When something arises that takes away a lot of free time, people like to say “Goodbye social life”. A search on Twitter shows someone on earth saying it every few minutes. For example:
So I made a Twitter account called “Social Life” and replied to every person saying goodbye to their social lives. And said goodbye back.
It made people laugh, which was the aim.
Within a few hours, I was retweeted 13 times to over five thousand people. I love the Internet.
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Real men love football. I am a real man so I like nothing more than coming home from my labouring job, putting my feet up and watching the match, with a beer in hand. The missus is of course cooking silently in the kitchen. Here are some football rules you should stick by, if you are a real man.
Like a real man, I am actively violent towards other men whose arbitrary choice of football team happens not to coincide with my arbitrary choice of football team, which incidentally was forced on me by my father who incidentally chose his football team because the colour of their football kit was his favourite colour, which incidentally is the colour blue because he thinks the sky is really pretty.
Like a real man, I have formed a football gang with matching tattoos with the sole purpose of injuring men who had their football teams forced on them by dad’s who didn’t choose their teams because the sky is a pretty blue colour, but for other reasons, perhaps because the state of the housing market at the time of their birth led their financially struggling parents to purchase a house in a geographical area coincidentally in the vicinity of a football stadium.
”We are real men, with raised arms”
Like a real man, when I talk about my team I like to use the word “we” instead of saying “they”, because it makes me feel part of the team. Being part of the team, I will say “We scored a great goal on Saturday!” but I will never say “I scored a great goal on Saturday!” because I am a very modest person and don’t like to take credit for what was essentially a team effort. Being part of a multi-million pound corporation that has forgotten the origins and spirit of the game whose sole aim is to buy and sell men for profit, with no regard to whether or not their players are from the region the team is named after makes me feel really great and sometimes I smile when other men aren’t in the room.
I enjoy hip-hop a great deal, mainly because it is made by people from a world I will never be part of. As a nerdy white English guy, songs about guns, hoes and gunning down hoes are my own little window into a lifestyle that is the polar opposite of mine. I feel like Louis Theroux quietly observing the genre with his friendly banana-shaped face.
But as much as I try to be a “fly on the wall”, I can’t pretend years of listening to these songs hasn’t affected me at all. I mean, if I listen to a comedian for long enough I start adopting their mannerisms. I’m easily influenced. I once watched a documentary on construction and for a while I was convinced I was a large metal bridge in Scotland. So who’s to say hip-hop isn’t affecting me? Me’s to say, that’s who.
Here are some important lessons hip-hop has taught me:
And that’s what I’ve learnt. I don’t think any of that is out of the ordinary and I’m pretty sure I knew all of that before I started listening to hip-hop.
Thanks for reading. Unless you are a woman. Just kidding. Women can’t read.
You know when you’re at a party and your friend begs you over and over to do that hilarious impression of David Attenborough you do, and suddenly you notice every person in the room is staring and you’ve attracted more scrutiny than JFK’s head-wound, and every time your friend repeats their plea the pressure escalates tenfold to the point where you’d rather listen to an audio file of your mother having her limbs forcibly removed by angry jackals than the sound of your husky impersonation of a wildlife presenter? We all know that feeling.
It’s the feeling of not wanting to do something simply because you are being begged to do it. If you say “Yes” after saying “No,” fifty times then you are basically saying “Push me enough and I’ll do anything you want, hell, push me again and I’ll happily dive mouth first onto your genitals and give you a good seeing-to.”
I’m scared of roller-coasters. I went on a small one when I was about 11 and I still remember clumsily trying to administer an impromptu lobotomy to ease my own fear. (I got as far as marking a dotted line across my forehead before my sister noticed my scalpel wasn’t sterilised, and I was too embarrassed to continue. We take surgery very seriously in my family.) Anyway, when someone tells me I should go on a roller-coaster, I’ve said no so many times now that I can’t say yes. I’m that guy at the party who can’t do the impression. I’m not scared of roller-coasters, I’m scared of saying yes. If that’s too deep for you, I did fucking warn you. Actually I didn’t. Sorry.
People have way too much pride in what they say simply because they said it. That’s why you witness arguments where one person’s point is incredibly illogical but they can’t go back on their word because they’ve argued their point for too long. It would be embarrassing to suddenly admit they are wrong so they stick to their guns and insist John Lennon was Asian, for example. And that’s what has happened to me with roller-coasters. I’ve built up such a strong case for John Lennon’s Asian-ness that if I turn back now, it would be weak.
Yay.
I’ve been told, “Just go on one, you’ll love it!” And I might love it. But why would I want to agree with someone that thinks they know more about what I love than I do? By agreeing I’m basically admitting my own inability to decide what I like and don’t like. Can I be so easily swayed by other people that all it takes is one sentence to change my entire mindset about something that scares me shitless? Maybe, but I don’t want to admit that to them and let them take credit for every ounce of enjoyment I might feel. I can just imagine their smug face. So I don’t agree with them. I stay at home, living in fear of the big metal monster.
There have been some pretty popular crazes over the years. The slinky for example, that was ker-azy! Remember pogs? Pog mania! And who could forget the time people publicly handled their genitals for an extended period of time! Those were the days.
In five years that is what we’ll be saying. I hope. Because in the UK, it’s now normal to see a teenager going about everyday life whilst casually gripping his cock and balls under his tracksuit. That just happens now. Guys hold their dicks in front of you. Get used to it,
you square.
I see it as a sign of dominance, “Here’s something most normal people do by themselves behind closed doors and I’ve brought it with me to the job centre for all to see. I care so little about you that I won’t even grant you enough respect to be excluded from watching me manipulate the sweaty tube I push urine out of and will later be forcing angrily into the fat girl over there with the yoghurty tits. I’m so incredibly comfortable around you and everyone else here that if you keep watching I’m probably going to shit my trackies and hang them out to dry on the erection I’m working on.”
Sure, guys hold their dicks, I even do it sometimes whilst on the computer. Oh wait, that’s called masturbation.
Here’s some posts on a message board from www.scallycentral.com (real website)
The post asks, “Why do chavs put their hands down their trousers all the time?”
Yes, I’m sure “its best”
We’re all fucked.
