Now, i'm sure that by now, you've all seen those adverts in myspace and on tv that evangelise the Mac. I'm a little annoyed with them, seeing as they portray PC's as stuffy, unreliable and useless. Now this is utter bollocks. For one thing, the range of games available for Windows based PC's far exceeds the range for the Mac, unless of course you're some uber-geek thats into World of Warcraft and spend all your time and money on collecting virtual items. Secondly, i'm using Windows XP 64-bit and i have precisely NO problems. Granted, i'm more of an advanced user than most, but the fact remains that the OS is for the most part, stable and secure. I never have any problems with it. This particular machine has been up for well over 2 weeks without requiring a single reboot, shutdown, or crtl-alt-delete operation.
The reason why Apple put out these advertisements, is purely to reel in the average joe. If you had a large important company making blanket statements to the tune of 'pc bad, mac good', wouldn't you cave in and buy one?
In the last 12 months, the Mac has had to start using PC hardware to catch up - PC Processors, Memory, Graphics - the only thing that makes a Mac any different from an identically specced PC, is the badge, the fact it has a copy of OS X pre-loaded on it, and the exorbitant price tag. Face it - the only way apple can make money on their computers, is to stick a thumping great price tag on something that's component value is the same as a £399 desktop from Dell.
Where Apple makes its money these days, is from the iPod and iTunes. If it had neither of those, Steve Jobs would be looking for another job right about now...
So just in case you were thinking of going and buying a Mac, don't. You'll waste money, be obsolete sooner than a PC user and people will laugh at you for buying a Dell in a shiny white case.
Monday 29 January 2007
Saturday 27 January 2007
Your Mind Makes it Real....
This morning was just odd. I had gone to bed yesterday at around 11pm, which is fast becoming the norm for me. During the night, i had a wierd ass dream in which i had a family and had moved into a 4 storey granite farm building. We lived next door to a racist neighbour who was the stereotypical BNP voter, you know - thick. My fictitious wife and kids were scared of him and his scary wife, so i invited them round for drinks and shot them both. If that wasn't wierd enough, whilst happily burying their fat, bloated and very dead bodies, i twisted my ankle, which was annoying, but the dream carried on in a rather mundane fashion.
When i woke up however, I found that i had indeed, twisted my ankle in the middle of the night. I feel a little like Neo just after that sparring session with Morhpheus....
It's a little spooky if you ask me!
When i woke up however, I found that i had indeed, twisted my ankle in the middle of the night. I feel a little like Neo just after that sparring session with Morhpheus....
It's a little spooky if you ask me!
Tuesday 16 January 2007
Why you should never talk on your phone in the toilet....
So far, today hasn't been a good day. A thumping headache, an incessantly ringing phone and a sore back had turned me into a seething cauldron of rage.
But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump.
I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of sultana bran, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and eating a three bean salad during lunch.
As I was returning home from work (via Sainsbury's of course), my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon.
I completed this task, and as I was walking past the checkout on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the bathroom. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a mobile phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be.
Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut.
The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might.
I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude - a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
1) The next-door conversation had ceased
2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, vile stench.
It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate.
This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, that wasn't me *cough*, you could hear that *cough*?"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the seat. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for dear life.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task.
Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "got to go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold your phone and wipe your arse at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the toilet became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water.
That must have been the last straw.
I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the cleaner who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the shitter with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public - and I doubt he'll ever again answer his mobile phone on the bog.
This, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the toilet....
But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump.
I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of sultana bran, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and eating a three bean salad during lunch.
As I was returning home from work (via Sainsbury's of course), my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon.
I completed this task, and as I was walking past the checkout on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the bathroom. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a mobile phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be.
Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut.
The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might.
I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude - a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:
1) The next-door conversation had ceased
2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, vile stench.
It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate.
This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, that wasn't me *cough*, you could hear that *cough*?"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the seat. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for dear life.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task.
Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "got to go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold your phone and wipe your arse at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the toilet became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water.
That must have been the last straw.
I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the cleaner who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the shitter with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public - and I doubt he'll ever again answer his mobile phone on the bog.
This, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the toilet....
Thursday 11 January 2007
Pimp my....clothes?
I went out to Wood Green today, mainly to go clothes shopping but also to go somewhere that isnt Palmers Green or Sainsburys. I get to Matalan, get upstairs to the menswear dept....and it was empty. When i say empty, there were two racks of small and medium shirts, and the rest of the floor was empty - totally deserted.
But i'm in Wood Green, the 'Shopping City', so i go and look in Top Man. Nope, nothing in my size. Burton? Playing bad R&B music in there and they seem to sell stuff that seems to cater for pimps. Marks & Spencer? Not bad selection but again, nothing in my size and they wanted £25 for a shirt!! A FUCKING SHIRT!! Come on, who are they kidding? Everyone knows its been stitched together in 40 seconds in some chinese sweatshop for the grand cost of 11p, so why are you trying to pawn off this shoddy excuse for a shirt for £25!?
I carry on my quest for clothing, and finally, theres BHS, which in days of old (er, about 1995), was the last bastion for decent menswear that fits. They had some decent bargains, and even stuff that fitted in some cases, but they still didnt do anything larger than XL, which is unfortunate, cause i usually take XXXL (for those of you currently unaware, i'm a little on the large side).
The one common theme for all of the stores though, is that they sell pimp clothes. There were shirts that were so shiny, you could have used them as an emergency mirror repair on the hubble space telescope. My god! And the sort of colours that clash violently. I suppose they do it so that when you go out on a friday night binge with your mates, girls wont notice that you've been sick all over the front of you - it just adds to the psychadelic madness thats already printed on the shirt.
The thing that really annoyed me about today though, was that nowhere seems to do anything in any remotely large size - even XL was hard to find.
We live in a society that worships thin people. If you're thin, you're A-OK is the general concensus, which is utter bollocks, but people buy into it anyway. This attitude however, does not reflect reality in any way whatsoever. Over the past few years, the average waistline has expanded over and over and over, so these stores know that theres a market for clothes in these sizes, but do they stock them? Nope, they would rather carry on catering for waif thin people that look anorexic and weak and ignore anyone that doesnt conform to society's ideas of the 'acceptable norm'.
It's all bullshit. I'm sick and tired of being treated like a second class citizen because i weigh more than 12 stone (i weigh 19, if you wanted to know). Sure, i dont mind losing a few stone at some point, but i'm damn sure not going to be bullied into it, nor am i going to feel guilty because i don't eat miniscule portions of food that has no flavour.
How long is it going to take before clothing stores stop pandering to the editors of HEAT magazine and other junk magazines that idolize stick insects? How much more discrimination are us larger people going to have to endure before someone snaps and takes out a branch of UniQlo with a semtex vest?
But i'm in Wood Green, the 'Shopping City', so i go and look in Top Man. Nope, nothing in my size. Burton? Playing bad R&B music in there and they seem to sell stuff that seems to cater for pimps. Marks & Spencer? Not bad selection but again, nothing in my size and they wanted £25 for a shirt!! A FUCKING SHIRT!! Come on, who are they kidding? Everyone knows its been stitched together in 40 seconds in some chinese sweatshop for the grand cost of 11p, so why are you trying to pawn off this shoddy excuse for a shirt for £25!?
I carry on my quest for clothing, and finally, theres BHS, which in days of old (er, about 1995), was the last bastion for decent menswear that fits. They had some decent bargains, and even stuff that fitted in some cases, but they still didnt do anything larger than XL, which is unfortunate, cause i usually take XXXL (for those of you currently unaware, i'm a little on the large side).
The one common theme for all of the stores though, is that they sell pimp clothes. There were shirts that were so shiny, you could have used them as an emergency mirror repair on the hubble space telescope. My god! And the sort of colours that clash violently. I suppose they do it so that when you go out on a friday night binge with your mates, girls wont notice that you've been sick all over the front of you - it just adds to the psychadelic madness thats already printed on the shirt.
The thing that really annoyed me about today though, was that nowhere seems to do anything in any remotely large size - even XL was hard to find.
We live in a society that worships thin people. If you're thin, you're A-OK is the general concensus, which is utter bollocks, but people buy into it anyway. This attitude however, does not reflect reality in any way whatsoever. Over the past few years, the average waistline has expanded over and over and over, so these stores know that theres a market for clothes in these sizes, but do they stock them? Nope, they would rather carry on catering for waif thin people that look anorexic and weak and ignore anyone that doesnt conform to society's ideas of the 'acceptable norm'.
It's all bullshit. I'm sick and tired of being treated like a second class citizen because i weigh more than 12 stone (i weigh 19, if you wanted to know). Sure, i dont mind losing a few stone at some point, but i'm damn sure not going to be bullied into it, nor am i going to feel guilty because i don't eat miniscule portions of food that has no flavour.
How long is it going to take before clothing stores stop pandering to the editors of HEAT magazine and other junk magazines that idolize stick insects? How much more discrimination are us larger people going to have to endure before someone snaps and takes out a branch of UniQlo with a semtex vest?
Wednesday 10 January 2007
I feel like shite...
Yup. Dunno why, i was alright for most of the day, but went for a doze earlier, woke up, felt shitty for seemingly no reason. Now i'm sat here listening to David Bowie, and somehow it seems approprate, although it's only really compunding the feeling of general crapness.
I need a drink. A very, very large drink...
I need a drink. A very, very large drink...
Tuesday 9 January 2007
Public Apology
This announcement was brought to you by the letters P, O and the number 13.
I hereby formally apologise to Ms Gillian Pryce, henceforth known as gillbo, for being in Glasgow at the same time as her, and not contacting her whilst i was sat in the Travelodge.
I am naughty and must be spanked.
That is all. :)
I hereby formally apologise to Ms Gillian Pryce, henceforth known as gillbo, for being in Glasgow at the same time as her, and not contacting her whilst i was sat in the Travelodge.
I am naughty and must be spanked.
That is all. :)
Wednesday 3 January 2007
Black Mesa Source
Some of you already know about this modification for Half Life, i sent out an email to a bunch of people a while back. Well, the dev team have updated the site, putting out some new music and screenshots of the last stage of development.
For those that don't know about BMS, basically, its a team that are re-creating the original Half Life in the Source engine from Half Life 2, without the help of Valve. The textures, maps, models are all original, using only the basic design from Half Life. Whereas before, maps in Half Life looked a bit angled and basic thanks to the limitations of computer hardware back in 1997, 10 years later, we now have more at our disposal, and BMS is going to make damn sure to use all of it. HDR is even included on the maps!
I suggest that if you're even remotely interested in computer games, or first person shooters, go and take a look here: http://www.blackmesasource.com/
For those that don't know about BMS, basically, its a team that are re-creating the original Half Life in the Source engine from Half Life 2, without the help of Valve. The textures, maps, models are all original, using only the basic design from Half Life. Whereas before, maps in Half Life looked a bit angled and basic thanks to the limitations of computer hardware back in 1997, 10 years later, we now have more at our disposal, and BMS is going to make damn sure to use all of it. HDR is even included on the maps!
I suggest that if you're even remotely interested in computer games, or first person shooters, go and take a look here: http://www.blackmesasource.com/
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