Monday, 20 October 2008
The I Hate It Here Guide To Surviving The Credit Crunch
We're going through some dark times, people. The financial world is teeter-tottering on the brink of appalling collapse, for reasons that are far to boring and complicated for the likes of me to comprehend (although I suppose you'll claim to be totally au fait with the whole thing, won't you? You condescending sack of shit.). So here, for your reading pleasure, is a brief guide to the options available to you once Western civilisation has imploded like a tin of beans at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
1.Deny, Deny, Deny.
A popular choice, this, and one that's long beloved of humankind the world over. Its popularity rests on its staggering simplicity: you just carry on with your life as if nothing is happening at all. Apply for credit cards, take long foreign holidays (and to heck with the carbon emissions!) , fit granite worksurfaces in your specially designed kitchen - because hey, you deserve it, right? - and generally continue to exist in a state of luxury and opulence unheard of by pretty much every other generation to ever walk the Earth. Those of a more philosophical bent might like to argue that since money doesn't, in fact, exist - being as it is just a bunch of numbers on a computer somewhere - then they can't actually take it away from you. That's like, logic. Although please bear in mind that logic can't fill up a sandwich or prevent you from dying of hypothermia.
2. Blame Someone Else.
I hear Iceland makes a convenient scapegoat.
3.Stockpile.
In the very near future cash will be most likely be worthless. In such a scenario what you need is stuff. Real, actual stuff. I won't presume to tell you what possessions you should be amassing because, frankly, I'm not your bleeding mother and I've got my own problems to be dealing with. But I will say this: do your research. You need to be looking at things like clean drinking water, petrol, shotgun shells and kendal mint cake. If it all goes tits up and you're wandering around with a wheelbarrow full of wetsuits and Bee Gees records then you've only got yourself to blame.
4.Retreat!
This goes hand in hand with item three. Mass rioting in every city on every continent will make beating a hasty retreat a top priority. Plan your escape route and leg it as soon as possible before you're raped and butchered for your last bottle of Evian. You could come round to my place, if you like. I'll have plenty of work for you on my methane farm.
4.Retrain.
With the resultant change in the job markets that will inevitably come with our new global situation you might want to consider retraining and brushing up on skills that will be more useful during the coming apocalypse. But Pete, I hear you piteously whine, my relatively sheltered childhood and pointless university degree have only prepared me for a life of soul sapping low-grade admin work. What skills do I have that will see me through the hard times ahead? And my answer is this: don't do yourself down, my friend. You have many assets that will always be in demand, regardless of prevailing global trends. Those lily-white buttocks of yours, for example, will fetch a pretty penny in the souks and casbahs of the new radioactive wasteland. My advice would be to cultivate that tiny secret deadness that we all have inside. Nurture it, feed it, and soon you'll be choking down the profits like an old pro. It really won't be that different from life now, when you think about it.
Saturday, 18 October 2008
A Fairly Triumphant Return.
As the Wildhearts once opined in the sleeve notes to Fishing For Luckies - I think, although if I'm wrong I'm sure someone will correct me - 'Self expression is like sex. The less you do it the more you find that you don't want to'. And how right they were. Visit a foreign country, I thought. Expand your horizons. Gain valuable life experiences. Work on your (pretty fucking limited) writing skills. Start a new, cheerier blog and maybe prove that you're not a completely miserable cunt.
And it has been very sweet indeed. I've had fun. I met people, and seen things, and been places I never thought I would. I've even fallen in love. But the problem with people and things and places and love is that they take up a lot of time, time that in previous stages of my life would have been spent trawling the internet for inspiration and banging my head against a keyboard until the blood pooled into a joke about cocks that I could then post. I've been too busy for that kind of carry on, and the lack of a net connection hasn't helped at all. Seriously, how did people gather information before the internet? It's beyond me. Just a lot of library time, I suppose, when they weren't chasing mammoths over cliffs or unlocking the secret of fire.
More pertinently, I have an evil, evil job. Not just because it's a bank job, although that would qualify it for at least a special merit badge from the Great Beast, but because it's stolen my words. I spend all day leaving notes on a computer system and these notes require me to use - at most - thirty different words in various combinations. If there's anything that'll murder your ability to write more effectively than spending 40 hours a week writing the same thirty words over and over and over again then I don't want to know about it. Taking a header off a high dive into an empty swimming pool would do it, and at least afterwards you'd get a special helper to come round and wipe your arse for you.
I've got nothing. I'm dry. Bereft. There is a whole world of interest just outside my window, with fascinating characters and ideas and locales, and beauty and misery and ease and hardship, and all I can do is stare at a blank computer screen and obsess about how badly I suck. I'm having a great time right now, but it's killing me.
So I've come back here, where I started. I'm wrapping myself in the oily black cloak of I Hate It Here, a name I stole, to maybe rediscover the little bit of me that knew how to put the words in the right order to make the few people who listened smile for a minute. For the record, I don't Hate It Here. I'm actually, believe it or not, happy. Is it possible to spew toxic rants at the shitty state of the shitty world whilst still feeling an overall contentment, the like of which I haven't felt in literally years? I don't know. But we might as well find out. Fuck knows, it's not like we're up to much else, eh?
One final warning: you people are going to have to sit through some tedious, self-obsessed wank before I hit anything resembling a good patch. Like, for example, the article you've just graciously sat through. Waste of fucking time that was.
And it has been very sweet indeed. I've had fun. I met people, and seen things, and been places I never thought I would. I've even fallen in love. But the problem with people and things and places and love is that they take up a lot of time, time that in previous stages of my life would have been spent trawling the internet for inspiration and banging my head against a keyboard until the blood pooled into a joke about cocks that I could then post. I've been too busy for that kind of carry on, and the lack of a net connection hasn't helped at all. Seriously, how did people gather information before the internet? It's beyond me. Just a lot of library time, I suppose, when they weren't chasing mammoths over cliffs or unlocking the secret of fire.
More pertinently, I have an evil, evil job. Not just because it's a bank job, although that would qualify it for at least a special merit badge from the Great Beast, but because it's stolen my words. I spend all day leaving notes on a computer system and these notes require me to use - at most - thirty different words in various combinations. If there's anything that'll murder your ability to write more effectively than spending 40 hours a week writing the same thirty words over and over and over again then I don't want to know about it. Taking a header off a high dive into an empty swimming pool would do it, and at least afterwards you'd get a special helper to come round and wipe your arse for you.
I've got nothing. I'm dry. Bereft. There is a whole world of interest just outside my window, with fascinating characters and ideas and locales, and beauty and misery and ease and hardship, and all I can do is stare at a blank computer screen and obsess about how badly I suck. I'm having a great time right now, but it's killing me.
So I've come back here, where I started. I'm wrapping myself in the oily black cloak of I Hate It Here, a name I stole, to maybe rediscover the little bit of me that knew how to put the words in the right order to make the few people who listened smile for a minute. For the record, I don't Hate It Here. I'm actually, believe it or not, happy. Is it possible to spew toxic rants at the shitty state of the shitty world whilst still feeling an overall contentment, the like of which I haven't felt in literally years? I don't know. But we might as well find out. Fuck knows, it's not like we're up to much else, eh?
One final warning: you people are going to have to sit through some tedious, self-obsessed wank before I hit anything resembling a good patch. Like, for example, the article you've just graciously sat through. Waste of fucking time that was.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
One More Time.

Well, shit. Looks like it's time for me to be moving the smeg on. Tomorrow I leave for New Zealand, not to return for an undisclosed number of months, which means that dear old I Hate It Here serves no further purpose. I started this blog as a means to stop me from losing my mind while I was trapped here in Stourbridge, a function it has performed admirably. One brain, intact. Job done. And it seems to me that this last installment should be given over to appreciating the people, things and institutions that have also helped fend off screaming collapse. So:
Mum and Dad, for letting me move back home when they were probably sure they'd got shot of me. Best. Parenting. Ever.
Glyn, for being an all round top quality little brother. And he can gut a fish like nobody's business.
Stella, for being the iron fist in Glyn's velvet glove.
Denyer, long-time bestest buddy, web-wizard and big noise in the rarefied world of transformers fandom. In a crazy and changeable universe you are a valued and necessary constant.
The Aberystwyth massive. Scattered to the four winds we may be, but I don't think 'family' is too strong a word to describe what we've got. I'll will return. Promise.
Little Dan, for being the best goldfish a boy could have. Ditto the snails.
Robert Green, Ad Connop et al, for the drinks.
The fine people at Stourbridge Housing Office, for the job.
Crystal Leisure Centre, Stourbridge, for use of the facilities.
Bill Hicks (for the laughs), Atmosphere (for the beats and rhymes) and Chuck Palahniuk (for the words). Because, no matter how bad I feel, they always cheer me up.
Warren Ellis, for writing Transmetropolitan and thus inspiring this blog's title. And for writing Nextwave, which is also fucking ace. Seriously, you should buy it.
All those who suggested ideas for and voted in the penis competition. I needed humouring and you humoured me but good. Thanks. Am-Heh, Devourer of millions? I have to say I never saw that one coming. Hey! I punned! Arf!
And to everyone who read the words that farted out of my brain-anus and splattered on to the internet. I'm sure you had better things to getting on with.
So that's it. Finito. End of. There'll be a new, more cheerful blog detailing my wacky misadventures on the other side of the planet. Think of it as an extending showing of someone's holiday snaps, except possibly more boring. Now....
Bugger off!
Mum and Dad, for letting me move back home when they were probably sure they'd got shot of me. Best. Parenting. Ever.
Glyn, for being an all round top quality little brother. And he can gut a fish like nobody's business.
Stella, for being the iron fist in Glyn's velvet glove.
Denyer, long-time bestest buddy, web-wizard and big noise in the rarefied world of transformers fandom. In a crazy and changeable universe you are a valued and necessary constant.
The Aberystwyth massive. Scattered to the four winds we may be, but I don't think 'family' is too strong a word to describe what we've got. I'll will return. Promise.
Little Dan, for being the best goldfish a boy could have. Ditto the snails.
Robert Green, Ad Connop et al, for the drinks.
The fine people at Stourbridge Housing Office, for the job.
Crystal Leisure Centre, Stourbridge, for use of the facilities.
Bill Hicks (for the laughs), Atmosphere (for the beats and rhymes) and Chuck Palahniuk (for the words). Because, no matter how bad I feel, they always cheer me up.
Warren Ellis, for writing Transmetropolitan and thus inspiring this blog's title. And for writing Nextwave, which is also fucking ace. Seriously, you should buy it.
All those who suggested ideas for and voted in the penis competition. I needed humouring and you humoured me but good. Thanks. Am-Heh, Devourer of millions? I have to say I never saw that one coming. Hey! I punned! Arf!
And to everyone who read the words that farted out of my brain-anus and splattered on to the internet. I'm sure you had better things to getting on with.
So that's it. Finito. End of. There'll be a new, more cheerful blog detailing my wacky misadventures on the other side of the planet. Think of it as an extending showing of someone's holiday snaps, except possibly more boring. Now....
Bugger off!
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
Democracy in Action.

I'll keep this brief because we all know why we're here - voting on my nom de cock is now officially begun. Since opening a big can of pester on your collective asses I've been inundated with suggestions of varying quality and appropriatenes; Glyn and I went through them and the pick of the bunch can be found above, so look to your right and vote ye. Multiple votes are permitted.
I'm dimly aware that a prize was mentioned but unfortunately I have no clue what form said prize will take - possibly a guest of honour spot at the celebrity gala unveiling where I wipe it down the red carpet. Maybe. I'm working on it. But heartfelt, gushing thanks to all those who suggested names; if yours hasn't been shortlisted then you can take consolation in the knowledge that it's probably because it was rubbish. Power to the people!
I'm dimly aware that a prize was mentioned but unfortunately I have no clue what form said prize will take - possibly a guest of honour spot at the celebrity gala unveiling where I wipe it down the red carpet. Maybe. I'm working on it. But heartfelt, gushing thanks to all those who suggested names; if yours hasn't been shortlisted then you can take consolation in the knowledge that it's probably because it was rubbish. Power to the people!
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Look, just think of some names or the puppy gets it.

1: Clive. Suggested by: Stella.
As far as I can tell, Stella came up with this one off the top of her head. The big drawback from my point of view is that I have an uncle Clive and I believe that in some cultures naming your wang after a relative can get you stoned to death. Calling my penis Clive would make it difficult for me to look either of them in the eye again. Sir Clive, on the other hand... now that's a different matter.
2. Mr In-My-Pants. Suggested by: Kim's flatmate.
Now this one I quite like. Kim's flatmate (I don't know your name, but thanks for taking the time) has come up with a cheeky little number that doubles as a pun on Mr Splashy Pants, the Greenpeace whale. Actually, Mr Splashy Pants wouldn't be a bad name itself, if only it wasn't taken. Eerily accurate, too. But Mr In-My-Pants has a nice Red Indian ring to it that I find appealing... like 'Gets-Caught-In-Gussett' or 'Pokes-Woman-In-Small-Of-Back-As-Sun-Rises'. Although, as to that last one, chance would be a fine bloody thing.
All I'll say is this: there's a little girl out there who loves Bonzo very much and if I don't see some co-operation very soon he'll be going back to her in a fucking jam jar. I'll even include my email address so you don't have to dick about with the comments thing:
blackcountrybloke@hotmail.com
You dig?
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
Competition Time!
The premise is simple - it's just occurred to me that, despite the commonly-received wisdom that all men have a pet name for their penis, my own member remains nameless. Anonymous. I think that's a shame so I'm throwing it open to you, the general public, to decide on a moniker. Submit your ideas and the winner will win.. something, I haven't decided what yet.

Some of you might think that this is a bit weird. IT IS NOT WEIRD. I'm genuinely interested in hearing what you come up with. This is what happens when you haven't updated for a while and feel like you really should but can't think of anything.
Err... let's just back slowly away from that idea. Although it might, alas, be closest to the truth.

I mean it. I know there's only four of you out there but I'm deadly serious. If you're on facebook or something then get all your 'friends' to join in. It'll be put to a vote, which I will abide by. Forever. So get creative. My cock is, metaphorically, in your hands.
Just to reiterate: NOT WEIRD.
Just to reiterate: NOT WEIRD.
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