09 March 2008
15 February 2008
Do not speak!
This can serve as a reference for my friends who I constantly berate for saying things in my presence which make me shout very loudly. Or, in fact, if I ever have to meet you. Or see you in the street. On TV. Anywhere.
Indeed
‘Indeed’ is not a suitable response to a statement. If there is a way to patronise someone there it is. Six letters, two syllables and ten tons of arrogance accompany this seemingly innocent reply. When I hear this said to me I burn down the offender's house and their family suffer at my hand.
Random, used in the wrong context or meaning
Having a party, inviting a load of people and then declaring that ‘a load of random people showed up’ is not a random event.
Going to the supermarket and buying dusters, mini eggs, copy of Horse and Hound and three bags of hamster food and coming home and declaring that ‘ I bought loads of random things at the shops!!!1!!111!’ is not random. Knowing that what you bought may be seen as slightly out of character enough to declare it removes the random element of the trip.
Please stop calling your photo albums on Facebook ‘random’ or ‘randoms’. They are people you know and everybody is aware you put the pictures on there for a reason because EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT TOO.
‘I’m well mad!’
Putting a ferrett in your bag/ dressing up as a duck/ bringing a trolley to a party/ wearing a traffic cone on your head etc etc does not make you mad. It makes you desperate.
‘I’m different!’
The generic black skulls t-shirts, trousers with chains on, boots with big buckles, piercings, Nirvana hoodies et al do not make you unique. I don’t see how you haven’t looked around and noticed that it’s all the same. Believe me, I was one of you once.
Also if you are Ruby Wax I suggest you keep very well out of my way.
Indeed
‘Indeed’ is not a suitable response to a statement. If there is a way to patronise someone there it is. Six letters, two syllables and ten tons of arrogance accompany this seemingly innocent reply. When I hear this said to me I burn down the offender's house and their family suffer at my hand.
Random, used in the wrong context or meaning
Having a party, inviting a load of people and then declaring that ‘a load of random people showed up’ is not a random event.
Going to the supermarket and buying dusters, mini eggs, copy of Horse and Hound and three bags of hamster food and coming home and declaring that ‘ I bought loads of random things at the shops!!!1!!111!’ is not random. Knowing that what you bought may be seen as slightly out of character enough to declare it removes the random element of the trip.
Please stop calling your photo albums on Facebook ‘random’ or ‘randoms’. They are people you know and everybody is aware you put the pictures on there for a reason because EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT TOO.
‘I’m well mad!’
Putting a ferrett in your bag/ dressing up as a duck/ bringing a trolley to a party/ wearing a traffic cone on your head etc etc does not make you mad. It makes you desperate.
‘I’m different!’
The generic black skulls t-shirts, trousers with chains on, boots with big buckles, piercings, Nirvana hoodies et al do not make you unique. I don’t see how you haven’t looked around and noticed that it’s all the same. Believe me, I was one of you once.
Also if you are Ruby Wax I suggest you keep very well out of my way.
Response to http://www.geocities.com/canterburystuckists/jamesdunn (Read first).
This article is a definite attack at the author who, from experience, is an absolute arse.
James Alexander Xavier Dunn was born in London on July 14th, 1987 in an area of London he would rather not disclose as it is hugely embarrassing to him. He grew up in Birchington-on-Sea, Kent, and expressed an interest in art from an early age. After attending Chatham House Grammar School in Ramsgate (which frankly no-one would care in the slightest), he spent two years getting drunk and avoiding going to KIAD (now UCCA) in Canterbury. Pretending to be dissatisfied with the way the Fine Art course was run, when in fact he left because he was completely bone idle, thought he was better than everyone else and also after being told he would be booted out if he didn't start attending, he took the decision to quit the college in May 2007 (just after his girlfriend dumped him (me) because she was fed up with his attitude), and has since moved back to Birchington, where he has been attempting to sell paintings and living off what remains of his student loan as he couldn't possibly get a real job like everyone else and still expects his mother to pay for all his clothes.
James has been painting in-between being paraleticc and watching videos on Youtube for around two and a half years. Initially he favoured unstylized figurative art, but as he went through college his work developed and changed , adopting surrealism and occasionally cubism and expressionism. Frequently included as subjects in his art - which focuses largely on people (tits) and human behaviour (drunks) - are traditional figures such as dancers, musicians, and harlequins, among other curiosities. Some of James' work is drawn from life, while other examples are derived entirely from his imagination which is limited. During the summer of 2007, when he had been back in Birchington for about two months (another pointless fact), James began to incorporate abstract elements in his work, taking an experimental approach which is mainly drawing squiggly lines all over the background. He began painting shapes and patterns (squiggly lines) which weave through the people in his paintings and form part of the landscape of each picture he creates which basically but in a less arty farty way is ripping off Dali.. The end result is a composition that is devoid of perspective and looks out of shape as if their faces were melting. James has described the current style of his work as 'Balthus meets Picasso meets de Chirico meets Kandinsky'. Kirsty would describe his work as 'a load of bluey-greeny bollocks which will never change'.
His interests outside of art extend to pissing people off, shouting un-PC comments at strangers and writing in an intolerable third-person in attempt to make his uselessly underdeveloped life into something more than it actually is.
This article is a definite attack at the author who, from experience, is an absolute arse.
James Alexander Xavier Dunn was born in London on July 14th, 1987 in an area of London he would rather not disclose as it is hugely embarrassing to him. He grew up in Birchington-on-Sea, Kent, and expressed an interest in art from an early age. After attending Chatham House Grammar School in Ramsgate (which frankly no-one would care in the slightest), he spent two years getting drunk and avoiding going to KIAD (now UCCA) in Canterbury. Pretending to be dissatisfied with the way the Fine Art course was run, when in fact he left because he was completely bone idle, thought he was better than everyone else and also after being told he would be booted out if he didn't start attending, he took the decision to quit the college in May 2007 (just after his girlfriend dumped him (me) because she was fed up with his attitude), and has since moved back to Birchington, where he has been attempting to sell paintings and living off what remains of his student loan as he couldn't possibly get a real job like everyone else and still expects his mother to pay for all his clothes.
James has been painting in-between being paraleticc and watching videos on Youtube for around two and a half years. Initially he favoured unstylized figurative art, but as he went through college his work developed and changed , adopting surrealism and occasionally cubism and expressionism. Frequently included as subjects in his art - which focuses largely on people (tits) and human behaviour (drunks) - are traditional figures such as dancers, musicians, and harlequins, among other curiosities. Some of James' work is drawn from life, while other examples are derived entirely from his imagination which is limited. During the summer of 2007, when he had been back in Birchington for about two months (another pointless fact), James began to incorporate abstract elements in his work, taking an experimental approach which is mainly drawing squiggly lines all over the background. He began painting shapes and patterns (squiggly lines) which weave through the people in his paintings and form part of the landscape of each picture he creates which basically but in a less arty farty way is ripping off Dali.. The end result is a composition that is devoid of perspective and looks out of shape as if their faces were melting. James has described the current style of his work as 'Balthus meets Picasso meets de Chirico meets Kandinsky'. Kirsty would describe his work as 'a load of bluey-greeny bollocks which will never change'.
His interests outside of art extend to pissing people off, shouting un-PC comments at strangers and writing in an intolerable third-person in attempt to make his uselessly underdeveloped life into something more than it actually is.
09 February 2008
A response to http://inquirelive.co.uk/node/178 (read first)
This entry is not an attack to the author of the original article who has explained to me that he adopted a character when writing.
1) If you are a snotty aesthete try not to ruin my day with your whining. I happen to find a certain charm in concrete nightmares.
2) How about visiting and not buying said sandwich? What about visiting a run-down café? They will glad of the company and I am sure I can recommend some cracking ones to you. Regardless there is something rather romantic about an arcade with its paint peeling off, requests for you to come join the bingo so you can win a set of pots in a presentation ribbon and then on to the beach to get sand in all your belongings. As for the city what do you expect? Surely the mere definition of the word allows for some sense of misinterpretation of the excitement within.
One could say it’s only disappointing people who are disappointed. .
For the record these photos are not shopped they are staged. That is different. The blue sky usually does exist. Also, if I may butt in-which I will, there are literally THOUSANDS of free things to do in London. Seriously man I don’t know where you have been all your life.
3)Surely all the shops being owned by the same people is Capitalist? Perhaps I am confused. Yes I have seen everything before I have left but so what? And please, try not to plagiarise Bill Bailey. It’s not very becoming of you.
4) I would disagree with your stance here that museums are just a way to generate money. Alright, in some respects that is the case. But time and time again I have come across instances where museums have had to be closed down because of a lack of government funding and grants. Just because YOU might not want to see some old coins (frankly, it sounds like you don’t really like doing anything) doesn’t mean that you are the only one. History is cool, and don’t you forget it.
5) Avoid at all costs any article that has “miserablist” in the title, especially one that features “amateur journalists”. These are bitter individuals who failed to make the local newspaper, and who get their revenge by shamelessly flaunting their own faux-Clarkson-esque writings on an unsuspecting student body who just wanted to read a bit of news for once and not an article better suited for a personal blog.
This entry is not an attack to the author of the original article who has explained to me that he adopted a character when writing.
1) If you are a snotty aesthete try not to ruin my day with your whining. I happen to find a certain charm in concrete nightmares.
2) How about visiting and not buying said sandwich? What about visiting a run-down café? They will glad of the company and I am sure I can recommend some cracking ones to you. Regardless there is something rather romantic about an arcade with its paint peeling off, requests for you to come join the bingo so you can win a set of pots in a presentation ribbon and then on to the beach to get sand in all your belongings. As for the city what do you expect? Surely the mere definition of the word allows for some sense of misinterpretation of the excitement within.
One could say it’s only disappointing people who are disappointed. .
For the record these photos are not shopped they are staged. That is different. The blue sky usually does exist. Also, if I may butt in-which I will, there are literally THOUSANDS of free things to do in London. Seriously man I don’t know where you have been all your life.
3)Surely all the shops being owned by the same people is Capitalist? Perhaps I am confused. Yes I have seen everything before I have left but so what? And please, try not to plagiarise Bill Bailey. It’s not very becoming of you.
4) I would disagree with your stance here that museums are just a way to generate money. Alright, in some respects that is the case. But time and time again I have come across instances where museums have had to be closed down because of a lack of government funding and grants. Just because YOU might not want to see some old coins (frankly, it sounds like you don’t really like doing anything) doesn’t mean that you are the only one. History is cool, and don’t you forget it.
5) Avoid at all costs any article that has “miserablist” in the title, especially one that features “amateur journalists”. These are bitter individuals who failed to make the local newspaper, and who get their revenge by shamelessly flaunting their own faux-Clarkson-esque writings on an unsuspecting student body who just wanted to read a bit of news for once and not an article better suited for a personal blog.
26 January 2008
Cafe del Kirsty
I have some strange allure towards cafes especially old, skanky, greasy ones. I know why this is, of course, I am from Thanet. I skipped school to eat with my mates in cafes and smoke fags and drink beer on the beach. Coastal kids have different pastimes to land-bound kids, different hobbies.
Anywho, there is a very good website which contains small articles about such cafes and so on. The top one out of the London area (which, of course is always going to be the standard for cafes- Del Boy, Tracy Jacks and all that) was one which I used to work at.
This shocked me.
I used to work in Morellis, Broadstairs and this place is different because it's one of the only original 1950's style diners left in the country that have original features. Like the ghastly pink Formica ceiling feature and the soda fountain which was never on. People flocked into our establishment as if if were some kind of Mecca. And, sure, for people with interests such as mine that seems perfectly reasonable. But there is nothing like working somewhere to really really put you off. I won't go too much into it, it was a long time ago and I like my job now so it all worked out OK in the end. But there is nothing more aggravating than hating something that you should really love. And perhaps if I hadn't worked there and associated it with all the betrayal, the rowing, the sadness I felt at that time then I might be able to view what a beautiful place it really is.
And that is depressing.
Anywho, there is a very good website which contains small articles about such cafes and so on. The top one out of the London area (which, of course is always going to be the standard for cafes- Del Boy, Tracy Jacks and all that) was one which I used to work at.
This shocked me.
I used to work in Morellis, Broadstairs and this place is different because it's one of the only original 1950's style diners left in the country that have original features. Like the ghastly pink Formica ceiling feature and the soda fountain which was never on. People flocked into our establishment as if if were some kind of Mecca. And, sure, for people with interests such as mine that seems perfectly reasonable. But there is nothing like working somewhere to really really put you off. I won't go too much into it, it was a long time ago and I like my job now so it all worked out OK in the end. But there is nothing more aggravating than hating something that you should really love. And perhaps if I hadn't worked there and associated it with all the betrayal, the rowing, the sadness I felt at that time then I might be able to view what a beautiful place it really is.
And that is depressing.
29 December 2007
Fortuity
It's funny.
I had a friend once. Pretty girl, very sure of herself, but not so sure at the same time. I thought if I were a bit more like her and a lot less like me then perhaps I would get along in life- do a little better, be more interesting, have a bit more money. Our lives have moved in coincidental circles, for years we were like a Venn diagram, with my feelings towards her moving from adoration to hatred at the swing of the pendulum. I hated the way she made me feel- like I couldn't compete with her but at the same time I ridiculed her. I laughed at her gaudy way and how she could seem intelligent when it was sheer ignorance. It was all a game, a trick, a test to see if her companions matched her, if they could see through her. I tried to break down an invisible wall. We spent days together (her evenings, of course, spent with whomever the love of her life was at this time) smoking and drinking, talking about our lives and trying to put the world to rights as if we owned it, as if the world was ours for the taking and we were the ones intuitive enough to figure out its mystery. I only wanted to take it from her.
Any now we don't speak, drifted apart like shattered glasses. We were never that subtle.
And I miss her now more than I ever did.
I had a friend once. Pretty girl, very sure of herself, but not so sure at the same time. I thought if I were a bit more like her and a lot less like me then perhaps I would get along in life- do a little better, be more interesting, have a bit more money. Our lives have moved in coincidental circles, for years we were like a Venn diagram, with my feelings towards her moving from adoration to hatred at the swing of the pendulum. I hated the way she made me feel- like I couldn't compete with her but at the same time I ridiculed her. I laughed at her gaudy way and how she could seem intelligent when it was sheer ignorance. It was all a game, a trick, a test to see if her companions matched her, if they could see through her. I tried to break down an invisible wall. We spent days together (her evenings, of course, spent with whomever the love of her life was at this time) smoking and drinking, talking about our lives and trying to put the world to rights as if we owned it, as if the world was ours for the taking and we were the ones intuitive enough to figure out its mystery. I only wanted to take it from her.
Any now we don't speak, drifted apart like shattered glasses. We were never that subtle.
And I miss her now more than I ever did.
If I have been given the choice, if I hadn't hated my contemporaries so much, if the tutors were younger; this is what I would have liked to study next term at University-
Moab is my Washpot by Stephen Fry is the most fantastical, well written, engaging, spectacular success of an autobiography, dare I say it- book, I have ever read in my life (albeit a short one so far). I learnt more from Fry about understanding myself and my young life than I ever could from my peers and that is something that many would find hard to believe. Stephen Fry is nothing short of an absolute genius. I know, it is a terribly trite thing to say but sometimes one has to go along with the masses because the masses are right. The sadness I feel at the moment is that I don’t have time to sit down again with the book, pouring over page after page of woven quotes which made me scream at the pages, like I have done before when listening to The Smiths, “HE WROTE THAT FOR ME!!”. I related to it, not the situation as such but the way re reacted because of them, hiding behind books. It made me question humanity in the sense that are we pleased that someone feels like us or would we rather suffer the pain alone? I know where I have been within that spectrum but I haven’t stayed there very long. In essence this is something that Fry considers himself:
“It can come a bit hard sometimes to see one's own unique, heroic life pinned so pitilessly to a wall. At other times it can endorse, affirm and save, but as I go clowning my sentimental way into eternity, wrestling with all my problems of estrangement and communion, sincerity and simulation, ambition and acquiescence, I shuttle between worrying whether I matter at all and whether anything matters at all but me."
And it’s true. We question our own worth hoping that it is surmountable to everything else. What is it that we really want? Who’s right it is to say they are worth any more than anyone else? Who’s right is it to say they are worth any less? I think the following passage is the one that made my heart jump most of out of its cage. There is something about how he can say the words you might want to, but can never find the means.
Moab is my Washpot by Stephen Fry is the most fantastical, well written, engaging, spectacular success of an autobiography, dare I say it- book, I have ever read in my life (albeit a short one so far). I learnt more from Fry about understanding myself and my young life than I ever could from my peers and that is something that many would find hard to believe. Stephen Fry is nothing short of an absolute genius. I know, it is a terribly trite thing to say but sometimes one has to go along with the masses because the masses are right. The sadness I feel at the moment is that I don’t have time to sit down again with the book, pouring over page after page of woven quotes which made me scream at the pages, like I have done before when listening to The Smiths, “HE WROTE THAT FOR ME!!”. I related to it, not the situation as such but the way re reacted because of them, hiding behind books. It made me question humanity in the sense that are we pleased that someone feels like us or would we rather suffer the pain alone? I know where I have been within that spectrum but I haven’t stayed there very long. In essence this is something that Fry considers himself:
“It can come a bit hard sometimes to see one's own unique, heroic life pinned so pitilessly to a wall. At other times it can endorse, affirm and save, but as I go clowning my sentimental way into eternity, wrestling with all my problems of estrangement and communion, sincerity and simulation, ambition and acquiescence, I shuttle between worrying whether I matter at all and whether anything matters at all but me."
And it’s true. We question our own worth hoping that it is surmountable to everything else. What is it that we really want? Who’s right it is to say they are worth any more than anyone else? Who’s right is it to say they are worth any less? I think the following passage is the one that made my heart jump most of out of its cage. There is something about how he can say the words you might want to, but can never find the means.
“I have always wanted to be able to express music and love and the things that I have felt in their own proper language — not like this, not like this with the procession of particular English verbs, adjectives, adverbs, nouns and prepositions that rolls before you now towards this full-stop and the coming paragraph of yet more words.”
How I too wished I could so some of the things my friends can do because what good is the art of proof reading? That will never satisfy me. Or, indeed, anybody else.
----
The music of Morrissey has taught me more about myself, other people and the world at large than any in depth discussion about the "politics" in literature. with people, myself considered, that could not know the damn slightest about anything more political than what they have read on Wikipedia on a mobile phone at 2am the day before a lesson (seriously).
This is very cliche but it's true. The sad truth none the less. I often wonder why I pay nigh on something like £8,000 a year to end up punching someones face in when I could stay at home and mope about my room "putting the world to rights" as it were. And oh how I think I do
---
If I had it my way I would force everyone to read Jeremy Clarkson books. Why? Because he is funny, that is why. He, with May and Hammond, make people who know SOD ALL about cars, don't drive or whatever want to watch Top Gear. Because it is funny.
HOW?!?!!
---
10 November 2007
The life of a very amateur broadcaster
Friday 2nd November
The end of a long week of recruitment drive, DJing, flyering, boredom and bottles of diet coke.
Saturday 3rd November:
Main Admin. It is now my responsibility to log on top Main Admin and fwd all the emails to whom it is necessary as they have bounced. The amusing part of this is reading all the emails which enables me to delve into the life and world of other exec departments. The downside is that exec members enjoy replying to mail admin so once again the email has bounced and this goes around and around and around in perpetual motion for the rest of the academic year.
Today I mass emailed various promoters, bands, small mammals promoting CSRfm to the world (well whoever would listen really) and now I wait and wait and wait.
Monday 5th November
No fireworks for me, I am too busy setting up for the arrival of BBC Radio Asian Network. I managed to look miserable in all the photos and the turnout was dire but the initials "BBC" help an OK day slightly better
Tuesday 6th November
Meetings, meeting and sometimes no meetings when you cannot find the person and have no idea of their appearance.
Wednesday 7th November
Sometimes, no amount of pretend "planning" and very well thought out "advertising" can stop an event from being worse than you ever imagined. An embarrassment and a waste of time.
Friday 9th November
Marquee+wind+Conservative MPs+ sound monitoring= tedium/10.
No marantz= anger
Myriad fails to trick me
First 1 1/2 live broadcast. I give myself 6/10.
The end of a long week of recruitment drive, DJing, flyering, boredom and bottles of diet coke.
Saturday 3rd November:
Main Admin. It is now my responsibility to log on top Main Admin and fwd all the emails to whom it is necessary as they have bounced. The amusing part of this is reading all the emails which enables me to delve into the life and world of other exec departments. The downside is that exec members enjoy replying to mail admin so once again the email has bounced and this goes around and around and around in perpetual motion for the rest of the academic year.
Today I mass emailed various promoters, bands, small mammals promoting CSRfm to the world (well whoever would listen really) and now I wait and wait and wait.
Monday 5th November
No fireworks for me, I am too busy setting up for the arrival of BBC Radio Asian Network. I managed to look miserable in all the photos and the turnout was dire but the initials "BBC" help an OK day slightly better
Tuesday 6th November
Meetings, meeting and sometimes no meetings when you cannot find the person and have no idea of their appearance.
Wednesday 7th November
Sometimes, no amount of pretend "planning" and very well thought out "advertising" can stop an event from being worse than you ever imagined. An embarrassment and a waste of time.
Friday 9th November
Marquee+wind+Conservative MPs+ sound monitoring= tedium/10.
No marantz= anger
Myriad fails to trick me
First 1 1/2 live broadcast. I give myself 6/10.
06 October 2007
Desire
The Guardian keep tempting me with supplementary leaflets of holidays of cruises and wine tasting holidays in Bordeaux.
I have been shopping for nightclothes and food in Marks and Spencer's.
I bought some flowers and a candle for my room and I have started taking "relaxing" baths.
I am turning into a suburban middle aged woman of leisure.
I have been shopping for nightclothes and food in Marks and Spencer's.
I bought some flowers and a candle for my room and I have started taking "relaxing" baths.
I am turning into a suburban middle aged woman of leisure.
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