Saturday, 2 June 2012

Roddy Smith: A Portrait in Facebook Comments

My mate Roddy is a great guy, but he doesn't half come up with some shite when he's drunk and on facebook - and since he's an alcoholic with a computer and an internet connection, we're never far from some of his hilarious nonsense. I'm going to attempt to compile some of my favourite examples of his rambling confusions here. Bear in mind that he's a smart, funny guy 'in real life' (his writing can be found here), which makes these non-thinking social network catastophes even funnier.

Bofer that time I had two drug induced dozes, both of which featured nightmares but not the good kind with monsters, the bad kind which reflect real life and haunt.
(01/06/12, 12:41)

This gem was offered up in the midst of a conversation some girls we went to school with were having about a near-fatal traffic accident. Roddy was out his nut on sleeping pills (and possibly booze) while everybody else was breaking for lunch. Normally this kind of rambling nonsense would be forgiven, but the placement - in the context of the conversation - is what makes it.



Some guy started following me, Tom and Stu on Twitter recently. They're called 'Your Pointless Life' (@humansareavirus) and they're a fed-up sounding sociopath with a fetish for shanking. Not 'shanking' in the Grime sense, but shanking as in shit-wanking. Their picture is, I think, the scary ringmaster from League of Gentlemen. It seems appropriate, if a little unoriginal. I might be wrong though, and it might not be that guy.

So I was wondering who this person could be. The only people I can think of who know me, Tom and Stu are Roddy Smith, Claire Butler and Duncan MacDonald. Roddy's new to Twitter - and to technology in general - and although he's clever and funny, I was able to rule him out straight away. Claire's generally pretty positive, and probably wouldn't boast about shanking, so it didn't take much to conclude that this person was Duncan. The Tweets are deadpan, nihilistic, literate, observational and funny. Duncan is deadpan, nihilistic, literate, observational and funny. It's obvious.

Duncan, however, denied it outright, claiming he didn't know who I was talking about. It was pretty convincing. I thought it might have been Tom, but although Tom appreciates YPL's activity, it isn't really Tom's humour. Upon request, Stu had a look and returned with the conclusion that he had no idea. He sounded busy and didn't really seem to care. I wasn't even following Stu! I like to think he'd have added me from his real account before adding me on a second account. Again, it's not exactly Stu's parlance anyway. And he tends to use social media for spreading the good word about hip-hop - I doubt he'd have the time for this kind of thing. This, I thought, points it even further towards being Duncan.
Duncan is on a computer a lot, but this is both an argument for and against it being him. If your business is based around you being in front of a computer a lot, it's likely you'd cherish the moments when you didn't have to be. Simultaneously, a person needs something to do while things buffer and render.

Duncan's argument for it not being him became more convincing as the Tweets got more entertaining. Sexually threatening Tweets to glammed-up concert-promoting gargoyle Grianne Braithwaite and bass-bumbling lovely Laura Hyde abounded. Confusion reigned. Duncan denied. Caroline from Prestwick was added. Roddy too. It's pretty likely this is somebody we know, but don't see much of. Design types and hot birds were added. The hotness of the birds may well be irrelevant.

I genuinely believe - after a lengthy pub-debate with Tom - that YPL is not Duncan, largely due to his protestations. I don't speak to Duncan often (enough) and my questions were answered with chatty responses. If YPL, was Duncan, I expect it'd have been a straightforward, terse denial. To be assumed to be Duncan is flattery anyway.

So, yeah, fuck knows.

Words I'm Sick of Reading

I'm no expert, but shit magazines like The Skinny need to stop using words and phrases like these when they're talking about music:

Unique brand of.
Achingly beautiful.
Chiming guitars.
That won't disappoint.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

A joke.

A, C, and G walk into location W. There they meet N, a person associated with the location and its purposes.

So N says to them, "In what fashion would you three persons like to participate in the services and/or activities offered at W?"

A says, "I'd like to (response fairly consistent with A's normative behavior, in the context of a location like W)."

N says, "Fine." A normative exchange ensues.

C says, "I'd like to (response not only consistent with C's normative behavior in context, but also similar to A's response; but with certain minor differences that create in the listener's mind the detection of a developing pattern)."

N says, "Fine." A second, normative exchange ensues, and in addition the subtle perception that a behavior pattern is developing continues to advance.

G says, "Well, as for me, I'd like to (response that is literally logical and consistent with G's normative behavior, but which is not contextually normative in a location like W, and which furthermore breaks the pattern which the listener has begun to expect)!

Sunday, 4 October 2009

The Rules of Drinking.

It never ceases to amaze me just how wrong people can do it. Here are some rules that should help.

1. If you owe somebody money, always give it back to them in the pub, or on the way to the pub.
2. Buying somebody a drink is five times better than a handshake.
3. Buying a strange woman a drink is still cool. Buying all her drinks is stupid.
4. Never 'borrow' more than one cigarette from the same person in a night.
5. Get the barstaff's attention with eye-contact and a smile. Don't shout or wave your money around.
6. If there is a queue at the bar, get your drink and get the fuck away from the bar at once.
7. If somebody offers to buy you a drink, do not upgrade your booze preferance.
8. Our parents were better drinkers than we are.
9. Don't talk to anybody in the bathroom. Unless you are a woman.
10. After your sixth drink, do not look at yourself in the mirror. It'll shake your confidence.
11. If there is a DJ, you may only request one song in a night. If he doesn't play it, do not approach him again. If he does play it, do not approach him again.
12. Never complain about the quality of any free booze.
13. The only thing that tastes better than free booze is stolen booze.
14. Learn to appreciate hangovers. If it was all good times every fucker would be doing this.
15. If you are the only person in the pub, you are obliged to make small talk with the barstaff until you get ignored. Then you're off the hook.
16. Anybody on a stage or behind a bar is 50% better looking.
17. If you spill a drink, clean it up. If you smash a glass, wait for the barstaff to tidy it up, and blame it on somebody else.
18. It's fine to drink alone.
19. If you get a shot, finish it. In one go. Don't sip it, you pussy.
20. Never shout out jukebox selections to somebody you don't know.
21. If you think you might be slurring a bit, you are slurring a lot. If you think you are slurring a lot, you are no longer speaking English.
22. Shouting 'somebody buy me a drink!' won't work.
23. Never rest your head on the table or bar.
24. If you're going to try to pull a member of barstaff, tip them well before and after, regardless of their response.
25. If there is ever any confusion, the fuller pint is yours.
26. It is acceptable to disappear during a night of hard drinking. Your friends will think you're mysterious, and they will understand. If they notice.
27. If you hesitate for more than 2 seconds when the barstaff looks at you, you do not deserve a drink.
28. Anyone with three or more drinks in his hands has right of way.
29. If you're drinking at work, try to stick to vodka.
30. It's fine to drink at any time of day. Especially if you're meant to be doing something else.
31. It's always best to mix your drinks. You're drinking to get drunk.
32. There will usually be one person in your group who can not go to Sleazy's, for whatever reason.

Sunday, 27 September 2009


I resigned on Friday. Not officially, I just told them I didn't want to do the job anymore. Nothing too fancy, nothing official. No paperwork.

I was working as a spy, for two weeks. Although the first week was 'training', so that probably doesn't count. The training was fun. The company paid for everything (apart from my fags) and we got to drive cars around really fast and play with the expensive video cameras we'd been given. We were given vans too. I didn't really hang out with the other people much, what with being a former record shop employee built like an African racing snake and them mostly being ex-army nutcases who would only talk about football. The flight from Glasgow to Bristol was fun- if you don't like going on a plane, you're an idiot- the seven hour drive back home (on my birthday) less so.

My first day as a 'Covert Surveillance Operative' was in Manchester. I hid in the back of my van and stared at a door for eight hours, occasionally pissing into a Volvic bottle. I returned home at about 9pm, to an e-mail telling me I had to be in Fraserburgh for 7am the next day. After a couple of hours of sleep I was on the road again, undertaking a thoroughly joyless four hour voyage in the dark rain up the motorway, with only Radio 1 for company.

Arriving bleary-eyed and yawning,my boss immediately asked what was wrong, and enquired as to whether or not I was 'some kind of lazy cunt'. Once again I sat myself in the back of my van and stared at a door.

I'd like to make it clear that when I took the job it was explained to me that I'd be 'carrying out surveillance' on big businessmen making ridiculously over-ambitious insurance claims, yet it turned out to be normal people, just trying to get by. I was starting to have my doubts.

After eight hours of nothing much happening (many things may have happened, but I'd lost interest by then and spent the day reading a book) I was finally able to drive back to Glasgow.

Joy of joys, Wednesday's job was in Kirkintilloch. My boss even had a picture of the person I was supposed to be spying on. He looked like a kindly old gent, and I decided right away that I was absolutely not going to film him, or write down anything that he did or whatever. If he's claiming an extra bit of insurance then good luck to him. He took his dog out so it could have a shite, which he tidied up. Lovely old fella.

Somewhat unbelievably, Thursday's victim was a Glasgow resident. At some point in between my bouts of frenzied masturbation and facebook-updating (the phone I was given had internets on it) Mr McWhinnie (for that was his name) jumped in his car and drove off. I radioed this thrilling development to my boss, and promptly drove off in the other direction. If the guy wants to go to the shops, then I'm not fucking following him- depsite that supposedly being the main part of the job. I drove back to where I was and took a picture of my stuff:

Returning to the same 'plot' for Friday's observations I'd already decided it would be my last day, so spent my eight hours thinking about the easiest way to announce my departure to my knuckle-dragging, always-furious boss. This seemed to be a lot easier than I had thought it might, with my boss accepting my decision immediately- and probably gratefully. He told me I'd need to return all my cameras and the van. Obviously.
I asked when we should do this, and he told me 'Now. You'll need to take the van to Manchester'. Five hours later, I was at Piccadilly Station, awaiting the last train back to Glasgow. It felt great, and I still had enough cash to be able to get drunk on the £2.80 cans of Carling that Virgin sell on their trains.