I first met Andrew back in May during the college induction day. He didnt strike me as the typical Brit student- not that I know much about the typical Brit student, but you get what I mean. He had gone back-packing in China and taught English in Vietnam after he was done with his A-levels (along, of course, with all the working in pubs and bars that people who don't go to university immediately after their GSCE's usually do).
He definitely wasn't your typical student.
Oxonians are, as far as I can tell, roughly divided into two main categories, with a dozen other distinct sub-classes in belonging to each. One is the traditional hard-studier type, the archetypical crowning achievement of muggerhood that all the premier universities of the world are renowned for and which most Asian parents would like their children to become.
The other group is composed of what Evelyn Waugh labelled the Aesthetes par Excellence, the hedonist-socialites, the ones who saw getting into Oxford as the ends and not the means, the ones who saw reading and studying as activities for mere mortal bookworms, while they, the Titans of entertainment and stimulation and pleasure, had all the world of fun at their feet, doing as they pleased with everyone else at their recreational bidding. The entire universe was not so much their oyster as it was their dance floor and drink bar, the whole world not quite a stage where they were the main cast as it was one massive dinner party where they were the toast of both town and gown. Life was LIFE to them.
It has to be said, though, that very few of the student body conformed to either of these pure types. Of course, there were the unmistakeable few. For instance, Dimitry, the Russian Reaper, the Mugger Lord. I personally refer to him as Dimitry Mortarion, named after the sepulchral Primarch of the Death Guard Space Marine Legion, Mortarion the Lord of Death of the XIV Legio Astartes, from the Warhammer 40k universe. Dimitry plays fantastic football, but he is chiefly renowned among the college freshers for being in his room almost 24/7, his tall and taciturn frame hunched over books and essays, his bald head shining in the lamp-light like the Skull and Star sigil of the Death Guard Legion from whose Primarch I gave him his label, his hockey stick lying unused to one side, resembling if not in size then in shape the Manreaper scythe of Mortarion. That's the pure example of the first category for you- a mugger, a hard worker, reaping the good grades as efficiently and relentlessly as Death himself reaps the souls of humanity.
As for the Aesthetes par Excellence- the best sample my college has to offer is Tom, hailing from the happening city of London. Rarely seen without a drink in one hand and a girl in the other, Tom first made a name for himself when he and Jared cross-dressed and doused themselves in black make-up in order to pose as Venus and Serena Williams respectively at a Sports-themed bop. And from then on, he never looked back. At subsequent bops, he would always be the one calling the shots and drinking the shots, and calling people to drink the shots. His failure to become the Entz (Entertainment) position on the JCR (Junior Common Room) Committee did nothing to dampen his spirits. Energy and time was poured into more productive pursuits, such as sneaking into the bars of the other colleges (I was with him on the raid on Keble's). As it is, he has as his chief academic goal a score of 20% for his upcoming economics test. (His Warhammer 40k character would have been Fulgrim the Primarch of the Emperor's Children, the Phoenix Lord of the III Legio Astartes, except for the fact that Fulgrim expected perfection in all things, whilst Tom's idea of academic perfection is shit.)
But Andrew-Andrew was neither. He was not a mugger, that's more than certain. He was late for his very first tutorial and overslept on the morning when he was due to meet the college principal- until the principal woke him up by gently knocking on his room door. He was into the less orderly type of college experience- in fact, his chief buddy and fellow perpetuator of misdeed would be none other than Tom himself- but he was never really the center of attention the way an Aesthete should be. In the first week, he did get plenty of attention when he took a piss in public at the side of a wall during one drunken night, and the police came after him and fined him 80 quid, while me and Jared stood by and pretended to be nonchalent about the whole thing, but that's not really my idea of attention.
The stuff he did was more comical than consequential. He walked into Margot's room at 3 in the morning, thinking it was his room. He fell asleep on the stairs of his house whilst walking to the wrong floor. He climbed up the scaffolding to Jared's room, entering via the window, at least thrice towards the end of term, because Jared refused to come down and let him in. All of which struck me as not the usual behaviour of the typical student. Typical students dont really do these things, and typically drunk students do even crazier things than these. He would go on and on about the most fantastic tidbits of general knowledge, gleaned from the vast repositories of Wikipedian information, whilst in tutorials he would attempt to become invisible and let Julian the German Meister own the discussion. I still cannot classify his character.
Hopefully, I will be able to do so next term.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Oxford
Oxford.
The City of the Dreaming Spires.
The oldest university in the English-speaking world.
And now I'm here.
It was a long flight, 13 hours to be precise. Watching the mists of South East Asia fade into the mountains of Caucasia and then the rolling meadows and meandering rivers of Europe. It felt more than strange- perhaps the sheer distance travelled made all measurement of how far I was from home irrelevant. Numbers cease to mean anything when they become too big.
And then-Heathrow, and then Oxford.
The weather was nothing like I'd experienced before. But then again, this was what the British island was supposed to be notorious for: atrocious weather.
Got my first essay assignment on the very first day of school. And to my surprise, I was informed that my tutorials would be one on one sessions with the professor- there was to be no tutorial partner for me, at least for Michaelmas term.
My room was big and weird, but in a nice way. All rooms in seventeenth century houses are weird anyway. It had a slanted floor, and a fireplace that was unfortunately sealed up. It was pretty comfortable except for the fact that it had no internet connection, something which aggravated me till no end. However, it was situated directly above a bakery- which made for very convenient breakfasts.
But my room is hardly a fair representation of my college building- let alone the rest of the university. Stained glass, decorated marble arches, marble statues, oil paintings, carved window frames, buildings that have stood for centuries- all magnificent, all resplendent. One might complain that to live here was more like living in a museum than in a school. But there is no greater measure of how great a school is than its history and its heritage, and all the achievements it has attained throughout the centuries. And fair enough, it resembles a museum- but what cause should a History student have for complaint if his school is indeed a museum?
We dine in a Hall, Harry Potter style. Wednesday nights are Formal nights, when everyone has to wear a gown and a suit. The food is good, and though I fear I will eventually get bored of it, I am equally certain that that will not happen in the near future. The kitchen boss or whatever they call him here is this David Woodfine, and he was a former steward in Buckingham Palace. He thus takes tremendous pride in his work, which is basically to feed the college, and to feed it well. Of course, this is a double-sided characteristic- if one is late for dinner, one will incur his wrath. And his wrath is not a pleasant thing to behold, and is an even less pleasant thing to be incurred. His is not “wrath” in the orthodox sense; it is not a tempestuous thunder, but it is a carefully crafted, subtle show of annoyance mixed with the plaintive cry of victimhood- “Why are you so late? Why can’t you see how hard I’m trying to keep everything running according to schedule?” I have never seen anything like it before. He punishes you not through fear but through guilt- and that is highly effective.
The people here seem to be fascinating characters, as most new people tend to be. No more being in a classroom with 97% of the people being from the same nationality. No. Now there was Andrew from Wales, Jared and Austin from the States, Julian from Germany, Jan from the Czech Republic, Ruvi from Israel, Adam and Danka from Sweden, Lisa from Finland, Stavros from Greece, Daniel from Ireland, Dimitry from Russia, and Ken from Tokyo, just to name a few. There seemed to be as many nationalities as there were people in the college. An exaggeration, undoubtedly, but one must understand the psychological impact that a truly cosmopolitan setting has on a person who has experienced nothing but living in a uniform student body his whole academic life. It is a strange thing, to study here. I have now become a stranger in a strange land. I feel like I am in one of those science fiction novels where an expeditionary fleet from the Federation of Earth has been launched into the farthest reaches of space, millions and millions of light years away from our solar system, to investigate some weird phenomenon in the cosmos or other. And now I am one of those Expeditionary Marines stuck on an alien planet. The weather is positively hostile. The food is different. The environment is surreal. The stars in the sky are arranged in such a strange way- so very different from the pattern of the constellations in Terra’s night sky. There is a new kind of enemy here- and a new kind of war. It feels very weird.
But I am here for a reason. I am of purpose. And Faith shall be my Light and my Shield, here in this strange, strange, land.
The City of the Dreaming Spires.
The oldest university in the English-speaking world.
And now I'm here.
It was a long flight, 13 hours to be precise. Watching the mists of South East Asia fade into the mountains of Caucasia and then the rolling meadows and meandering rivers of Europe. It felt more than strange- perhaps the sheer distance travelled made all measurement of how far I was from home irrelevant. Numbers cease to mean anything when they become too big.
And then-Heathrow, and then Oxford.
The weather was nothing like I'd experienced before. But then again, this was what the British island was supposed to be notorious for: atrocious weather.
Got my first essay assignment on the very first day of school. And to my surprise, I was informed that my tutorials would be one on one sessions with the professor- there was to be no tutorial partner for me, at least for Michaelmas term.
My room was big and weird, but in a nice way. All rooms in seventeenth century houses are weird anyway. It had a slanted floor, and a fireplace that was unfortunately sealed up. It was pretty comfortable except for the fact that it had no internet connection, something which aggravated me till no end. However, it was situated directly above a bakery- which made for very convenient breakfasts.
But my room is hardly a fair representation of my college building- let alone the rest of the university. Stained glass, decorated marble arches, marble statues, oil paintings, carved window frames, buildings that have stood for centuries- all magnificent, all resplendent. One might complain that to live here was more like living in a museum than in a school. But there is no greater measure of how great a school is than its history and its heritage, and all the achievements it has attained throughout the centuries. And fair enough, it resembles a museum- but what cause should a History student have for complaint if his school is indeed a museum?
We dine in a Hall, Harry Potter style. Wednesday nights are Formal nights, when everyone has to wear a gown and a suit. The food is good, and though I fear I will eventually get bored of it, I am equally certain that that will not happen in the near future. The kitchen boss or whatever they call him here is this David Woodfine, and he was a former steward in Buckingham Palace. He thus takes tremendous pride in his work, which is basically to feed the college, and to feed it well. Of course, this is a double-sided characteristic- if one is late for dinner, one will incur his wrath. And his wrath is not a pleasant thing to behold, and is an even less pleasant thing to be incurred. His is not “wrath” in the orthodox sense; it is not a tempestuous thunder, but it is a carefully crafted, subtle show of annoyance mixed with the plaintive cry of victimhood- “Why are you so late? Why can’t you see how hard I’m trying to keep everything running according to schedule?” I have never seen anything like it before. He punishes you not through fear but through guilt- and that is highly effective.
The people here seem to be fascinating characters, as most new people tend to be. No more being in a classroom with 97% of the people being from the same nationality. No. Now there was Andrew from Wales, Jared and Austin from the States, Julian from Germany, Jan from the Czech Republic, Ruvi from Israel, Adam and Danka from Sweden, Lisa from Finland, Stavros from Greece, Daniel from Ireland, Dimitry from Russia, and Ken from Tokyo, just to name a few. There seemed to be as many nationalities as there were people in the college. An exaggeration, undoubtedly, but one must understand the psychological impact that a truly cosmopolitan setting has on a person who has experienced nothing but living in a uniform student body his whole academic life. It is a strange thing, to study here. I have now become a stranger in a strange land. I feel like I am in one of those science fiction novels where an expeditionary fleet from the Federation of Earth has been launched into the farthest reaches of space, millions and millions of light years away from our solar system, to investigate some weird phenomenon in the cosmos or other. And now I am one of those Expeditionary Marines stuck on an alien planet. The weather is positively hostile. The food is different. The environment is surreal. The stars in the sky are arranged in such a strange way- so very different from the pattern of the constellations in Terra’s night sky. There is a new kind of enemy here- and a new kind of war. It feels very weird.
But I am here for a reason. I am of purpose. And Faith shall be my Light and my Shield, here in this strange, strange, land.
Friday, September 28, 2007
In Christ Alone
By Keith Getty and Stuart Townend
In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.
In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.
There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.
No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.
In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.
In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.
There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.
No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Hauntings at Night
The nights have become ever more sleepless.
The shadows have come alive, their shapes shift, they grin at me, and beckon.
They whisper and tell me things, many things, great things, wondrous things, sad things, horrible things.
Things about my overseas course, my future in work, and, of course, about those subjects that reside deep within the core of my being.
So much beauty and so much horror.
It is not schizophrenia.
It is reality.
The shadows have come alive, their shapes shift, they grin at me, and beckon.
They whisper and tell me things, many things, great things, wondrous things, sad things, horrible things.
Things about my overseas course, my future in work, and, of course, about those subjects that reside deep within the core of my being.
So much beauty and so much horror.
It is not schizophrenia.
It is reality.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
16 Days
I think a return to the tenets of Faith and Strength is in order here.
No more the grovelling to the twisted lies of False Affection- no more.
No more the grovelling to the twisted lies of False Affection- no more.
Friday, September 07, 2007
I Said, Enough
Disgusting.
Disgusting.
Disgusting.
Filthy human emotions and the despicable delusions and fantasies that they induce.
There must be a purge.
But then, O Father in Heaven, what is the point of endowing us with such things as these?
Are they not the things that make us human?
But are they also not the things that make us weak?
And make us ever susceptible to sin and doubt?
Take them away, O God, take them away.
Lest I lose everything because of them.
Disgusting.
Disgusting.
Filthy human emotions and the despicable delusions and fantasies that they induce.
There must be a purge.
But then, O Father in Heaven, what is the point of endowing us with such things as these?
Are they not the things that make us human?
But are they also not the things that make us weak?
And make us ever susceptible to sin and doubt?
Take them away, O God, take them away.
Lest I lose everything because of them.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Enough
Long after the firestorm of hysteria has burnt its terrible course, the smouldering embers solidify into cold, razor sharp rationality.
And with the rationality comes questions.
Questions that are without answers, questions that keep me awake through the long, long, nights, wondering and thinking over again.
But these questions, they are darker and blacker than even the night itself. They are impenetrable shadows, and no light can escape from them. All light that falls on them is ravenously devoured, swallowed up and merged with the great voids of total mystery and helplessness.
And yet I have no choice but to press on despite their looming in my mind, in every waking moment.
I have no choice because I cannot let my future be jeopardised.
And with God's help, I will be victorious- broken and burdened as I am now with insoluble problems such as these.
And with the rationality comes questions.
Questions that are without answers, questions that keep me awake through the long, long, nights, wondering and thinking over again.
But these questions, they are darker and blacker than even the night itself. They are impenetrable shadows, and no light can escape from them. All light that falls on them is ravenously devoured, swallowed up and merged with the great voids of total mystery and helplessness.
And yet I have no choice but to press on despite their looming in my mind, in every waking moment.
I have no choice because I cannot let my future be jeopardised.
And with God's help, I will be victorious- broken and burdened as I am now with insoluble problems such as these.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
28 Days Left
It is oftimes lamented that there is a hyper-abundance of pressing concerns and tasks to undertake which happily occurs concurrently with the severest scarcity of time.
And I have just joined the ranks of the millions and billions of poor souls who can testify first-hand to the truth of that statement.
Forms, medicals, clothing, allowance, bank accounts, insurance, flight details, more forms, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. It makes one sick just to think through the whole grand old joyful rigmarole of administratum and felicitous fusillade of details.
And then there's the reading programme which I hoped would form the backbone of my foundational reading for the upcoming term.
10 months of mental stagnation following the 2 years of mental degeneration (read: NS) have sure done wonders for my cognitive processes, and when you combine that with the sheer abstractness of writers such as Giovanni Sartori and Ronald Chilcote and Robert Keohane, the resultant feeling is disturbingly similar to the proverbial bashing of one's head against a brick wall.
Take Giovanni Sartori and his Democratic Theory for instance. He's not the worst among the three, and he does have long tracts of sublime lucidity that somehow manage to catalyse my comprehension of the most abstract concepts and theoretic formulations, but for the most part he simply goes off into a multi-dimensional line of argument which I have absolutely no hope of following.
He seems at times to be more concerned with word defintions than concept definitions, and though he claims the reverse, it doesn't help that the nature of some concepts is to be virtually the same entity as the word-label that they bear, and this thus leads to total confusion when he tries to define a concept and ends up defining the word. And of course, his lack of real-life, concrete examples (except for his notable chapter on Athenian democracy), despite his claim of taking the historical-empirical approach of analysis, only adds to the difficulty of understanding him and what he is arguing about in relation to the practical issues of today's political world.
Enough. Back to the mental meat grinder. There's still Rousseau's Contrat Sociale to be read.
And I have just joined the ranks of the millions and billions of poor souls who can testify first-hand to the truth of that statement.
Forms, medicals, clothing, allowance, bank accounts, insurance, flight details, more forms, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. It makes one sick just to think through the whole grand old joyful rigmarole of administratum and felicitous fusillade of details.
And then there's the reading programme which I hoped would form the backbone of my foundational reading for the upcoming term.
10 months of mental stagnation following the 2 years of mental degeneration (read: NS) have sure done wonders for my cognitive processes, and when you combine that with the sheer abstractness of writers such as Giovanni Sartori and Ronald Chilcote and Robert Keohane, the resultant feeling is disturbingly similar to the proverbial bashing of one's head against a brick wall.
Take Giovanni Sartori and his Democratic Theory for instance. He's not the worst among the three, and he does have long tracts of sublime lucidity that somehow manage to catalyse my comprehension of the most abstract concepts and theoretic formulations, but for the most part he simply goes off into a multi-dimensional line of argument which I have absolutely no hope of following.
He seems at times to be more concerned with word defintions than concept definitions, and though he claims the reverse, it doesn't help that the nature of some concepts is to be virtually the same entity as the word-label that they bear, and this thus leads to total confusion when he tries to define a concept and ends up defining the word. And of course, his lack of real-life, concrete examples (except for his notable chapter on Athenian democracy), despite his claim of taking the historical-empirical approach of analysis, only adds to the difficulty of understanding him and what he is arguing about in relation to the practical issues of today's political world.
Enough. Back to the mental meat grinder. There's still Rousseau's Contrat Sociale to be read.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Reforged
No more the weakness of the past, now is the time to seize what is before me.
Faith and Strength, Strength and Faith- these will be the twin foundations on which my future is built.
Accordingly, I find much significance in the above pictures.
1. Paladin.
2. Scene from Sergei Eisenstein's Nevsky- Note the nooses near the top of the picture, this is the purging of unbelief.
3. Engraving of Count Bohemund of Taranto, Lord and Master of the Norman Crusaders of Southern Italy, scaling the walls of enemy-held Antioch. By Gustave Dore.
4. The Vigil, by John Pattie.
Faith and Strength.
I will prevail.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Preparation
This cannot be. I must not be distracted. If all my plans are to come to fruition, then I must start now- I must prepare for my course in University to the fullest of my effort. Nothing less than maximum is the necessary prerequisite for success- and I fear that too much time already has been spent on idle pursuits such as computer games, puerile outings with many so-called "friends", or even following the EPL news about the Failing Arsenal.
It is against a backdrop of rapidly shifting relationships that this renewed urgency has surfaced. The trip to Hong Kong was fun enough, but there was an atmosphere of subtle discordancy that was never quite far from one's conscious thoughts- a shadow always hanging in the background, invisible to the eye but still faintly tangible to the non-physical senses.
A full re-assessment of my relationships in light of changing circumstances is still being undertaken, but thus far there have been consequences for my set of priorities. I am now of the opinion that aside from the closest circles of my companions all others must have at most secondary attention as my focus re-aligns itself on university preparation. (And, again, the definition of "closest" continues to change.)
As a side matter, I have deliberated intensively as to whether to post pictures of my trip on this blog or not. I have not made a decision yet, but (strangely enough) it has nothing to do with the tension described above. Rather it is a matter of principle; my stand has always been against disclosing one's real name and posting pictures of one's own person on this blog. Though the pictures are quite fascinating and fun, it conflicts with my desire for continued non-disclosure. So it may take a while for the Hong Kong pics to appear here, if they ever do.
But back to the main issue at hand- at stake are my greatest dreams, desires, and ambitions. Preparation is the key to realising them. The power of an arrow is determined not by the colour of its feathers but by the span of the bow from which it is launched. Trivial pursuits are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things; real power is attained from real effort and force of will. Span of the bow! That is the central concept I must work upon. No more petty distractions.
I realise that what I have expressed is indeed incredibly grim and heavy. Forgive me, but I am a realist, not some Fairy-airy dickhead who thinks that all things will be made fine simply by thinking Happy Twappy Thoughts and waiting for The Best to materialise out of thin air. (Admittedly, I have seen people who can do this and get away with it, but they are a rare breed on the verge of extinction because such Dickheads are utterly helpless when their luck runs out for good- they have neither the skills nor determination to survive.)
And so I retreat back to the comfort of darkness, away from false light, to carry on my plans without distraction. When my ideas and ideals have come to completion then the real light of genuine joy will be manifest- for me and those who have proven themselves true companions.
It is against a backdrop of rapidly shifting relationships that this renewed urgency has surfaced. The trip to Hong Kong was fun enough, but there was an atmosphere of subtle discordancy that was never quite far from one's conscious thoughts- a shadow always hanging in the background, invisible to the eye but still faintly tangible to the non-physical senses.
A full re-assessment of my relationships in light of changing circumstances is still being undertaken, but thus far there have been consequences for my set of priorities. I am now of the opinion that aside from the closest circles of my companions all others must have at most secondary attention as my focus re-aligns itself on university preparation. (And, again, the definition of "closest" continues to change.)
As a side matter, I have deliberated intensively as to whether to post pictures of my trip on this blog or not. I have not made a decision yet, but (strangely enough) it has nothing to do with the tension described above. Rather it is a matter of principle; my stand has always been against disclosing one's real name and posting pictures of one's own person on this blog. Though the pictures are quite fascinating and fun, it conflicts with my desire for continued non-disclosure. So it may take a while for the Hong Kong pics to appear here, if they ever do.
But back to the main issue at hand- at stake are my greatest dreams, desires, and ambitions. Preparation is the key to realising them. The power of an arrow is determined not by the colour of its feathers but by the span of the bow from which it is launched. Trivial pursuits are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things; real power is attained from real effort and force of will. Span of the bow! That is the central concept I must work upon. No more petty distractions.
I realise that what I have expressed is indeed incredibly grim and heavy. Forgive me, but I am a realist, not some Fairy-airy dickhead who thinks that all things will be made fine simply by thinking Happy Twappy Thoughts and waiting for The Best to materialise out of thin air. (Admittedly, I have seen people who can do this and get away with it, but they are a rare breed on the verge of extinction because such Dickheads are utterly helpless when their luck runs out for good- they have neither the skills nor determination to survive.)
And so I retreat back to the comfort of darkness, away from false light, to carry on my plans without distraction. When my ideas and ideals have come to completion then the real light of genuine joy will be manifest- for me and those who have proven themselves true companions.
Monday, July 09, 2007
The Most Pro Movie in 2007
I think Transformers pwns 2007 cinema. Despite the fact that the year isn't even over. And that isn't just because the rest of movies this year are weak. In fact there are not bad ones like Pirates of the Carribean 3 and Ocean's Thirteen and possibly The Golden Compass, but Transformers is simply in a class of it's own.
The Simpsons Movie looks to be excellent stuff as well, a potential challenger for Best Film of 2007, but I think it'll lose out by a slight margin to this OWNAGE movie about Autobots and Decepticons.
As I said, Transformers are pure ownage. It's that simple.
As for the rest, Shrek 3, Die Hard 4, Hairy Pothead and the Order of the Penis, Fucktastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, etc, they can all go shit themselves.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Even More Randomity
The obsession with Warhammer 40k continues with this cover page of the novel Flight of the Eisenstein. In this scene, two loyalist Space Marines of the traitorous Death Guard Space Marine Legion fight alongside their gold-armoured brothers from the Imperial Fists Space Marine Legion to defend the Emperor's Palace on Holy Terra against the traitor Legions. The Marine on the left is presumably Captain Nathanael Garro of the Death Guard 7th Grand Company, leader of the 70 Loyalists from the Traitor Legions.
The whole damn world is so Hobbesian. Thomas Hobbes would have been proud indeed. Totalitarian autocracy on the one hand and chaos and anarchy and limitless evil on the other. The Choice of Hobbes indeed.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Randomity
So who or what defines moral values?
That's the biggest problem that humanity has always faced. Always seeking justification and reason for the things we do or hope to do.
It's a supremely subjective thing, morality. It has billions and billions of variations, each legitimate in its own way to its owner- an individual human being.
For instance, we all know it is an abominable act to kill an infant human.
But what if by doing so, by killing the infant, we could save the lives of one million other infants who would otherwise be doomed to a more painful, excrutiating, death?
What about a thousand other infants?
Or even a dozen others?
Or even one?
Ok, so this is an EXTREME example I'm using and it's highly disturbing. It's right out of a psychopath's deranged mouth. But I hope the shock is enough to convey the immense gravity and import of my general questioning. (It's always unorthodox to use the seed of a madman's thought to sow truth in the minds of the sane, but it is highly effective and instructive.)
You see, if you were put in that horrible position of choosing between one life on one hand and a million on the other, what would be your choice?
Alright, for simplicity's sake: a choice between one infant's life on the one hand, and another infant's life on the other.
("Simplicity" indeed).
Who is to say that to choose one is more morally correct than to choose the other?
And, having seen that person make his terrible choice, which of us are in a position to judge him?
Who among us has the right to judge?
And by what standards do we judge?
That's why there will never be a moral answer to the great questions of history.
Contrast the sad, muddled case of morality with the clear case of power.
In comparisons and debates of power, the outcome is always clear. The side with more power wins. Enough said.
That's why in all of history the great decisions were always made by power, because morality could never give a clear answer.
Might makes right.
And in case this post isnt making sense, look at the title. I'm on a random stream of thought here.
That's the biggest problem that humanity has always faced. Always seeking justification and reason for the things we do or hope to do.
It's a supremely subjective thing, morality. It has billions and billions of variations, each legitimate in its own way to its owner- an individual human being.
For instance, we all know it is an abominable act to kill an infant human.
But what if by doing so, by killing the infant, we could save the lives of one million other infants who would otherwise be doomed to a more painful, excrutiating, death?
What about a thousand other infants?
Or even a dozen others?
Or even one?
Ok, so this is an EXTREME example I'm using and it's highly disturbing. It's right out of a psychopath's deranged mouth. But I hope the shock is enough to convey the immense gravity and import of my general questioning. (It's always unorthodox to use the seed of a madman's thought to sow truth in the minds of the sane, but it is highly effective and instructive.)
You see, if you were put in that horrible position of choosing between one life on one hand and a million on the other, what would be your choice?
Alright, for simplicity's sake: a choice between one infant's life on the one hand, and another infant's life on the other.
("Simplicity" indeed).
Who is to say that to choose one is more morally correct than to choose the other?
And, having seen that person make his terrible choice, which of us are in a position to judge him?
Who among us has the right to judge?
And by what standards do we judge?
That's why there will never be a moral answer to the great questions of history.
Contrast the sad, muddled case of morality with the clear case of power.
In comparisons and debates of power, the outcome is always clear. The side with more power wins. Enough said.
That's why in all of history the great decisions were always made by power, because morality could never give a clear answer.
Might makes right.
And in case this post isnt making sense, look at the title. I'm on a random stream of thought here.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Henry Leaves Arsenal
That's it. The very embodiment of Arsenal is leaving Arsenal.
I must eulogize, mourning is a must.
This is the passing of an era, a time of epic swashbuckling adventure when the Heroes of Highbury stood up against the Monstrous Monopoly of the Red Devils and later the Evil Scumbag Filth from Stamford Bridge.
Thierry Henry was and still is the best soccer player ever. Better even than Pele, in my opinion. And I'm not just saying that because I'm an Arsenal fan.
I believe that he has single-handedly transformed the ideal of a striker into that of his own image. I mean, just look at his eight years in England. Words fail me. Words fail him. What he did is beyond description.
And I say this not because I'm lazy to find the words, nor because I'm a sucker for cheap hyperbole (not now, at least), but because there is no use trying to put Thierry Henry into words. As much as I want to put down a long, long description of the many things he did, I can't. I simply can't.
And its so much worse than losing even good old Paddy V.
Someone once said that Patrick Viera was 40% of Arsenal. If that's the case, Henry was the other 60%. Looking at how the Gunners struggled without Viera, I fear the worst for them next season now that Henry has gone.
No bitterness towards Thierry Henry, though. There can be no comparison made to the pussy-pissface Jose "CryBaby" Reyes or Dirty Little Cashley Hole. In fact, I have only gratitude and admiration for him even as he leaves, for all he has done for the club. For all he's done for the Arsenal, all Gunners fans should support him always, even in such a time as this. He is Thierry Henry. Enough said. Thus,
All the Best to the King of Cool, TH14 Va Va Voom in his future endeavours! Long Live Thierry Henry and may his ever-scoring boots always shine!
The problem now lies with Master Wenger. He'd better sign someone, quick (even though nobody can ever replace Henry). The thought of Emmanuel "Cannot Score" Adebayour leading our line is a nightmare.
Oh well. In any case, Division One Tickets are cheaper than Premier League ones.
I must eulogize, mourning is a must.
This is the passing of an era, a time of epic swashbuckling adventure when the Heroes of Highbury stood up against the Monstrous Monopoly of the Red Devils and later the Evil Scumbag Filth from Stamford Bridge.
Thierry Henry was and still is the best soccer player ever. Better even than Pele, in my opinion. And I'm not just saying that because I'm an Arsenal fan.
I believe that he has single-handedly transformed the ideal of a striker into that of his own image. I mean, just look at his eight years in England. Words fail me. Words fail him. What he did is beyond description.
And I say this not because I'm lazy to find the words, nor because I'm a sucker for cheap hyperbole (not now, at least), but because there is no use trying to put Thierry Henry into words. As much as I want to put down a long, long description of the many things he did, I can't. I simply can't.
And its so much worse than losing even good old Paddy V.
Someone once said that Patrick Viera was 40% of Arsenal. If that's the case, Henry was the other 60%. Looking at how the Gunners struggled without Viera, I fear the worst for them next season now that Henry has gone.
No bitterness towards Thierry Henry, though. There can be no comparison made to the pussy-pissface Jose "CryBaby" Reyes or Dirty Little Cashley Hole. In fact, I have only gratitude and admiration for him even as he leaves, for all he has done for the club. For all he's done for the Arsenal, all Gunners fans should support him always, even in such a time as this. He is Thierry Henry. Enough said. Thus,
All the Best to the King of Cool, TH14 Va Va Voom in his future endeavours! Long Live Thierry Henry and may his ever-scoring boots always shine!
The problem now lies with Master Wenger. He'd better sign someone, quick (even though nobody can ever replace Henry). The thought of Emmanuel "Cannot Score" Adebayour leading our line is a nightmare.
Oh well. In any case, Division One Tickets are cheaper than Premier League ones.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
No End in Sight
I cannot understand the allure that I find in that voice.
The problem must be dealt with immediately. It must be eradicated.
I must send a merciful bullet to the head of that malignant ideology of a False Hope which they call affection, for it is a grotesque weakness that I can ill afford.
But that is not my only trouble.
I find myself reading more and more about the nightmare world of Warhammer 40 000, a world I have visited before in computer games and books
(see http://nobilitas.blogspot.com/2006_02_01_archive.html, Monday, February 06, 2006, The Shaping).
I have read more about the Space Marines of the Imperium of Man, and the world of endless slaughter and bloodshed and hatred and demonology that they exist in. And yet this appeals to me, because in such dark times there are epic tales of heroism and valour, of courage, strength, and fortitude, and of moral struggle and torment, and I cannot help but find myself in empathy with such a life.
The most epic of these mythologies of the future are the twenty Primarchs of the Space Marine Legions and the names of the Legions themselves- names of epic quality, names such as
Emperor's Children, Raven Guard, Thousand Sons, Blood Angels, Night Lords. And of their Primarchs, their superhuman lords and leaders. And the tale of darkest betrayal and and treachery and heresy.
To be a man in these times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live under the cruellest and most bloody regimes inmaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of science and technology, for much has been forgotten and never to be re-learned. Forget the promises of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace among the stars, only carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsty gods.
This is wrong. A world like this is evil. It goes against every thing I have held dear.
And yet, and yet, I cannot destroy this fascination, for in my own pain and struggle and weakness and failure, I see a mirror in the desperation and hopelessness of such a dystopian nightmare.
And thus while I cannot force myself to destroy my False Hope, I also cannot bring myself to destroy this fascination with this other nightmare.
The problem must be dealt with immediately. It must be eradicated.
I must send a merciful bullet to the head of that malignant ideology of a False Hope which they call affection, for it is a grotesque weakness that I can ill afford.
But that is not my only trouble.
I find myself reading more and more about the nightmare world of Warhammer 40 000, a world I have visited before in computer games and books
(see http://nobilitas.blogspot.com/2006_02_01_archive.html, Monday, February 06, 2006, The Shaping).
I have read more about the Space Marines of the Imperium of Man, and the world of endless slaughter and bloodshed and hatred and demonology that they exist in. And yet this appeals to me, because in such dark times there are epic tales of heroism and valour, of courage, strength, and fortitude, and of moral struggle and torment, and I cannot help but find myself in empathy with such a life.
The most epic of these mythologies of the future are the twenty Primarchs of the Space Marine Legions and the names of the Legions themselves- names of epic quality, names such as
Emperor's Children, Raven Guard, Thousand Sons, Blood Angels, Night Lords. And of their Primarchs, their superhuman lords and leaders. And the tale of darkest betrayal and and treachery and heresy.
To be a man in these times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live under the cruellest and most bloody regimes inmaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of science and technology, for much has been forgotten and never to be re-learned. Forget the promises of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace among the stars, only carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsty gods.
This is wrong. A world like this is evil. It goes against every thing I have held dear.
And yet, and yet, I cannot destroy this fascination, for in my own pain and struggle and weakness and failure, I see a mirror in the desperation and hopelessness of such a dystopian nightmare.
And thus while I cannot force myself to destroy my False Hope, I also cannot bring myself to destroy this fascination with this other nightmare.
Friday, June 15, 2007
A Long Overdue Update
The page turns, and now I am on the verge of a new course.
With new motivation, first to seek God, and then to arise to the greatest heights of achievement under His Will, I intend to push forward into the future with nothing less than those much-lauded qualities which the Champions of old personified- courage, determination, fortitude, resilience, faith.
But because of the huge hiatus, the extended Interregnum, which I allowed this blog to undergo, I must dwell for a while on the past two months.
Went to Oxford with the parents to check out my college and the place. Even now I still cannot find the words to capture the splendour of that ancient seat of learning, of knowledge, and hence, of power. Those were the walls that saw Tolkien drafting the Lord of the Rings, Hollywood filming Harry Potter, Bill Clinton pursuing his degree, Boyle discovering Boyle's law, and Tony Blair making an absolute fool of himself.
The professors there were nice people, especially the ones directly tutoring me, but they were intimidating as well. There was my history professor for instance, Professor Henrietta Leyser of Saint Peter's College. An immensely charming person, but her gaze was one which suggested an incredibly formidable intellectual power that could flay alive any errant student in an instant. I have not seen that kind of look before in anyone's eyes anywhere else. It radiated both charming cordiality and cold mental metal at the same time, and consequently I could not help but feel both cheerful and unnerved in conversation with her.
Then it was off to London, where my sole overwhelming priority was to pay homage at the hallowed grounds of the Emirates Stadium, the pitch of the Lords of the Beautiful Game in the UK. Again, words have failed me in describing the majesty of the place. We did not tarry there for long as my parents were in a hurry, but I vowed to return and lend my support to the Causa Honoris of the Gunners. Come on Arsenal!
Speaking of soccer, though, leaves a bitter feeling in my football heart. It is slightly less bitter than last year because the False Champions have been overthrown, but it is still galling to be stuck in fourth place. The arrogant Manchester United meatheads, powered by that f*ckhole diver Ronaldo, finally knocked the Stamford Bridge Scum off their non-deserved perch. A case of the much lesser of the two evils triumphing. Don't get me wrong, though. Aside from Ronaldo and a few others (Vidic the Serbian Thug, Carrick the Spurs Scum) I deeply respect the team from Old Trafford for accomplishing what they have accomplished this season. It was richly deserved, unlike the trophies that were purchased by Chelski. I must admit that full credit must go to Man U for cutting the Enemy of Football down to size, and doing it in style as well. Of course, it's equally important to me that Arsenal's pride was salvaged somewhat as well thanks to our double over the Mancurians. It's a case of us winning the battle and then losing the war, but at least we've got some pride even as the Mancurians got their trophy. It's obvious that I'd prefer to get the trophy instead of the double win, but well, it could have been worse. And Man U fully deserved their trophy (this time, at least).
Back home things became much clearer. The scholarship organisation's provisional offer became a firm one, and now the die is cast, and the Rubicon awaits my crossing.
After that it was Outward Bound School, where I was to meet my fellow scholars and sail a cutter out at sea like Captain Jack Sparrow of the (in)famous Black Pearl. I have yet to fully collect my thoughts on the exhausting yet fulfilling experience, but the following quote will have to suffice:
"You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up."
-Rene Dumal
Ok, so we sailed a boat and did not climb a mountain, but I believe this captures the point perfectly.
Thus ends my first proper post after The Interregnum. More will follow shortly.
With new motivation, first to seek God, and then to arise to the greatest heights of achievement under His Will, I intend to push forward into the future with nothing less than those much-lauded qualities which the Champions of old personified- courage, determination, fortitude, resilience, faith.
But because of the huge hiatus, the extended Interregnum, which I allowed this blog to undergo, I must dwell for a while on the past two months.
Went to Oxford with the parents to check out my college and the place. Even now I still cannot find the words to capture the splendour of that ancient seat of learning, of knowledge, and hence, of power. Those were the walls that saw Tolkien drafting the Lord of the Rings, Hollywood filming Harry Potter, Bill Clinton pursuing his degree, Boyle discovering Boyle's law, and Tony Blair making an absolute fool of himself.
The professors there were nice people, especially the ones directly tutoring me, but they were intimidating as well. There was my history professor for instance, Professor Henrietta Leyser of Saint Peter's College. An immensely charming person, but her gaze was one which suggested an incredibly formidable intellectual power that could flay alive any errant student in an instant. I have not seen that kind of look before in anyone's eyes anywhere else. It radiated both charming cordiality and cold mental metal at the same time, and consequently I could not help but feel both cheerful and unnerved in conversation with her.
Then it was off to London, where my sole overwhelming priority was to pay homage at the hallowed grounds of the Emirates Stadium, the pitch of the Lords of the Beautiful Game in the UK. Again, words have failed me in describing the majesty of the place. We did not tarry there for long as my parents were in a hurry, but I vowed to return and lend my support to the Causa Honoris of the Gunners. Come on Arsenal!
Speaking of soccer, though, leaves a bitter feeling in my football heart. It is slightly less bitter than last year because the False Champions have been overthrown, but it is still galling to be stuck in fourth place. The arrogant Manchester United meatheads, powered by that f*ckhole diver Ronaldo, finally knocked the Stamford Bridge Scum off their non-deserved perch. A case of the much lesser of the two evils triumphing. Don't get me wrong, though. Aside from Ronaldo and a few others (Vidic the Serbian Thug, Carrick the Spurs Scum) I deeply respect the team from Old Trafford for accomplishing what they have accomplished this season. It was richly deserved, unlike the trophies that were purchased by Chelski. I must admit that full credit must go to Man U for cutting the Enemy of Football down to size, and doing it in style as well. Of course, it's equally important to me that Arsenal's pride was salvaged somewhat as well thanks to our double over the Mancurians. It's a case of us winning the battle and then losing the war, but at least we've got some pride even as the Mancurians got their trophy. It's obvious that I'd prefer to get the trophy instead of the double win, but well, it could have been worse. And Man U fully deserved their trophy (this time, at least).
Back home things became much clearer. The scholarship organisation's provisional offer became a firm one, and now the die is cast, and the Rubicon awaits my crossing.
After that it was Outward Bound School, where I was to meet my fellow scholars and sail a cutter out at sea like Captain Jack Sparrow of the (in)famous Black Pearl. I have yet to fully collect my thoughts on the exhausting yet fulfilling experience, but the following quote will have to suffice:
"You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up."
-Rene Dumal
Ok, so we sailed a boat and did not climb a mountain, but I believe this captures the point perfectly.
Thus ends my first proper post after The Interregnum. More will follow shortly.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Return
Much has transpired in the two months since I last updated this blog.
Much will be updated in the days to come.
I have returned, and there is much to tell.
Much will be updated in the days to come.
I have returned, and there is much to tell.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Slow Cheetah
by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Waking up dead
inside of my head
Will never never do
there is no med
No medicine to take
I've had a chance
to be insane
Asylum from
the falling rain
I've had a chance to break
It's so bad
it's got to be good
Mysterious girl
misunderstood
Dressed like a wedding cake
Any other day
and I might play
A funeral march
for Bonnie Brae
Why try and run away
[Chorus:] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
I know a girl
She worked in a store
She knew not what
Her life was for
She barely knew her name
They tried to tell her
She would never be
As happy as the girl
In the magazine
She bought it with her pay
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
Everyone has
So much to say
They talk talk talk
Their lives away
Don't even hesitate
Walking on down
To the burial ground
It's a very old dance
With a merry old sound
Looks like it's on today
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
I think that this is a damn pro song.
No matter what they say.
Waking up dead
inside of my head
Will never never do
there is no med
No medicine to take
I've had a chance
to be insane
Asylum from
the falling rain
I've had a chance to break
It's so bad
it's got to be good
Mysterious girl
misunderstood
Dressed like a wedding cake
Any other day
and I might play
A funeral march
for Bonnie Brae
Why try and run away
[Chorus:] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
I know a girl
She worked in a store
She knew not what
Her life was for
She barely knew her name
They tried to tell her
She would never be
As happy as the girl
In the magazine
She bought it with her pay
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
Everyone has
So much to say
They talk talk talk
Their lives away
Don't even hesitate
Walking on down
To the burial ground
It's a very old dance
With a merry old sound
Looks like it's on today
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
[Chorus] Slow cheetah come
Before my forest
Looks like it's on today
Slow cheetah come
It's so euphoric
No matter what they say
I think that this is a damn pro song.
No matter what they say.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Questions
vince.says:
does ur dad still erm go to church?
vince.says:
do you still go to church?
How the heck do I answer those questions? What answer do I give?
does ur dad still erm go to church?
vince.says:
do you still go to church?
How the heck do I answer those questions? What answer do I give?
The Asking
And you wonder why.
You just cannot stop asking why.
You keep thinking to yourself, replaying the scenes in your head, flickety-flick, looking at every picture, every detail, trying to find out what went wrong, at which juncture, and to what extent and what type of damage the consequences lead to.
It becomes almost obsessive, almost possessive, as you lie half awake at night, the images in your mind's eye projecting themselves across the dark ceiling of your room, and they glaze silently across the walls in slow motion, freezing at every few points, zooming in and out, and you pore over every minute detail, dissecting it, examining every aspect to it, viewing it from reverse angles, pondering about the implications of the tiniest changes.
You stare into the pair of eyes and try to extrapolate every bit of what that glint means. You attempt to fathom that person's thoughts by pulling together every bit of significance from every inch of skin, hair, and most espcially the eyes, the eyes, those so-called windows to the soul- and what an esoteric term "soul" is!
You ponder and wonder and think and think and think.
You shift the frames in your mind, you rotate them, to see every single detail in its entirety and in its relation to every other detail's entirety. Colours fill some scenes, others are a grey-blueish blur, everything except the details that matter, which themselves are in the sharpest relief.
And every night- save those in camp- I have spent in this blurred half-awakened trance, re-viewing, re-visiting, reviewing- trying to see how the mistakes could have been avoided, how the opportunities could be seized to the fullest, and all the infinitum of implications had this or that been or not been.
It is a slavery. And I am enlsaved to this.
You just cannot stop asking why.
You keep thinking to yourself, replaying the scenes in your head, flickety-flick, looking at every picture, every detail, trying to find out what went wrong, at which juncture, and to what extent and what type of damage the consequences lead to.
It becomes almost obsessive, almost possessive, as you lie half awake at night, the images in your mind's eye projecting themselves across the dark ceiling of your room, and they glaze silently across the walls in slow motion, freezing at every few points, zooming in and out, and you pore over every minute detail, dissecting it, examining every aspect to it, viewing it from reverse angles, pondering about the implications of the tiniest changes.
You stare into the pair of eyes and try to extrapolate every bit of what that glint means. You attempt to fathom that person's thoughts by pulling together every bit of significance from every inch of skin, hair, and most espcially the eyes, the eyes, those so-called windows to the soul- and what an esoteric term "soul" is!
You ponder and wonder and think and think and think.
You shift the frames in your mind, you rotate them, to see every single detail in its entirety and in its relation to every other detail's entirety. Colours fill some scenes, others are a grey-blueish blur, everything except the details that matter, which themselves are in the sharpest relief.
And every night- save those in camp- I have spent in this blurred half-awakened trance, re-viewing, re-visiting, reviewing- trying to see how the mistakes could have been avoided, how the opportunities could be seized to the fullest, and all the infinitum of implications had this or that been or not been.
It is a slavery. And I am enlsaved to this.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Phone Down
As of today my mobile phone went dead.
And no, its not because of the battery. It just can't be switched on.
But you know what?
I don't give a fuck. Not at all.
It's just as well because I'm sick of the bullshit some people like to spam me.
And no, its not because of the battery. It just can't be switched on.
But you know what?
I don't give a fuck. Not at all.
It's just as well because I'm sick of the bullshit some people like to spam me.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Oh the misery
Out of three cup competitions within a week.
This is sickening.
The most we can look forward to this season is third place.
I decided to watch only La Liga games from now on.
And the El Classico was really classic.
I quote from Soccernet.com:
"Messi was the topic of much of the conversation. Not only because of his historic hat-trick in front of a 98,000 crowd, but because of his ability to seemingly pass through spaces that to all intents and purposes do not exist. He runs with the ball seemingly glued to his left foot, disappears at speed into a crowd of opposing players, then emerges at the other end like a silent-movie trickster, darting and flitting at unnatural speed, virtually unstoppable. "
I've the answer for Arsenal.
Sell Adebayour and Aliaidiere.
Buy Fernando Torres and Lionel Messi.
Then we will return to our rightful place at the top, and go unbeaten for many more seasons to come.
This is sickening.
The most we can look forward to this season is third place.
I decided to watch only La Liga games from now on.
And the El Classico was really classic.
I quote from Soccernet.com:
"Messi was the topic of much of the conversation. Not only because of his historic hat-trick in front of a 98,000 crowd, but because of his ability to seemingly pass through spaces that to all intents and purposes do not exist. He runs with the ball seemingly glued to his left foot, disappears at speed into a crowd of opposing players, then emerges at the other end like a silent-movie trickster, darting and flitting at unnatural speed, virtually unstoppable. "
I've the answer for Arsenal.
Sell Adebayour and Aliaidiere.
Buy Fernando Torres and Lionel Messi.
Then we will return to our rightful place at the top, and go unbeaten for many more seasons to come.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
I Thought I Thaw a Terroritht!
We all meet weird people on the bus.
From serial molesters to serial nose diggers who kindly wipe their nose shit on the stop-bell button you were about to press.
But this guy...
From serial molesters to serial nose diggers who kindly wipe their nose shit on the stop-bell button you were about to press.
But this guy...
...takes the cake.
He first got on the bus, with a big black bag.
He looked around, then sat down in the seat opposite mine.
Then his behaviour started to deviate from normalcy.
He looked at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and then made the meditation sign with his hands (as in the one you see Buddhist monks do when they meditate).
Then, he opened his eyes, and counted to four with the fingers on both hands.
Then he clasped his hands in prayer and muttered to himself, and closed his eyes again.
Then he unclasped his hands.
Then he raised both hands into the air, palms opened and facing the ceiling, and opened his eyes, and muttered more unintelligeble stuff.
Then, still looking at the ceiling, he closed his eyes and made the meditation sign with his hands.
And he repeated the whole sequence at least 7 times.
I dont know what the f*** he was trying to do, but it scared the shit out of me.
I mean come on. This guy starts acting looney and he's got a great big black bag with him on his lap. And we've all been watching the stuff on the news about bombs and terror and blown-up buses and trains.
And you know how TV Mobile keeps playing that annoying track about "What to do with Suspicious Packages on the bus-they might be a terrorist bomb"?
Well that didnt calm me down at all with the weird guy sitting just across me in the aisle.
Just before he got off he took out his cellphone and began to fiddle around with it.
And when he finally left I thought he would leave the bag behind.
Thankfully he didnt, but, damn, that was one bus ride that scared the shit out of me.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Crawling
By Linkin Park
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
there's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
consuming
confusing
this lack of self-control I fear is never ending
controlling
I can't seem
to find myself again
my walls are closing in
(without a sense of confidence I'm convinced that there's just too much pressure to take)
I've felt this way before
so insecure
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
discomfort, endlessly has pulled itself upon me
distracting
reacting
against my will I stand beside my own reflection
it`s haunting
how i cant seem...
to find myself again
my walls are closing in
(without a sense of confidence I'm convinced that there's just too much pressure to take)
I've felt this way before
so insecure
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing
confusing what is real
there's something inside me
that pulls beneath the surface
consuming,
confusing what is real
this lack of self-control
I fear is never ending
controlling,
confusing what is real
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
there's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
consuming
confusing
this lack of self-control I fear is never ending
controlling
I can't seem
to find myself again
my walls are closing in
(without a sense of confidence I'm convinced that there's just too much pressure to take)
I've felt this way before
so insecure
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
discomfort, endlessly has pulled itself upon me
distracting
reacting
against my will I stand beside my own reflection
it`s haunting
how i cant seem...
to find myself again
my walls are closing in
(without a sense of confidence I'm convinced that there's just too much pressure to take)
I've felt this way before
so insecure
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing what is real
crawling in my skin
these wounds they will not heal
fear is how I fall
confusing
confusing what is real
there's something inside me
that pulls beneath the surface
consuming,
confusing what is real
this lack of self-control
I fear is never ending
controlling,
confusing what is real
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Carling Aftermath
Devastated.
First and foremost, though, there is still hope. Congratulations to Theo Walcott for his first Arsenal goal! Brilliant build-up play and brilliant strike. If only the circumstances were much more conducive for celebrations.
Denilson and Diaby and Fabregas were incredible as well, and Hoyte was decent. Armand Traore need not feel shame either; given his sheer inexperience. Up to the final, Almunia had shown great improvement over his apocalyptic goal-keeping against Barcelona in Paris last year. There is yet hope. These players can hold their heads high, they have retained their honour despite the loss.
Having said that, the sting of defeat is almost too great to bear.
Master Wenger is perched too precariously on that thin line seperating morality, idealism, courage, bravery, and honour on the one side; and stupidity, delusional naivete, myopic vision and suicidal tendency on the other. His decision to field the Young Guns showed that he has one foot on one side of the line, and his other foot on the other side. He may fall into the abyss of unrealistic delusion if he is not careful. This has long been forewarned by many pundits since the rise of the False Champions and the sale of Captain Viera, but it has never been as clearly shown as it has been on that fateful Sunday evening.
The Master may argue that in thrashing Liverpool and Tottenham the Young Guns deserved their place fully, but it does not seem to have occured to him that the Evil Empire, with its malevolent billions of oil roubles, is an entirely different kind of enemy altogether. Liverpool, Tottenham, and Everton are but minor brigands, like Fascist Italy in World War 2. Chelsea is a Nazi Germany, utterly powerful and utterly evil beyond reckoning.
What of his players? Aside from the names already mentioned, the rest of the team did not perform. Toure was Captain, I feel, not by any merit of leadership qualities but by virtue of the fact that he was the oldest player on the team. He is a solid defender, a class act, but he cannot marshal his fellow defenders the way Sol Campbell and Martin Keown, let alone the Great Tony Adams, did. He is only a Follower type of player. Having said that, he is a faithful, resilient, reliable, solid, adventurous Follower; a fighter to the last.
But he not a Leader in the mould of Sol, Martin, and The Great Adams. His leadership cannot be compared with his predecessors. And his puzzling and bizarre insistence about taking free kicks in his puzzling and bizarre way have not benefited the team at all.
At least good old Kolo was fully committed on the pitch. He just needs a strong, leader-like partner who can direct him. But unfortunately, his partner was the worst player on the pitch (Shevchenko comes in second worst because he at least hit the crossbar once). His partner, Senderos, has been described as the "butt defender" and rightly so. Senderos is becoming more and more like the new Pascal Cygan and less and less like the new Sol Campbell. And I'm not talking about skin colour here.
Letting DOGba onside for the first goal, and then allowing Dogba to get in front of him for the second- this has been the fifth match he has lost out to that mongrel from the False Champions. And his distribution remains utter rubbish. I dont know what else to say, he is the single biggest liability to the Arsenal since Pascal "Donkey" Cygan. Bloody useless piece of shit. Looks like Cashley Hole was justified in criticizing him in his book.
Hleb was really anonymous. I dont know what is with the guy. I've never really seen him do anything constructive every time he plays.
As for the scum, they did their usual cynical job. They did it well. Of course, they showed just how stupid they are (Terry just had to put his great big bug-ugly pug face just at the exact spot where Diaby was going to kick the ball clear) and how barbaric they are (Motherfucking Mikel Jon Obi-Wan-to-fuck-mom's shameless pulling of Toure's shirt- the mother fucker deserves to be castrated-and the Uruk-Hai Scum supporters who threw missiles at Cesc Fabregas - not a single Arsenal fan threw anything onto the pitch)
I'm disillusioned. And disgusted. MORONho can go and celebrate his trophy. Moronho always celebrates his "hard-fought" victories as if they were so fucking epic- this latest one involving a bunch of billionaire superstar sportsmen struggling to beat a bunch of teenagers fresh from the Academy.
I've always wondered how anyone can be so proud of winning trophies with unlimited funds to spend on whichever players they like from the start of the season.
I've never understood them.
It's like playing a computer game and typing a cheat code to give you unlimited money/ammunition/health/weapons/energy/power, and then when you win the game, you celebrate and cheer and congrajulate yourself as if you played so damn well and so damn skillfully with so damn much innate talent.
And that says a LOT about the maturity of the "special" Moronho.
If anything, the youngest, smallest person down on the grass of the Millenium Stadium wasn't the teenage Young Guns, nor even the ball boys, nor even the mascot kids who accompany the players out at the start of every match.
The youngest, smallest person on the pitch was the 41-year-old Special One, Jose Moronho, who is feeling damn proud and damn special because he has won five trophies with an unlimited amount of cash to spend on whichever players he likes.
At least Arsenal have NEVER bought any silverware. Never.
First and foremost, though, there is still hope. Congratulations to Theo Walcott for his first Arsenal goal! Brilliant build-up play and brilliant strike. If only the circumstances were much more conducive for celebrations.
Denilson and Diaby and Fabregas were incredible as well, and Hoyte was decent. Armand Traore need not feel shame either; given his sheer inexperience. Up to the final, Almunia had shown great improvement over his apocalyptic goal-keeping against Barcelona in Paris last year. There is yet hope. These players can hold their heads high, they have retained their honour despite the loss.
Having said that, the sting of defeat is almost too great to bear.
Master Wenger is perched too precariously on that thin line seperating morality, idealism, courage, bravery, and honour on the one side; and stupidity, delusional naivete, myopic vision and suicidal tendency on the other. His decision to field the Young Guns showed that he has one foot on one side of the line, and his other foot on the other side. He may fall into the abyss of unrealistic delusion if he is not careful. This has long been forewarned by many pundits since the rise of the False Champions and the sale of Captain Viera, but it has never been as clearly shown as it has been on that fateful Sunday evening.
The Master may argue that in thrashing Liverpool and Tottenham the Young Guns deserved their place fully, but it does not seem to have occured to him that the Evil Empire, with its malevolent billions of oil roubles, is an entirely different kind of enemy altogether. Liverpool, Tottenham, and Everton are but minor brigands, like Fascist Italy in World War 2. Chelsea is a Nazi Germany, utterly powerful and utterly evil beyond reckoning.
What of his players? Aside from the names already mentioned, the rest of the team did not perform. Toure was Captain, I feel, not by any merit of leadership qualities but by virtue of the fact that he was the oldest player on the team. He is a solid defender, a class act, but he cannot marshal his fellow defenders the way Sol Campbell and Martin Keown, let alone the Great Tony Adams, did. He is only a Follower type of player. Having said that, he is a faithful, resilient, reliable, solid, adventurous Follower; a fighter to the last.
But he not a Leader in the mould of Sol, Martin, and The Great Adams. His leadership cannot be compared with his predecessors. And his puzzling and bizarre insistence about taking free kicks in his puzzling and bizarre way have not benefited the team at all.
At least good old Kolo was fully committed on the pitch. He just needs a strong, leader-like partner who can direct him. But unfortunately, his partner was the worst player on the pitch (Shevchenko comes in second worst because he at least hit the crossbar once). His partner, Senderos, has been described as the "butt defender" and rightly so. Senderos is becoming more and more like the new Pascal Cygan and less and less like the new Sol Campbell. And I'm not talking about skin colour here.
Letting DOGba onside for the first goal, and then allowing Dogba to get in front of him for the second- this has been the fifth match he has lost out to that mongrel from the False Champions. And his distribution remains utter rubbish. I dont know what else to say, he is the single biggest liability to the Arsenal since Pascal "Donkey" Cygan. Bloody useless piece of shit. Looks like Cashley Hole was justified in criticizing him in his book.
Hleb was really anonymous. I dont know what is with the guy. I've never really seen him do anything constructive every time he plays.
As for the scum, they did their usual cynical job. They did it well. Of course, they showed just how stupid they are (Terry just had to put his great big bug-ugly pug face just at the exact spot where Diaby was going to kick the ball clear) and how barbaric they are (Motherfucking Mikel Jon Obi-Wan-to-fuck-mom's shameless pulling of Toure's shirt- the mother fucker deserves to be castrated-and the Uruk-Hai Scum supporters who threw missiles at Cesc Fabregas - not a single Arsenal fan threw anything onto the pitch)
I'm disillusioned. And disgusted. MORONho can go and celebrate his trophy. Moronho always celebrates his "hard-fought" victories as if they were so fucking epic- this latest one involving a bunch of billionaire superstar sportsmen struggling to beat a bunch of teenagers fresh from the Academy.
I've always wondered how anyone can be so proud of winning trophies with unlimited funds to spend on whichever players they like from the start of the season.
I've never understood them.
It's like playing a computer game and typing a cheat code to give you unlimited money/ammunition/health/weapons/energy/power, and then when you win the game, you celebrate and cheer and congrajulate yourself as if you played so damn well and so damn skillfully with so damn much innate talent.
And that says a LOT about the maturity of the "special" Moronho.
If anything, the youngest, smallest person down on the grass of the Millenium Stadium wasn't the teenage Young Guns, nor even the ball boys, nor even the mascot kids who accompany the players out at the start of every match.
The youngest, smallest person on the pitch was the 41-year-old Special One, Jose Moronho, who is feeling damn proud and damn special because he has won five trophies with an unlimited amount of cash to spend on whichever players he likes.
At least Arsenal have NEVER bought any silverware. Never.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
And you thought your family was weird
Just had the most bizarre re-union dinner with my dad's side of the family.
We were at this restaurant, having a normal Chinese New Year dinner with all the normal, ordinary banter and conversation.
Halfway between the roast duck and the salted veg, a bald uncle next to me pulled out several silver packages and passed them round.
They weren't the normal red packets you'd eagerly expect. But because they were an unusual silver, we looked at them with interest.
Then the conversation became very, very, strange.
Bald Uncle: "This is Malaysian Viagra. Very, very, good. My friend recommended me. Cleared by AVA and the government. For both male and female. Will make you very strong, very alert, very fast."
**this made me nearly choke on my crispy duck skin***
Aunty 1: "Oh really ah! Eh Uncle 4 you should try this you're always so slow"
Uncle 4: "Really meh this kind of thing can work anot"
Bald Uncle: "Eh its been in Singapore for quite some time already. About 6 000 Singaporeans have tried it"
Cousin 1: (sotto voce) "Yeah... And all 6 000 ended up in SGH"
***I began to drink tea to wash the bits of food stuck in my throat and threatening to block my windpipe****
Uncle 2: "So whats the name of this libido medicine?"
Bald Uncle: "Oh, it depends which flavour you want. This one is Orange Juice, that one is Green Tea"
***WTF MAN!!! WTF?!?!?****
Aunty 3: "Aiya we dont need these kind of lan chiao medicine one. We have never needed lan chiao medicine!"
Uncle 4: "But this one not just for cure. It can boost performance what!"
***At this stage I had my cell-phone out and was pretending to be engaged in a phone call****
And on and on the conversation went, about sex drives and that kind of thing, while they cut up the duck and dished out the noodles.
My dinner was prematurely ended as my appetite had completely failed me by the time the dessert arrived. I can't imagine how I managed to finish the meal.
The UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-ness of the whole thing was incredible.
By the time we left the place my mind was filled with Question marks and the incredulous letters W, T, and F were all I could think of.
We were at this restaurant, having a normal Chinese New Year dinner with all the normal, ordinary banter and conversation.
Halfway between the roast duck and the salted veg, a bald uncle next to me pulled out several silver packages and passed them round.
They weren't the normal red packets you'd eagerly expect. But because they were an unusual silver, we looked at them with interest.
Then the conversation became very, very, strange.
Bald Uncle: "This is Malaysian Viagra. Very, very, good. My friend recommended me. Cleared by AVA and the government. For both male and female. Will make you very strong, very alert, very fast."
**this made me nearly choke on my crispy duck skin***
Aunty 1: "Oh really ah! Eh Uncle 4 you should try this you're always so slow"
Uncle 4: "Really meh this kind of thing can work anot"
Bald Uncle: "Eh its been in Singapore for quite some time already. About 6 000 Singaporeans have tried it"
Cousin 1: (sotto voce) "Yeah... And all 6 000 ended up in SGH"
***I began to drink tea to wash the bits of food stuck in my throat and threatening to block my windpipe****
Uncle 2: "So whats the name of this libido medicine?"
Bald Uncle: "Oh, it depends which flavour you want. This one is Orange Juice, that one is Green Tea"
***WTF MAN!!! WTF?!?!?****
Aunty 3: "Aiya we dont need these kind of lan chiao medicine one. We have never needed lan chiao medicine!"
Uncle 4: "But this one not just for cure. It can boost performance what!"
***At this stage I had my cell-phone out and was pretending to be engaged in a phone call****
And on and on the conversation went, about sex drives and that kind of thing, while they cut up the duck and dished out the noodles.
My dinner was prematurely ended as my appetite had completely failed me by the time the dessert arrived. I can't imagine how I managed to finish the meal.
The UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-ness of the whole thing was incredible.
By the time we left the place my mind was filled with Question marks and the incredulous letters W, T, and F were all I could think of.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Purges
I'm damned sick of this weakness, this vulnerability.
It can only lead to humiliation and disgrace.
It's a disease, a cancer, that eats away, slowly corroding, slowly warping, perceptions and personality, twisting it into shapes unrecognisable.
It's about time I did something about it.
The others, the rest, they may do as they please, selling themselves out to whoever they want to.
But as for myself...
No more weakness.
No more snivelling moments begging and pleading.
No more kow-towing to beg for an opportunity for slavery.
No More of that.
No More.
Victorious Aut Mortis-Give me Victory or Violent Death
It can only lead to humiliation and disgrace.
It's a disease, a cancer, that eats away, slowly corroding, slowly warping, perceptions and personality, twisting it into shapes unrecognisable.
It's about time I did something about it.
The others, the rest, they may do as they please, selling themselves out to whoever they want to.
But as for myself...
No more weakness.
No more snivelling moments begging and pleading.
No more kow-towing to beg for an opportunity for slavery.
No More of that.
No More.
Victorious Aut Mortis-Give me Victory or Violent Death
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Complexities
As I type this the Rulers of The Island, Our Lord Benefactors, are announcing to the populace a new plan for the expenditure of their vast taxation revenue.
This includes an explanation that, due to their beneficient plans in the face of the inexorable crush of the tides of globalisation, they will raise the taxation rates.
One wonders why they even bother to do so. They control the military and the media, the coinage and the courts, and thus the minds and bodies and, if you like, souls of the underclasses. Why the need to explain?
They hold so much power in the hands of so few that they have not the slightest need to appear beholden to the "electorate" (what a funny, alien concept on The Island). Why bother to explain to the underclasses when you have so much power over them?
Of course, they've done more than mere explaining. They've gotten a full broadside of a propaganda campaign underway, as much as subtlety would allow them.
"Maturity with a Bang"
"Silver Workforce Strikes Gold"
"Why the *** Hike Is a good thing after all"
"Two-point hike- It affects the poor the most, but they will receive help"
(Wait, wasn't the poor supposed to be helped by the hike? Why should the help that they recieve be in spite of the hike?)
and other such good- no, not merely good, incredibly, stupendously, marvellous great- news headlines all over the newspapers.
And on the televised news, they interviewed at least a dozen upper and middle classs people in the Central Business District about what they thought about the impending tax increase. Not surprisingly, they all gave the Thumbs Up.
But not once did the propagandists interview the people who clean toilets, who cook in the hawker centers, who labour day and night to the bone. A cyncially smart move. These people would have given not the Thumbs Down but the Middle Finger Up. They would have spat in the camera lens and hurled expletives at Our Benefactors. And that would not look good on the evening news, would it?
Disgust, disgust. Emotions that reach new heights every time I see the well fed and well clothed Lord Benefactors walking around the underclasses and smiling and smiling and promising more "help"- help in the form of increased taxation.
And, increasing their own pay as well. One of Our Supreme Lord Benefactors has claimed that he and his fellow Benefactors had to have higher, "competitive" pay, or else they might leave for the private sector, and deprive Our Benefactory of their skills, or even worse, become corrupt. So they had to have higher pay in order to help them to resist the temptation to become corrupt.
Isn't that legalising corruption in all but name?
Things are skewed here on The Island.
This includes an explanation that, due to their beneficient plans in the face of the inexorable crush of the tides of globalisation, they will raise the taxation rates.
One wonders why they even bother to do so. They control the military and the media, the coinage and the courts, and thus the minds and bodies and, if you like, souls of the underclasses. Why the need to explain?
They hold so much power in the hands of so few that they have not the slightest need to appear beholden to the "electorate" (what a funny, alien concept on The Island). Why bother to explain to the underclasses when you have so much power over them?
Of course, they've done more than mere explaining. They've gotten a full broadside of a propaganda campaign underway, as much as subtlety would allow them.
"Maturity with a Bang"
"Silver Workforce Strikes Gold"
"Why the *** Hike Is a good thing after all"
"Two-point hike- It affects the poor the most, but they will receive help"
(Wait, wasn't the poor supposed to be helped by the hike? Why should the help that they recieve be in spite of the hike?)
and other such good- no, not merely good, incredibly, stupendously, marvellous great- news headlines all over the newspapers.
And on the televised news, they interviewed at least a dozen upper and middle classs people in the Central Business District about what they thought about the impending tax increase. Not surprisingly, they all gave the Thumbs Up.
But not once did the propagandists interview the people who clean toilets, who cook in the hawker centers, who labour day and night to the bone. A cyncially smart move. These people would have given not the Thumbs Down but the Middle Finger Up. They would have spat in the camera lens and hurled expletives at Our Benefactors. And that would not look good on the evening news, would it?
Disgust, disgust. Emotions that reach new heights every time I see the well fed and well clothed Lord Benefactors walking around the underclasses and smiling and smiling and promising more "help"- help in the form of increased taxation.
And, increasing their own pay as well. One of Our Supreme Lord Benefactors has claimed that he and his fellow Benefactors had to have higher, "competitive" pay, or else they might leave for the private sector, and deprive Our Benefactory of their skills, or even worse, become corrupt. So they had to have higher pay in order to help them to resist the temptation to become corrupt.
Isn't that legalising corruption in all but name?
Things are skewed here on The Island.
Eat S*** and Die, Bolton Rugby Club!
Bolton 1 Arsenal 3.
HA! HA! HA!
That's what you get for playing like cavemen you football- retarded Bolton shits!
Arsenal by all accounts were simply dazzling. And without Cesc Fabre-class and King Henry too!
But, of course, we missed two penalties and two open goals.
It's sheer brilliance to triumph despite missing so good chances as these.
But it also should serve a warning to the team.
Their biggest weakness is not in defending set pieces.
It's in being able to finish clinically
HA! HA! HA!
That's what you get for playing like cavemen you football- retarded Bolton shits!
Arsenal by all accounts were simply dazzling. And without Cesc Fabre-class and King Henry too!
But, of course, we missed two penalties and two open goals.
It's sheer brilliance to triumph despite missing so good chances as these.
But it also should serve a warning to the team.
Their biggest weakness is not in defending set pieces.
It's in being able to finish clinically
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A Tleilaxu Epigram
Here lies a toppled god-
His fall was not a small one.
We did but build his pedestal,
A narrow and a tall one.
His fall was not a small one.
We did but build his pedestal,
A narrow and a tall one.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
ARSENAL 2 MANCHESTER UNITED 1
THERE'S ONLY ONE ROBIN VAN PERSIE
THERE'S ONLY ONE THIERRY HENRY
THERE'S ONLY ONE ARSENE WENGER
Credit to Rooney and Man U, but, this is The ARSENAL you're playing!
Man Utd may win the Title this season (I'm hoping they do, in fact, as Arsenal is effectively out of this), but Arsenal have got their pride back.
COME ON ARSENAL!
NOW BRING ON THE FALSE CHAMPIONS! CHELSKI SCUM!
Friday, January 19, 2007
A Mirror
Grossly elongated
Grotesque disproportions
Freshly stretched out along the torture rack
Bone
cadaverous, skeletal, flesh evaporated
the skin taut over bone.
Warped visage
that does not adhere to nature's standards
that spits in the face of Aesthetic's laws
Beyond cognizance
Beneath humanity
Nevermind the being within
Nevermind the heart unseen
Nevermind the soul kept clean
It is a
Freak
A Freak of nature
Grotesque disproportions
Freshly stretched out along the torture rack
Bone
cadaverous, skeletal, flesh evaporated
the skin taut over bone.
Warped visage
that does not adhere to nature's standards
that spits in the face of Aesthetic's laws
Beyond cognizance
Beneath humanity
Nevermind the being within
Nevermind the heart unseen
Nevermind the soul kept clean
It is a
Freak
A Freak of nature
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
"They will fear us at Anfield"
FA Cup: Liverpool 1 Arsenal 3
Carling Cup: Liverpool 3 Arsenal 6
Carling Cup: Liverpool 3 Arsenal 6
What's the score, Anfield??
What's the score, eh, Kop??
ALL HAIL THE BEAST!!
"They will fear us at Anfield"
HA! HA! HA!
Well said, Bellamy!
Well said, Bellamy!
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