Coming out

It’s taken me a while to build up the courage to do this, and it's possibly the hardest thing that I've ever had to do (except your mum), but I have something to tell you all…

Ladies and gentleman, this news will likely shock you to your very core: I am an adult male.

Now, firstly I must apologise for the needless disclosure of such a shocking revelation. Please ensure you have comfortable seating nearby though, because there is more. I, Matthew Edward Stead IV, am a straight adult male. There’s more, I’m in a relationship. With a woman. Namely my beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading).

I understand that you’re likely still reeling from the unwarranted admission of these facts. However, when you combine these with the fact that I am a Belieber and a Directioner, the amount of awesomeness leaking from my every receptacle is near unbearable limits. It certainly isn’t the most palatable of combinations, that’s for sure.

That’s right, I’m coming out. I have Bieber fever and One Direction infection. (Fucking clever nicknames to be fair, excellent stuff).

Sadly, this life choice is generally derided amongst people my age, and even further disparaged by people of my gender. But why? Bieber and One Direction are, in my opinion, supremely talented and produce good, catchy music.

Seriously though, I’m not even homosexual.

It’s socially accepted for people of my age and gender to listen to the likes of M&M, J-Zed and Small Wayne, but I, quite frankly, am a maverick. Over the years, it’s become fashionable to ‘hate’ the likes of Bieber, One Direction and our Lord Darius, but I just can’t understand why.

Is it because they’re excelling in life while you’re busy studying your family tree? If you’re wondering, it’s a cactus because everyone on it is an insufferable prick (that’s just downright childish, but it’s also categorically hilarious).

I really don’t get the hate. They’re clearly talented, unlike many ‘artists’ in the music business, and are simply pursuing their dreams. It’s likely an unfortunate bout of jealousy, but at least I’m out and proud now.

That’s right. I respect, admire and willingly listen/sing/masturbate to Justin Bieber and One Direction. And I love penis!

Wait, what…

Banter

If I asked you to conjure up thoughts of the single most lamentable thing to ever have transpired on Earth, what would your response be? The Nazi concentration camps? The Russian Gulags? Or the moment Darius understandably struggled to emulate the unequivocal success of worldwide smash-hit Colourblind? Aside from the raw pain that even a brief thought of the latter induces, the introduction of the word ‘banter’ into the English language ranks highest personally.

Type ‘conversation’ into Microsoft Word, right-click and then hover over the synonyms option. The final result, if your computer is a mainstream dick, should be ‘banter’. Well it shouldn’t be, but it is.

Much to the chagrin of myself and other sane, respectable people, ‘banter’ has become a word stitched into the fabric of the younger generation’s everyday lives. Amongst a cacophony of over/misused and diluted words such as ‘literally’, ‘physically’ and ‘reem’, ‘banter’ is the most incongruous, questionable and downright detestable of them all.

Basically, ‘banter’ encapsulates the reprehensible ‘lad culture’ evident in today’s society. If you perpetrate the usage of the word ‘banter’ in a serious manner, you’re a contemptible prick.

The serious use of ‘banter’ requires a complete lack of any sense of humour, self-respect, personality, friends, prospects, education, achievements and social skills. The serious use of ‘banter’ is almost like a free advert for euthanasia. It is hilariously defined by that which it attempts and fails miserably at being: impulsive, witty and bearable. The serious use of ‘banter’ should, in my generally correct opinion, be met with the death sentence. And you wouldn’t be able to appeal it either, because “it’s just banter.”

Could you imagine if Hitler purported the defence of ‘racial banter’ back in the 1940s, or Dappy’s parents attempted the usage of ‘sexual banter’ to protect their actions during his conception? The line has to be drawn somewhere, and hopefully it’s drawn with a dangerously sharp knife onto the scrawny neck of one of the bell-ends that uses ‘banter’ seriously.

So if you’re a ‘bantersaurus’, a ‘banterlope’ or ‘Banter Claus’, what you’re actually admitting to is being a massive, unadulterated, uncultured, inexcusable, indefensible, reprehensible, unacceptable, unforgiveable, disgraceful, shameful twat.

Now pull up your jeans to hide your visible and derisible arse-crack, get a respectable job unlike your slut of a mother and stop listening to your ‘grimy, gritty, dirty’ dubstep.

Banterlols, right?

Primark workers are shit

Most are, anyway.

Now, you know I love really shit sayings. Here's another: you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Especially when these tricks are respect, a valid opinion and accurate conceptions of the younger generation.

Before I start, I’m fully aware that I’m purveying a hilariously contradictory and crass generalisation of those older than me, shut up.

My beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading) works at Primark. She does this for the money, and is currently working towards becoming a teacher. She has a distinct dislike for the place shall we say, but as a supervisor she often runs the rule over people who are older than her. These people do not like this authority, but why?

Is it because my girlfriend, probably half your age, has more career prospects than you ever had and ever will?

Is it because you have a deep-seated inner loathing of yourself because you’re in your 40s and work at Primark?

Is it because you have a deep-seated inner loathing of yourself just because you work at Primark?

Is it because you don’t like authority, or at least authority held by someone younger than you?

Are you jealous, or even naïve enough to think you’re better than people due to your age?

Is it because you’re a bitch?

Now, I’m not one to cast aspersions and definitely haven’t made my mind up that the final point is almost certainly correct, but if you’re a regular worker and don’t listen to those in authority over you, you don’t deserve that job. It’s pretty simple.

And it’s not just Primark, it’s people in general. Do these people honestly believe that because they’re older than us, they’re better? Why, when we do something they disagree with, is our age called into question? Is it really because we’re “young and learning”, or is it because you simply have a different opinion?

I don’t hold the same opinion of all older people, may I add. From personal experience the majority of ‘older’ Primark workers (generally of the female persuasion) are bell-ends though. Especially your dad.

Really shit sayings

You know those sayings; those inane, cliché-ridden ones that render you incapacitated with a burning rage? Well hold your horses, because this top 10 list right here is longer than your arm (provided you’re a dwarf/midget/insert politically correct term here). That one’s for my beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading).

10. You only live once
Wait, what? I only live once?! How have I never heard of such a ground-breaking theory before? How have you come to these conclusions? I have no idea how to react to this…
               
9. Live every day as if it’s your last

Right, there’s my answer. I know you’re a free spirit, live-in-the-moment pig-fucking attention whore, but don’t propagate your pathetic mantra while I’m within earshot at least. This is neither physically, mentally or economically viable. Fuck off.

8. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer
What kind of a warped sense of reality is that? I’m struggling to fathom why you’re such a grand wall of dickishness.

7. Couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery
I should hope not. A brewery is an establishment dedicated to the making of beer, not drinking it. If you were caught attempting to instigate any sort of drink-related shenanigans within such a building it’d certainly be frowned upon at the very least.

6. Don’t beat around the bush
Thanks for your concern, but I’ll masturbate where I want.

I did try and tell you: don't beat around the Bush. He'll just reciprocate, and I ain't cleaning that mess up.

5. Safe as houses
Try telling that to the McCann’s.

Rapidly moving on, I’d say it’s safer to assume that the proprietor of the aforementioned comment has never lived in Burley or Headingley, or even Britain for that matter.

4. By the skin of my teeth
That non-existent skin on your teeth? Impressive. Why don’t you stop being such a contemptible twat-sword and do something worthwhile in your shit life, you good-for-nothing bastard? Your family hates you and your terribly inaccurate scientific theses. You’re adopted.

3. Blood is thicker than water
And my dick’s thicker than blood (honest), so are you going to be inviting my dismembered phallus to any family get-togethers any time soon? No, you’re not.

2. All’s fair in love and war
Yeah, those silly Jews getting all up in arms about Hitler, I say we let him off. Bloke was just misunderstood. While we’re at it, we’ll get him and Stalin to spit-roast your partner, all’s fair in love after all, isn’t it?

1. Be careful
Have you genuinely told me to be careful just as I depart on the ever-dangerous five minute trek to the shop? Before your ingenious pearl of wisdom I was going to take my AK-47 and incite racial hatred while wearing a white blanket over my head.

Now I’ll just leave the AK-47.

So yeah, if you're one of those people who use these meaningless, worthless bastards of phrases, go ahead and reach for that knife...

And continue buttering your bread, but bare in mind that one day I will strangle you with my testicles.

Student housing or dilapidated pile of steaming Indian takeaway shit?

Both.

Now, I know that student housing is inherently terrible, and it’s something that for one reason or another is generally accepted in the modern world. I draw the line however, at gays being allowed to do this.

Only kidding, you queer bastard. On to the actual issue.

I signed up for a house last year with my beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading) and three others. Upon signing, I wasn’t under the illusion that we’d have a butler named Jeeves, gold-plated bathrooms and walls made of money. I did, however, incorrectly assume that our walls wouldn’t leak, our lights wouldn’t constantly flicker and our bedrooms wouldn’t become near-inhabitable, to the stage where sleeping in them actually renders us ill.

Below is a recently compiled list of some of the problems with our house. While I’m hell-bent on sending our estate agents this list, it’s probably inadvisable.

Things wrong with the house

1.       All 5 bedrooms are cold enough to the extent that all 5 of us have had to sleep fully-clothed at some point. Why starve people of my Adonis-like figure?

2.       The gentleman staring back at me in the mirror is annoyingly attractive

3.       A second floor bedroom is leaking through both the window and the light. Yes, the light. To be fair though, the tenant who sleeps in that bedroom loves living with a potential electrocution-related death literally hanging over him.

4.       Downstairs light flickers. CONSTANTLY

5.       We were incorrectly informed that we’d have a drier, which played a part in us signing the contract. This is therefore misleading and false advertisement, which is illegal. These people are rogues.

6.       The oven – which should be fit for the purpose of cooking for 5 people – has just one shelf. FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS

A light. Extraordinary how it isn't expelling water, isn't it? What is this modern phenomenon? IT'S COMMON SENSE AND ACCEPTABLE LIVING STANDARDS YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING PRICK-RACK.

We’re paying well over £30,000 accumulatively for this house. It takes a special kind of dick-job to seek employment in the field of estate agents, but when retardation levels reach that of ignoring these issues for nearly 6 months, the legality of being an arse-pilot must be called into question.

My sentence of choice for such crimes? Being force-fed one of my (at least) five spicy excretions after a large Indian takeaway.

But seriously, it makes you wonder how the fuck places like these even get a good reputation as estate agents, even to the extent where they’re supported by Unipol. It’s clear that they don’t give a shit as long as they get their extortionate money, but try and make the living standards average at least.

Shit is ridiculous. And no, not my Indian takeaway shits.

Anyway, Jeeves; you couldn’t submit this article for me, could you?

National Rail? More like National Really Shit

I’m a university student.

Part and parcel of the accepted university life is an unrivalled ability to rack up an insurmountable debt, to be able to walk to the local shop and buy a Twister lolly in the winter (underrated but simple pleasure) and an aptitude of living off a cheap and diverse selection of local takeaways.

However, another realisation coupled with university life is that train services are absolutely diabolical.

Being a university student in Leeds but coming from Mansfield, the holidays generally begin with a three/four hour journey home. That’s fine; train journeys provide me with the perfect entertainment of judging every single person near me. You want me to move my bag and sit next to me? Yeah, fair enough, but don’t expect me to stop singing Colourblind by Darius under my breath.

I digress. This year’s Easter holidays began just wonderfully, spending time with my beautiful girlfriend (she’s probably reading) caring/pretending to care (delete as applicable) what clothes she’s buying. The time came however when we had to go home. With three bags packed full of shite, that’s not an ideal journey.
What National Rail decided to do though, was to make this journey even fucking worse.

Transgression #1) Broken ticket machine
That’s all well and good as just a one-off, but the ticket machine at Burley Park never fucking works. It has about as much worth as Nick Clegg’s morals.

Transgression #2) Idiot
So I was forced to buy my ticket at the Leeds stations ticket office. Fair enough. Only the gentleman servicing my request was an absolute dick-munch. “Return from Burley Park to Mansfield please, mate”, I respectfully asked. “To where?” said the gentleman.

Surprised the cameraman has the ability to capture heaven, really

Here’s my first fucking bear-bug. What criteria did this monumental jackwagon have to pass to get a job at National Rail? It certainly wasn’t a simple grasp of geography, nor general use of the English language. I’m not going to go on a xenophobic and downright retarded right on why foreigners don’t deserve jobs in Britain, because I feel that if they can do the jobs better than anyone else, they should. But why employ a man who can’t speak English in the third busiest national rail service? It’s like employing someone with self-respect and a likeable demeanour to work at a bank.

He didn’t stop there on his individual crusade to be a penis, though. Having spelt out the name of my hometown to him (at this point I had 10 minutes to catch my train, which was on the other side of the station), he finally completed the transaction. “£33 please.” I nearly choked on my talent and awesomeness. With a tumult of hilarious, verbose insults flying around my head, I literally just picked up my bags and walked off.

Now, my ticket should be £22. You might be thinking to yourself: “Oi, nobhead. That’s only £10 difference.” My response is this: fuck off, I’m a student. I can get 10 bags of Maoam Balls or Haribo Supermix for that.

The one saving grace for National Rail was a delightful old ticket-lady, who allowed me to use my rail-card on the train. You, madam, are a saint, and National Rail has no idea of your excellence. Seek further employment elsewhere, you maverick.