A lot of people I talk to say you have to look past the top 40 charts to find the best that music has to offer. But on this evidence from Composer Hans Zimmer I say balls to that! Lets compare the likes of Mr. Zimmer to more contemporary acts like JLS and Tinie Tempah. For starters what kind of name is Hans Zimmer? It doesn’t exactly scream star material. Where as on the other hand the ever popular JLS and Tinie Tempah don’t even need real names! They let abbreviations and poor spelling do all the talking, which I think is cool…if you can work out just how your supposed to say their aliases that is.

Now lets listen to the music; Tinie Tempah plays the clever tactic of implementing made up words in his songs – who can forget the classic “G-shocks, I got a crazy thumb collection” from his hit Pass Out, where he also informs the world that he has been to Southampton, but never to Scunthorpe: Genius. On the other hand Hans Zimmer doesn’t even write any lyrics! I imagine all that orchestral bullshit is from his record label as well.

Not. At All. Gay

Finally I would like to point out that songs in the charts are so much more representative of the man on the street. I mean take JLS for example, they sing about putting your hands up in a club, which appeals to me as a person from real life because I put my hands up sometimes too! Not just in clubs either, I used to do it in school quiet frequently in fact. Hans Zimmer’s material would only work if I was in a movie or something.

So there you have it, there’s no point listening to anything outside the UK top 40, because everything else is pointless and boring.

Oh yeah, I just remembered, I’m not an idiot – 10/10 Hans Zimmer for creating some of the most emotive and spine chilling music I have had the pleasure of listening to.

I had an odd nights sleep last night, not odd in the usual insomnia sense, but odd as in the reoccurring dream I had. Before I go into said dream, it’s important that I give you some context; it was announced on Tuesday that Dancey Noisy Punky Funky Rocky Duo Death From Above 1979, would be playing a one off gig at London’s HMV Forum, after declaring their love for one another and reformation just a couple of weeks earlier. This was spellbinding news, not only because the sensation of being hit by an electrical storm could once again be experienced through the medium of music, but because this phenomenon was happening right on my doorstep in good old ‘Landan’ town.

Okay so back to last evening; after setting my alarm for a good half an hour before tickets went on sale, I retreated to bed with the pleasant anticipation of the following mornings rush for gig tickets.

I lost count of how many times I woke up in a cold sweat from the nightmare “Ticketless” scenario which haunted me that night. In one dream I woke up late and was directed to the dooming sight of “Sold Out” flashing across my laptop screen; in another fantasy my Laptop failed to work – leaving me to resort to my phone, which is about as internet friendly as Sarah Palin on a sick cocktail of Steroids and Cocaine. At one point in the evening I became so detached from my own reality that I was certain that every godly entity, the U.S. government, and Prince Philip himself, were plotting against me and my tenacious search for Death From Above Tickets. It was like a really shit version of Inception, where instead of overwhelming action sequences being accompanied by a delicious sound track from Hans Zimmer, there was just me bludgeoning a Ticket Vendor with my MacBook Pro, with excessively distorted bass playing from somewhere.

Alas I finally woke in the real world, and bought my tickets rather easily. Am I exctied for the 5th of May now? Of course I am. Was it worth a near psychological breakdown? Only time will tell, but as you can see from the above video, DFA would probably sound as terrible as listening to Margaret Thatcher’s collection of speeches being performed by Katie Price, if it wasn’t for the copious amounts of distortion they use. I’m not going though for the sound quality: Because I now have the chance to see one of the bands I’ve been obsessed with for ages, a duo which will make me dance until my body is drained of all contained bodily fluids, and music which will satisfy my RDA of Awe-inspiring nostalgia.

That is unless, I’m still stuck inside that dream within a dream, and I’m so consumed with happiness that I’ve accepted this fantasy as reality, leaving my anatomy to rot in a reeking, docile mess. Where’s a spinning top when you need it?

FILA - A symbol for Violence since 2011

Protesters in Egypt are showing their hatred for the current government by taking off their trainers and lifting them to the heavens. My sources tell me this is an insult amongst some Arab cultures…not quiet sure how it will spark political change, but one thing is for sure – FILA haven’t had this much publicity since gamers had to drop passengers off at the FILA store in Crazy Taxi. I’m glad students chose against this protest technique during the rally’s in December; Converse take a while to get on and off at the best of times; and police charging at you on horse back isn’t going to help the situation.

After seeing this photograph, I can’t understand why the Egyptians are so upset. Aren’t they aware that retro sports attire is at the height of fashion at the moment? Here we are stuck in designer purgatory, somewhere in between Clarks and Primark, and just a few thouand miles away the sulking Egyptians are flaunting their luxury Adidas Tracksuits. No place with that much aesthetic flare can be too terrible of a country to live in, the Ungrateful bastards.

That is unless it’s all fake of course.

Bruce Willis: Half Dead, but still kicks ass every Christmas.

With Christmas being traditionally sponsored by Disney, many of you will have noticed the tremendous amount of animated movies on the air at the moment. With the likes of Toy Story and Mulan available to us, it is impossible to draw your eyes away from the Nostalgia teeming films which satisfy the child in all of us. I’m all in support for Disney films at Christmas, they make us feel good about ourselves, and remind people of the key to story telling: A real sick and twisted Villain.

While I never understood the true value of many Disney films as a kid, watching some of them back now reveals evil and horrifying plots to which I was previously unaware of. Take A Bug’s Life for example; a film which makes any Italian – American Gangster movie seem as intimidating as Justin Bieber on Estrogen. As a child I was amused a great deal by the two Easter European Woodlice, but looking back on the film now I see it’s true meaning – a story of corruption and potential genocide, as a degenerate group of Grasshoppers coerce a colony of helpless Ants by demanding tribute on a regular basis. When the colony can’t come up with the goods on one particular occasion, the tyrant Grasshopper leader threatens them with total annihilation on a holocaust scale. Amongst the film’s features are extortion, and assault – not lessons which a parent would usually want taught to their innocent youth, but lessons which are hidden behind comical Russian speaking insects never the less.

You're never too young to learn about Social stereotypes.

Every Disney movie is full of these subtly placed sinister themes, which are partly concealed from the angelic minds of children by either a talking anthropomorphic rodent, a charismatic Genie, or a mentally confused Toy Astronaut. I recently caught The Lion King over the Christmas period; the first film I ever saw at the cinema, and my favourite animated movie of all time. I remember the joy that all the songs brought to my four year old self, laughing at every quirky little moment Zazu had, and being obsessed with any scene which Timon and Pumbaa featured in. I was generally confused by the whole voodoo baboon thing, but I overlooked that as a child, because I was so glad that Simba beat down his evil uncle Scar to take back the pride lands.

What my four year old self didn’t acknowledge about Scar however, was that he is the single most evil villain in the history of Cinema.

No top one hundred list of movie villains will agree with this statement, but let me explain why it is true. Scar is the punier but more cunning brother of king Mufasa – a lion who has brought bliss and balance to the pride lands, the immoral Scar however is willing to go to any lengths to gain the power which his brother possesses, even if it means killing him and his only son. It’s a situation that’s been performed on the big screen hundreds of times, but the horrifying thing about Scar is the manner in which he executes his plans: without remorse or mercy. I mean look at Simba’s adorable little face – even Darth Vader’s mechanical heart would melt just at the sight of him, before The Emperor dispatches the stupid little cat with his electric shock treatment. Scar adapts to the situation as it develops; his charisma twists people against each other, and recruits others to his cause (albeit he was indeed “surrounded by idiots”). Add all this together and you have to agree that Scar is the F.C. Barcelona of Psychopaths, making Hannibal Lecter look like Accrington Stanley in comparison.

Only in Disney will you find Kids Smoking and Drinking.

Sure I knew that Scar was bad news when I was young, but there are so many little scenes that make him seem so much more heinous now I’m older. There’s one scene where he has an army of Hyena’s parading before him like some Fascist force preparing to invade Poland, no other Villain would be able to show such a terrifying show of force, especially not in a film aimed at Children. So this festive season don’t think about The Joker, forget Freddy Kreuger, and don’t even consider the Wicked Witch of the West. If you want real horror, just flick over to the Disney channel where you can find Cruella De Vil, Jafar, and The Queen from Snow White: all of them haunting the child in all of us for the rest of time.

Now where are my collection of Timon and Pumbaa toys…..

But the single most frustrating aspect about this hand that the elements have thrown us, is the fact that it almost ruined my Christmas, literally. You see I planned to make the one hundred mile trip from Cheltenham Town, to Oblivion Enfield this past weekend; a journey which should take around 2 hours, but a journey which this time round made the pilgrimage to Mecca seem like a trip down the shops. As I sluggishly made it home at the snail-esque speed of one foot an hour, my thoughts turned to the prospect of spending Christmas in my little Vauxhall Corsa, with only a white van man for company, and packet of raisins to consume in place of the traditional turkey roast.

Bikinis - Never out of season.

Many people greet snow like a crack addict welcomes their next fix, on the other hand I would happily bludgeon the cast of Rainbow to death with stale Christmas puddings if it meant I wouldn’t have to endure the cold, bitter precipitation on my face again. I can’t understand how I was ever obsessed with this curse from the heavens; other than that one time I made a giant penis out of the white stuff, it has been the bane of my life: from being pelted with the ice dandruft back in high school, to having many a trip to the Pub inhibited by the blockade of ice, which makes any form of movement require a crack team of Huskies and a sleigh.

I am currently sat at home with my parents, sipping whisky and watching the depressing exhibition which is Eastenders; not stranded in the limbo of the M40 southbound. I am one of the lucky few who have been able to escape the arctic siege of the west midlands, I fought the snow and won this time around, but my fate may not be so lucky next Christmas. Imagine a festive season where instead of opening presents with mum and dad, you are browsing the January sales early on the Internet. Picture a December 25th where instead of gorging on Pigs in blankets and Irish Coffee, you are forcing down BBQ beef flavoured Super Noodles and Tesco Value Cider. Envision a Christmas day where instead of relishing a log fire and a brightly lit Christmas tree, you are left shivering in the worlds thinnest duvet next to the dim glow of The Queen’s speech on television.

Snow isn’t in the slightest bit convenient, I’m even sure Santa despises the stuff. Imagine how much easier his job would be if he could land his private Jet at Heathrow every year, to deliver gifts to the brats of London, instead of relying on a group of Reindeer to carefully guide him from roof top to roof top – I’m not saying Reindeer are stupid, but they can’t be the most straight forward mammal to depend upon for complex landing procedures.

Santa is Pissed this year, so I hope you've been good.

This time last month I was discussing the prospect of a ‘white Christmas’ with a group of friends; the words ‘special’ and ‘magical’ were synonymous with this idea: but it is only now I realize that this fantasy of a snow filled holiday, is only a mirage for distress and woe. No one wants to spend Christmas alone, in the same way that Buddhists fail to find a career in the armed forces totally alluring. But still our heads will be saturated with this dream of waking up to ice flakes falling from the sky the morning of present swap day.

I’ve had a foul encounter with snow this year, it’s made me totally lose touch with my childhood, as well as schemed against my annual receiving of hot food and Xbox games. For these reasons, next year I will happily take a hair dryer to the every Snowman I see; I’ll start a campaign of melting anarchy against the Winter elements, hopefully fueling some kind of nation wide snow melting extravaganza, which will in turn make Christmas 2011 a little less lonely, and a whole lot warmer. Maybe then we will finally be able to wipe the smug smile of Frosty’s coal and carrot fashioned face.

Let us face the facts, by the time the current crop of students have graduated from their specialized fields (whether it be Architecture, Genetic engineering, or Buffalo management), they will have inherited Gazillions of debt from over indulgent, champagne guzzling bankers (who will get off Scot-free); to pay this off students will endure a WWF Royal Rumble style interview process, just to get one of the tens of jobs left available at Burger King or Comet, as the rest of the nation spirals into poverty as benefits are pulled from under our feet.

Cameron is coming to steal your money, and then eat your siblings. Maybe not in that order.

Which brings me on nicely to student fees and their recent price hike to potentially treble the current amount. University is by no means cheap by any stretch of the imagination at the moment, asking someone to sacrifice £9,000 (plus roughly the same amount on top of that in living fees) of their future earnings is a big ask – after all £9,000 can buy you a lot of Jager bombs and DVDs, but this lump sum is generally seen as an investment when you consider what you get in return after three years – a crippled liver and piece of paper with “CONGRATUWELLDONE” embossed across the top of it, at least I understand that’s what you receive.

£27,000 on the other hand is in a totally different world, it’s honestly as if the ConDem government decided to make students pay a pound for every word they submit over their three year course, and determined this astronomical figure to be ‘fair’. Students of course have not been warming to this idea in the same way that Vince Cable and his band of mathematical nut cases will have hoped. Over the course of the past month students have aligned London in their cross hairs, and then fired repeated rounds of pure aggression into the heart of the government. Nobody has been safe in our city center of inadequacy, even the monarchy became involved in the crossfire as prince Charle’s car was pummeled with “BOMBS (of paint)” as the Daily Mail would have put it, and the Duchess of Cornwall was repeatedly punched in the ovaries by the ghost of Princess Diana in the guise of a poor student.

Camilla before and after the "attack".

What these peaceful protesters do not realize however is that all of this is irrelevant – the government could have demanded us to sacrifice thirty Unicorns a year in exchange for education, and it wouldn’t have made the smallest difference. Due to the fact that no one is going to pay a penny – ever.

This is because of the small print which no one ever reads when signing the form entitled “Give me £6,000 a year now, I’ll worry about it later”, before they depart for University. Now there is a small “get out” clause for students who earn less than £15,000 per year once they leave – they don’t pay their loans back to Mr Cameron at number 10. And thanks to the world wide financial meltdown, the country’s remaining jobs will have to be evenly distributed between the herds of students leaving university. This means that anyone earning more than £100 and a bag of magic beans a month will be considered “loaded”, and will have attended University courtesy of the ConDems.

Have bigger aspirations then micromanaging your income for the next forty years? Anyone smart enough to be earning more than the golden £15,000 marker will quickly desert England’s shores before Clegg’s debt squad even notice their success. Think of all of this as some kind moral tax evasion, or tax evasion for hipster’s if you are concerned about your image.

So there you have it boys and girls, if you’ve been put off going to University by the seemingly insurmountable fees, then don’t be. If you’ve been marching through the streets of central London in temperatures which would make a Penguin don an extra layer, then take a break. If you’ve felt the urge to be trampled by a flood of police horses, then get the hell out of the way. If you’ve been wrestling with Camilla over the bonnet of a thirty year old car, then stop doing it.

On the other hand, if you’re ultimate goal in life is a mediocre job or evading the government, then go for it – for otherwise life is just going to be one disappointment after the other.

But unlike all of these perfectly normal childhood fantasies, mine was slightly more pragmatic – to say it wasn’t as ambitious would be an understatement. For the eight year old me only wished to be a Football referee.

Like any eight year old boy, I loved kicking a small ball around a concrete patch (I won’t call it a football because more often than not, it was about the size and shape of a pear and made of wool), but to say I was quiet a mature child would be a restrained statement. I excepted from that very young age I had neither the skill nor the physical ability to become a premier league super star. I was so bad at the sport teachers often mistook my lack of footballing prowess as a disability, and even other children thought that taking the mickey out of my two left feet would be harsh. I even tried a hand at playing in goal, but this was quickly scuppered by my mother who became angry with the amount of scuffs on my once pristine Clarks shoes.

Driven by my insistence that my future lay within football, I quickly found a gap in the market – somewhere I could play. I was often perplexed by the lack of discipline in these playground rules matches: here we were detained within this institution by a monstrous four foot tall fence, complete with it’s own persistent group of guards known as the “Dinner Ladies”; and all we were doing was kicking the shit out of each other with boots which were at least three sizes too big, and weighed as much as a water buffalo.

I concluded one day that action must be taken on this lawless playground of chaos – one morning I packed my favourite glow in the dark whistle, constructed some poorly coloured red and yellow cards and set off for the wild west. This town needed a sheriff, and that was exactly what I was going to become.

Only a poster of Collina hanged from my bedroom wall.

Suffice to say I lost a lot of friends that day; the other children didn’t take too kindly with this new authoritarian state, and the rebellion against my tyrannical power trip made Castro’s revolution look peaceful. By the time I unleashed my third red card in as many minutes, the other kids decided to stop playing football and initiated a new game called “ref bashing” – FIFA has never seen football injuries so horrific.

With my dreams of running backwards around freshly mowed lawns of velvet, blasting on my whistle with more bellowing fury than Krakatoa, and being the Caesar to world wide footballing idols extinguished, I hanged up my cards and started stumbling once again around the hard concrete world of lunch time viciousness.

Which leads me to where I am today – at university studying something only half as inspiring and half as anal to my primary school dreams. So how did I nearly come out of refereeing retirement this past weekend? Well the answer lies to the far reaches of a place known to many as Scotland. They too play football in this alien place to the north, and last weekend their enforcers of the sport went on strike. Now to those of you who aren’t aware, Scottish Football is played with some what more ‘vigor’ shall we say, to ourselves. Players use studs sharper than Stephen Fry’s wit, and the only reason goalkeepers wear gloves is to conceal a set of knuckle dusters. Every time a football match kicks off in Glasgow the United States ready themselves upon DEFCON 5.

A regular scene at a Scottish Football Match.

So it is easy to understand how important referee’s are in Scotland. Umpire’s of the sport in the north are no Gorky looking pansies with have in our nation, these guys are the most hardened, cold, and unfeeling bastards the world has to offer. They don’t carry a set of cards and a whistle in Scottish football, they wield a sledge hammer and an impact drill in case things get out of hand. Last week they replaced these refereeing commandos with a bunch of squares from the continent – including a Swiss fellow who had to call of a game after one of the managers drove a tank onto the pitch, and a gentleman from Finland who is now in isolated therapy, after one player physically ate his little black book, and almost hanged him from the goalposts by his pants.

In hindsight then, it is probably for the better I decided against a road trip to the chilling depths of Scotland adroned in a stripy black shirt, because if I did it would have been like putting Mark Corrigan in a battle to the death against the team of RoboCop, Ultimate Warrior, and Chuck Norris.

Communism - It's just one big party!

I don’t know a lot about foreign policies, but when an alone, isolated nation like North Korea starts pounding an Island just outside of it’s jurisdiction with more explosives than a Ramstein concert; then I know something is up. Ever since the Korean war over half a century ago, North Korea has been the lonely child in this school of mixed nations. Rather than playing along nicely with it’s more spoiled brother to the south, Kim Jong Il’s pesky country cries out for attention by beating it’s family down with more fury than a bunch of poor and bored university students. At the end of the day North Korea is no more than a naughty school kid. But still the international community of teacher’s doesn’t know what to do with them.

So we now press onto a question which has mystified the education sector for years – just how do you deal with bad behavior? It’s simple, you make the culprits look more stupid than Sarah Palin’s perspective on international relations. Now god help the kids I’ve been working with, but by teaching in a secondary school the past few weeks, I’ve developed an effective means to put them attention seeking bastards back in their place. I embarrass them.

Embarrassment is an amazing emotion. When triggered correctly it’s like a double blow to the person you’re dealing it too. The first blow stops them dead in their tracks, as they turn more red than Ronald McDonald’s pubic hairs, and while the second blow isn’t immediately evident, it will soon reap major benefits, because every time the victim goes to open their mouth with an audacious comment again, they will be overwhelmed by the horrible memory of humiliation, like that time you were caught having sex by your other half’s partner (you do remember that, don’t you?)

Forget detention and deducting house points, being dominated by this cringe reflex is the only way that bad behavior can be curbed. This can just as easily be applied to a problem like North Korea, bewilder the misbehaving juveniles to the extent they’ll never want to deploy another warhead ever again.

We’ve already have Team America come along a do half the job for us. The first point of call is to set up thousands of PA systems around the perimeter of the Korean Border, and then have them play I’m So Ronery on a loop – twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Not only will this put North Korea’s government to shame, but also introduce their citizens to Music, something they are not familiar with. Russia will keel over with laughter, India will join in with the song, even Switzerland will nod approvingly, and Kim Jong Il will feel about 3 inches tall – which isn’t too far off his actual height in actual fact. Follow this with a poster campaign of photo-shopped images depicting their fearless leader being molested by Fidel Castro, and the process will be complete.

Either this plan will work and we can let the hyperactive teenagers back in the class room, or the North will just nuke the living daylights out of South Korea in retaliation – but hey what have they done for us anyway?

A laptops equivellant to a straight line on a heart moniter

I mean actual fear, as in near the end of one’s life horror. When the battery icon in the top right corner of your laptop turns red and is the width of a human hair, does it start hallucinating? As in life flashing in front of it’s Random Access Memory, recalling all the times it’s had active – the good times, like when it used to run classic Super Nintendo games; and the bad times, like when it inadvertently erased hours worth of work because Word “Unexpectedly quit” (don’t worry it wasn’t your fault).

In their last running moments do laptops start questioning the meaning of longevity? Do they quickly execute Firefox, surf to Wikipedia and query what is awaiting for them on the other side? Do they start cursing their luck, upon realization that their warranty expired a fortnight ago? Possibly they start to feel envy and resentment towards the one they perceive will replace it on top of the computer desk. Maybe they start contacting other systems they once knew, mobile phones, games consoles, televisions: informing them of their departure by any means possible – blue tooth, infra red, even bleeping may do the trick in saying goodbye.

Or maybe Laptops are survivalists? Perhaps they dig down deep into their energy banks, to seek out every last bit of electricity of their battery reserves. They start shutting down unessential systems – Skype, MSN, Facebook, iTunes, Minesweeper, etc: in a desperate last ditch attempt to remain powered just that little longer. The back light has turned itself so low, that the screen is barely visible, and the machine has miraculously muted itself.

But alas it is no use, the reserves are almost out – the battery icon is hardly perceptible, the screen is flickering, and the system feels a deep sleep coming to inducing…..

…..Only for you to jam the life support back in at the last dire looking moment: the LCD ignites back to life, Facebook screams into animation – imploring that you check all four of your new notifications. MSN does that swirly dance shit with the cute silhouettes, and Gary Numan blares out of nowhere. It’s a new lease of life for your once exasperated machine, as all 160 volts of electrical juiciness seep up the wire to be sucked in by the hungry instrument. it’s back in action, as good as the day it left the factory.

If all of the above is true it makes me a mean bastard; because this is a cruel cycle that my poor MacBook has to suffer, about five times a day

I sometimes use moments of reflection like this to evaluate my life as a whole; the people I have met, the places I have visited, the many foolish hair cuts I have donned. Now I’m not going to declare that I’ve boldly gone where no one has gone before: I for one have not climbed Everest with nothing but a roll of Sellotape and a Boost bar; neither have I successfully trained a Donkey to perform open heart surgery; but I like to think I have had a fulfilled life thus far. It is only recently however, that I have realised there are a number of ‘gaps’ in my life that are generally seen as ‘normal’. Let me give you some examples.

I have never visited the Dentist.

Dentist + Anastetic = You looking fucking retarded.

When I tell people that I have never been to the Dentist, I am met with looks of disgust and repulsion, as if I’ve just declared a love of eating Terry Wogan’s pubic hairs. The fact I have never visited a Dentist should tell you one thing; that I have a capable set of teeth, probably better that yours. I have never had any complications with my teeth: none of them ache, they don’t fall out, and they remain a snowy white (at least whilst I’m not eating Wogan’s pubic hair). This is why I have never been to a dentist, there has never been a point in my life when I have needed to. I don’t visit the dentist for the same reason I stay away from doctors when I’m feeling perfectly fine, or open up YouPorn the moment after sex. I know as soon as I enter through a dental experts clinically pristine white doors, that he/she will condemn my teeth with the fury of a hundred Daily Mail readers castigating teenage homosexual immigrants. Of course there will be nothing wrong with my teeth, but Captain Canine will argue otherwise, either because business is slow, or he just wants to full on torture my gums with a drill bigger than the one Bruce Willis used in Armageddon. I don’t hate dentists, there’s a time and a place for them, but going to one for a check up is like a tax for morons.

I have never tried Mustard.

Not this kind of Mustard

A bit of an odd one this. I love trying new and exotic foods, I regularly buy weird sounding shit from the ‘World Foods’ aisle in Tescos, with no actual knowledge of what I am buying; only to take them home to discover that I’ve purchased Cinnamon coated Caterpillars, and Chipmunks preserved in engine oil. Inspect my kitchen cupboards, and you’ll just find the most obscure brands in the country, most of which you won’t be able to pronounce, seeing as they don’t feature any vowels. One condiment which has evaded my taste buds however, is the mysterious yellow sauce known as Mustard. I haven’t purposefully prohibited it’s pungent flavour from my diet, it’s just that as far as I’m aware Mustard is only used in conjunction with Hot Dogs and Ham Sandwiches: and seeing as Ham is the worst of all the meats, and Hot Dogs are fabricated from the remains of Ewoks, I have never had a genuine opportunity to try the yellow stuff.

I have never been to the Circus.

This is nothing to do with a destitute up-bringing, neither is a fear of clowns responsible (though you may debate this if you bothered reading my last post). I have had a number of opportunities to see midgets breathe fire in an over adorned tent, but I have chose to just stay at home on all of those occasions, simply because it all sounds tainted. Circus’s have no appeal to me what so ever, to me a circus would just involve a bunch of imbecile’s hurrying around squirting acid from an over sized flower into my face, hairy and sweaty men in leotards tossing each other about (ZING!), and breaking all limits of animal cruelty by forcing a blindfolded, fully grown, African Elephant to jump through a Hula Hoop the size of a necklace on fire. If all of these things appeal to you, then I’m sure you’ll have a brilliant time underneath the gazebo, but please just don’t take any children with you, they don’t deserve to be exposed to this sick filth – it will corrupt their minds more than a Japanese television commercial. If the government were to shut all the roaming freak shows down, and replaced them with a traveling Suicide guild, than it would be a slight improvement.

I am sure that there are countless other things I have failed to acknowledge in this short list, but I am more interested in seeing what other people are yet to do in their life times? Post an interesting or creative response in the comment section below.