I have pretty much not left my bedroom for two days. After the high jinks of Eurovision, the majority of which I watched on my own in the house, exception a ten minute period in which Thomas and his two French friends who both looked like Javier Bardem in a hall of mirrors gawped and tried to suggest the Swedish singer was attractive which she obviously wasn't, I went out. I went out and danced to incredibly mediocre indie rock tunes like This Charming Man, and La Tristesse Durera, got patronised for a bit by a number of people and then came home. Since then, I have left my bedroom on two occasions: 1) to play Tony Hawks Underground in the living room whilst listening to the new Ladytron and Cajun Dance party albums, which if I get round to it, will receive mediocre reviews, although at the moment they're fighting over which one could make less of an impression on me than the other. Anyway, I learnt how to do 'manual' tricks on Tony Hawks. Every time I find out something new that you can do, I end up whittle away at least a few more hours into nothing. Last week, it was discovering that holding on the back of cars makes you jump higher, now it's the fact you can do handstands and things. I'm guessing most people are going to be dramatically unimpressed with this, because it tells you all of this in the manual, but when you're playing a £1.50 third hand copy bought from CEX with hau hau noodle stains on the outer rim of the disc, things like manuals are a joy, and looking up basic information on the internet for this is impossible. Not least because there are approximate nine million near-identical Tony Hawks games that I don't care about because I don't own them. The other occasion, 2) was to do some washing up in the kitchen, and to listen to Paul Merton singing Stand By Me to to the tune of The William Tell Overture on I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue on a cassette.
Last night I couldn't sleep, and it was for probably the most ridiculous reason ever. I kept having visions of David Copperfield. This is unforgivably stupid, but I can only only explain it by the fact I was too bored last night to even bother going to sleep, and so I spent hour upon hour sat in front of my computer watching endless clips on youtube of hammy eighties magicians doing illusions. My particular favourite was the utterly ridiculous clip of David Copperfield 'levitating' over the Grand Canyon. The footage of this is so grainy it looks like it could even have pre-dated the invention of the video camera, but it's hilarious. It looks like it was directed by the same person responsible for the Total Eclipse of the Heart video, and for some reason, haunted me in my sleep and caused me to wake up in a cold sweat and resort to watching Seinfeld. I'm really surprised if anyone was fooled by this trick though, it's poor.
Minor gripes. Dishes or plates which have really bad floral designs which look like dirt. There's one particular dish in our house, which is too small to be a real dish, but too big to be, say, a sauce pot or an inkwell, but it's white, and has a pattern around the edge which looks exactly like burnt-on food. Uncanny. It's only today, when I looked closely, that each seemingly random stain, was exactly the same shape. I put the dish right at the back of the cupboard where hopefully I won't see it again. I'm expecting that if you look really, really closely, the flowers have probably faded loads from me trying to wash them off.
I hate 'next customer please' signs in the supermarket. I was going to spend my day today taking photographs for my ongoing collection where I go to places that aren't very interesting, take photographs of how uninteresting they are, and then go home, but it's been raining. Every time I've gone over to the window to look out, usually in between episodes of Season 4 of Seinfeld, or if the three minute clip of Franz Harary making a helicopter 'appear from nowhere' and taking about twenty minutes to do so, there's been nothing but a constant splashing in the puddles in the centre of the street. It's most certainly rain that's not worth going walking in, not least because my current cords du jour are this pair I don't even know where they came from, or whether they're green or grey. You know you're in trouble when you're wearing clothes you're unsure of the colour of, or their origin. But still, if I was Criss Angel, I'd just walk up a wall with my umbrella and nothing would ever bother me. Criss Angel is rubbish. I don't mind Copperfield, because he's cheesy as you like, and makes really bad jokes onstage, but Criss Angel is a total jerk. He's the sort of person you see in rock clubs that commands the dance floor during 'Sugar' or 'Killing in the Name' that thoroughly deserves to be stabbed in the face. I just watched a clip in which he made quasi-psychobollocks-mind-shit carping on about having 'solid objects passing through his body', then hung out with hilarious comedian 'Carrot top' in Las Vegas making appalling Bill Cinton jokes and pretended to get run over by a rollercoaster. No wonder all the bodily modified supermodels all want to marry him. What an arse. What a jerk-ahontas. "Criss Angel is the mind freak, and my mind is freaked! What I don't understand is why there isn't a good, currently active illusionist who uses digicam tricks to make them more interesting. Like Cloverfield or Jackass. Take away the gloss from magic, make it more interesting. And not like David Blaine with his moronic levitation shit. His entire life is a bloody illusion that he himself has been conned.
¡Soy un ventilador de fuck buttons también, seamos amigos!
I am a fan of fuck buttons too, let's be friends
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