Saturday, 15 January 2011

Losing My Blog-inity

It’s very important you read this preface before starting this blog. The following contains explicit scenes, language and terrible (but hilarious) offensive material. If you have the intelligence, wit, sense of humour and good looks required to understand any of this, then read on. Otherwise, feel free to acknowledge you meet none of the criteria and close your browser, placing this blog post back where you found it – possibly the void where your reason for living once was. 

Even as I write this, I'm being distracted by a constantly evolving love affair with Facebook and Twitter. That parenthesised number that appears in the tabs on my browser is relentlessly seductive, like the perfect woman presenting herself with a freshly drawn line of cocaine on her navel. I would personally forgo the drug laden stomach because I'm very much about the woman. This reflects terribly on me, but in reality what you have here is a message for children. Don't do drugs, especially not if they are smothered over a naked lady. (Lady is a little gratuitous, if they are lying naked with a cannabis leaf covering their genitals, they're probably prostitutes). Having opened with a wild digression, you'll have already gotten a flavour for how I like to tease the boundaries of tangents, before flaunting them entirely and rambling. Improv, though, is just my way. Most of this is written straight off the bat. No editing, no re-wording, nought but my streaming thoughts translated into words and presented to you with all the eloquence of a half-cut hobo scrawling on the inside of a prison wall.

(From Left to Right: Mark Wright, Me, Christopher Mooney - Team Vintage (C))

I used to think blogging was for the famous and the self-involved. Perhaps it's hypocrisy that brought me to where I am, or perhaps I'm just embellishing in self-involvement. I do sometimes over-indulge in the sound of my own voice, but it's usually catering for the silence of others. So with that in mind, I'm performing a public service. Team Vintage, though, is the sum of my flagrant self-loving. The concept and all that encompasses Team Vintage will be introduced in a blog post all of its own however, this one is merely an introduction to what you can expect me to churn out. Actually, I don't churn stuff out, I lovingly inscribe it onto parchment with a quill, adorned in a smoking jacket complete with a pipe and a deer-hunter hat. Apparently in this analogy I've become Sherlock Holmes. I'd be a terrible Sherlock Holmes, I'm pretty sure the closest thing he has to a love interest is Watson. That ain't my way. If in the middle of a case I happen across an attractive lady, whose sexuality is dancing across her face, Watson ain't gonna stop me getting waylaid (or for that matter, laid).

I often query the taboo surrounding something as ubiquitous as sex. We all do it, regularly in fact, some more often than others. Even animals, and they don't even care if we watch. Is that why it's called dogging? I fear for my internet history if I were to google such a thing. I used to live in a suburban, semi-detached house that was next to an alley. I remember once I was walking back and I heard what sounded like two very angry cats. Strange it was. 'Cause cats haven't got much to be angry about. So I investigated with a brief detour down the back alley. That ain't as sexually suggestive as you might think, I literally took a detour down the alley. What I saw were two cats engaging in very loud, very primal doggy-style (kitty-style?) sex. What really concerned me though, was that the one on top stared at me while he was going at it. He wouldn't relinquish eye contact and he kept opening his mouth. I couldn't help but feel he was mouthing at me to join in. Panic ensued, I ran, they ran. Rude it was. 'Cause I half expected the male one to light up a catnip joint before sending the female one off with a crisp, £20 bill.

When I reflect on what I've written, it sometimes worries me that I manage to digress so far from my original point. There's also, for the more well-read of us, very obvious influences in how I write. I tend to grasp at the far reaches of my vocabulary, yet still fall into the same colloquial traps. Thing is, I'm from the south of England. "You sound like you're from Laaandaaaaan," Yeah, well it is a known fact that London encompasses the entirety of southern England. If that were true we'd not be able to do hilarious west-country farmer accents 'cause they'd all talk like Michael Caine.

Having covered cocaine and cat sex, I feel it is at this point I should end this blog. But before I do, I'm going to do a final plug for Team Vintage. If you could find it within yourselves to hunt us down on facebook and follow us, we'd be eternally grateful. We've got some big stuff in the works that we hope to share with the world, but we cant do it without your support!

So with that, I hope you have enjoyed helping me lose my blog virginity (from which I have aptly coined blog-inity), and I look forward to entertaining you for many more blogs to come.

Big love to you all,