A Week Called Bastard – Episode 2

Since there was general approval of the first entry in this landmark series of bitterness and despair, the powers that be at Bastard Towers have decided to make this a weekly series. If this strikes you as inherently wrong or actually criminal, please write to your MP/senator/feudal overlord.

* * * * *

It has been a funny old week for the Republican party. Not only have they seemingly been trying to one-up each other over who can make the most inappropriate comments about rape, but their National Convention turned out to make headlines more for Clint Eastwood being out-debated by an empty chair than anything said by Romney or his cohorts.

But the Republicans are easy targets, when has The Bastard ever picked on easy targets? Well, all the time. It really is a lot of fun. But crucially, John Walker has already said what I wanted to say in a much more erudite manner than I could.

So instead, let's pick on some other rich white meat. You may not have heard of Gina Rinehart, but she can buy you. And your family. And your family's close personal friends and pets. She is the world's wealthiest woman, and a couple of days ago she delivered some handy advice for those less well-off than herself.

"If you're jealous of those with more money, don't just sit there and complain... Do something to make more money yourself - spend less time drinking or smoking and socialising, and more time working... There is no monopoly on becoming a millionaire."

That's right, you filthy proles. The reason you're poor is because all your money goes into your revolting habits, or into having friends. If only you'd put your nose to the grindstone you'd make enough money to dictate ludicrous opinions to the public and be the victim of mockery on isolated monkey blogs like this one. It was Gina's hard work that got her where she was today. If by 'hard work' we mean 'being born the heir to an Australian mining magnate'. But let's not do down that achievement in and of itself.

Think of the strain and pure graft involved in Gina's hard-won race as a sperm, grinding its way relentlessly toward her mother's precious egg as Lang Hancock grunted and thrust his hips – the sweat on his brow unconsciously echoing the sweat on the brows of workers worldwide, all of whom were united in saluting this tribute to their labours.

If The Bastard were a lazy writer, he might ignore this obvious humourous parallel to the working classes and instead comment on the basic misunderstanding of capitalism that is inherent in the claim that anyone can become a millionaire. Or perhaps point out the utter vapidity Gina displayed upon blaming “socialist” policies for the gap between rich and poor. Those scheming socialists, always looking to line the pockets of the rich. And if The Bastard were gratuitously offensive as well as lazy, he might also state that someone who looks like Gina might want to keep their nose out of social policy, lest their influence bring about criminal punishment via carbonite freezing and excessive public consumption of weird frog-things from steaming water bowls.

Otherwise she might be the first into the Sarlacc pit when the revolution comes.

* * * * *

It wasn't too long after the last AWCB was posted that the world learned of the death of Neil Armstrong, the first human to set foot on a celestial body other than our own planet. This seemed particularly poignant given the rush of information flowing to us from the Curiosity rover, trundling over the surface of Mars since August 6^th of this year.

Now, I'm sure you'll forgive me if I turn off the funny for a bit. Would you kindly watch this video. It won't take you long. 

Back? Ok. Now. That is footage so awesome that it actually makes me feel weird. My stomach turns, I go light-headed, I genuinely tear up. Video of something we have created landing on another planet. It's so beyond all of my experiences. And yours. And every other person on Earth. It is far, far more important than anything you or I will ever do with our lives.

And the craziest thing about it is that so many of us will glance at it and go "Meh, whatever." News regarding the Curiosity rover is humming by quietly under the radar. Sure, it pops up on TV or in the newspapers now and then if something deemed significant happens. But if humanity had any sense of perspective whatsoever this would be front page, headline news every single day and everyone would be watching it while screaming in inarticulate joy over what we have accomplished.

Newsreaders should be weeping with ecstasy as they describe how we have defied the very laws of physics in order to transmit images of an alien world back to a bunch of gibbering apes who somehow managed to get a functional machine to a planet that is an average of 225 million kilometres away. And we have done this successfully four times. FOUR TIMES.

Watch the footage linked earlier and celebrate. It is mankind landing on another planet. It is science-fiction made flesh. The future is now – we are living it, aimlessly unaware in a parade of celebrity gossip websites and reality TV atrocities. But as you celebrate, you also need to mourn. Not only for the loss of Neil Armstrong, a man who reputedly would tell awful jokes about his voyage to the Moon and follow the awkward laughter with an offhand “Well, I guess you had to be there.”, but for the loss of wonder and ambition in the human race over the last 40 years. Sure, we have problems here we need to fix. Whole heaps of them. Our own house needs to be set into order before we can go traipsing around the solar system with abandon. But surely, if there were one thing that could focus our efforts on a single unified point, it would be exploration beyond our own planet. It is the last great adventure, and the notion that it is one that humanity will embark upon seems to be slowly becoming one of naïveté and futile grasping at straws.

“It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”

                                                   -  Neil Armstrong

* * * * *

I have a habit of saying stupid, bizarre or callous things on an almost daily basis. Sometimes these observations hurt no one, but occasionally they are leapt upon as an example of how I am an awful human being.

Example. Earlier this week I attempted to hold court on how I am appreciative of the ability to spell words properly, going so far as to suggest that I may run for power on a platform of criminalising text speak outside of texts and extra apostrophes on signs. Only in Britain, naturally. We might be the only country capable of ignoring moral principles for abstract grammatical values on a day-to-day basis. But in the end I struggled to find a bleeding-heart liberal way I could say that I think that people who can't spell should be slaughtered like pigs.

I know, right? You'd think that would fit right into Guardian columnist rhetoric. I should clarify that I don't think I'm better than people who can't spell, per se. I just think they're utter failures as human beings and should be isolated or destroyed to avoid contaminating the rest of us. In the New Spelling Republic, terror would come by night to drag ppl screaming from theyre homes as illiterate sign-writers swung from lamp-posts nearby. Kaputtegrammatiknacht.

I should point out that dyslexics and people with similar learning disabilities would get pardons, and just have to be put into special camps or something. I'm not a monster, after all!

Sadly, this moderate and well-thought out political treatise incurred some ire. Several hours later, I realised that in reference to this someone I don't know had referred to me as a “bored middle class special snowflake”. Embarrassingly, this was after I had already replied to him with a good-natured but badly-worded pun about a lawnmower that could write novels. I felt that to follow it up with a late rejoinder would not only be futile but also a denial of the basic facts:

1. I am bored.
   - This week I went through my junk email in an effort to amuse myself with randomly generated titles. I was delighted to discover that Anne Hathaway wanted to meet up for a 'garter strip fuck'. I have replied, but so far nothing. Fully expecting to be able to write a piece for next week's episode on my sexually deviant experiences with Catwoman.
   
   
2. I am middle class.
   - Shortly after my brutal and uncalled-for tirade against the grammatically-challenged, I complained on various social media sites about how many bowlfuls of muesli I got out of a box vs. how many were advertised as being in said box. Even typing that I can feel my hair tightening into a rich boy 'fro and my name transmogrifying into Rory spelled Ruiraigh.
   
   
3. And I am definitely a fucking special snowflake.
   - No argument required here.

My only real defence against this is that my spiteful hatred of pretty much everything is incurred entirely from other people acting even more appallingly than I do.

Last night, as I walked home from the corner shop I was privileged enough to be accompanied on my road by a couple of lads who were performing extremely loud shrieks in an effort to do “an impression of a girl being raped”. They are another fucking species. I swear, they must be. I am physically uncomfortable sharing their DNA.

These moments are almost always poetically timed to run alongside personal ruminations that I should tone down my misanthropy. So thankyou, grotesquely abhorrent chaps. You have played a part in restoring my lack of faith in humanity, which in turn will keep my writing as vibrant and bile-driven as ever.

* * * * *

As mentioned above, I am bored. A lot of the time. This is partly to do with my current state of employment (that is to say, none), but also to do with the ineffable air of jaded cool I willingly radiate at all times.

It is difficult to keep entertained when unemployed – there is only so long one can get laughs from saying things like DESPAIR and FUTILITY over and over again in a dull monotone to a series of blank, empty walls. That's more of a social activity, anyway.

So to liven up the dullness of another day spent at home writing half-truths on job application forms and telling my cat that with great meowing comes great responsibility, I fell down my stairs. I didn't plan to do so, you understand. If I had then I'd have spent the summer at Edinburgh Fringe with a unique and painful form of performance art. Awards and late-night BBC3 comedy specials would lay glittering in my future.

There wasn't even any preamble. I was walking down the stairs, then I was suddenly on my arse bouncing down. I didn't black out or anything exciting like that. It was like a glitch in The Matrix, and also The Matrix hates me. If nothing else, it gave me the brand new emotion of experiencing embarrassment despite there being no one else there to point and laugh. An odd existential shame. First I was born into a hateful, uncaring world. And now this. This torment. There is no God. But if there was, He would be standing over my prone, sore form saying “What a PRICK.” and making politically incorrect belming noises.

I was effectively hobbled for about 24 hours with a nagging pain in one foot that left me unable to do any of the things I never do anyway. And since I listened to some Limp Bizkit of my own free will yesterday, I'm fairly sure I suffered some minor head trauma. The whole experience did jar me enough that shortly afterwards I mistakenly picked up bathroom surface cleaner instead of mouthwash. Realising my mistake before ingesting it may have itself have been an error, since at least with the former I could have had an exciting afternoon at the hospital.

It also led to the discovery that my phone will repeatedly auto-correct 'limp' to 'limo', which speaks volumes of the disconnect between my fetid existence and the hip media lifestyle my iPhone thinks I have.

* * * * *

Out-of-context Bastard Quote Of The Week

“New-wave dogsploitation to the max.”

A Week Called Bastard – Episode 1

So, it's time to experiment with a new weekly blog/commentary style writing format. Snippets of personal and newsworthy observations, compiled in my own inimitable style of verve and bitter misanthropy. This springs from two main driving factors – a lack of funds to buy new reviewable media and a desire to fill your screens with the kind of fetid nonsense I ramble about on social networking sites. I am anticipating either total disinterest or rabid internet applause followed by a promising career in slagging everyone and everything off professionally. Reviews and other articles will continue to appear when resources allow. But let's see how this goes, Bastard-fans! Feedback, as always, appeciated.

* * * * *

The only thing worse than howling into the void on Twitter, as most people below the rank of Z-list celebrity are, is when your despairing cries are picked up by undesirables. As the spambots slowly become more discriminating and build towards inevitable horrifying sentience, the issue of whether a random question addressed to you is from a pile of recursive code or an idiot human being is a troubling one. Often I have to actually hop onto their profile to determine whether I should report them, block them or abuse them. The more advanced 'bots are now typically filling their feed with a mixture of randomly generic Twitter posts of the “OMG I went out & got so drunk you guys LOL” variety, semi-relevant links to currently trending internet memes and the actual purposeful targeted links through to whatever awful spam they have been constructed to promote in the first place.

Worryingly, this random compilation is perilously close to what your average Twitter user posts. As much as six months ago I had no problems whatsoever distinguishing between a cretin and a spambot, but more and more I find myself agonising over my choice of social antagonism. It is not so much the humanlike behaviour of 'bots that worries me, as the 'botlike behaviour of what are nominally members of my own species. Social media hipsters are the accursed bastard hybrid of mindless microblog fucktard tedium, meme-inspired humour nothingness and unwitting advertising billboard vacuity. Perhaps it is time the spam-constructing supervillains of the world plugged them directly into service. Racks of human servers with bad haircuts and dubstep-infected iPods twitching in the softly-lit darkness as they notice someone referencing a trendy dead celebrity who desperately needs to know how to mourn them via a specialised trendy dead celebrity mourning product, designed by a sub-Apple new media clown with an amazing newbuild office overlooking San Francisco bay.

Still, in the glowing online paradise that is 2012 it's not only advertising code that flings unwanted attention my way. There is a growing tendency for employers to recruit social media specialists to not only promote their company/agency/party but also participate in sometimes-relevant online discussions as and where they find them. I'm not slamming this in and of itself – some of my friends make a living off it.

But one can't help but feel that it is getting out of hand when receiving a targeted message enquiring about the current conversation from a BNP social media expert when referring to the red M&M from the tedious television advertising campaign as a “racist cannibal mass murdering BNP voter and Holocaust denier”. I am delighted to know that I live in a world where proposing that a sentient hard shelled chocolate treat is a fascist monster receives a tentative communiqué from a group of real-life fascist wannabes. However, I am disheartened that the cretins exist in the first place, and that they have decided that Twitter is an excellent vector for their message of national pride and reactionary race hatred. So I suppose it balances out in the end.

* * * * *

Oh, Todd Akin. You so crazy. Striking me dumb is an impressive achievement, but when you make comments like the following then there's not much in the way of a punchline that can be delivered:

“Well you know, people always want to try to make that as one of those things, well how do you, how do you slice this particularly tough sort of ethical question. First of all, from what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something. I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be on the rapist and not attacking the child.”

I mean, he's already done my job for me. It's one long punchline at the expense of the entire human race. Millennia of scientific and social progress, gunned down with relish by this man being an elected representative of one of the most powerful nations on the planet. Ha! Ha! HAHAHAHA.

My favourite bit is “But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something.” Yes. Let's throw those awkward facts and millions of horrifically offended rape victims, biologists and empathetic human beings a bone, just to satiate the loony left. Let's just assume, for a moment, that women don't have magical rape defence powers, or that they misfired on one tragic occasion. Let us throw ourselves into that fantasy for a moment. What an awful world that would be, where people are forced into impossible choices by the immoral acts of others. How lucky we are not to live in that world, and to instead live a life of privilege, prep schools and rich white guy politics that makes impossible choices easy for us.

Coincidentally, another example of an impossible choice due to an immoral act might be backstreet abortions vs. unwanted pregnancy, because of anti-abortion legislation proposed by people seemingly incapable of divorcing blustering intangible rhetoric from real-life facts.

However, the actual issue here is that because of all the trauma around the use of the term 'legitimate rape' throughout the week, I felt that I had to change an observation that a shop-window display looked like 'patriotic rape ninjas' into 'patriotic molestation ninjas'. Which doesn't trip off the tongue nearly as well, and is the true tragedy resulting from Akin's bizarre ramblings. Damn you, Akin. Goddamn you.

* * * * *

I thought I had unlocked a terrifying thought for my generational peers when realising that the prevalence of retro '90s nights for students (the current batch having been born around 1994) means that we are probably only a couple of years away from seeing badly photocopied posters for retro noughties nights. Noughties? 00's? It can't be retro naughties nights, that is something else entirely - afro wigs, parachute pants, Friends haircuts and carkeys in a bowl on the table.

Imagine my horror when informed that such nights already exist in London. Age-based angst and Northern Outrage (a condition best typified by the phrase “Well, they would have that in that there London”) aplenty. It's a clear sign of escalation. I fully expect that by 2015 there will be retro nights exploring the amazing and timeless music of December 2014, which if pop chart escalation also accelerates will just be the sound of Simon Cowell vomiting into a glitter-festooned bucket.

* * * * *

In my private life I like to fantasise about random strangers being truly awful to me, so I can complain about them later to my friends. It makes for a rich inner life. But inevitably such fantasies come to an end when I either realise that this would make me an even worse person, or when a random stranger is merely bizarre or pathetic rather than awful. So thankyou, creepy 10am drunk, for knocking sense into me with your rolled-up newspaper inbetween repeated statements that it is a nice morning. You live your hideous sham of a life so that my own hideous sham might become slightly more genuine.

These individuals, though they don't know it, are fodder for people like me attempting to amuse others through the medium of self-indulgent hyperbolic bloggery. Even an exhausting trip back from the vet whilst carrying an overweight cat in a huge box designed for dogs becomes worthwhile when confronted with unexpected enquiries from a young woman standing in the doorway of her house, seemingly unaware of the small boy stood next to her and masturbating leisurely while gazing at said cat.

I'm not sure what part of this unsettled me the most. Answering queries about the health of my beloved pet while confronted with such an unfamiliar scenario? The growing painful ache in my arms impeding my usual unflappable social veneer? That the young woman was obviously so used to her child masturbating in public that it no longer registered? Or the sheer inappropriate and un-British nature of the very concept of public masturbation? I decided later that it definitely wasn't the latter, since I wouldn't have been unduly shaken if the young woman had been the one blithely playing with herself in front of me. Though given the presence of the boy, I might have questioned her parenting techniques.

The irony in the situation is that though children publicly masturbating is indeed somewhat un-British, I felt compelled to stay and answer a number of questions in this situation purely from my British sense of unquestioning politeness. And afterwards, my main concern about the incident was that since I had effectively placed a cat in front of a masturbating child I may have inadvertently provoked him to become a furry in later life. As the chaos theoreticians tell us – in Tokyo a butterfly flaps its wings, and years later a masturbating child in York posts LiveJournal images of himself as Swift-tail The Fox while dry humping accountants in badger costumes.

* * * * *

Right, so the Prince Harry naked photos. Let's get the obvious out of the way first. They are flung round the world by mostly American media sites and news agencies, resulting in a raging (but also fairly dull) debate within the UK over whether UK-based newspapers and other parasites should publish them. Finally, The Sun decides to do so with squeaking claims that since they're already available online, there's no point in not doing so – and furthermore, it's their journalistic responsibility to do so since there's public interest.

If they're already available online, there is no point in publishing them either. They're already there. People can see them if they want them. In publishing them you are giving your public nothing new, just wallowing in dirt like the filthy dogs you are. Well done.

You have a journalistic responsibility to report news, not to give the public what you think they want – which usually translates as whatever will sell the most units. Though in all honesty, I don't know why I even bother writing this. The most cursory correlation of UK tabloids against the concept of 'journalistic responsibility' would drive the average discerning human into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter that would only relent when the lungs finally collapsed, sucking the diaphragm inwards in a splintering bloody implosion that could only come as blessed sweet release. We are, apparently, lucky to live in a world where newspapers like The Sun are pioneers in the crusade for our moral right to see some rich twat's bum.

Besides, this is ignoring the real problem with the photos. They were apparently taken while P-Harry and assorted guffawing chums were playing strip billiards. Strip. Billiards. BILLIARDS. Fucking billiards. Fuck me. Christ. Billiards.

Fucking STRIP BILLIARDS.

I can't communicate in mere words how much hypocritical class-driven rage that concept grants me.

A personal message from me to Mr P. Harry follows.

* * * * *

Let's end this futile charade of blogging experimentation with some things I learned from the erudite and learned master than is television last night. There was a show narrated by Idris Elba (who is a DJ, apparently – the glory of bit-parts in shit overrated sci-fi like Prometheus is thankfully a second career) entitled How Clubbing Changed The World, consisting of a compilation of voted-for-by-the-idiot-public ways in which, er, clubbing changed the world. I gained these gems of infinite knowledge:

1. I can pretty much listen to 'Blind Faith' by Chase & Status on repeat forever. The functioning non-lizard half of my brain tells me it was probably only featured in the show once, but I likely replaced any music I didn't approve of with it – especially since the entire visual aesthetic was basically a version of the video spun out for hours.

2. Idris Elba seems much cooler when he is an extradimensional Norse deity. To be fair, this probably applies to everyone.

3. I really wasted my time being a nerd in the '90s. I should have been out at clubs and raves and Ibiza and bangin' choons and shit like that. I feel like I missed out on an Experience, or at the very least on meeting lots of women with low standards and vast quantities of mind-altering substances.

4. Daft Punk seem to be viewed as true musical visionaries. I always thought of them as annoying squelchy bleep twats in futuristic motorcycle helmets. Huh.

5. Lots of burnt-out DJs seem to think that ecstasy has created a utopian classless society in the UK. It is possible that taking so much E has melted their brains to the point where everything they now experience is like a constant loop of D:Ream playing along to Tony Blair's disembodied smiling face, glowing a soft soothing yellow and tossing them the occasional cheeky wink or seductive lick of the lips. For evidence that the UK is not a classless society, please observe the widening statistical gap between rich and poor and also the concept of FUCKING STRIP BILLIARDS.