Lowlights of 2011

Here are The Arbitchuary’s least favourite things about the past year:

-Not getting laid for the whole of January.

-Being shhh’d by a room full of doe-eyed, romantic patriots whilst making facetious remarks during coverage of the royal wedding. I missed the actual ceremony, because I didn’t realize it would be on so early.

-Americans relishing the hi-octane execution of Osama Bin Laden, reminding me that we live in a miserable age where violent resolution of conflict is still celebrated by the majority, and international politics are approached with moralistic overtones akin to those of a Stan Lee comic book.

-Not getting laid for most of February.

-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and a host of other cinematic disappointments, such as The Rum Diary and The Tree of Life, which played out like a 140 minute Nokia advert.

-Marlboros costing within the range of £7. It’s been Pall Mall (£5.30, if you’re lucky) for the last six months. Ugh.

 Farewell, old chums!

-The death of Nate Dogg. His soulful baritone crooning provided a fitting soundtrack to my youthful days of marijuana intoxication and hustling Pokemon cards. He will be missed by myself and the rest of the O.G community. 

-The death of Gil Scott Heron, one of my few genuine heroes.

-Being told off for not having heard of Downton Abbey, then being told I was arrogant for not having a television.

-The London riots. A time when people of all races, genders and classes came together and united, in the name of…free trainers?

The thrill of speeding down Portobello Road, one hand on my handlebars and the other on a 999 call, pursued by a faceless mob, was outweighed by the fury I felt, watching my city immolated by hordes of greedy lowlives looking for plasma screens. My then flat in Ladbroke Grove was surrounded by teenagers brandishing makeshift weapons. Thankfully, they weren’t aspirational enough to loot the high-end furniture shop downstairs, and I live to tell the tale.

-Having to pay £15 to watch the re-release of Jurassic Park at a Vue in central London. 2014 prices for 1993 cinema?

-Bob Dylan. Seeing him live for the third time, in Sweden in June, was a disappointment hat-trick. The Tom Waits impression - and total disregard for his fanbase - that he’s adopted into his repertoire, made it the third distinctly average performance of his that I’ve seen.

-The Box, in Soho, being full of Hermès Belt wearing fuckheads every time I’ve been there. It supposed to be a seedy burlesque hideaway. Where are Lemmy and all the tattooed pornstar babes?

-Not being able to get a proper view of 80-year-old Mr Burns impersonator, Rupert Murdoch, being smashed in the face with a novelty cream pie during live televised questioning. However, his crazy wife, Wendi Deng, did not disappoint with her Hundred Hand Slap, learned courtesy of classic Street Fighter character E. Honda.

-The increasingly successful career of Drake. How have we let this cunt become so wealthy and popular?

The last point probably sums it up. That’s where we’re headed for o’twelve; more smug fucks bragging about their money through autotuned vocoders – in and out of the music charts – while the rest of us smoke Pall Malls and kill each other for free Reebok Classics.

...Bye bye, two-thousand-and-eleven!

#11: Nut Roast

-I am punished annually for my commitment to animal welfare with nut roast, a depressing alternative to Christmas turkey.
-I don't know who came up with this bright idea. Unlike the tasty bird cadaver that everyone else is guzzling, it seems that vegetarians have to put up with a meal that tastes like a Tracker bar swimming in vegetable stock.
-I might as well satiate my appetite by gnawing on the shit-flecked bristles of a toilet brush, for all the enjoyment I get out of Christmas dinner. But I'm thankful for it all the same, and wish Christ a happy birthday.

#10: Santa Hats

She's actually not wearing a Santa hat, but if the 

great Gil Elvgren had wanted to put her in one, this

little lady would have got a free pass. 

Not you, though. 

-I doubt I need to go into too much detail here. They have nothing to do with goodwill, peace on earth, compassion, altruism, or a newborn Christ covered in hay and placenta, which is what Christmas should be all about, if you choose to get on board with it, which I don’t.

-They are most commonly coupled with a can of Super Tennents and a request for spare change, which makes me very sad during winter.

-I’ve never gotten over the discovery that Father Christmas isn’t real, and these hats are an annual pinch of salt in the wound.

-For those who don’t have any irritating, cynical lefties in their lives, you may not be informed once a year that our modern day notions of Santa Claus were invented by the Coca-Cola company in the 1930s as an advertising ploy. It’s a brave move trying to market soda with an elderly, fat, ruddy-faced, bearded man who squeezes into your home at night and messes around with your children’s socks, but I think the people at Coca-Cola are getting by okay.

-Ultimately, Christmas ain’t about getting drunk in red and white hats, throwing tantrums over Marc Jacobs bags or eating a fuck-ton of defenseless turkey. It doesn’t even have to be about Jesus (he was born in September, apparently). If anything, it’s a time to practice universal benevolence and be nice to others, which is something I try to practice every day, and so should you, you cocksuckers. So, with regard to Christmas and its Santa Hats, I’ll refer you to the words of another hat-wearing sellout, Flava Flav, and advise that you ‘don’t believe the hype’.

#9: Tyler The Creator [and the collective hipster love affair with his mediocre music]

-Trendy white guys have decided that Tyler the Creator is the new messiah - or perhaps more aptly, the new anti-Christ - of black music, and that excites them very much.

-I have listened to his album, and though, as an (ultra) trendy white guy I might be breaking from tradition in saying this, I think that Tyler the Creator is a waste of time, and I don’t buy any of it.

-This is not because it’s too violent, or too provocative, or not provocative enough. But because it’s the literal definition of mediocre hip hop music, just with a bit more rape fantasy. And actually, rape fantasy isn’t that fun, especially when deployed by 19 year old boy, with a voice like a larynx replacement, against a monotonous drone that I’m constantly being told is a revolutionary new sound in music production.

-Call me square, but in and among all the mind-numbing mediocrity of the album, I did actually find some of the misogynistic stuff mildly offensive. Maybe I’m getting soft in my early twenties, but it just seemed a bit of an affront to hear the word ‘cunt’ deployed at me every few seconds in such an unimaginative way. Now, in my day, Ol' Dirty Bastard or Eminem could tell a violent, misogynistic fantasy yarn and I’d be all over it like bitches on Kool Keith’s dick. But there’s something about this little Tyler the Creator squirt that doesn’t quite work. I could be slightly tied up in a resentment that the kid’s probably getting laid more than I am (though only marginally more, I reckon). And I’m sure anyone who disagrees with me will try to convince me that my being offended just shows that he’s made his point, and that I ‘just don’t get it, maaan’ (or ‘bruuuv’, depending on what side of the Atlantic we’re on, or more specifically, whether it’s Brooklyn or Dalston). But that line won’t fly with me. I’m not offended because the album is an unexpected and inventive assault on my middle class sensibilities and respect for the fairer sex. I’m offended because, within the context of it’s own…shitness, I suppose – the fact that it isn’t really anchored to any tangible sense of real originality or creativity - the album’s pointless attempts at being abrasive just seem to accentuate how fucking dull the production is overall.

-I also can't stand the fact that English people feel that they are allowed to talk about Tyler & Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All in stylized, 90s hip hop slang, using phrases like, 'word is born', and ending sentences with 'son', as if they are part of the cast of New Jack City, as opposed to having grown up in Gospel Oak and working a Saturday job at the Stussy store in Seven Dials. 

-Anyway, I said it. Tyler the Creator is no big deal. And if any of you Supreme cap-wearing, top button-buttoning, sneaker-collecting, ‘street art’-perpetrating whiteboys try to convince me that OFWGKTA are the new Wu-Tang, or that I’m being a pussy and don’t understand, I promise I’ll shove a pair of Limited edition Air Jordan hi-tops down your throat, son. And then knock ya gurl's boots. Whilst listening to Raekwon.

Paaayce.

#8: Hermès 'H' Belt Buckles

 

-I dislike Nazi uniforms almost as much as I dislike the people that wear them, ie. Nazis. And to a lesser extent, Prince Harry and like-minded giblet-heads who want to make an edgy joke at Halloween parties.

-Similarly, I dislike Hermès belt buckles almost as much as I dislike the people that wear them, ie. disproportionately wealthy English toffs, international bankers, Russian oligarchs and Arab oil barons at leisure.

-The only reason I can gather that these people choose to wear such a gaudy statement above their crotch is to display that they are moneyed enough to drop 500 quid on something that effectively stops your trousers from sliding down your arse.

-What it actually displays is that they are stupid enough to waste money on such sartorial trivialities, and insecure enough to have to follow the lead of their ‘Tod’s loafers ate my brain!’ peers.

-I get resentful about how often I see beautiful women cavorting with men wearing Hermès belts, as they are, for the most part, some of the most unattractive specimens of masculinity you are likely to encounter. And while I would like to believe that perhaps they are having meaningful, loving relationships based on trust and mutual affection, I am sadly far more convinced that the ‘H’ belt is a signifier of the unwritten jet set couples’ contract that follows the form of ‘I will provide you a lavish lifestyle with little-to-no difficulty, and in return you will allow me to display you as a wife to my family and friends while I pursue my appetite for undernourished prostitutes and cocaine’.

-This bothers me, as I’m sure it does you. And for the record, Hermès in general are a fairly naughty little institution. I once found a small white face cloth in the Hermès store in Oslo, which was priced at 2950 Kronor, which is roughly 300 pounds. You didn’t read that wrong. A face cloth. For 300 smackers. Gotta have something nice and soft to wipe the sweat from one’s brow after a hard day relaxing on the yacht, wouldn’t you agree?

#7: White Girls Singing in a 'Soulful' Growl

It looks like she mistook the paper shredder for the laundry basket when she tried to wash her jeans.

 -This is the aural equivalent of dry ice to the genitals.

-Fortunately, dry ice to the genitals is something I have never experienced, but the thought of it, like the sound of white chicks attempting the whole “urghhh-hurghmmmmm yeaAaaaAhhh-ooooww-hmmmmm I’m a diva huurgghhhyeahhhh I don’t take no shit from no maaaaannnnnn” thing, makes me cringe a lot.

-The technical musical term for this is melisma. One word or syllable of a vocal line is elongated over a range of notes, often to dazzling effect. It’s the thing that’s likely to send groovy little shivers down your spine when listening to the opening of James Brown’s version of Bewildered. When attempted by less gifted singers, it is not dazzling, as the vocal melody becomes more of an aggressive yodel.

-The accompanying vocal tone generally sounds a bit like the thing that sometimes happens when you’ve just eaten a chocolate bar and your voice unintentionally comes out sounding like Fozzy Bear. Think of that Anastacia song from the late 90s where she was “hhhhowtta lllurrve [out of love]”, presumably you’ll get what I’m saying.

-This usually obscures the lyrics – which isn’t really a problem, because they are, for the most part, completely vacuous anyway. Not always – Christina Aguilera’s diabolical warblings were deployed at us with wholesome intentions when she tried to reassure French-kissing gays, bald transvestites and skinny weightlifters worldwide that they are beautiful, no matter what [people like Bill O’Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and…50 Cent] say. But if she gave that much of a shit, she could have done it without assaulting our ears, and just volunteered for Samaritans or something.

-The physical actions that accompany the growly-whitegirl vocal style always involve the head being thrown back and the hands desperately pulling at the hair, as though it’s not actually hair, but an obscure furry animal with peroxide highlights that is digging its claws into the bald scalp of the singer. This is quite funny, but also a bit unnerving.

-At its worst, this style of singing is basically just the noise that children make when they impersonate motorbike engines, but rather than ‘vrrooom, vrrooom’, there are words about sexual autonomy and refusing to have one’s heart broken (again).

-If you have never encountered someone who breaks into this style of singing, impromptu, eyes closed and holding out their hand, palm facing down, moving it up and down in correlation with the varying pitch of the melody, then you are very lucky. You’ll feel obliged to tell them that they should record a demo, even though you can’t quite look them in the eye ever again.

#6: The Self-Proclaimed 'Mad'

 -When asked to sum themselves up, certain people will jump at the opportunity to convey how ‘mad’, ‘wacky’, ‘crrrazy’, or ‘totally bonkers!’ they are.

-This is one of the most irritating ways in which socially maladroit people choose to introduce themselves.

-Generally, the people who do this work in professions that don’t quite correspond to how ‘barmy’ they apparently are, such as accountancy, human resources or management consultancy.

-‘Madness’ is an elusive concept anyway, and can act as a springboard for exploration into the individual’s perception of reality within a society that operates under distinct social and cultural conventions.

-For our purposes I’m going to use Charles Manson as a measuring stick for what constitutes actually being ‘mad’, because he arguably defied such social and cultural conventions when he established an esoteric cult based on the musical output of The Beatles and manipulated several women into committing a gruesome tally of high profile murders in order to spark a race war that he believed would be the precursor to Armageddon (as had supposedly been prophesized to him in the lyrics of the proto-heavy metal song Helter Skelter).  

 -By these standards, earnestly declaring yourself as ‘mad’ should carry some pretty heavy connotations. There’s about as much social appeal there as would be found in going to work wearing a pointy white pillow case over your head with eyeholes cut into it.  I would hate to think that middle management professionals who declare themselves ‘a bit bloody mental!’, upon meeting people in an All Bar One, are genuinely planning an apocalyptic bloodbath based on a delusional premise of racial bigotry encoded to them through the music of the biggest band in the world – which nowadays would probably be U2, sadly.

-I’m sure they aren’t, but I have always kept these people at arms length all the same. Generally, in my experience, people who try extra hard to be personable, funny and slightly off the wall, are doing this to conceal a hidden agenda, or a disposition that’s actually neurotic, uptight and flakey around money.

-This is exemplified by the fact that self-proclaimed ‘loonies’ and ‘total nutters’ are all fun and games when they feel it’s appropriate (regardless of whether or not anyone else does), but it doesn’t take much for them to switch back into the world of the non-mad when it suits them. The up-turned traffic cone will quickly be removed from the crown of the head, the finger-through-the-trouser-fly withdrawn, the moment they notice that someone hasn’t chipped in for the taxi.

-Would Charles Manson behave like this? It might be comforting to imagine so, but I really doubt it. And it’s irrelevant anyway, because, as previously mentioned, he is genuinely mad, and what with his never-ending onslaught of extended life sentences, I doubt we’ll be hearing much from him any time soon.

#5 Hipster Fisherman Hats

-I have always been unexplainably infuriated, yet strangely fascinated by these hats. Why are they always worn at a jaunty angle?

-They are often complemented by the thin, waxed veneer of a barbour jacket and a pair of cigarette leg jeans that don’t quite meet a pair of Doctor Marten’s airwair boots, thus leaving a gap revealing pasty little legs. Judging from this, as well as their size, I have concluded that these little hats really can’t do a great deal for helping to keep warm.

-Where, in the name of Christ, did this style originate from? Not that I want to declare myself a beacon of sartorial knowledge, but I generally subscribe to the idea that the fashionable affectations of artsy types are usually derived from some kind of basis in 20^th century pop cultural imagery; 

Plaid shirts = Kurt Cobain / vintage Americana

Pompadour haircuts = rockabilly / rhythm & blues

Trenchcoats = film noir

Big spectacles = Buddy Holly / Graham Coxon,

Ironic moustaches = Dali / The Marlboro Man

Customization / intentional dishevelment = Richard Hell / '77 punk

…and so on, and so forth. 

-Of course, this is a crude and very basic observation. It's pointless trying to literally trace and pinpoint the origins of every detail in something so vacuous as 'hipster' fashion. But I imagine you see what I'm getting at. These little hats that I constantly see, whizzing past at the speed of fixed-gear bicycles, seem to have fallen out of the post-ironic blue on to the heads of every person who's ever read Vice magazine. Which is a shame for them, because they look ludicrous.

-The only thing I can think of is that these hip young movers and shakers are really into Captain Birdseye, or the kind of burglars you see in children’s cartoons, with striped outfits and bags of loot strung over their backs.

-This leads me to conclude that, in originating a style that makes the adherent look like a strange, nerdy, fictional thief / a fisherman on laundry day, perhaps these guys have come up with something fresh and unique – an achievement I have long considered impossible. This would make me feel jealous, enraged and inadequate, but it doesn’t, because I can’t get over how hilariously stupid I find these little hats.

 

*Just a note about hat-wearing in general; contrary to popular male dresscode, I would like to point out that in most cases, you should not wear a trilby or pork-pie hat unless you are Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, or a Delta bluesman circa 1920-1970. Similarly, the ridiculous, gnome-like big woolly tea-cosy hats that generally accompany bicep hugging t-shirts from All Saints (with necklines that dip low enough to show pectoral cleavage and terrible tattoos of meaningless credos rendered in cursive script) are really stupid. And always worn at unnecessary times, like summer, or in a bar.

#4: Bad Lyrics

-The history of popular music is absolutely heaving with lyrical shockers.

-Some bad lyrics are offensively poor, some just mildly comical. For instance, though I’m certain it’s unintentional, I’ve always felt that verse three of Jailhouse Rock is slightly - or rather, screamingly - gay. I’m talking about the bit where Number 47 tells Number 3 “you the cutest jailbird I ever did see”. If we’re assuming that this is an all-male prison (which we are, because mixed-gender prisons only exist in exploitation films), then I presume you catch my drift. It might also be the only potential reference to the very serious and totally neglected issue of male prison rape ever made in a US Billboard Number 1 single.

"I'm gonna stick around - I wanna get my kicks!"

This is a fairly sinister line, given the men-in-a-Southern-States-prison context.

Say it to yourself in a Deliverance-style 'squeal piggy!' accent and feel the shudders.

-But pop music is made for, and appreciated by the masses, and to pick apart all its lyrical content would be unfair, pointless and time consuming. I’m not going to start wading through ‘oh oh oh baby’ type stuff trying to make wittily scathing remarks about it, because the results would be similar to that of getting impaled falling out of a pear tree: unamusing, and ultimately fruitless.

-Independent and underground music is where the truly bad lyrics are at.

-Musicians and performers who self-impose exemption from the mainstream are inherently attaching themselves to a notion of artistry, as opposed to popular appeal and record sales. So when their lyrics are bad, it’s far more painful than when Lil’ Wayne tells us that his Maybach is ‘all black’, and thus sitting in it is like ‘sitting in an asshole’. 

I get a real kick out of Weezy, but his verse here, like the rest of 

his ouvre, reminds me why we no longer buy CDs.

Almost as good as the Rick Ross joint in which the 'big boss' compares himself to John Lennon,

whilst boasting about his gun collection, from a wheelchair with spinning rims.

-It would be nice if the music and lyrical output of underground and independent artists could act as an antidote to such uninspired numskullery. Also, it should really constitute a decent grounds for justifying the fact that they don’t get paid a lot for making it, and should probably have a proper job, like oral hygienist or haberdasher’s assistant. When the lyrical output is out of wack, I get irritated. 

I have some examples:

-I (like everybody else who writes a blog) am a massive fan of J-Dilla (though I can’t stand people who over-egg the pudding on this topic – he was a wonderful producer, but he didn’t change my life, and I’m not convinced he changed yours, so take that t-shirt off). And I love both Slum Village albums as though they were my own well-behaved children. But some of the lyrics are a pretty suspect.* This one is arguably the most feeble attempt I have ever heard at trying to get a woman to sleep with you;

You’re sexy, girl - and also quite confident. /

You could sell goods and probably market it.

Tell Me – Slum Village

Not only is the lucky girl told that she’s sexy, but also that she’s ‘quite confident’. Pretty raunchy stuff. And the second line, which I sadly interpret as MC Baatin really going in for the kill, sounds like the way Rainman would try to seduce a woman if he’d been unable to get out much in the last few months due to studying for his degree in Business Management. I reckon there are very few men who could get laid by informing a woman that, if she was interested, it’s likely she might be able to scrape some career selling unspecified ‘goods’.

*Despite what’s said here, I am genuinely a great SV fan, 

and acknowledge that the untimely deaths of two of the group’s 

members is a real tragedy for modern music. The production here is,

as ever, tremendous. The lyrics are just slightly less than tremendous.

-Next;

When the cactus are in full bloom /

I’m gonna ask you to be my wife.

Fortune Teller – Forest Fire

Aesthetically, this band subscribe to a particular hipster template, which will be familiar to those who have ever spent 5 minutes in Santa Cruz. Something along the lines of ‘we look like earthy, tinker-ish, wandering poet types who live an anachronistic lifestyle which is part Chekhov play, part 1970s commune – but we do all have subscriptions to Wallpaper’. 
-The plural of ‘cactus’ is ‘cacti’, as most people are aware. Thus, unfortunately, in attempt to sound esoteric and kooky, they have made the massive gaffe of totally fucking up their grammar. Unless it was an attempt at Jamaican patois - in which case it's still phrased incorrectly. 
-Also, the line, unsubtly wrapped up in creaky allusion to Pueblo Indian culture, renders itself totally redundant anyway. Telling a woman up front that you have plans to ask her to be your wife, not right now, but at a more significant and romantic point in the future, sort of shits on the romantic element you were holding out for in waiting for the CACTI to reach full bloom.

There's no excuse for this absolutely dismal performance.

If you have to try your hand at twee 'nordic-woolly-sweater' indie pop,

then lock yourself in an icy cabin in the middle of nowhere and do it

properly, like Bon Iver (who also happens to have a dodgy lyric somewhere about 

parking tickets, embedded in an otherwise heart-wrenching 

love song about the futility of romantic expectations and the pain of loss). 

-I could dig out a lot more examples, but I’ve had enough of this now. 

In general, bad lyrics are bad. But worse from artists whose ‘cool’ factor tricks us into believing that they might know better.

#3: Bonfire Night

-The week leading up to the fifth of November always leaves me feeling like a troubled Vietnam war veteran – not to be melodramatic or anything, but my reaction to huge explosions going off at unexpected times during the night is akin to that of a small dog, in that it puts me on edge, makes me disgruntled, and as a result I want to urinate in unusual places in the house to make a point of this.

-Halloween is bad enough, especially when it falls on a Monday, allowing people who actually buy into it to milk it dry over the course of the weekend, squeezing every drop they can from its spooky udder. Halloween pisses me off because I hate getting heckled by an overweight Beetlejuice / totally unsexy ‘sexy vampiress’ on the tube. Also because, whereas it might only be an annual event for some, I dress like a post-car crash matinee idol every other day of the year, so it’s the one day where I don’t feel special and different.

-After all the trauma of the 31^st of October, we then have Bonfire Night.

-Bonfire Night is a celebration of early 17^th century British prejudice and oppression. Every firework you watch tonight, though they may be pretty and colourful, is effectively celebrating the appalling tokenistic torture and execution of a man who was foiled in a plot to rebel against the totalitarian regime of an absolutist Monarch who was enacting religious oppression against non-protestants.

-Though placed at one remove from the popular consciousness, we still keep this in mind when we burn ‘Guy’ effigies on bonfires.

-Many people don’t think of it this way, but it would effectively be the equivalent of Germans unthinkingly burning an effigy of Johann Georg Elser once a year. I’m pretty sure they would never, ever consider introducing that tradition.

-Right wing country bumpkin creeps in Lewes, a county town in East Sussex, still burn an effigy of the Pope every bonfire night. Try that one out for size on any religious group or denomination other than Catholicism and see if it doesn’t result in widespread condemnation/international outcry/fatwã.

-I have my own personal gripe against Bonfire Night, because I once had a bad mushroom trip on the 5^th of November, and the fireworks really weren’t helpful.

-That is all.

#2: Needing a piss in the centre of town

-Not a day goes by when I am not in agony at some moment, needing to urinate in central London.

-Public toilets in London are generally either drug dealing epicentres, or have been turned into trendy pop-up clubbing venues.

-Urinating in public is a deeply risky business for females. As for males, it is unacceptable when you are past the age of 10 and the sun is out. There are few things more nerve-wracking and shameful than standing in a cobblestone mews off Kensington High Street, in broad daylight, hurriedly shaking drops of urine from your penis. And then, having to spend upwards of £1.80 on a bottle of Evian in order to wash your hands.

-There is something very depressing about having to divert a moment in your life by venturing into a McDonalds, Burger King, or any other fast food misery shack, with the sole intention of visiting their toilets. Additionally, the toilets in these kinds of establishments are always inevitably situated at the back of the downstairs seating area. This means wading through the usual crowd of ghouls who prefer to sit and eat in the only section of a drab, BBQ sauce-stained cesspit that lacks natural light.

-Though fast food franchises are aesthetically unrewarding, at least there’s a decent chance you might actually get to empty your bladder. Starbucks may appeal with its groovy contemporary jazz soundtrack, spacious disabled facilities, and full length vanity mirrors, but I have rarely ever walked straight into a Starbucks toilet without having to wait eight minutes or so for it to be vacated by a very sheepish looking middle aged dog-walker type.

-The best option is to find the nearest 4-5 star hotel and walk in with your iphone in hand, like you own the fucking place. Then make for the shitters and go bananas. Not only can you urinate (and more) in pleasant environs, but you can also take liberties with complementary Molton Brown hand soap, and even pilfer a few embroidered hand towels - if being a lowlife is your thing. And, on top of all that, a well-spoken doorman in a top hat will greet you and see you off when you’re done.

-In conclusion, needing a piss is a total rigmarole, and the sooner they create a weekly injection that alleviates the human need to excrete waste, the better.

#1: Blogs and Blogging

I have never understood the purpose of blogging, and have thus always hated it. But, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Or, more precisely, if you feel intimidated every time you meet someone who appears more successful, together, and hip than you do, start writing a blog about all the things you hate. Here’s why I hate blogging:

-It has created a new sub-genre of non-fiction, which allows people to create an illusive, narcissistic vision of themselves as fascinating, edgy, creative individuals, all from the comfort of the dimly lit, semen-drenched keyboard that they probably never actually leave.

- It has changed the way we write, think and speak, with the perpetuation of a cutesy, yet ironic, Americanized ‘Carrie Bradshaw’ writing style. Which involves unnecessary full stops. And melodramatic short sentences. Everywhere.

- It assumes that we are open to giving a shit about the quotidian rituals of spoiled brats who either live really fast (from behind their computer screens), or live really well (from behind their computer screens). I would post a link to my ex-girlfriends blog, read by thousands of subscribers in Sweden, in which she details, amongst other earth shattering revelations, every skin, hair and beauty product she uses on a day-to-day basis. But she’d probably use her daddy’s black AmEx card to sue me for defamation, and I think I’m bitter enough as it is.

- New forms of online social media seem to promise us the notion of up to the minute insights into the real lives of our peers. Yet among all the posts along the lines of ‘…running for a Greyhound bus in Tucson, AZ!’, or ‘…sipping a dry vermouth whilst thumbing through a battered copy of A Farewell to Arms’, I have yet to come across a tweet, facebook status or blog entry that reads along the lines of ‘…having a shit, and considering whether or not to bleach my top lip’. Not that I’d want to, but I’m just saying.

- It distances people from the present, by causing us to aspire towards a constructed ideal of reality, by which enjoyment of the present moment is cast aside in favour of recording it. Unless, of course, you’re taking a shit and considering whether or not to bleach your top lip. In which case, since you’d never dream of sharing that with your online peers, there’s a chance you might actually be mindful of it enough to enjoy it.

Welcome to The Arbitchuary

- I spend my day-to-day life desperately trying, and failing, desperately, to accept the ins and outs of the 21^st century (not that the crumbs of the 20^th century were any better).

- Throughout my 20 odd years of existence, a lot of my time has been spent carefully picking apart people and things that I don’t like.

- I have only ever really shared these resentments with women. Mostly ex-girlfriends. So I haven’t had a girlfriend for a while now.

- This means that recently there’s very little between me and a merciless, ‘zodiac’ style rampage.

- Thus, having reached the crossroads between suicide, religious conversion, and self-imposed exile, I decided I would start a blog.

- Detailing and cataloguing, week by week, things that I dislike, I hope to exercise and exorcise my resentments, and find myself at peace with the world I live in.

- This being the case, I’m hoping the blog will be shortlived: I’ll run out of things to moan about and realize that the world is actually full of beauty and joy. But I’m not counting on it.

- There will be anger, there may be insight, there may, at a push, be humour. But mostly there will be cussing.

- Welcome to The Arbitchuary.