Day 13, Desert.

Some more, "poetry," today, because it's already written and I'm not feeling too creative today.

Desert;

Sun is orange in the sky
My mind won’t let my thoughts be mine.
Can’t see the horizon ahead
They said this way would lead to my death
Thirst is just a distant memory
A path well trodden year upon century
Demons circle over my head (ooooh)
The ground is the grey, my face is blue but the clouds…are a deep shade of red.

Trip over cracks underfoot
The lies I told didn’t do me no good
Heat haze makes me crazy, crazy
The light shows in my eyes they amaze me
It’s a desert
A wide and endless desert
And I can’t see my way out
Unless you help me

A white and shining light in my face
She fills my soul with beauty and grace
I reach out but I can’t quite touch her
How can I ever find another?
I’m bleeding and my body’s numb
Must be a process that has just begun
Because she said hell would be with me forever
I’m a dead man walking
Will someone help me
Please?
Woah, please, baby please.
Help me.

Demons circle over my head (ooooh)
Demons circle over my head (ooooh)
Demons circle over my head (ooooh)
The ground is blue, my face is grey but the clouds…are a deep shade of red.

Have a good evening.

Day 12

Let's start with an apology. The last few days on this blog have been, without exception, shit. I'm not going to lie. Last night's entry has all the hallmarks of a blog written by a man who's had a couple of beers, a large plate of oven cooked snack food, and wants to get the blog entry out of the way before bed. So today, I'm on a crusade to fix this. Incidentally, on the subject of crusades, (tenuous link coming up...) I noticed today that a Christian friend of mine has 666 Facebook friends. Oh, how irony loves to please me.

Anyway. I am a sports fan. Fan is a term used loosely here, I kinda just...I support a couple of teams, get angry at the right moments, and cheer at the right times. This is not to say that I do not feel a great emotional connection to my teams. I am a Welsh rugby fan, have been since about...actually, I was a fan during the World Cup in 2003, and virtually shat my pants when we took the lead against New Zealand. What a game that was. I am only a quarter Welsh, and 5/8ths English (the other 8th is Polish, apparently. I was in the Daily Mail the other day under the headline, "This Man is 1/8th of Britain's Problems, Lazy Bastard,"), but I've never felt any kind of emotional connection to rugby's most arrogant nation. I cannot understand why, but there's an unerring cockiness surrounding English Rugby. Or "The Rugby Football Union" as they call themselves. Nevermind that the title suggests they think of themselves as international rugby (as in, they ARE interational rugby), they've had one major success recently, and one highly lucky run to another final (it wasn't a try by the way, so please kindly shut the FUCK up about it). England expects...well, football, it seems. Oddly, I'm a fan of English football (mainly because I don't hate English football), and England's rugby players seem more adept at kicking than England's footballers. Something is seriously up.

Anyway, I digress. I am also a fan of Liverpool Football Club, and get all sweaty and nervous whenever we play. I watch some games at the pub, some I listen to on 5Live. On Wednesday, I had to watch West Ham vs Hull, not my team's game, because...I'm not sure actually. When I found we had drawn with Wigan, I very nearly crushed my pint glass. Right now, I am an angry Liverpool fan. We've thrown away all the advantage we have by believing 0-0 is good enough, and deciding that Lucas Leiva is better than Xabi Alonso. You know what Rafa? Sort it out, please. And soon.

I am also a motorsport fan. When I say motorsport, I mean motorsport, not motorbillboards, the alter ego the FIA seems to be developing for Formula One as we used to know it. Someone asked for my opinion today, on a point I have considered before. What is it with motorsport fans and longing for the past? "Oh, those were the golden days." "Yeah, 1970s F1 was the best." "Best liveries ever...[lists a number of liveries, none of which happened within the last ten years]." It's stupid, really. In "The Golden Days," people died week in, week out, the cars were slower, and there was a whole lot less variety than today. So why not just go to Goodwood each year, and then enjoy progress for the rest of the year. The progress that's brought us 200MPH+ diesels, and cars that, touch wood, don't kill their occupants. Cars that sound fantastic and boggle the mind. I admit, I long for the old days of touring cars, where overtaking happened a thousand times a lap, and grids were more full of manufacturers than Kerry Katona's fridge is full of Iceland dinners. But I don't believe that people should hold grimly onto the past to the detriment of forward thinking. No, the BBC should not use The Chain as the music for its upcoming F1 coverage, and Volvo should not go touring car racing with an estate, just because it was a masterstroke doing so fifteen years ago.

Good luck to Volvo in 2008, and also good luck to Tom Chilton and Ford, who're gonna need it, if the last Focus touring car was anything to go on.

Finally... Holladaddy is the best thing I've read this week. Rather comical, and quite telling as a social experiment.

Peace out, homies.

Day 11

I haven't got long today, so here's a YouTube link that'll entertain you for a minute.

Please click, it's weeeeell worth it. Engage playground humour.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=bOdpX6dcrU4

Enjoy.

Day 10

Lyrics. They can ruin a song, get lost in a song, make a song fantastic. Some songs, even without great lyrics, are good songs. I love Mercury, by Bloc Party, but it doesn't really have much lyrical genius going on. But when lyrics and song combine...well. Well, well, well. For example; Goldie Lookin' Chain. You may laugh (you're supposed to, duh), but they're fantastic lyrics. "She's saving saving up the pennies, hoping they turn into pounds, to have an operation, swap her gender round," is pure genius in my opinion.

Fionn Regan is another good one for interesting lyrics; "Shake hands with lightning, for an apple on a string." As is, "I have become an aerial view of a coastal town that you once knew." His gentle music is such a relief from the day to day bollocks, and the lyrics are so strange, it's fantastic. His musical style is very similar to Damien Rice, but Rice is far more serious. Cannonball is beautiful, and one of my personal favourite songs, and I implore you to go and put it on, right now. Youtube was made for copyright infringement, so go ahead!

I started this blog (i.e. today's post, not the blog as a whole) to try and decide for myself what lyrics I like, and what I believe makes a good lyric, but I've decided I'm in grave danger of just banging on about it. I've only got seven minutes to get this in in time, so I will bang on, instead, about lyrics I hate, beginning with some about time. "4 minutes to save the world..." from Madonna's thighs. I hate Madonna, more than almost any other pop artist. Put your bloody witch body away, woman. And "I got 21 seconds to go," in the first chorus, then 60 seconds later, "I got 21 seconds to go." Well, we've got a boy crying wolf here, haven't we? I was inclined to believe you before, but it looks like you were lying the first time...so I don't think you've got 21 seconds at all. You've got at least a minute, so your call is not important anymore.

Anyway, I better wrap this beast up; not a vintage post I'm afraid, I'll endeavour to improve over the next few days. I'm letting you down, and I'll be firing some innocent backroom staff to ensure my profits stay high, and my blame stays low, for the next few posts.

Day 8 + 9 = 17 (Because Day 8 didn't happen)

I'm in a good mood today. Which is nice, because I spent lots of last week under, as football reporters tend to put it, "under a cloud of discontentment." There wasn't anything major to contribute to my general feeling of meh, but it just happened.

One reason though, was religion. I hate religion. Nothing pisses me off more than the notion of a group of people all worshipping the same higher being, organised in a heirachy. It really, seriously, mystifies me why so many people believe it all. Was it not created as a means of control? "Do this, this and this, or X God will do Y, Z and A to you!" Surely, with almost all of this shit having been disproven, they'd have moved on by now. But no, I know there are still Christians- some of them even believe all the words in the best selling fiction work of all time, The Bible! Like, all of them. Apparently, all the bits that have been disproved are metaphors. Oh, right. So it didn't happen like that at all? But you just thought it did for thousands of years? So what if the whole lot is a metaphor, and it means, if you read into it; "Some old monk bloke is absolutely pissing himself somewhere." I say this because I don't disbelieve there may be a higher power. But why is he a white guy with a beard? As far as I can see, he always looks like he's about to go and tinker under the bonnet of an old MG somewhere. And why is Jesus, of Nazareth, a white guy? I hear he was probably a Jew, if geography is right. So...it's racist? That thing with all the fishes and the people? Oh, there were 50 people, and 49 fishes? And what, 12 loaves of bread? Shit me, he's almost running a fish and chip shop! And what about the big ark? The one where everyone but 2 people were killed, and all the animals came on board...that didn't happen either? If it did, we're surely all descendents of animal loving water gypsies! I mean, I love the idea as much as anyone else, but what did they eat for 40 days and 40 nights? And what about plants? Damn, that Jesus guy must've been pretty special, huh? Getting crucified, and surviving!

I would go on, but I feel I should stop. If I go on much more, I reckon I'm gonna get lightning bolted, or worse. Perhaps a plague of locusts, or a new Alan Carr TV show. So ditch the idea of organised religion from your life, remove the hypocritical ideolgies too. Enjoy life free of stale, old "metaphors" and tall tales based on lies and exaggeration. It angers me so much, that people are still being sucked into this bollocks, day after day.

"There is only one truth, that God loves you," I was told once. Well yeah, I have a reasonable life. But what about Steve in Gaza, who's family are all dead, or Jonny in Zimbabwe who has no water. Arthur in Vietnam, disfigured after the war. Explain those, you hypocritical, selfish idiots. Open your eyes to the world, and have a look what's going on. There aren't any arks. There are no oceans being parted, and I can't see anyone walking on water. Have faith in yourself, and others, but don't put all your love into "God." He only seems to make things worse.





(Disclaimer. Please be aware these are my own views, and that you don't have to share them. I do blame religion for most of the world's problems, and I do think it gives false hope to those who need hope most. I concede that our moral code, which is worthy enough when it's actually followed, is based on religion. But it seems like religion seems to walk all over these morals all the time. Please do not be offended, and if you do, pray for some deity to strike me down. That'd be a hell of a way to prove your point, huh? Never mind that it partly proves mine.)

Day 7, poetry.

I have no time today; I'm dressed sharp for a party. I have swing on the stereo, and a jacket on, and it's a good night.

However, I decided I might as well share a couple of bits I've written.

First, a serious one. I call it "Blind Man's Poker."

I’m playing blind man’s poker
And in this land of the blind
The one eyed dealer is a joker

I wish I could see,
But fate is a cruel mistress
And she keeps her eye out for cheats

I’m dealt two aces but I don’t know it
I’m down on the ground
And I’m in touch with a poet

To write my obituary.

There is a cruel wind
Blowing through this gambler’s town
And you can never win.

It’s a losing game
And you know it
But you still come here to play

Full house comes tumbling down
Two pair split down the middle
Ace is low and 4 is high
I thinking I’m just a little…
Craaaazy.

I’m dealt two aces but I don’t know it
I’m down on the ground
And I’m in touch with a poet

To write my obituary.


And a less serious one...

Rap Labrador

Step back make way for the rap Labrador
He’s got the beats so low that they’re scraping the floor, but
Don’t be confused by this crazy mutt
Just turn-t-turn-turn the volume up.

His name is Canis lupus familiaris,
5 will get me 10 that you can’t spell this
He’s related to the wolf but he’s calmer than a wolf
Frustrate or anger him and your face he’ll engulf
With his jaws, they’re mightier than yours
Cause he don’t know human laws, he’ll harm you with his paws.
He don’t fear time because he can’t commit crime
He’s a dog, canine, not homo sapie…ine.

He’s a dog 1 G not Snoop Dogg double G
He spells better see, than any gangster from the east or
West coast of the USA, or any kid winning a spelling bee.
But he don’t rhyme for free, not even for me
Gotta pay dollars not doggy treats,
He’ll cost a lot, from capital letter to full stop.
If you don’t understand we’ll take it back to the top.

Step back make way for the rap Labrador
He’s got the beats so low that they’re scraping the floor, but
Don’t be confused by this crazy mutt
Just turn-t-turn-turn the volume up.

He’s got interest from the CIA, RSPCA and the YMCA
They all want him for his rap abilities.
He’s the rap Labrador he’ll have you coming back for more
Begging for mercy ‘cause he’s too hardcore.
He’s been shot nine times for his preposterous rhymes
But he doesn’t tell you all the time he doesn’t need that in his lines
He’s gangster, gunshot or not, more true than hip hop.
And you know he’ll never stop, he bought immortal from the shop
That sells badly grammarised crazy abilities and magic potions…for cheap.

It’s important to clarify what I mean by animal
I mean he’s so dangerous like…Hannibal
Lecter in the house, not timid like a mouse
He’s Californian not Scouse, stealin’ your spouse.
He’s a love cheat love rat but more like a bitch
Lovin’ Will Smith from Switch to Hitch,
Rescuin’ these rhymes from the bottom of the ditch
He’s an old dog that keeps learning new tricks.
Gotta pause for breath before we carry on
Then we can take up to 88 in our DeLorean


Step back make way for the rap Labrador
He’s got the beats so low that they’re scraping the floor, but
Don’t be confused by this crazy mutt
Just turn-t-turn-turn the volume up.

Don’t ask him, “Who let the dogs out?”
It’s not a topic he’s willing to talk about.
Chien or pooch or hound or whatever
He’ll be rhyming hardcore forever.
Back to the subject, of immortality
You can try to find a Labrador fatality
You’ll search a long time but you’ll never find it
Unless you bring in the crazy Poodle bandit.
She’s a crazy bitch with rhymes that trip
Off the tongue like insults or grooming tips.
Dogged determination, for that she’s renowned
Straight out of Brooklyn’s toughest pound
She started a crew in one nine eight two
Simply because she had nothing better to do
Now she’s takin’ on the Rap Labrador
In a game I’d like to call “rap sport.”

Get out of her way she’s the Poodle Bandit
You wanted an answer now you’ve found it
Someone to take on the rap Labrador
In the game I like to call “rap sport.”

Day 6

Day 6 of The Skeptik, and it's been a long day. A long week, really. There have been some pretty low lows this week, and some pretty high highs. Steven Gerrard, 68 minutes, high. Tim Cahill (one of the top ten biggest wankers in football), 87 minutes, low, for example. The fact that I've written quite a bit this week (not including this blog) is indication in itself. Whatever you want to call what I write (I call them lyrics, and they do have some tune to me, but you can call them poems if you want), I write them when I'm a bit down. It's no surprise to me that most of the best music is about pain and torment; a lot of mine is, I just exaggerate a lot more. It's not that I'm depressed; far from it, I'd say I'm a pretty cheery chap. I just seem to always have a big dip following a peak, and the dip gets exaggerated by how good the peak was. I mean, I've probably got deep rooted issues, because I swear I'm not normal. But I'm guessing most people do, and I don't really care. It's probably because I'm so laid back; I don't really feel pressure until about 5 minutes before something has to be finished. By then I'm in the shit, so I just decide to relax; nothing I can do, is there? So I'm a relaxed lad.

However. There are times when I just get worked up, and get a grudge, set my mind and don't back down. It happened today, house hunting. In the end, we appear to be going for my preferred choice of the two. Had we, however, chosen my least preferred, I would simply not have signed the contract. Under no circumstances was I putting pen to paper, and in the end I turned out to be right. I probably would have caused a lot of problems, but my opinions are strong enough that I would've stood my ground. I am, basically, a dick. Once I start something, I'm unwilling to admit I was wrong, at all. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. No, the gun above the bar doesn't work, and dogs can definitely look up.

I've gotten this far down today's piece without any kind of descriptive simile; I'm a little disappointed in myself really. I feel like Samuel L. Jackson must've after reading the script to Star Wars II. "What?! I gotta do a whole god damn film without saying 'motherfucker'?" He listens for a moment, then, "What do you mean 'script integrity'?" I watched it the other day, and I've never known worse dialogue. The dialogue could've been written by two fourteen year old boys with a fondness for each other, Mills and Boon, and inventing pointless words. Whoever wrote the sand/skin piece should be buried in it, French Foreign Legion style, for...actually, forever. Mind you, the vultures would have slimmer pickings from him than they did picking the holes in George Lucas's "masterpiece" of fucking up. It's a depressing notion that the film is better with Swedish dubbing (I've not tried it, but I can't see how the dialogue adds to the film in anyway), and that they wasted Samuel L. and Ewan McGregor on such a bag of shit.

That film is rather like my week, really; every up a dramatic chase, through Blade Runner-esque cities or expansive asteroid fields, and every down an Anakin Skywalker/ Padme Amidala love scene, interspersed with Jar Jar Binks wearing clothes he stole from Whoopi Goldberg's charity shop donations.

So this week, wish me Blade Runner and asteroid fields. Just please, no more badly acted Mauri extras and creatures wearing nineties Africa.

Day 5;

At the moment, I feel a bit like the Starship Enterprise in the middle of a battle, with phasers and torpedos (I think those are the right terms) aimed for direct hits, and the ship rocking around like...a ship in a gale. But in my Enterprise, William Shatner has fucked off to go make cereal adverts, Spock is having ear reshaping surgery and Scotty has had a few too many and is passed out at the controls. My shields are down, and my hyperdrive (I think that's Star Wars actually) is fucked, leaving me trapped by everything that's getting me down. It's worse that I can't seem to disengage the tractor beam that's holding me in shitville right now. Break that, and maybe some kind of space current (this is science fiction after all) might wash me away to somewhere else.

The latest setback looked like it was going to be a good thing, and turned out to be a catastrophic misjudgement on my part. Either that or I'm blameless and unlucky, and I don't know which. I'm not going into details, because I doubt you want to know. Even if you do, this is a blog, not a fucking agony aunt plea. I just wish things were just a teeny bit different, and I didn't get my hopes up so easily. As Paramore put it (my references today are pretty terrible, huh?) "For a pessimist, I'm pretty optimistic." I'm branded a doom monger, but I can almost always see hope in a situation. 2-0 with 5 minutes to go? Easy. 1000 words to write in an hour? Might as well have a cup of tea first, I can do 100 words a minute. Cute girl, out of my league, talking to me? Laughter works better than biceps, and the charm offensive always wins.

Maybe I should just not get my hopes up any more, and let my battered confidence just stay where it is, and let things happen around me, wholly apathetic. It would surely be easier than trying over and over, and being whacked back by the huge baseball bat that fate always seems to hit me with when she's lured me down the garden path. By walking down that path, you could say I open myself up for this kind of thing. "Tempting fate." That is bollocks. You can't tempt fate; if it's fate, it's happening anyway. That's what fate is. So I'm gonna go headlong and keep trying. I've not got much to lose, really. Murphy can have all the CIA's listening devices if he likes, he's not getting a fucking say. No mythical half arsed Irish named wanker is going to ruin my day again, and fate can hold what it holds. I'll face it with a knowing smile and shoulders square.

I bet Murphy, Fate and Lady Luck are all sat around, in their lair, like some kind of fucked up crime fighting team, drinking whisky, playing poker on a £15 poker set (bought in the Next sale) and scratching the parts of their Lycra that bulge far more than they did when the suits were made. Their ears are pricked right now, and they're probably scheming. Are you listening Murphy? Fuck off. And Fate? Feeling tempted? Do your worst. As for Lady Luck, I've given up trying to get anything from you, so you can take a long holiday where it's always dark and cramped.

Bring it on, Marvel's lost superhereos. You're nothing but 3 fat, old, redundant relics. Go join Santa and the Tooth Fairy, in the cultural dustbin where you belong.

Day 4, hassle.

I was going to write about my beautiful return to football today. Rain, mud and cold are integral to the joy that comes from playing football at fun level, and today was as fun as any. And I reckon I played alright...score.

But no, I decided to write about hassle. I go through periods of calm and tranquility in my life, and that should be what now feels like. After all, exams are over. However, this seems to have branded me as, "the guy who's not busy." I don't mind helping people out, especially as some people have genuine problems. It's when I say "I'm busy," and people just keep coming back. Or phoning over and over; when I don't pick up three days in a row, I clearly don't wanna talk to you. Bugger off. Friends I can deal with. I can try and make all the time in the world for friends, and I can stand them getting irrate if I ignore them (by accident or design) for a day or two. It's when they just bug and bug and bug (etc.) for hours, or even days. I'm on MSN Messenger and it says "busy." You know what that means? It means busy. Not "busy, unless you want a chat that'll take up my time while i'm trying to get stuff done," or "busy, but feel free to say, "Hello," "Hey, you there?" "Hi, how're you," "Fine, ignore me, lol," in 5 minutes." Unless you have a serious issue, that can't wait, I'm fucking BUSY.

Anyway, I'm sorry if anyone feels insulted by that, but it is the truth. And I don't mean it to anyone specific really. I don't want to look like an arrogant wanker. But I am, so that's how it comes across.

And if you weren't entertained enough by that, call me 15 times in an hour tonight, and we'll see what tomorrow's blog looks like...

Have a good evening.

Day 3, For Chris.

Afternoon all, and welcome to day 3 of The Skeptik. Today's piece is for Chris (Moore, not Clark or any other Chris, sorry to you all), who's having a bad day and wanted something to cheer him up.

Anyway, I thought I might talk about those poor bastards who have exams this time of year. I'm at university, and I finished my exams and essays and stuff some time ago. But those still with exams remind me of that guy in, "The Life Of Brian," the guy in the dungeon. "You lucky bastards, you lucky, lucky bastards!" They're clinging to the bars of revision's prison, chained upside down to a wall of hard work and excessive distraction. Looking at them, it's hard to tell which is worse; the revision for the exam, or the doom they seem to feel when they're distracted and can do nothing but get dragged along on a tidal wave of YouTube, Desktop Tower Defense [sic] and updating iPods and other sundry MP3 devices. If distracting innocent university students was a crime, Apple and Facebook would have a whole lot to answer for. They'd be facing a hefty fine.

I bought a hat today, one of those ones that's too big for you head. I like it, and I can't wait for people to take the piss. It always happens with a new hat. I had a wooly hat with a peak, and that took some abuse at first (mainly from my mum, thanks mum) and then one of the Sherpa hats (you know the ones, string on the side and a bobble on top). That was like wearing a T-shirt that said, "Yes, I'm an idiot. Feel free to take the piss." So this could be interesting. As I said while deciding whether to buy it; "I don't know whether I'm gonna look cool and art film directorish, over trendy, or like I've got a massive oversize foreskin hanging off the back of my head."

We'll see.

Oh, and...

Thanks to Ricky Flores.

This is the image that inspired the title;

"The Skeptic."

Cheers mate.

Day 2.

Well, it's day 2 of The Skeptik. Being a bit of a pessimistic, cynical (sadly, kynikal doesn't have the same ring as Skeptikal) discontented bastard, my day has been one long string of reasons to complain. I get up to go to shower, put my towel around my waist, head downstairs, and there's some guy from my letting agency. Something about "energy," according to Penny (my housemate), but I can get nothing more coherent (she has an exam), so I head off to douse myself in hot water and Head and Shoulders. Nothing to complain about here (even for a professional like me) and I even manage to get my towel on without anyone viewing the house (it's up for rent next year), or just generally bursting in. I may be a stunning man, but people wanting to see me naked is a bit odd. Especially when I live with them. (Incidentally, I just had to pause writing to please Chris and watch the Kung Fu scene from Scrubs. I'd complain, but it was good. Bugger.) Anyway, I'm coming up the stairs, soaking wet, starting to freeze, and wearing just a towel, and who should I see? (I'll give you a clue; it's not William Shatner, or anyone interesting or famous.) Yes, it's the star of today's piece, the man from CPS (the letting agency). "Alright mate?" He says. "No I'm not bloody alright, I'm cold, wet and wearing nohing but a towel. And your pissing about in my way with a fucking stepladder." I should have said. Instead, I opt for a diplomatic, "Alright," in return. He moves aside, I give him a look like a Palestinian may give to an Israeli soldier (too soon?) and take to the shelter of my room. Idiot.

That's the most interesting thing that happened today, but for the fact I wore shorts (mistake) and did the header today. Man, seriously. Life is fun when someone else is taking photos of you, because there's a lot of laughter to be had, to be honest. Head off to my Flickr if you wanna do some commenting.

As for politics, I'm both glad, and (rather selfishly, it has to be said) sad, that Israel pulled out of Gaza. In honesty, the glad outweighs the sad. What the hell were they thinking? What can they possibly gain by invading? They just made themselves look stupid. I did chuckle when I read on the BBC that Hamas had announced a ceasefire "to allow Israeli troops to withdraw." Withdraw? They were gonna withdraw out of the other side of Gaza pretty soon, or hit sea. To me, it seemed like Hamas had ceased firing right at the start, in terms of actual impact on opposition troops. But Israel withdrew before I had a chance to go on a protest march, and that's just inconsiderate if you ask me.

In sport this week, we've seen Kaka be bounced around, with ever more ludicrous fees being waved around, and Craig Bellamy make a move to City. Not sure who's doing the scouting at City, but those are pretty opposite ends of the talent tree. And while we're on the City subject, I read today that Dean Sturridge is nervous of his future at the club. No shit, kid. You're about 4, and unproven, and there's more pounds to be spent at City than there are chavs to have arguments on Jeremy Kyle. You're not gonna last 5 more minutes if the money has its way.

Also in sport, we've seen the debut of a new generation of Formula One and, quite possibly, a new generation of designers. "The Ferrari F2009, designed by Gianpaolo, aged 9, of Modena! Gianpaolo's design was chosen from thousands of others from children around the country to provide the template for a step forward for F1." Formula One should change it's tagline to, "More bullets in our feet than overtaking manoeuvres since 1994!" Idiots.

That'll do for today, so I hope y'all have a nice evening and such.

Feel free to visit my Flickr for some photo based fun.


(I promise tomorrow will be more entertaining. I might even try and structure it.)

Welcome.

Firstly, you'll have noticed that I can't spell. You may also have noticed me on Flickr, which is probably how you found this. A little disclaimer to begin; if you're easily offended, this probably isn't the place. I'm not offensive, but I am opinionated, and I can't be arsed with email giving me shit. So welcome to the first ever Skeptik post.

My name is Jake Yorath, and I'm 19 years old. Make of that what you will; I'm not a "yoof" or similar terms, but feel free to label me as that if you like. You're welcome to think I'm a dick. In terms of politics, I must admit I don't really care much, because I'm a bit too cynical to really think a change in the colour of the tie behind the door at number ten will make any difference. I do like Obama though; he seems a pretty quality chap, but I feel his kids might well take advantage a lot. "Daddy, can we go and get ice cream?" "Yes, we can!" Etc.

Anyway. There will be pretty much no structure to this blog. I'm not going to update it rigidly, to a schedule. Bollocks to order, that's what I say.

I use Nikon digital cameras, and Olympus film cameras (when I can be arsed). I take photos of motorsport as a main. I'll do a proper post later today probably, but that should serve as a nice introduction.

Have a nice day.