The 35 Hour Rail Adventure.

I awoke this morning in a Vancouver hotel with an absolute bastard of a hangover. Within an hour of my arrival to this city I decided that seeing as it was Saturday night, and the street was filled with drunks, I would just dump my stuff in my room and head straight out.

Getting here was a little drawn out. To get to Canada I took a train from California which took 35 hours, or thereabouts. I had been staying in Santa Monica, sleeping on the couch in the house Biffy Clyro are living in while they record their 6th studio album, which you'll have heard the title of if you read that sorry excuse for a music mag NME. I stayed there for just about 2 weeks, I was meant to be there for just one week but I missed a flight to Kentucky and decided just to hang about in Santa Monica a bit longer. When you find such paradise you should absolutely stay there as long as you possibly can. Not that I don't think Kentucky and it's Decadent & Depraved Derby would have been fun, but when I realised I wasn't going I found immediate solace in the fact that my friends were kind enough to let me continue living it up in such a beautiful place, two minutes from the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. (Outwith Ayr Shore of course)

I had booked a cab from the house to Union Street Station in LA, I had booked it for 8:45am. I ended up getting a little bit wrecked the night before, and when I woke up I must have still been suffering the effects as I misread the clock and panicked. So much so, in fact, that I threw the rest of my stuff into my bag and phoned the cab company to see where the car was. The woman on the end of the line was struggling to comprehend my hungover West of Scotland Drawl, which got me riled. She was asking what the cross street was, I asked if it sounded like I knew what I was talking about and then demanded that she "just send the damn cab to the damn address I gave (her) and don't worry about the street at the end of the road." It worked because within minutes the car was there.

It was only when I was half way to the station that I realised my mistake. I was an hour early. I was a little miffed as I planned to get a few things before I left. Namely booze. Now it would seem I was a slave to the bar prices on the train.

I got to Union Station, a beautiful 1930's building which was built in order to destroy forever the original LA Chinatown. Which isn't very nice but it is a beautiful building. I checked in, got rid of my big luggage and took a seat. As I took my seat I was approached by a well dressed elderly gent with a briefcase. He stood over me staring at me as if I had just shit in his cereal. "American Pig!" he shouted at the top of his lungs in thick Russian accent. I looked him in the eyes and told him "I'm no American. But I may be a pig." Thinking that it strode the line between good humour and a subtle "go fuck yourself old man." He turned o his heels and walked out the station.

I decided that the best course of action when staring down any long journey is to consume as much caffeine as possible so that the inevitable crash would knock me out for the first part of the journey. I got a Starbucks and was happy to find out that it is just as shitty in the US as it is everywhere else. I took it outside and lit up a cig, cue everyone in a 100 mile radius asking you for a cig, with no please or thank you. Thankfully most people in this country seem to believe you when you say, in English, "Sorry, I don't speak English."

I walked back into the lobby and looked for a seat, before I could find one I noticed a woman walking towards me dressed in only a sheet. It only became apparent as she got within a few feet of me that her vagina was on show for all to see, and what a vagina it was. It was like she has stuffed Jimi Hendrix up herself feet first. Massive bush. It's too early in the morning for that kind of horror show. Although the irony wasn't lost on me, it was the closest I'd been to any kind of vagina the whole time I'd been in California.

I took a swerve past the half naked homeless lady and sat down across from an old lady. She was hugely fat. So fat that she was testing the upper limits of her velour sweat suit. She was demolishing a gigantic bag of cheese puffs. She offered me one, the bottom half of her face and her right hand were bright orange from the cheese puffs. I said no thank you. About 5 minutes later, while day dreaming, I was startled back to reality by the ignorant scream of a whistle, I looked about expecting to see a cop chasing a bad guy, but it was the old lady sitting in the same place, blowing a whistle. When she had everyone's attention she started singing. Turns out that although she looked like a normal, kind old lady, she was fucking insane.

I couldn't wait to leave LA at that point. I gathered basic supplies and boarded the train.

I am man enough to admit that I hadn't really thought the whole thing through. But I never really do that anyway so it is quite easy for me to admit that. But the 35 hour thing really got me because, as with all things, you have to view it in some kind of context. 35 hours would pass in a heartbeat in Santa Monica, or in bed with some attractive partner etc. But on a slow moving train through 3 states, 35 hours dragged at times. Specifically on Saturday. On Friday though, I just decided to get drunk. I was happy to spend most of the money in my pocket to do so.

After a few strong vodka lemonades I ended up chatting to a pretty young lady, and after a few more drinks we were wandering the train looking for mischief. We eventually stumbled upon an arcade room, where we sat and drank, chatted and then started kissing. She tasted like beer. Good beer. She liked my accent and I liked the sweet taste of IPA on her lips.

That part of the journey passed too quickly and before I knew it she had got off the train an out of my life somewhere near Sacramento. I stumbled towards my seat and crashed out until an ungodly hour in the morning when the train shook me awake and off my seat.

The next day of the trip which would take me through Oregon and Washington before getting off in Seattle and getting on a bus into Vancouver, I had to deal with my decision to spend most of my money on booze the day before. I had enough to eat lunch or dinner, not both, and I had about 10 cigs left. It was going to be tight.

As we moved closer to Seattle I blasted Pearl Jam on my pod. The sense of relief that washed over me knowing that I would be getting off the train soon was almost too much to handle. It was a long slog, but the scenery and the like minded people you meet on such a journey made the whole thing worth it. I would recomend it to every single one of you. In my opinion there are few more beautiful places in the world as Scotland, but this came very, very close.

Eventually, after having to deal with potentially the world's dumbest cunt at the Canadian border, I was in Vancouver and in search of a hotel (nothing like leaving it to the last minute). Now it is late afternoon on Sunday and I am in a different hotel in an attempt to save a bit of money. I will probably just stay in tonight. Maybe I will go for one or two. But that's it.

I made it to Canada. Which is incredible to me because I genuinely didn't think I would leave California. I know I won't last the two months I have booked, but that was just a ball park number. This is an adventure and no adventure can be genuine if you know exactly what you're doing, or indeed if you pass up opportunity simply because you might run out of money. You either go all in, and risk busting out early, or you play safe and coast along, bored, for as long as you can hold on, but never increasing your odds. The latter is not an option. Not when the sense of adventure is telling you "fuck it, go all in, worry about it in the morning."

Lots of Love from Canada, eh!

Sun, Sea, Sand and Sitting On A Couch Watching Videos of Racists.

I went on YouTube this morning and typed in “funny”.

I have ended up spending most of my morning watching videos of Ultra Right Wing Diet-Anarchists roaming the streets of Bumfuck County USA sponsored and, indeed, encouraged by the Fair and Balanced Fox News. Which is disturbing at the best of times. But it is more disturbing and really worrying being on American soil while watching them.

I am in no real danger. I’d imagine their kind of diseased mind wouldn’t last two minutes in the Liberal Orgy of Santa Monica. They have places here that don’t serve meat, and they have legal medicinal marijuana. It is exactly like Sodom and Gomorrah. The End of Days is upon us.

Before we get too far into anything, because this could go anywhere, Blame Reagan. That would be my best advice, if any, for Americans wishing to debate or cast blame on who exactly killed the American Dream. When in doubt, blame Ronald Reagan.: The mumbling puppet. Don’t feel too bad about it either, your parents (or maybe Grandparents) voted an actor from shitty B Movies to be your President. Blame Reagan and your parents. Read a history book that isn’t about the rise of Hitler and the Nazi Party, Teabaggers seem to have an insane knowledge on that subject. If Obama was the Hitler-esque Dictator that the Tea Party are making him out to be they would all be dead or rotting away in camps. These cunts should have a bit more respect for the atrocities committed in the past, that were only able to be accomplished thanks to the kind of misinformation and misplaced hatred that these imbeciles are spreading. They hate the people they hate for hating them in return, when there is enough of the planet between them to just get on with their own lives. “I can’t believe there is a guy in a cave thousands of miles away who hates my god, and wants me to die!” It’s the kind of paranoia you would expect to encounter with someone who’s been on a week long cocaine binge. They don’t need coke though, or weed, they have Fox News and The Lord God Almighty to mess with their minds.

Usually I would watch one or two of these videos and then disconnect from the internet and try my best not to let the words they shite out their mouths ruin my day. But today, I don’t have much to do today. I am currently lying on a couch in a house in Santa Monica. It is stupidly close to the beach. Stupidly close. Despite the Roman Blood coursing through my veins, I burn easy. It’s what happens when you cover Roman Blood with Scottish skin. So I think I might just stay in today and trawl the doldrums of YouTube in the hope I find a real gem. It’s highly likely because within the first 5 videos I had found a woman saying “There’s nothing better than a dead liberal.” and other, equally fucked humans saying that all Muslims should have coded tattoos on their arm, or at the very least be made to wear a badge so that the White God Fearing folks can tell if a Muslim is in their midst.

One thing I have noticed in the many videos I have seen so far is how happy Right Wing Lunatics are when they are spouting some nonsense. It gives them great pride, but I don’t think it is them fuelling up off of the hatred. Because I think I could deal with that. I think it is simply smugness, anchored in the fact that they think they happen to be lucky enough to be born in to the correct way of life. They believe that being white, following white god and comparing everyone who they disagree with to Hitler is the proper order of things.

And to think I just went on YouTube and typed in “funny”.

Skills That Don't Pay The Bills.

There have been two things recently that have pointed out to me how little I am writing. One is the lack of any updates on my blog, or on WNV. This is no new thing, I frequently struggle with writing. The curse of the chancer. But I try, and that is the next best thing. There will always be long periods of not doing enough.

The main reason I know I am slacking on the word count is that I have pretty much mastered a new skill. It is an impressive skill, but also testament to the amount of time I waste in situations where I could just as easily be writing. For example, lying in bed watching shite on TV, a great place to write. But it is in bed where I discovered my new talent. Fear not, this probably isn't going to venture down any of the grim roads I go down on Twitter. As far as I know, I'm not going to start talking about wanking or fingering. You can never be sure, but I am fairly certain I won't.

My new talent involves the remote control for my TV. Many people have many varying terms for the remote control for a TV, but seeing as it controls a TV remotely, I have no concern for any other names you may have for it.

This remote control is quite long, and it has a ridge running down the back, at the bottom of which you place the batteries - which should give a hint as to the width of the ridge. You can grab the ridge without holding onto the front part of the remote control. If you know what I mean. Anyway, with enough practice and tenacity you can spin the remote control on the back of your hand by starting the spin with the ridge. This is why I haven't been writing that much. I have been becoming good at this remote control spinning. And it may please you to find out I have become very good at it. I can spin it 3,4 and sometimes 5 full revolutions on the back of my hand. It would be fairly impressive, If I wasn't lying in bed, alone, spinning a remote control on the back of my hand.

In one sense it started as a boredom thing, TV - at the time of night I watch it - borders on insulting. So you lay there thinking "I should write something." You give it some thought, maybe even opening your notebook or computer. You toy with the idea. Then maybe something to do with WW2 comes on and all those good intentions go to fuck because, finally, something worth watching is on. TV wins over late night thinking 80% of the time. This is a fundamental rule any writer should come to terms with. Sometimes, when it's clicking, obviously I run with it. But most of the time it's too easy to convince yourself what you're doing isn't that good anyway and the best course of action is to watch stuff about killing Nazis. Or you convince yourself that you're just forcing it, and no good writing ever came from forcing it. With the exception of Anne Franks Diary. "I'll finish that bit up some other time" never crossed Anne Frank's mind.

Now that I have mastered the art of spinning a remote control on the back of my hand I will need to find a new thing to become the master of. Because if you're not learning something at anyone time, you are not living your life properly. Sure, spinning a remote control on the back of your hand might not be learning Japanese or guitar or something, but I can spin a remote control on the back of my hand better than you can, and that's all that matters in the end.

The Curse of The Super Pretty People.

I for one am glad Samantha Brick spoke out about this great affliction that only a few people, hand picked by fate, or God (depending on your beliefs) to be the truly great looking, the fortunate few who ugly people pass on the street and think "I wish I was that good looking."

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me I was amazing to look at, I would have a shit load of money. So much money, in fact, that I could probably afford to take massive billboards out all over the world to celebrate my beauty. And the world would sing songs about me. I am that good looking.

Samantha Brick knows the pain that goes with the beauty though, and it's hard to live with because everyone knows you're good looking, and with great beauty comes great misunderstanding. It's not all compliments and dinner parties. A lot of the time we are alone, only a mirror or photographs of ourselves to keep us company. Samantha Brick is lucky, even though she is by far the best looking woman on the face of the planet, or at least that's what I read, she has managed to get a partner. For most of us truly fantastic looking people we are stranded on this planet alone because people assume that just because we are insanely good looking that we are unapproachable.

This curse began at school, where people would taunt me. "Where you off to? Somewhere with other good looking people?" or "Getting lots of good looking girls to suck you off because you're crazy good looking?". It was really hurtful and the school did nothing about it. I got the impression the teachers didn't care.

It has continued, it would seem. All you need to do is read the replies and comments Mrs Brick has recieved in response to her article, people jumped straight on her fantastically feminine and beautiful back about it. Why? Jealousy, that's why.

One day good looking people will be accepted. Maybe even left alone to get on with eating cheese, drinking wine and admiring ones self in the mirror without being ridiculed by ugly people. It isn't Samantha Brick's fault that she was blessed with amazing facial features and a smoking hot body, just like it isn't my fault that I have this insanely well toned stomach and handsome face. If an ugly person wrote an article about how fucking hoaching they are to look at, no one would ridicule them. Except maybe us good looking people, but by and large they would be left alone. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it's just that we have more beautiful eyes than most.

Leave us alone, unless you wish to compliment us on our good looks.

Keep Up or Fuck Off.

If you are looking for a pro download argument, visit your local video shop or cinema. As sad, depressing and over-priced shitholes go, you would be hard pressed to find a place that beats your local video shop or cinema.

I had the misfortune of having nothing to do the other night, I usually find something to do, but the other night - being the night it was - I had no plans. I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to go to Blockbuster. I had refrained from going there for ages, because I owed them money, not a lot as it turns out, but every time I go I end up taking the DVDs back late and owe more money. They have sent debt collectors after me for less than a tenner. This is largely why I just download or "steal" movies.

But I noticed something that I hadn't noticed the last time, which could be because the "download effect" really has taken hold. Equally, I tend to be high when I go to Blockbuster, so it is possible that I have just never noticed, but the place is grim, super grim. I'd go as far as to call it "ghetto". Out of the 3 DVDs I rented, all of them were scratched, one was too scratched to watch. All were fairly new releases. This is as much to do with the customers as it is to do with the company itself, but that is not the point.

The cinema is just as bad. I have been to my local cinema (an odeon) about 2 times in the last 5 or 6 years. The reasons being as follows. It is stupidly expensive. It is dank, dirty and fucking old. The staff are just so far beyond terrible that it is a wonder they even address you as a human being. The last time I was there was to watch District 9. The projector cut out 3 times, and while it came back on at the same point each time I had to argue with the manager to get my money back. Which I eventually did, in the form of a free ticket. Which I took and didn't use. But it was the principle. I hadn't been in a few years before that day, I only went because my friend Paul was up from London and we wanted to sit in the cold and see a movie on a big, worn out screen.

The time before that I was there myself, I was baked, and wanted to see something. I can't for the life of me remember what film it was, I didn't stick around to watch it. It was a Sunday, I think. There was about 6 people in the cinema. I sat up the back, and just before the movie started two guys came in and sat in the row in front of me. I say "guys", lets call them "cunts". So these two cunts sat down and started talking. No big deal, I thought, the movie had not yet started.

They continued to talk as the movie started. I looked about, no one else looked close enough to have it bother them. Then, just when I thought they couldn't be bigger cunts, they started smoking. It was before the smoking ban, but still, you can't smoke in a cinema.

The main problem I faced is that there were two of them, they sounded like madmen in the way that they talked, and I was baked. I looked around to see if a member of staff had clocked it. No staff. They continued talking and smoking. I decided enough was enough, I wasn't focused on the movie, and didn't really care to get into a fight with a cupla fannies. So I grabbed my bag, jacket, drink and popcorn and walked into the lobby.

In the lobby I found the 3 staff members gathered, the one guy was telling a story to two females about, from what I could gather, a night out. Something that made him sound cool, no doubt. A combination of frustration at not telling those guys to fuck off, and my buzz being ruined by the second. I took action at the real problem, the staff.

The two cunts smoking and talking in the cinema were not the real issue, deeper down in the situation were the people being paid to deal with the running of the place. At least I told myself that so I could blow up at someone. I took my popcorn and my juice and I emptied them on the floor in front of the staff, and I stepped onto it and said something along the lines of "Great story, listen, if you're not up for doing your job in there, you can do it out here." I called them assholes and I left.

It costs the guts of £15 for a trip to the cinema, more in some places. It costs the guts of a fiver to rent a movie. Yet the standard of both don't reflect the price. Let's for a minute forget about all the fucking dumb movies that Hollywood release weekly. Remakes, prequels, sequels, re-imaginings. Anything to steer clear of hard work and originality. Because hard work and originality costs money.

If blockbuster or odeon went out of business no one would mourn them. They deserve to die. Fuck them. Keep up or fuck off. They have done nothing to their prices, blockbuster have 99p rentals, sure, but they were first used as Frisbees by the looks of them. If the new releases look like a miniature ice rink, you can imagine how bad the DVDs that have been out for a year + would look like. I hope they do go out of business, the fucks. At least HMV have dropped their prices, it's still an over priced shithole mainly, but they do cheap(ish) DVDs. Plus you get to keep them.

The point is, why make such an effort to put yourself in a situation where you are getting shafted at great cost to you? Why pay some wanky film school cunt at your local cinema to not do the easy as fuck job they have? I'd love to work in a cinema. Getting paid to watch movies? The dream. File sharing exists, the movie execs will have to find a way to evolve in to it. It's not going away. My first business as a kid was pirating and selling VHS. Me and my buddies sold them down the market. I didn't think it was a crime then and I certainly don't think it is now. Oceans 12, that was a crime. Stardust, that was crime. I didn't start a campaign against the talentless fucks who shat those movies into existence. But the fact I paid to go see them entitles me to steal other movies. That's how this shit works. I see a bad movie, I steal a good one. Tit for tat. One thing is for sure, I am pretty much certain I won't be going back to blockbuster or odeon.

Fuck Your Valentine. Properly.

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