day 2: stats

The top search that leads to my blog?

Brad fucking Pitt. Typical. That man has it all. Wealth. Great looks. People searching for him all the time.

Brad Pitt. It’s like when your friend calls you, but they didn’t actually mean to call you.

“Oh, hi, Ian. Sorry. I meant to call Tom. Woops. This is embarrassing.”

You’re fucking right. Not to mention incredibly hurtful.* Let’s be honest here, this is not really a blog about Brad Pitt. Apologies to those who came here thinking it was.

* Disclaimer: I do this to other people all the time. The iPhone touchscreen and I don’t get along that well.

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could the real pm please stand up

I heard about this on Radio 4 this morning. By this I mean that there is to be a new documentary film released about Peter Mandelson. It will be called Mandelson: The Real PM?

Already, this has annoyed me. Note the subtle joke about his initials being PM, and that also commonly standing for Prime Minister. Wait, did I say subtle? Sorry, I meant fucking stupid. Who the fuck thinks that’s clever?

Hannah Rothschild, that’s who.

I don’t like Peter Mandelson. But I have nothing personal against him. I’ve never met the guy. If anything, he seems more competent than half the politicians we’re lumped with.

At least he’s pro-EU, right? Right? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Seriously, though: I do not want to see this. Although I’m still going to read about it, research it and rant about it. Because even though it disgusts me, I have nothing better to do with my time.

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public service announcement

In a fit of adding people on Twitter, Manchester Airport got caught in my crossfire. They sent me what I presume is a standard direct message:

Good decision. You have opened your life to unknown pleasures. Try our live flight data:

Being me, I replied to them:

Tell me more about these pleasures. Best, Ian

Then it gets good. Because instead of ignoring me, which would have been perfectly reasonable, they sent this:

Ours are a bit like the Joy Division album, “Unknown Pleasures”. This is pretty good though:

I’m not going to lie, people: this made my day. Manchester Airport, I salute you.

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a pig shat in my head

Ladles. Jellyspoons. I am hung-over.

It’s my own fault, I freely admit it. I should have known better. This is what happens when you spend your evening drinking gin and tonic. At home. In front of Google Reader. Trying to get the unread count to 0 is like battling a hydra. Only less lethal; more soul-destroying.

As if this evening of pathetic debauchery could get any worse, you’re thinking. Well, let me tell you about what I did, once I had worked my way into juniper-infused stupor.

I phoned my ex-girlfriend. From 5 years ago.

She should be used to these random calls by now. She gets them once every six months or so, after all. Last night was purely amicable, just to clarify. Not a “waaaaaaaaa why did you leeeeeeeeeeeee… blub blub blub” type thing.

It was good to catch up, actually. She’s well. She’s half Indian, so speaks pretty good Hindi, and has just got some gig working with the BBC World Service out in Kolkata. I don’t remember exactly what was involved with this, as I was pretty drunk at the time.

Needless to say this made me feel totally inadequate. This blog is, to date, pretty much the pinnacle of my achievements. Good thing I’d already had heaps of gin – if I hadn’t, I’d probably have gone and hit the bottle.

Anyway, I’m off for another cup of tea. A busy morning on Twitter is slowly helping me overcome this God-awful headache.

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thought for the day

Hilary Duff

In the buff.
I’d like to puff,
On her chuff.

Have a scruff,
Around her fluff.
We’d get rough.

For now, that’s enough.

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not quite nightswimming

I’ve been at the computer all day, so I went for a run this evening to clear my head. Unfortunately, the side effect of being at the computer all day is that you lose track of time. It was pretty dark by the time I’d got halfway.

I went down by the lake, which turned out to be a good choice. The moon was just coming up, and it’s been pretty still here all day, so the reflection on the water was stunning. There was a bit of mist gathering, but not too much.

Pleasant enough on the whole, then, although I did have one close call. There’s a sluice with a narrow little wooden plank bridge over it, which was a little damp. I may have nearly slipped into the water. I mean, it’s possible.

The good news is I didn’t: a particular relief as, after all, night swimming – even impromtu night swimming – deserves a quiet night. There were about a thousand students doing the same circuit.

One guy in particular sticks in my mind. He jetted past me, huffing and puffing, early on, then steamed back in the other direction about twenty minutes later. By this time he’d ditched the shirt. Seriously, it was a pretty cold night. There’s no need for that kind of behaviour.

Unfortunately the hot girl running in front of me wasn’t feeling the heat either.

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born to be misplaced

Am I the world’s greatest instance of nominative determinism? Or just another depressing statistic of the Crisis? Is it too much to ask not to be considered as either?

I won’t dwell on my predicament for the moment. No doubt as you continue reading – you are going to continue reading, right? – you’ll find out much, much more about that.

To get things in motion, I thought I’d offer a few responses to Andrew Marr’s recent comments. Specifically, I’d like to address the charges laid against me:

1) That I am socially inadequate

Well, okay, Andrew, it’s a strong opener. Whatever.

2) Pimpled

Well, you’re one to talk. I’m not. I was, once. That was this thing called puberty – it was all the rage with teens when I was growing up – and I make no apologies for it.

Thanks to Doxycycline I got through the whole experience pretty much without issue. Although I did get very sun-burned.

3) Single

More on this later.

4) Slightly seedy

I am the paradigm of charm. Although I did admittedly have an ill-advised goatee at university. Which did make me look a bit like a paedophile.

5) Bald

Just. Plain. Wrong. I have a lustrous blond mane.

6) Cauliflower-nosed

Look, I don’t claim to be the test-tube love child of Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but I’m not that bad. Cauliflower nose certainly seems a bit much. Although now you mention it, it is a bit pointy. And not really in proportion with the rest of my face.

Oh for God’s sake, Andrew, look what you’ve gone and done: now I’m paranoid about my nose.

7) Sitting in my mother’s basement

Um, we don’t have a basement, actually. I have my own room, thank you very much.

Fine, whatever, I admit this is basically just as bad. So I live at home? You’re the baby boomer, Andrew. You fucked up my employment prospects.

8) Ranting

I wasn’t going to, but after all these insults I just might. FUCK YOU, ANDREW! I HATE YOU! ALSO I HATE LIBERALS!

Just kidding, Andy. I love you. And your big ears. I even have a red Che Guevara-style t-shirt with your face on it. I wear it in bed.

Attention, liberals: I do not retract my caps-locked hatred of your pansy kind.


Let’s review

Welcome to the blog. I’m Ian. I’m Loste. I sincerely hope you feel like getting lost with me.

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