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.

DESTITUTE. THE MAN IS FUCKING ME.

No job means no financial security, few fun times, an overwhelming sense of a karmic system with malicious intent, and the chance for ones bank of choice to fuck you on all fronts.

Halifax have done just that to me, I've just pulled my metaphoric trousers back up and packed away the metaphoric barrel that they've had me over and I'm here to vent my frustration on the internet where nobody will read it. It'll make me feel a bit better though.

Basically, they've taken 28 pounds sterling from me for going 12 pence over my limit, a penny in the ocean analogy would be more appropriate here than ever in the history of literature in its reflection of financial hardship inflicted upon them though. Do they expect me to be completely ambivalent on the grounds that the 12p incursion into the red has meant that a whole section of Halifax has completely collapsed, millions of their staff dead or seriously injured and a subsequently massive loss of computer records? I'm not buying that for one fucking second. I close my eyes and all I can see is that fucking toss-pot Harold or whatever he's called, and do you know what he's doing? He's sat in a diamond encrusted, golden chastity belt at the top of a pile of Aztec gold and other unimaginable treasures. He's Laughing heartily wearing his little fuckhole glasses (now coated in brilliant white gold), and taking massive herculean bites from a roasted Bengal tiger leg that he's holding, spittle and grease dribbling from his grimacing chin. You know what I mean, right? Either way £65 is the penalty they've made up for me this time and its not exactly a sum I'm impressed with.

Its pretty simple, if these lot were actually nice to people then hippies wouldn't have much cause to go around breaking all of their upmarket windows in central London (see picture below), thus not having to take money from poor fucks like me to repair said damage. I can honestly say that I've never seen any of their staff create a human tower like they are in their recent advert, handing out fiver's like benevolent yet retarded millionaires. Perhaps I can claim my money back by pursuing a false advertising case? I'd give all of my remaining money (not a lot) to see them all try and make a human bridge in their stupid fucking uniforms which collapsed under its own weight crushing the soulless bastards to death, and inexplicably exposing those spared on the top layer to an aggressive form of swine flu.

Anyway must dash, I've just spotted an American quarter between my floor-boards and I'm going to try to fish it out and exchange it for £3 (roughly). Mind you, HBOS have probably got some dodgy cunt waiting outside my porch with a metal bar and a list full of confusing reasons why I owe that to them too.



Great, thanks activists, now I can't afford those new sunglasses I was after.

KEEP ON PAPILLON

Its a Sunday afternoon and I've got intense cravings to watch an old, washed out looking film classic. Short of trying to describe this beauty, I've been thinking of what it is that fills me with this particular urge. Is it that such films harken back to the glory days of Sunday afternoons, not a worry in the world but ones infant school homework? Does the desire to watch Zulu on the day of rest represent a curious urge to live in yr past? Or does slouching in front of the telly smelling of the night before's chip-sandwich and watching Bridge on the River Kwai, motionless allude to a finer pedigree in past-film making (at least to this end).

Probably, though I would say that a lot of these films exhibit a certain effortlessness in aiding escapism, one that most modern movies can only aspire to. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to close the curtains and remain in my jimmy-jams for the remainder of the day.

VAN DAMNNNNN!

I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have seen JCVD was left both highly impressed by Jean Claude's leap back into the limelight, yet perplexed as to what his next move may be. But it seems in keeping with the very ridiculous nature of his career which he candidly mocked in his last outing, JC has decided to direct his own film under his own banner.

Check out this for some inspired art-house brilliance...

OH HAAAI-ATUS

Yeah, I've been gone for something like a week. Mainly dealing with psychopaths and scam artists from a purely victimised perspective. Either way I'm back now, sweaty from running around in the sunshine and bearing gifts. Or rather a single gift.

That fat beardy dude that directed Lord of t' Rings presents what looks like a completely bats-arse alien film set in SIDIFRICA. It'd seem at least from the trailer that they've gone to great lengths to make it seem like one of my recently bemoaned 'Awareness Documentaries', then BANG - A FLYING CITY WITH ALIENS IN IT. Have a look at it woncha?