Monday 27 June 2011

UK Release Date for Star Wars Blu-ray Revealed

UK Release Date for Star Wars Blu-ray Revealed

I stopped checking up on Google for the Star Wars Blu-Ray release date a while back, unable to determine any real confirmed date but it's here = September 12th! Thank you Lucas!

I realise I'm probably very late with this news but it's exhilirating nonetheless. The Blu-Ray SW saga comes with a hefty price tag though but this needn't concern me. I shall wait for my brother to purchase it - and oh he will - and then it will disappear most suddenly, most mysteriously from his London house. No one will know a thing. No clue as to it's whereabouts. Meanwhile I will be over 4000 miles away at University in Kent sacrificing Freshers' Week (booze, parties, life, establishing friend circles etc) for Star Wars and my laptop in bed. Who needs beer when I have Jawa juice in my room? Who needs parties when the Clone Wars are in full swing in my room. And fuck Uni education because I'm learning the ways of the force.

Sunday 26 June 2011

Say Good Night to the Good Guys

When it comes to somebody dying of unnatural causes, it's always always always an amiable, agreeable individual targeted. Okay, I understand that he who falls victim to death will never ever really be branded immoral or deserving of the death, but I'm talking about very special people here.

I'm not about to turn all pious on you, this blog is anything but that however, come on the undoubtedley justifiable notion that there is some sort of pattern here cannot go over one's head - at least not with ease. Brilliant people's lives are cut short, bastard's like us live on until maxed out. Something isn't right here.

I indirectly knew of a young man in Birmingham who was stabbed in close proximity to his house. He breathed only long enough to stagger the length to his home, where his mother sat and he told his mother he was sorry but he had to go. And go he did because such is life I suppose. He is still cherished by many who bore relation to him and must be proud that they knew such a staunch soul at all.

A man lives in London with his wife, no kids. The couple were considerably close to my mother. The man has cancer, I can't recall which, but the chemo has got the better of him. I've been told his face is swollen to such a degree he can hardly be recognised and tears will spring to any onlooker's eyes if they were met with such a spectacle. I don't believe in miracles but if there's some one who doles them out, now's as good a time as ever!

"Is he going to be okay?" I asked, stupidly. Stupid fucking question.

They just shake their head, Of course he's not. It's terminal, Einstein.

I have no doubt when I tell you he is good people. His wife too, they're always genuinely lovely and it shouldn't happen to lovely people.

R.I.P all the graceful people. Here's a song of grace for you!

Thursday 23 June 2011

The Killers @ Hyde Park

Who's going to see The Killers at Hyde Park tomorrow? Me that's who! And you? Well you're not going, no sir. I'm going. I am. To see The Killers. Hard Rock Calling. Hyde Park. To. Mo. Rrow.


Brandon Flowers is such a tart. But a hot one of course.

I just turned 20. Is it right for me to speak in retardanese and only construct the most diminutive sentences know to man? Well I do not know. What I do know is that I am going to make The Killers' day tomorrow by bringing my bright eager countenance to their presence.

Oh the joys of feeding off brilliant people in brilliant media careers meeting extra brilliant goals and receiving such perks as concert tickets. Perhaps the music gods cocked an ear up (note the 'up' - they're all down in hell) to my music-related woes a few days ago. I was complaining profusely about the lack of live talent and colossal selling out of great talent within seconds. I was of course skint as well. At present though, I'm quite content with the state of sound so I have stopped locking my dad in the shed (or whatever room within good proximity) for not conceiving me sooner so that I could appreciate the 70s and 80s radio times. This is a temporary armistice though, let me be clear, he's still incompetent with timing.

Sunday 19 June 2011

The Result of Too Many Mediocre Bands on Tour

I've been foraging Ticketmaster tiringly for a sound live concert to go to. There is shit all on offer.

There really really is shit all on offer.

As a result of this deficiency, we have people yielding to something, anything, just for a taste of the live stuff. We have artists like the Vaccines actually SOLD OUT for a gig just over two months from now. And Death Cab are all out which is so un-bloody-fair. All relatively average things - Kids In Glass Houses, Wombats - have nothing left so a ticket search for The Killers or Beady Eye would just be completely in vain, thus I won't bother. Are musicians being indolent now? Sure this is festival season but where are the warm-ups? Not everybody can afford festival tickets, especially when they include admission to several other artists you'd rather not give a cut of your piggybank gig pennies to.

It would appear Good Charlotte still have tickets for Shepherds Bush in August.  However, I don't think I'm that desperate. We need better live shit. Sometimes I lock my dad in the shed and curse him for not conceiving me sooner so I could see the wealth of good music that existed before my time.

I don't lock him up but the notion's been dominating my mind a fair bit lately.

Saturday 18 June 2011

Help, I have a life!

A month ago, I was indoors for detrimentally lengthy periods of time inhaling Pot Noodle, drinking Fosters and watching Green Wing/West Wing interchangeably. Presently, I am balancing a part-time editorial internship with an actual (paid) part-time job whilst constantly searching Essex high and low for a new property to reside in and writing for two other online publications. Ew. I'm astonished with myself, For most of you, something along the lines of these daily toils might actually be what you call life, but for me it's a whole new fucking step. I finally know what's it's like to feel...wait for it - 'busy' and I get that luscious sense of fatigue that you might do after a productive day's work. Not the type of fatigue that results from watching about four films into the small hours of the night, until the early birds come a-tweeting and scare the shite out of you.

On the contrary, despite the title of this post, punching the keys of my laptop ardently at peak time on a Friday night might reveal I don't have a life after all. But actually, if you've chosen to read any ponderings emanated from the likes of me...well I guess we're on the same boat.

Friday 10 June 2011

London Underground: Leave it Alone

A lot of commuters complain about the tube whilst sitting on it. Okay it's not exactly a private jet - not unless you constantly have somebody's underarm in your face on a private jet - but it's really quite a marvellous thing. You can travel to anywhere in London with your Oyster, therefore, the world is your Oyster. For most, the world is confined to London there whole lives anyway so fuck it, yes, London is your Oyster. Am I scaring you?

You could be a cock and got to Cockfosters. You could go to South Kensington and feign Received Pronunciation and an air of high society.  You can go to Bushey (yes I kid you not) without shaving your bush. How about Chalk Farm and pretend you're in a sort of retarded cartoon. Fancy going to Gunnersbury and getting gunned down by its residents? Although that's more of a Brixton thing. You can go to Camden Town [ain't burning down] and find Amy Winehouse lying face down near a gutter trying to find her cocaine in the snow. You can go to Mudchute, grimey as it sounds, And get this: you can go to White City even if you're not white.

In my experience, both the District and Metropolitan lines seem to have the finest totties. For some reason, I despise the Piccadilly line because its stops are irrelevant to my life really, plus it seems to lack capaciousness and carry annoying children. Oh and whenever the train passes through the moody, written-off station that is Blackfriars, I get a chill down my spine. The driver always passes through slowly as if in respect of its being no more, as if lamenting. It's all very fucking bizarre. Either the Hammersmith & City or the Central Line (I forget) always has an American lady on it chatting excitedley about her job relocation to a new British friend either too polite to admit she can't comprehend the accent or too rude to share in her excitement.

Do you have anything to share about the London Underground? Any experiences or musings? If not, feel free to make them up for my amusement.
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