Author: Sull

Pigeon Alterations

Ahhh the wonder of science. Ahhh the wonder of Mother Nature. Ahhh the wonder of man’s constant need to piss about with the both of them. Some things are obviously beneficial to mankind. A cure for Cancer, a cure for AIDS or a solution to global warming perhaps but who thought of remote controlled pigeons? Scientists in China say they have succeeded in controlling the flight of pigeons with micro electrodes planted in their brains. The implants stimulate different areas of the pigeon’s brain according to signals sent by the scientists via computer, and force the bird to comply with their commands.

These are clearly very clever people and perhaps one day this technology can be used in humans but for now the scientists are sticking to the sky rats despite them not specifying practical uses for remote-controlled pigeons. Not that clever then are they. I’m no scientist but here are a few suggestions;

  • Catch the (Remote Controlled) Pigeon – Live from Trafalgar Square. One team control remote control bi-planes and try to shoot his or her opponents pigeon out the sky. Hosted by John Shuttleworth
  • Celebrity Pigeon On Ice – Where Z-listers get to simultaneously dance, skate, and fly with their pigeon to Ravel’s Bolero, 5,6,7,8 by Steps or The Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up.
  • The police could use them to attack glue sniffing hoodies from a safe distance. A flock of say….five thousand pigeons should do it.
  • Install a camera on their heads and you could use them to collect the newspaper or depending on size and strength of said pigeon, the weekly shop.

Given a bit of thought there must be hundreds of uses for a remote control pigeon. Somewhat shortsighted, the Chinese. I wonder if they’re looking for an ideas man…….

Shit-Hot Fuzz

I’ve just returned from a lazy Sunday daytime visit to the cinema to watch Hot Fuzz. Not sure if the film is a commentary on the social dynamics of small countryside villages and the mindset of the people therein or a piss funny homage to the American Buddy Cop films. Somewhere between the two methinks. As a big fan of Spaced and Shaun of the Dead I did wonder if the same team of Pegg, Frost and Wright could do it again but they manage to pull it off with aplomb. It’s certainly the funniest British film about coppers since Cannon & Ball made The Boys In Blue. I am joking of course, that was cack. Although the theme tune was quite catchy.

Look out for it popping up on a Guilty Pleasures compilation anytime soon.

Chaka Mad and Crying Doves

The 43rd NFL/American football/Grid Iron Superbowl was played over the weekend (some team won) and the powers that be deemed Prince be a more appropriate performer for the half time show since Janet Jackson had her “slip” and caused mass hysteria across the entire US. So the guy who sang you sexy motherfucker, changes his name to a symbol and protests against his record contract using crayola all over his face is a “safe bet”? Riiiiight….. As it happens his performance apparently went without a hitch but I hope they had big screens up for the audience as Prince is so small he can fit in a match box. Thinking of his strange antics reminded me of one of my favourite directors, Kevin Smith, telling an audience about his firsthand experiences with the Purple Paisley one from his An Evening with Kevin Smith DVD;

Part 1

Part 2

If you thought that was funny you can check out his blog or movies.

Bacteria

Apparently there are 50 times more bacteria on your kitchen chopping board than on your toilet seat. I wonder if the person researching this now chops his food on the shitter and sits on his chopping board? Perhaps he or she doesn’t use a chopping board at all. Imagine the state of their kitchen surfaces. Perhaps they don’t use knives to avoid marking the surfaces. They would have to use their hands like cave dwellers. I’m not having a sandwich they make. Imagine the bacteria on it.

Belated New Year Bleurgh

So another year is upon on us…. I’ve emerged from the season of prescribed celebrations a somewhat jaded figure this year. Perhaps being on call over the Christmas period didn’t help but the forced aspect of Christmas and New Year celebrations have begun to chafe the soul. I’ve come to realise, perhaps with age, that the best times are the unexpected times. The times where you pick up the phone and get a few pals out for a pint at the last minute. Not the ones which the build up starts four months earlier than necessary. Fucking Christmas starts in September these days! Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m not being a complete miserable jaded bah humbug twat. There are the prescribed occasions which do result in good times. Weddings (provided no punches fly), Stag Dos and Glastonbury spring to mind. People tell me, “It’s cos you aint got kids”. Hmmm, lets think about that shall we. Kids = 10 x more presents = 10 x more expenditure = -10 x visits to local hostelry on account of not trusting glue sniffer to babysit aforementioned kids. Nope. Like a Farepak hamper, I’m not having it.

Something else I’m not having this year and others too it would seem, are New Years resolutions. People seem to have stopped manifesting out of reach goals for themselves. Why wait until Jan 1st to stop smoking/eating/drinking/masterbating/shooting up (delete as applicable). If you’re serious about stopping and you really want to achieve that goal in question do it now. No? Ok then. Wrap it up in a New Years resolution so that come February 1st you can blame not achieving the goal which you secretly didn’t want to achieve on the fact that it was a New Years resolution and that you never see them through. Thats not the only thing which galls me about new years resolutions. They all have a recurrent theme running through them. I’m going to stop smoking, I’m going to stop eating, I’m going to stop dancing when drunk. Me. Me. Me.

Why not make your New Years resolution a charitable one? Help someone less fortunate this year? Send me your money ! Only kidding. Check out www.charitychoice.co.uk and start giving to those less fortunate.

Talking of resolutions. Perhaps I should have one this year. Update this site a little more frequently….

Tis the Season to be Damning

Damn you Microsoft, damn you straight to hell. Damn you Rockstar, damn you straight to hell too. I’ve had the pleasure of a day off work today and rather than do something sensible like a bit of DIY, perhaps put a window in my shed (long story) or take a stroll in the brisk winter air picking up porno mags from railway sidings I happened by the Xbox 360 on button and my copy of Rockstar Table Tennis. Jesus (no blasphemer), it’s a digital version of smack but without the teeth loss, bad skin, and inevitable death.

I picked the game up back in May when it was originally released. At 20 quid, it was incredibly cheap and my Scottish bloodline just couldn’t resist. I played it a little bit on-line and off realised I was remarkably shit at it and lo it came to..erm..rest on the shelf making way for some other graphics over content barrage on the senses.

“Just when I thought that I was out they pull me back in !!” Micheal Coreleone Sullivan Gill

So rather than go out the house today and scare pensioners with a shitty stick I decided to give Table Tennis another go. Not a good decision. I have run the entire gamut of human emotions playing this today. The joypad has been this far from exited via the window countless times. I’ve screamed with joy so much I beginning to sound like my rutting neighbours. I’ve been abusive, dirty (I’ve defecated in my jeans several times rather than make the few steps to the nearest WC), cruel (kicked the cat), suffered immeasurable highs and lows but still I keep going back for more. Hence the smack comparison. However, Pete Doherty, Anthony Kiedis, and Ant and Dec (not yet proven) can go to Rehab for a detox. What can I do…… I need help.
Help.
Me…

For me it’s too late. I am beyond redemption. But for those of you haven’t purchased this or played it. I urge you don’t. Just go see your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer instead. Herion is cool. Haven’t you seen Trainspotting? It looks a right old laugh.

How the hell can you tell?

I came across some interesting news recently;

Polish Police Are Searching For Farting Dissident

This prompted me to think, perhaps a little too much, on how is it we tell we whether a fart is being disrespectful? Could it be that the tone of the fart was merely misunderstood by the over zealous lawman? How do you explain to the lawman that the fart was complementary? That perhaps it was merely stating how beautiful his wife and children are and that he wishes them a long and prosperous life full of happiness and joy. Just because a farts stink doesn?t mean their hearts aren?t in the right place. Poland is clearly a frightening place to live and something where I, for I have been known to break wind on the odd occasion, wouldn?t like to end up after 12 pints of Stella and a Chicken Madras. If this is high crime in Poland, I’m never going. After all it must be up there with regicide and heroin smuggling for them to alert Interpol.

Bit of advice for you Polish, lay off the Bigos in future. All that cabbage can cause havoc with your guts. Next thing you know you’ll be up for the death sentence.

As for their Russian neighbors…..

Just how strong is that Vodka !?!?

Zante wi’ me Auntie

It wasn’t with my Auntie despite what the above says but it rhymes so I’m having it….. Ahhh Greece at the arse end of August when all the kids are about to bugger off back to school. What better way to say goodbye to the Summer than to plonk yourself by a pool and read countless books whilst burning your skin off for 10 hours of the day. This was the holiday of biographies for me. Three to be exact. The first was John Peel’s brilliant half biography-half auto biography lovingly finished by his wife. The life story of a wonderfully humble, insecure and self effacing man who even at the time of his death still sincerely thought he wasn’t any good at his job or even that popular (!). Here was a man who openly recounted the details of being buggered by a school study monitor in a Shrewsbury toilet at the age of thirteen which such candour and humour (telling his wife aka The Pig years later, he figured she was more upset than him) without being strangely remorseful. An absolute gem of a book. My second biography was Vic Reeves’ slightly off centre tales of childhood and teenage years ending with him heading down the A1 to the big smoke at the age of 20. His vivid childhood memories of marbles, egg theft, (not) getting laid, spacka wagons and pig bollocks is a must read for any bloke who grew up with only 3 to 4 channels on the TV and had to make do with his pushbike and imagination. The third was the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Anthony Kiedis’ memoir, Scar Tissue. What starts off as an entertaining story of a less than ideal drug addled, star mingling childhood soon turns into a laborious I slept with this girl, did this drug, slept with this girl, did this drug cycle of monotony only to pick up once again around the release of Blood Sugar Sex Magic.

It wasn’t all work work work though. I took advantage of the daily boat trips round Zante. The trip stopped off at the “famous” shipwreck, (had it been closer to more hospitable land would have be moved and melted down for scrap a long time ago), was given the chance to swim with the famous Loggerhead “Caretta Caretta” Turtles (a.k.a. World Famous Ghost Turtles as I never saw once never mind swam with one), and eat traditional Greek Souvlaki and chips complete with 90% of the salt from the Aegean Sea. All of this to a brilliant Greek rendition of Axel F on the boat’s 1.1 surround sound system. John Peel would have been proud.