’s highly irritating. But worth it, for I will see friends again, and consume the fermented grape until my vision is poor and my personal space bubble is no more. Good, sweet times.

The only other really interesting thing I stumbled across today was this wonderful set of failed romances. I’m a sucker for such things.