SHITTY LIVING VOL 2: REMEMBER ME? MMM?

That last entry ranks as a runner up as one of the most horrifying things to happen to me in a single week. This is so high up at number one, it'd qualify as a legitimate Kanye West lyric.

So town is full of tossers, but that's a veritable given these days. Though Nottingham does seem to have more than a plentiful supply of first-class shite peddling miscreants (bested only by Mansfield), some of which are more interesting than others.

Today as I mooched around, having visited all two shops worth going in, I'm confronted with one of the most incredible displays of disregard for one's ability to choose whether or not to laugh uncontrollably, that I have ever witnessed. I almost stopped completely mid-mooch, time slowed to a near enough standstill and everything around the object blurred into anonymity, a bit like in films where bullets and bits of exploding brick are flying around in the background. I became panicked, much in the way you would if you saw an old lady being attacked, or if a bear tore your face off (Something that'd turn Werner Herzog on). What was this strange creature? Why was it allowed to walk down the street attached to some poor girls head? Worry is quickly replaced by confusion and anger as it dawns on me what I'm looking at. Fake Dreadlocks.

Now we're not talking a small amount of fake dreadlocks here folks, we're talking an amount quantifiable only in Biffa binfuls of the shit. Precariously attached to some otherwise normal looking girl's no doubt stinking head. Her boyfriend walking alongside her has a strange look in his eye. The look explained his predicament in an instant as he glared back at me, silently stating "I know, man. I know". She pranced nearer and nearer with that teenage defiance looking all "so what? you can all judge me, at least I'm DIFFERENT", in reaction to the fact that not a single person at her school had ever expressed any interest in having sex with her (probably). So she totally got back at the world by piling a fuck-load of SYNTHETIC dreads on her head.

I chuckle to myself and continue walking. "CHRIS?....CHRIS?". Hmm is someone shouting me? Can't see anybody I know around he....Oh my fucking god it was her. I was being beckoned by the dreadlocked shame factory, and not on some cruel-fated whim, it would appear she knows me. Again time slows and I swivel on my feet to greet the

"How are you chris? Its been ages"

"Heh, yeah, ages I'm okay. How are you?" (and how the fuck do I know you please?)

"Yeah good thanks. What have you been up to?"

You get the picture. The whole time her (still don't know who she is) boyfriend stood looking awkward and avoiding eye contact. Bless the poor sod, I bet he feels like he's trapped in a perpetual nightmare. A powerful inner battle of helpless justification for the mess on his girlfriends head. I feel for the guy.

I made my excuses and scuttled off. Just with my last offering, there's no real moral to this story, except probably just don't associate yourself with people that might turn out to be really embarrassing, if they aren't already...

PIMPING AIN'T EASY WHEN YR A PIECE OF SHIT

For fucks sake. Here it comes, a shining tube of white shit representing almost everything wrong with the world today. Toward me it slithers, a potent metaphor of unsubtle Americanisation in its shoddy craftsmanship and sickening exuberance. A fucking limousine.
I’ve arrived at the junction without enough time to cross, its too late, I’ll have to stand here and look at it a bit longer. Shit. The window’s down and I’m exposed to the tacky LED lit strip-joint décor. Even worse, its full of screaming 15 year old girls.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO” exclaims a wailing gobshite from within, a girl that The Sun would refer to unashamedly as a ‘reveller’. I’m cringing; I don’t need this, not least because I’ve spent the last 2 hours receiving a multi-sense shellacking courtesy of Neill Blomkamp’s alien-apartheid epic: District 9, something I’ll go into elsewhere.

“CHEER UP YA TWAT TEEHEHEEHEHHEHE”. Who’s idea was it to let an already clearly retarded 14 year old, get pissed on Appletini, and send her out into the city’s centre in an extended American joke-mobile resembling a long stiff stick of semen? Mmm?

My massive eyebrows are working overtime in expressing as much silent disgust as possible as the ‘limo’ begins to pull away. Freedom. Or it would be if I weren’t walking down one of Nottingham’s shittiest central streets. I reach the other side, greeted by a pair of aging alcoholics no doubt fresh from blazing through their dole money on pints of wank guest ale, one of which remarks, “mis’rible git, she were only sayin’ ello!”. Brilliant, not only am I being singled out by a traveller in Nottingham’s premier pimped up special needs wagon, but I’m being lambasted for not dignifying the little gimps with a warm response.

I hate city living sometimes.

THE RESURGENCE, THE RETURN, THE RETIREMENT

I'd love to say that this is a momentous broadcast of words is on a par with that of MLK's addressing of an entire nation of oppressed black folk, but my no doubt long-awaited return to the self indulgence that is blogwriting is not yet an event proper.

I'm sitting like a wafty freelance writer in a cafe writing on a macbook (my lovely girlfriend's), and my my fleeting time here is perpetually emblazoned in the corner of the screen in the form of a battery percentage. Or maybe, given that this computer is an Apple creation, it could be telling me that my percentage of 'iSelf-worth' which its managed to work out by taking a picture of my face with its built in 'iFaceCamToolz'. I'm not going to sit and slag Apple's off though, because given that I've had time to play with one, I actually quite like it. Thats beside the point, and there are several high-profile advertising campaigns detailing the smarmy differences between Mac's and PC's. Not something I can be arsed to go into.

Either way. I'm moving flats once again in over a week, as a result I hope to have an internet connection or something to that effect set up. By something to that effect, I might mean some sort of wank home-made antenna which i'll trail from my flat to the nearest coffee shop with highly stealable internet.

I've got a job now. I help people not get dry-bummed by fraud. Its not as interesting as it sounds but it beats sitting around a flat with nothing to do, in my underpants. Another empty promised I've made myself, now that I'm fullfilling ones like 'sure I'll get a job', all over the place, is to write a book. Watch out for some highly convoluted narrative and underdeveloped character development in what would surely otherwise be a decent debut outing of someone with about the same artistic outing as U2's efforts for the last 73 years.

One more thing, is SUMMER even happening this year? Or is it having a year off like Glastonbury? Speaking of that, does anybody even go to Glastonbury any more? Discuss.

DOWNTIMES.

That time has come. Zero hour. The time when you all take stock of just what it is that you have in this little ol' piece of scarcely updated literary drivel. Where you sit back in yr chair at the realisation that I've not updated in a while and ponder. Where for art thou Chris' blog?

I'm moving into town next weekend, and depending on whether or not the gods of employment shine their favour upon me or not, I'll probably not have the internet for a while? Shhh. Shhh. Calm down my children, this by no means is the end of my reign. I call upon the stoic resolve of the six(at the time of writing) valiant followers of my blog, I need you to be strong for me.

Alternatively I'll get the internet effective immediately and have a damn site more to write about seeming as I'm not living in a highly secluded Royston Vasey sort of environ any more. Ya gets me?

HI, I'M HERE TO TAKE YR WOMEN.

Hmm, how does the higher power represented in many different forms throughout the questionable history of religion, plan to explain away how somebody managed to make a dude this hot, that can sing this well? In the words of Danny Huston's amazing Irish convict murderer , this chap could 'shame a nightingale'.

I'd doubted hearing another male voice that could rival that of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon. But here we are, I'd probably have a go on this chap given the opportunity. Just kidding, he does make me feel ugly and depressed though.

Speaking of Bon Iver, they're back in town with new single 'Bloodbank' and its a bit of a gem so check it out on the link above. If you don't mind weeping like a small child denied candy-floss, you could also go check these heroes out at one of the 8 million tour dates they've got listed.

U GOTZ TWATTER? ZO COOL.

Upon hearing the term 'Twitter' I was immediately convinced that it was some strange sexual activity which originated when two burly, leather-clad dudes from Detroit got sexually aggressive with each other in a dark room and one of em lowered himself onto... Well y'know.

Actually that didn't happen at all, but it would of been highly amusing and I wouldn't have had to think that up or anything. Instead I heard it from the sort of over-excitable fucktard who would get excited about the sort of social networking phenomenon in which their simple, yet highly pointless M.O is to answer "one simple question", wait for it "what are you doing?". Incredible. PHENOMENON. Funnily enough, the person who told me about it was possibly penultimate on my list of 'cunts whom I wouldn't want to tell me what they're doing', (Chris Moyles a firm leader on said list for quite some time).

I can't wait for the next social networking phenomenon to sweep the globe. I've got it on good authority that its just a chat room into which everyone on earth is connected and E-wanking each other off about how highly amusing The Inbetweeners is (that's not an invitation to watch it by the way). While I'm at it, I'd like to know which cunt started a group on Facebook (an activity which I'm also desperately trying to come to terms with) dedicated to a scene in which one of the characters shouts, wait for it, BUS WANKERS (fnar fnar) at some people stood at a bus stop. I just. Don't. Get. It. What's most annoying is, I bet everyone still at secondary school and college had a mega-huge LOL about it the next day.

A tangible tangent. I suppose what I'm getting at is; why would you have something like fucking Twitter unless you're an even slightly interesting person? I'm at twitter.com/sensom. What do you mean I'm a hypocrite? Its called irony, ask somebody who lives in Leeds.

MOUNDS?

This has been banded around a bit, but it amused me so shut your massive face. Following FFFFound.com's massive success in the field of photobloggery, some funny little sausage has decided to spend quite a lot of their time in creating MMMMound.com - something which when I first read it, had me quietly chuckling to myself and thinking "Heh. It'd be hilarious if it was just loads of pictures of mounds". Jokes on me though, because it is...An unmatched and unquestionably brilliant array of pictures of mounds. I think people involved in blogging get a slight bit too much of a free reign to to do as they please.