Wednesday, 23 January 2013

The girl who played Samara in The Ring also played Donnie Darko's sister. Vaguely interesting.


and no it's not Maggie Gyllenhall

Monday, 21 January 2013

Newsom's early work was strongly influenced by polyrhythms.[33] Her harp teacher, Diana Stork, taught her the basic pattern of four beats against three which creates an interlocking, shifting pattern that can be heard on Ys, particularly in the middle section of "Sawdust & Diamonds." After Ys, Newsom said she had lost interest in polyrhythms. They "stopped being fascinating to me and started feeling wanky."


She's just a damned genius

Sunday, 20 January 2013

Proponents of British Israelism claim numerous links in historical linguistics between ancient Hebrew and various European place names and languages.[37][38] As an example; proponents claim that “British” is derived from the Hebrew words “Berit” and “Ish”, and should therefore be understood as “Covenant Man”




Thursday, 17 January 2013

Dr. Acula

They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. That's what I was told. Trouble was, there was this doctor at my window, knocking and knocking, and all I had in my hand was an apple but, worst of all, the guy wasn't going anywhere.
"Let me in, Mr. Johnson," said Dr. Heathcote, his frizzy hair sticking out and around the place, strands waving like tendrils, but tendrils in a sea full of shit.
"Not waving but drowning," I said, as I threw the apple towards him.
"Gah," he said, as it hit him in the chest, piercing his heart and causing him to disappear in a flash of light. That was one down. But the night had barely started.

Rita phoned.
"You ok, Dave?"
"I'm ok. Just killed my first doctor." I was shaking. Probably didn't help that I was sitting on the top of my washing machine.
"Doesn't feel good, does it?"
"Actually, I enjoyed it."
"Well, that's good, because there's a whole wave of doctors coming our way."
"Where are you?"
"Right behind you," she said.
I dropped the phone and twisted to see her unleashing her fangs upon my neck. Shit.
"Shit," I said. "I didn't know you were a doctor."
"Yeah. I trained for a PhD in Sociology."
"But in the two weeks I've known you, you never mentioned having a doctorate."
"I dropped the course." She flew a dropkick my way to complement her words.
"Shit," I said, reaching for anything nearby. "Even dropout doctors have joined your cause?"
"Yes." She reached for a nearby neck, which I realised was mine, and I found the nearest object at hand - a fridge - and threw it her way. She batted it away, before turning into a bat and flying out of the window.
"Why?" I shouted after her. "You were winning."
"I remembered I left the gas on," she called back.

There were rumours. Rumours of the Haven - an apple orchard nearby. Where these rumours came from, I didn't know. Perhaps they came from my head. I rang the speaking telephone and asked it if I was schizophrenic. No answer. Nothing sustainable, anyway.


I heard Donna say 'Dr. Acula' as a joke, and then she told me it was from Scrubs. At which point I lost interest in this

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

70's NONCE SHOCK

It emerged yesterday that during the seventies, 'everybody' was a paedophile. According to a study run by a focus group involving men aged sixty to eighty, one hundred percent scored within the 'unsavoury' category, with seventy percent falling under the 'moustache' category. 

"It's something that we didn't see coming," said Dr. Againhard, Professor Consultant of Sociology at Lanfrugborough University. "I took part in the study myself, and was astonished to find that I scored fifty percent - which puts me in the 'somewhat dodgy' category."

As a result, Dr. Againhard has, at least for the duration of his career in that decade, been struck off, and officially now only became a doctor in the eighties, when his genes restored themselves to normality.

What happened in the Seventies to cause this phenomenon? Theories abound from 'everyone was just bored' (Alan Ghargle, former TV presenter) to 'girls just looked better back then' (Alan Ghargle, former TV presenter).

A study run by the University of Flan, Aberdeen, provides a more in-depth view of the issue. "It's bollocks," says Ravi Angelo, a meta-physicist who regularly ingests doses of hydrogen mixed with a squared molecule of oxygen to produce UltraWater, "The recent meta-study provided proof that the Lanfrugborough study was inherently flawed, geared as it was to a focus group consisting entirely of inmates from Dartmoor Prison."

I asked the head of the Lanfrugborough study what he thought of Angelo's meta-study, and he replied, "I don't know what meta-study means," before slamming a door in my face. Fortunately for me, it turned out to be the door of a car, inside of which I was sitting; next, next to me sat Dr. Againhard, whom I was interviewing. I replied, "Thank you for shutting my door for me, but in any case, it seems your study was based entirely on one group within Dartmoor." He told me, "Alan Ghargle, a former TV presenter, was also interviewed." To which I replied, "He is now an inmate of Dartmoor Prison."

At this point he left the car, and was almost run over by a passing dog. Unluckily for him, I had mistyped the word 'pissing' and the dog pissed in his face. Which, perhaps, is what Ravi Angelo has done to his study.

Nevertheless, this is a study that we as journalists have decided is worthy of newspaper coverage and, despite the fact I will be sacked for this, I offer nothing but wholehearted criticism of the nature of lazy and sensationalist journalism.


This article was written by former prison inmate Alan Ghargle

Friday, 4 January 2013

asfdsfdsfsf

Apparently gay bishops are allowed now, but they have to remain celibate.

There'll be a lot of bishop-bashing going on.


-etc.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

Excerpt from 'the Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat'


A Matter of Identity
‘What’ll it be today?’ he says, rubbing his hands. ‘Haifa pound of Virginia, a nice piece of Nova?’
(Evidently he saw me as a customer—he would often pick up the phone on the ward, and say
‘Thompson’s Delicatessen’.)
‘Oh Mr Thompson!’ I exclaim. ‘And who do you think I am?’
‘Good heavens, the light’s bad—I took you for a customer. As if it isn’t my old friend Tom Pitkins...
Me and Tom’ (he whispers in an aside to the nurse) ‘was always going to the races together.’
‘Mr Thompson, you are mistaken again.’
‘So I am,’ he rejoins, not put out for a moment. ‘Why would you be wearing a white coat if you were
Tom? You’re Hymie, the kosher butcher next door. No bloodstains on your coat though. Business bad
today? You’ll look like a slaughterhouse by the end of the week!’
Feeling a bit swept away myself in this whirlpool of identities, I finger the stethoscope dangling from
my neck.
‘A stethoscope!’ he exploded. ‘And you pretending to be Hymie! You mechanics are all starting to
fancy yourselves to be doctors, what with your white coats and stethoscopes—as if you need a
stethoscope to listen to a car! So, you’re my old friend Manners from the Mobil station up the block,
come in to get your boloney-and-rye ...’
William Thompson rubbed his hands again, in his salesman-grocer’s gesture, and looked for the
counter. Not finding it, he looked at me strangely again.
‘Where am I?’ he said, with a sudden scared look. ‘I thought I was in my shop, doctor. My mind
must have wandered ... You’ll he wanting my shirt off, to sound me as usual?’
‘No, not the usual. I’m not your usual doctor.’
‘Indeed you’re not. I could see that straightaway! You’re not my usual chest-thumping doctor. And,
by God, you’ve a beard! You look like Sigmund Freud—have I gone bonkers, round the bend?’
‘No, Mr Thompson. Not round the bend. Just a little trouble with your memory—difficulties
remembering and recognizing people.’
‘My memory has been playing me some tricks,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes I make mistakes—I take
somebody for somebody else ... What’ll it be now—Nova or Virginia?’





And this is actually a real-life patient of Oliver Sacks. I love this book. I say book, more like downloaded PDF of a book. I feel bad pirating a book. But.... fuck it.

Fire

The fire had begun at approximately one o’ clock in the morning. I was woken by a feeling of panic around ten past one, certain that something awful was either happening, had happened, or would happen. Then, having been smacked on the gob by my pet dog T’Pau, I presumed that particular scenario had revealed itself and run its course, and I was able to sleep.

Another slap on the face woke me up.  The room was filled with smoke. My first reaction was to curse T’Pau for not caring about the fact that the room was filled with smoke. My second reaction was to curse myself for smoking so much that she had become so used to it that the sight of it at one in the morning could no longer be regarded of as abnormal.
“Come on then, T’Pau,” I said, grabbing her collar and pulling her up. She barked and sat up straight, suddenly aware that something was off. Probably helped by the sound of calamitious crashing from somewhere downstairs.  Shit. All my life’s work and possessions were going to be destroyed. Then it occurred to me: I had no work, nor possessions. My laptop had been left over at Jack’s, and my books were all crappy green-covered copies of old classics I only hung up on shelves to impress non-existent ladies who might come sauntering in.

Well, I say non-existent ladies. There was Rita of course, but she was just my roommate. Woman had a left eye. Often wore earrings. That facts alone meant she wasn’t my type. Last woman I had dated had a glass eye and didn’t wear earrings. Also Rita didn’t like Maltesers, so was presumably insane. Not that I’d noticed, seeing as I’d known her for two months and she seemed to be normal, bar the Maltesers thing. But who could tell?
“Oh yeah,” I said, “I need to get out of here instead of musing randomly about my housemate. Which reminded me.”
Which reminded me.
I needed to make sure that Rita and my other housemate Klans were ok. Heat blazed through the door. I had learned successfully from my primary school years how to check for fire. First thing to do? Put a hand on the door. Second thing to do? Well, that was the tricky part. Now that I had ascertained there was a fire behind the door, my plans for heroism were now scuppered.
“Fuck it,” I said, dashing towards the window and opening it. I picked up T’Pau and allowed her to hop down onto the grass below. Somehow she did it without any sign of fear. Dogs know what’s best for them. Me, I stared down, wondering if I would break my leg. But the alternative was unthinkable. I literally couldn’t think about what the alternative was. So I jumped down, and landed in a heap. Nothing was broken: for some reason I was slightly disappointed. I’d never broken an arm or leg before. I remember all the kids at school who broke their arms were automatically cool. All none of them. I even debated whether I ought to try breaking my arm at one point. I had banged one point of it hard on the wall about five times to see if it would break. Nothing happened and the teacher ended up sending me home for the day because she thought I had gone mental. Lucky break.

“Rita!” I shouted, not really giving a shit about Klans. Yeah. Klans. Fucking retarded name. Man came from Malta but I could tell he had a German accent. So was probably some kind of spy. Or falcon. Who could tell. Either way, Rita, next to T’Pau, was the only person on this earth I cared about.
“Oh, you’re next to T’Pau,” I said to Rita, seeing her standing nonchalantly holding a cigarette by the garden gnomes.
“Got a light?” she said, chuckling drily as I approached over crackling leaves. That, or the house was crackling and I was imagining crackling leaves. I looked down and saw darkness.
“Are there leaves here?” I said.
She slapped me in the face. “Calm down. You’re hysterical.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Having said that, you haven’t lit that cigarette yet. Sign of madness.”
She strode up to the back door, where flames licked vehemently from its shattered glass topside, and held her cigarette out to the furnace, before striding back to me.
“Damn near burned my eyebrows off,” she muttered through her cigarette, before bunching up her collar to protect against the cold. “Am I an idiot or what? Thank fuck I shaved off my eyebrows two days ago to look alternative.”
“You are an idiot,” I said, striding towards the house to keep myself warm. A spark flew towards my face and if I hadn’t been wearing glasses would have probably blinded me to death. “But then, so am I. Only T’Pau understands how to cope with a fire.”
We looked around. T’Pau was nowhere to be seen.
“Yep, he gets it,” she replied.

At this point, we saw Klans appear in the upper window of my bedroom. Shit. How had he made it here? And then I realised: Klans had been sleeping in my bedroom, under my bed. I knew there was a monster. They told me as a kid there was no one under my bed, but they were wrong. Klans fancied the pants off me. I knew this because each morning I would wake up and I would have no pants on. In any case it was weird. There’s fancying and there’s stalking, and in Klans’s case were numerous stalking peripherals, compendia, paraphernalia, and general accessories that he had presumably bought from Accessorize For Stalkers.
“Help!” he shouted out the window.
“Just jump, you nitwit,” said Rita.
“Help!” he repeated.
“Klans. It’s me. The guy you stalk. You’ll be fine. Just jump.”
He showed no signs of noticing us and said “Help!” again.
Rita and I banged our fists on the shed whilst shouting “Jump! Jump! Jump!” but this seemed to have an undesirable effect on Klans.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Help me!”
“It’s us, arsehole,” I replied.
Finally, the man got the hint when a bellow of flame roared and crashed from the bathroom. He fell out of the window, screaming. Then he landed with a crack. How? How had he managed to break his foot at such a height?
Rita and I ran towards him, and lifted his screaming body onto the grass.
“Stop screaming. It’s us,” said Rita.
“What is going on?” he screamed, clutching his leg before deciding it would be more productive to repeatedly hit me on the face.
“Stop hitting me,” I said.
 Having seen enough of this, Rita and I dropped him on the grass and watched him squirm.
“Who’s out there?” he said.
 “Klans,” said Rita.
Klans just lay there clutching his foot and staring at the house. “Where are the others?” he said aloud.
“We’re here.”
Then he began to cry.
“Well, that’s gratitude for you,” I said.
Rita stepped towards me and said very clearly, “I don’t think he can see or hear us.”
There was a moment’s pause, during which the roar of the house and wail of the sirens were the only sounds we listened to. That, and Klans sobbing like a moron.
“How can he not see or hear us?”
She banged the side of the shed again and Klans jumped.
“You heard that, all right,” said Rita. “Klans,” she shouted. “Nothing.” She waved her arms in front of his face. No response. Then, out of some age-old spite, she kicked him in the balls and he howled in pain, before bunching himself up.
“What a joker,” she said, although her voice wavered.
“Rita,” I said, deciding now would be a good time to grab her arm dramatically, “Are we dead?”
She stared at me. “We can’t be dead. I don’t remember dying. And I don’t think this is my idea of Heaven. Having said that, nor do I think it’s my idea of Hell. If, however, this is Purgatory, I have no idea why I’ve been sent here, for I have no unfinished tasks. I literally just handed in my last assignment. Well not literally. Yesterday. Then I shaved off my eyebrows in celebration.”
“And your friends? Your parents? Anything there needs fixing?”
“No. They’re wankers, and I’m never going to speak to them again.”
“That’s probably not good.”
“Anyway,” she said, strolling and kicking up grass now, “We can’t be dead. I know I escaped the fire.”
“Haven’t you seen The Sixth Sense?”
“No – and don’t ruin it for me.”
“But if you’re dead, you’ll probably never see it anyway.”
“Tomorrow, I will watch it – whether it be through haunting someone’s house and scaring them into watching a repeat on ITV2 or whether I hack into someone’s computer at night and torrent it.”
“Can’t believe we’re ghosts. Does that mean our bodies are in there? Our skeletons?”
“At least being burned to death means my body will lose weight. I could stand to lose about 15 pounds,” she said, eyeing up her body.
“Don’t think you can lose that much just by standing,” I replied. “Walking, swimming...”
“Cremation?”
“Perhaps.”
We stood in silence, and unwittingly held hands.

Three days later, having watched the events unfold, the firefighters and the excavation, we both find ourselves in something of a quandary. No bodies. No sign of any bodies. We scraped and searched, and nothing. However, a major occurrence happened when I bumped into the camera of a nearby journalist and a shitstorm began.
“Who was that?” said the cameraman.
“Not sure, but I’m getting out of here,” said a token coward.
I picked up the camera and began filming.
“Holy shit, I’m outta here too,” said the cameraman.
All around us, media types fled the scene, convinced they were about to be cursed by some kind of ghost. Fortunately, one person remained: the journalist. I recognised her: she reported for the local news. Her name was Lisa Japflack, and she had a voice a bit like a mule. But she seemed cool.
Rita and I stood there: me, holding the camera, and Rita standing in front of it. I noticed to my disappointment that I could not see Rita through the lens. They were right. We were invisible.
“Who’s there?” said a voice behind me. I turned with the camera and filmed Lisa Japflack. She held a finger to her ear and began a one-way conversation.
“I’m reporting to you live from 23 DFdfdsfdsuhdsfisjf Avenue where the search for the bodies of Rita Lao and Stephen Blandhand is still underway. The events of the past few minutes however have rendered me stunned beyond rational comprehension. I am currently being filmed by what I can only describe as a ghost.”
I made the v-sign at her but it went unnoticed.
“The camera currently filming me is being held up by invisible hands.” She strode up to the camera and took it off me. She pointed the camera my way, although it was clear she could see where I was. Then she spoke, to me. What relief to hear myself being addressed!
“Whoever is there, make yourself known.”
Rita and I banged the nearest lamppost. We kicked out and made as much noise as we could. We grabbed the camera off her and filmed ourselves.