Take the tents down – this is a no camping zone.

Indulge me for a moment; close your eyes and let your imagination catapult you into a futuristic, semi-utopian society - I’ll leave you to your own devices in regards to the date; all depends how optimistic you are. You’re living life in a world where social progression has reached its highest peak; where all forms of prejudice have been eradicated from this world & Madonna, in her never ending bid to stay continuously relevant, has imprinted her personality into a robot and is about to release her 47th studio album (as I said, it’s a semi-utopian society.)

Right, now you’re there get your glad-rags on; liquor yourself up a reasonable amount and head out – we’re going dancing, boys! You stroll into what you presume to be a gay club. Nonchalantly you strut across to the bar, purchase a drink and take a moment to admire your surroundings – you’re in the future after all. Your eyes dart from one side of the bar and then rapidly speed across to the other. There are business types, gents in suits and guys that have just ventured in to watch a football match. A virile stench fills the air and laddish banter bounces off the walls. However, as you look closer, you notice that some of these gents are holding hands, kissing. They’re couples. These masculine macho punters are all homosexual. Something doesn’t seem right, you mutter to yourself; where are all the camp men?

Of late, when I've been out on Glasgow’s gay scene, I’ve noticed that the gay community is evolving. A lot of gay men say that they don’t want to be associated with the stereotype of being ‘camp’ – that they think it’s negative and degrading. But what is even meant by the word ‘camp’? And why now is it being weeded out and shunned by its own community?

I’ve gone out and, at times, it has never even registered that the person right next to me at the bar could in fact be playing for my team. Lately I’ve noticed that although camp guys are getting a lot of attention, it’s not always favourable. Sometimes it’s downright rude the response they get; whispers, comments and disparaging looks are fired their way. In the past I've been guilty of it myself. It’s the sort of reaction you’d expect from a horribly straight club or bar; a place full of ignorant oafs who sport archaic opinions which they’ll gladly offer up without your consent. And it’s when this reaction starts filtering into a scene that’s supposed to welcome ‘camp’ with open arms, you begin to wonder what the future holds for the queens.

To understand why this is beginning to happen, you not only have to look at how society's view on homosexuality is changing; gay men and woman can now be open about who they are without (as much) fear of prejudice, but also have to analyse and define what the very nature of being camp means.

Is it a persona that’s been developed, perhaps subconsciously, by the person in response to what he feels the gay community expects? Adhering to a stereotype because that’s all he’s seen. A lot of the time it boils down to how gay men are portrayed by the media. Homosexual TV presenters are often camp as it’s seen as entertaining, funny – a favourable personality trait you’d like in a friend. Perhaps it’s what the young see being gay as and therefore feel it compulsory to act like that. Or maybe it’s not; some would argue that it’s genetically predetermined, as inevitable hair colour or shoe size. It’s part of who you are; your nature.

Without a doubt it’s a phrase that’s open to interpretation; everyone will have their own view of what ‘being camp’ actually entails. I’ll openly state right now, if someone labels me as camp I get offended – not because I think there’s anything wrong with it, but rather that I don’t fit my definition of camp. To me being camp is, in part at least, down to your appearance: bleached hair, perfectly plucked eyebrows – a tan that owes very little to natural light. The limp-wristed types that are bitchy, but are also equally hilarious. I am in no-way penalizing those who fit my, or anyone else’s, definition of camp. I find them endearing and have nothing but the upmost respect for anyone that has the gumption and conviction to unapologetically be themselves.

Without a doubt though, straight-acting gay men are beginning to dominate the scene and I think that's a lot more appealing to most guys. Even sites and apps that are specifically engineered for gay men, such as Grindr, are full of ‘masculine’ men who want a partner that isn’t effeminate. But surely choosing to adopt the phrase ‘straight-acting’ is a bit counterproductive towards our cause? We’re campaigning for equal rights; to be accepted for who we are – whether we flutter and flit or favour football - anyway, I digress. Maybe it is down to preference; personally I’m not sexually attracted to overly camp men. I go for guys that genuinely look straight; I don't find camp men appealing in that way, but that’s not to say they should vanish from the scene.

So what would happen if the gay scene became a camp-free zone? Personally I think it’d loose some of its spark. As irksome as some 'queen types' can be, they do inject a certain element of flavour into nights out and, as long as they aren't hurting anyone, what's the harm? Communities are shaped and recognized by all its members, regardless of people’s opinions on them or how they’re viewed. Really in the end everyone is going to be who they are, regardless of their sexual orientation. Nowadays straight men are often camp or eccentric. Loud clothing and louder personalities are no-longer simply reserved for the homosexuals. The proposed future I made you visit earlier perhaps, in some parts, may one day exist – humanity could at some point pay little-to-no heed to the concept of sexuality. But people will always be themselves; whether that is camp, laddish or a Madonna fan.

I've got a bee in my bonnet and that bee's name is Renfrewshire Council.

So, after a fairly heated call with Renfrewshire Council I was informed that unless you're on benefits you're not priority for a home.

I looked into it and it's 150 a week for temporary accommodation, something I was informed you "can't afford' as a student - the direct quote was "You'll need to decide between University and being on housing benefits." Is that really how the system works? Bettering yourself automatically inflicts a hell-of-a lot of burdens upon you & lessens your chance of getting help from the local authority? How is struggling for somewhere to live if you're a student any different than if I were to be claiming benefits?

I am NOT having a dig at people on benefits; I have friends that are genuinely struggling to gain employment and do need assistance, that's fine - that's what the council are meant to do. I know that we're nursing a fragile economy, that finding employment is a colossal task - you've got more chance of having a dry TITP as you are to land a job quickly. But what I can't stomach is when you see people that do abuse the system, that use whatever cash they falsely claim for drugs, booze & whatever else whilst being rewarded with free housing and funds to finance their pathetic lifestyle.

It's a sad state of affairs when you're told by someone who was employed to help advises you to quit further education and claim benefits. Say what you will about David Cameron, but at least he's attempting to weed out those who falsely claim benefits. If this status somehow offends you then I apologise, but don't bother leaving any feed back - I'm not interested today.

Bored? Become a Superhero.

Here it comes, the echoes of self-pity; line-after-line of nothing but sheer, undiluted hatred and loathing for both me and my fellow man. The following paragraphs will positively reek of negativity and they’ll be seasoned with a generous helping of wallowing. 

My life is worryingly becoming more & more like that movie Groundhog Day. I seem destined to repeat the same agonizing scenes of miserable boredom incessantly.  Imagine having to teach an entire language to a reluctant child whilst having peanuts catapulted at your head constantly by a sardonic monkey, which has Justin Bieber’s face literally grafted onto its head, to only have to repeat the whole teaching process again as your student suddenly develops amnesia after mastering the language. That’s what my life feels like day-to-day. And no, I am not being dramatic. I reckon it’s a safe bet that a blind goldfish likely leads a more enthralling existence than I currently do. And if said goldfish doesn’t, at least he’ll go on living a life of blissful disillusion in which he thinks he’s happy as he’ll forget his crippling woes in a matter of seconds. 

It’s because of this crazy-inducing boredom that I’ve decided to create a document that offers some solutions and suggestion to anyone that may also be suffering as I am. 

Suggestion number 1: When you awake in the morning make sure the first thing you do is put on a hat. Throughout the long, drawn-out hours that make up the boring days, you are at no given point allowed to remove the hat from your head; to do is will be taken as hubris to the Hat Gods and Goddess that are constantly watching. Continue wearing the increasing ripe smelling hat until you develop an unconventional/borderline unhealthy attachment to it, at which point I will, with all the elegance and grace of a pig with a fractured trotter, stealthy break into your home and abduct your hat. You’ll spend the next few weeks embarking on a Taken style adventure. With Liam Neeson himself as your guide, you’ll leap from continent to continent desperately trying to recover your precious hat, following the clues I’ve left you.

Suggestion number 2: Steal people’s joy. Every time you see a post that has even the slightest hint of happiness or joy in it, immediately copy that post, rearrange if needs be, and paste it onto your wall. You can now spend the next few hours conjuring as fictitious a tale as you like when people enquire about the good news/whatever joyous post you’ve plagiarized. 

Suggestion number 3: Venture out into the streets and find the most ruthless, vicious, potentially murderous person possible. After locating said person, shackle yourself to them and for the next several days fling as many irksome questions/remarks/dirty socks at them as humanly possible until you’ve whipped them into a murderous frenzy.  Following the arrival of their homicidal state, you must now attempt to anaesthetize their killer side with DVD box sets and the Coronation Street Sunday omnibus.

Suggestion number 4: Develop a superhero alter-ego and become a vigilante. Stop relentlessly picking your backside and quit gawping at your TV like someone four hundred years from now will look at a Nokia 3310 and start preparing your costume – you’ve got crime to stop! Enlist the help of your other bored friends and form 'The Axis of the Bored'. Together take down every vile, morally-impoverished criminal, mugger and white rapper with your righteous fists of fury.  Develop your own warped sense of justice and before you know it, the BBC camera crew will be zooming in on your heroic ways and you’ll gain followers on Twitter faster than Sisqo’s career vanished. 

These are all tried and tested methods, but sadly I’ve exhausted them all.  My days are now composed of continuing my seemingly fruitless quest for a part-time job and, when I’m not being ignored or given the metaphorical middle finger by potential employers, sitting for hours relentlessly gawking at the bottom right hand corner of screen. Like a man in drunken stupor trying to read a bus timetable, I watch as the precious second’s tip-toe by, praying all the while to whatever deity will listen and pleading with them to fast-forward time to the beginning of term. Not because I’m in any great rush to start back on the rocky-road of education, but because at least being back at university will pull me out of my doldrums. So I hope anyway.  

Ironically though, I bet when I do start roaming the lands of University again, I’ll still find myself continuously mumping and moaning. Perhaps I’m just perpetually grumpy, forever doomed to lead a life that is laced with dissatisfaction and a constant bombardment of disappointment, whilst I robotically stagger up whatever path promises to deliver the quickest route to fame and fortune. If my life were soap, people would feel ‘ever so sad’ after each excruciatingly narcissistic episode. 

Anyway, until I score a lottery win or actually find employment, I’m forever going to be anchored to this life of endless tedium. Perhaps I need to step out of this plaintive way of thinking, or perhaps the world and its occupants need to stop being such cunts. The debate will continue, as will my boredom; day after day after day.

Pray the gay away.

With same-sex couples being on the cusp of gaining equal marriage rights in Scotland, as well as battling for the same chance elsewhere in the world, the legalisation of gay marriage continues to do nothing less than wedge a massive divide between parties,  the general public and most notably the Church. 

Whilst growing up, the attendance of church amongst my peers was de rigueur. Each week the obligatory Sunday school classes were taken and I did, on occasion, actually read the bible – though nine times out of ten, I stealthy slid a comic inside. From what I remember reading, the bible spoke of love for humanity, tolerance and acceptance - three practices that seem to be embraced selectively - and I'm getting the impression a few religious bodies perhaps glided over those chapters.

I continued my quasi-religious practices until my early teens, but continued being an active part my local Christian youth for a couple years after - not for any devout religious reasons, but mainly because I felt comfortable engaging in conversation with my fellow attendees. As far as I was aware my sexuality was apparent, but God withheld the urge to have lightning bolts hurled at me and I didn't erupt into flames upon entering the building; some older members of the congregation did harbour some ill feelings, but that was more a generational issue, than it was His– to be honest, I don’t think God had any issues with my sexuality. But the problem we're faced with is no longer the congregation, who of recent years have swayed their stance on gay rights, but rather those who hold positions of authority within the church. 

What must be carefully taken into consideration here though, for both political and religious bodies, is that this topic does, and shall continue to, part the sea of opinions.  It excites sizable protests from religious leaders, who say that by legalising gay marriage the government is stripping them of their religious freedom and to an extent this is true. But for Christianity to continue its existence in a constantly evolving world it must adapt to the ever changing views of man; otherwise it will inevitably become extinct.

The argument roots from the story of Adam and Eve. When God created a partner for Adam, he created a female; Eve. The church states that marriage is a fundamental social institution that exists for the greater good of a community, that it is not there purely for emotional satisfaction, and that using it for emotional fulfilment it can cause deep corruption. And since its Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, gay marriage doesn’t quite make the cut. The church may outline the very nature of marriage, and for that matter sexual activity, freely; but they have no right to thrust and enforce their characterisation of marriage on everybody else. As for corruption, they need only turn to married heterosexual couples, there they’ll find relationships that are plagued and littered with adultery, domestic abuse and divorce.

It is somewhat ironic though, that with so many indiscretions creeping around 'unnoticed' right underneath the Churches nose,  that their judgemental gaze still stays firmly fixed  upon the issues surrounding gay marriage. Some extreme religious groups even offer controversial ‘conversion’ therapies, which are just so absurd its borderline comical; on your knees, my child. Pray the gay away. Why do they use the Bible as a weapon for hate and prejudice? At least have the gumption to claim ownership to your ignorance and hate; don't pass the blame to Him. I don't know about you, but the fact such deluded people hold positions of power and authority puts the fear of God in me. 

As far as I can tell, and have personally heard, a large percentage of congregations are now in full support of equal marriage rights, despite what the Church's hierarchy continue claim its followers believe. However, the question is no-longer if the Church hierarchy can lead but is now if they can follow? Will they adhere to their congregations cries of approval and support for gay marriage? Why go against the increasingly accepting majority, what do they benefit from it? Perhaps it’s to keep their power. Christianity is preached according to their interpretation of the bible; what they believe its saying. If they give in to the congregation then, perhaps, they fear that the bible will truly be open to individual interpretation.  I'm not saying the Church has to compromise its values but merely expand them; otherwise in the future there will be a lot of Shepard's without a flock.

Personally I don't know if I'll ever get married. Partly because I have the sexual allure of a horse, partly because I reckon I'd stagger down the aisle with all the elegance and grace of a herd of intoxicated elephants, but mainly because I'm fast losing faith in an institution that's built on a solid slap of hypocrisy. Either way, I'm devout in my belief that marriage should be a union open to everybody, regardless of sexual orientation. We can only pray the Scottish government has the courage to follow through with their convictions.

I don’t need Pride to show I’m comfortable in my own skin.

I don't need PRIDE to show I’m comfortable in my own skin.

If you were out one night, let’s say you were at the dancing, and a drunken heterosexual came up to you, staggering around, slurring his words and, in amongst this drunken kerfuffle, proceeded to conjure up some ‘witty’ remark inquiring as to where your rainbow flag was. Straight away you’d consider his comment homophobic; he’s making a remark that’s based purely on a gay stereotype – something you whole heartedly think is wrong. Yet, if you twirl your fluttering eyelids towards any Pride march, what will you find? Float after float drenched in rainbows of the stereotype you so boldly claim to oppose – I smell hypocrisy, don’t you?

So, why do homosexuals wrap this stereotypical rainbow flag around them, then flail and flounder around like Tinkerbell with her arse on fire whenever someone uses it as a weapon of homophobia? If you want the stereotype to be weeded out, then stop embracing it. I’m not condoning homophobia, not in any way, shape or form, but you can’t claim the torches of hate are being lit when you’re the one that’s providing wood for the fire.

And that’s what Pride does; it fuels the flames of hate. Today, Pride is little more than a giant excuse for cooperate marketing and a bit of drunken fun. The marches claim to ‘celebrate’ its participant’s sexuality, but it’s to its communities own detriment.

Gay Pride was originally initiated with the aim of taking a bold, positive stance against the discrimination and violence towards the LGBT community; hoping to help build community and celebrate sexual diversity and promote equal rights. They were carried out to help eliminate the belief that being gay was a mental illness, that these ‘people’ were inflicted. They challenged state authority and faced hatred - they stood for something. Now half the participants are so drunk, or wearing such outrageous heels, they can barely stand.

Who cares? I do. You’re not being bold, you’re not making a stance and you’re certainly not making a statement – at least not one that’s helping us gain the respect and equality we deserve.  Perhaps you think I’m being too serious, that Pride is just ‘fun’. Well, you know what. Equality is reached through hard work and dedication, not staggering around the streets in a drunken haze whilst dressed in drag. And Pride does a lot more damage to the LGBT community than people care to realise.

When children are mocked and bullied at school for their sexuality, what hateful remarks are they subjected to? When I was at school, it was remarks like “bums against the wall, boys” or moronic digs and questions from my adolescent piers about “If I liked to wear dresses or make-up” or they’d flick the wrist at me; I even got pushed around. What’s my point? These remarks, these calls that teenage homosexuals are bombarded and plagued with, are heavily incorporated into every Pride march and then plastered all over websites, magazines and the TV for the world to see.  It’s a parade full of six-foot tall queens, cross-dressing middle-aged men – and guess what, I’m not stereotyping here. Of course people will use that against us, that’s what a lot of the members of the procession dress like. It’s little more than a counterproductive, drag-queen pageant these days than it is a political statement. Yet, people still say its harmless fun.  Around 40% of homosexual teenagers suffer from depression and 30% of all teen suicides are due to issues related to their sexuality, most notably being subjected to bullying because of it -  tell me now Prides just harmless fun?

Right now, all over the world, the LGBT community is battling for the right to get married and the reason so many people are still opposed to it is because of the lingering stereotypes that haunts the LGBT community. It’s sad, but a lot of folk do still cling to the idea that homosexuals are hedonistic, sex-crazed deviants and it’s this myth that’s holding us back; a myth that isn't made any less fictitious by today’s Pride marches. Why don’t you just get a marker pen and scribble ‘AIDS’ on your index finger and chase folk around like a feral animal, whilst manically trying to prod them with it.  Both are just as ridiculous as each other.

You want equality? You want to be treated with respect and given the same human rights as everyone else? Then fight for it. You don’t need one yearly march to let the world know you’re proud of who you are. You also don’t need to let yourself be defined by sexual orientation.  If you want some fun, an excuse to get drunk or dress in drag? Then do it, who am I to stop you – just don’t wave it in people’s faces. The world is already waging a hateful war; don’t give it any more ammunition.

From one Queen to another - attack of the homophobic corgis.

Once upon a time there was a Queen. She was a Queen of great beauty and passion; she was adored by millions all across the globe; drawing in people worldwide to her island, winning them over with not much more than the royal gesture of a regal wave. Oh, what might and power she wields, what fabulous hats she dares to sport, what praises are sung in her name, what…

Hold it, your gin-guzzling Highness. This queens got a question.

This weekend will see us celebrate 60 years under the Queen’s reign, an event hosted only once before in 1897 by Queen Victoria for her Diamond Jubilee. It is with this in mind, I felt I should do a blog in Lizzie’s honour.

Over the last 60 years, dear Elizabeth has reigned well. Giving to various charities and organizations, visiting sites of disastrous events (both natural and terrorist related) and always seeming to be fairly socially progressive. Except when it comes to the LGBT community - Apparently this Queen won’t acknowledge her fellow queens.

Ever since the tragedy of Diana’s death, and the ungainly public relations disaster that swiftly followed after, the Queen has gone to great lengths to reach out to her nation; to acquire an idea of their mood and feelings. She changed the monarchy and has presented it as passionate, multicultural, modern and seemingly socially progressive. Yet, not once in her entire reign has she acknowledged the existence of the LGBT community.

Now, I’m not proclaiming that our Queen partakes in some disgustingly royal acts of homophobic behaviour, but when she refuses to publicly acknowledge the existence of gay members of her own family, you’ve got to presume she isn’t gay-friendly.

*side note* Disgustingly Royal Acts of Homophobic Behaviour - Can you imagine that?
The Queen in all her aristocratic glory, sitting regally on her throne, and a beaten homosexual man is brutally thrown at her feet. “Think you’re a queen, do you?” she mockingly spits, “We shall see.” Just then she signals to one of her well-groomed servants, who with robot-like obedience brings her a hunting rifle. The Queen takes aim and, without the slightest flicker of remorse in her eyes, shoots a bullet directly into the mans upper-left thigh. Juddering from left-to-right, like a drag queen attempting to stand in his first set of heels, the partially wounded homosexual man pulls himself to his feet, “I’m feeling rather sporty today,  so I shall give you a five minute head start.” The man limps away as fast as he can, before the Queen signals another servant to unleash her blood-thirsty, gay-hating corgis - bred purely with the intention of eliminating the gay community.

Anyway, a bit off topic. As I was saying. She isn’t gay-friendly.  Whilst having always spoken approvingly of the other faiths and races that currently reside in Great Britain, she’s ignored all contact with the LGBT community, to the point she’s never even whispered the words ‘gay’ or ‘lesbian’ in public, for the past six decades. Are these omissions due to advice from her royal advisors and courtiers, or perhaps they’re just born out of her own personal view? It’s irrelevant. As monarch she has an undeniable responsibility to treat all her subjects equally. If she were to dismiss or refuse to acknowledge other faiths or cultures in Britain, Asians Britons for example, she’d be immediately classed as a racist; so I don’t see how ignoring the gays is any different. Even though she has never blatantly publicly spoken out against us, her silence sends a message that can only be interrupted as disrespectful and somewhat homophobic.  Are we excluded because we’re beneath the monarch?

For all she is giving, having attended functions hosted by many welfare organisations and charities, never once has she given time to any deserving gay charities; Stone Wall Housing, which helps provide shelter for LGBT youths, for example.

In 1999 a gay pub in Soho was bombed by neo-Nazi, David Copeland, yet the Queen didn’t visit any of the 70 wounded that were hospitalized - and that was one of the biggest terror attacks the UK had seen in quite some time.

An argument against this could be made, as the Queen undoubtedly has homosexual people on her staff. But that doesn’t make her ‘gay-friendly.’ They’re employed to be her servants - it’s hardly a term of endearment.

As head of state, the Queen has an obligation to recognise all British citizens, regardless of their sexual orientation, faith group and/or race. It is her duty to embrace ALL of us. So, Lizzie, how much longer will we have to wait to be recognised and acknowledged?

How not to pull in a gay club.

 - in which I wallow in self pity and realise I have the sexual allure of a horse.

What are the politics of pulling on a night out? Without a doubt there is some unwritten form of ‘night-out etiquette’ that we all sheepishly follow, but I am utterly bewildered when it comes to what the rules are. All I can say for sure is, undoubtedly, the method I tend to embrace doesn’t work.

I think it’s great that my love life is a shambles. Rather than gliding effortlessly through a staid, predictable love-quest full of honesty, commitment and earth-moving sex; I’m forced to lurch from one train wreck to another; constantly challenged by own romantic ineptitude.

So, to demonstrate what not to do when on the treasure hunt for a potential beau, I’ve decided to illustrate my antics on a night out as if they were a TV show.

 It would be a sort of romantic/thriller, in which the main character (that would be me) would be under constant threat, not from terrorists or the BNP, but from his self.  A typical episode would start with me being awoken from oversleeping, likely by an excited Jonathan bouncing off the walls – bottle of Rosé in one hand, camera in the other – singing “Milk, Milk, POLO, AXM” to the tune of Lady Gaga song. Since I practice incompetence at an Olympic level, it’d take around 70% of the episode to get me out of bed, find something remotely fashionable to wear and ‘fix’ the birds-nest I call my hairstyle. After much campness, witty gay puns and a musical number, we’d finally embark on our venture.

Now it’s no secret, I enjoy nightclubs as much as I enjoy eating wool, but since my city-slicker friends enjoy the nightlife, I am forced endure many-a-night in these concrete money-grabbing buildings. Since I approach every venue with such distain, my first move is to scout out the nearest corner and shuffle nervously towards it. Correction; my first move is to locate the bar and purchase alcohol, once I have a pint I scuttle off to a dark corner, like  some sort of socially inept, homosexual Gollum.

Once I’ve secured a position in the shadows, I start to fret about my attire. Sweating like a punctured dinghy, I try and convince myself that what I’m wearing is fashionable, that my feet don’t resemble small-boats and that it’s okay I’m not orange and no-one will notice that I haven’t had my eyebrows waxed in a few millennia. I spend the next 45 minutes-or-so darting back and forth to the bar, all the while wearing the expression of a man waking up on his birthday in a prison cell.

Eventually, after the alcohol levels in my blood have shot up, I muster a grin and usher myself out of the corner towards a slightly more populated area. At this point I’d turn to the camera and state that “No-one enjoys clubs; they’re dungeons of misery and the inmates only get through the ordeal by taking mind-altering substances. You don’t like clubs, you like the drugs. Drugs render location insignificant.”

My piece to camera would be interrupted by Jonathan, who proceeds to manically grab my arm like an excited child in the line to Disney Land and drag me off the dance floor.

The next scene would see me awkwardly positioned in the middle of said dance floor. Preening and jigging like a desperate animal, I attempt to lure someone in with my not-so-smooth dance moves. After a few hundred panting pelvic thrusts towards several different guys, I decide to take a sabbatical from the stream of constant humiliation and head back, yes you guessed it, to the bar. Having received little-to-no interest from the folk occupying the dance floor, I figure that perhaps one of the bar staff will be a tad more talkative. I place my order and begin to fire out various complimentary comments mixed with basic chitchat. However, my efforts are met by a cold, unimpressed glare – the sort of glare a taxi driver would give a drunk who refused to move from the middle of the road, before proceeding to mow them over. After failing the impress even the staff, I begin my defeated walk back to the cloakroom; hanging my head in shame like the fat child who is constantly picked last in PE.

So, there you have it. That’s how a standard night out clubbing goes for me. If you wish to get lucky then just do the exact opposite of what I’ve written. Honestly though, ask yourself this: Is the promise of sex really worth the aftermath you’ll be forced to ride out? The majority of the time neither of you will be able to reach climax or keep it up; you’ll be so liquored up merely remembering the person’s name will seem an achievement worthy of a pat on the back. The male physical splendour you see blurry in front of you is merely an alcohol induced mirage; they may look like David Beckham now, but chances are that he’s someone that will snore and drool over your pillow until the earlier hours of the afternoon, before waking up, blinking like a dizzy cat and smelling faintly like mouldy ham sandwich.

Or the opposite could happen – like it did for me recently - you wake up next someone who is terrifyingly beautiful. You just want to scream and hurl yourself under a passing truck the moment you lay eyes on this extreme male beauty, lying like an Adonis next to you. You feel your ego shatter and crack as you lie there smelling like a damp curtain, indolent, flabby and generally repulsive. To him I am now nothing more than an articulated mistake.  

The episode would end with the club closing; hoards of “loved-up” couples oozing out the venue doors, all of them sporting the smile worn by somebody that is potentially getting sex. My bus drives past, with a somewhat embittered Chris watching through the water-stained windows as all the folk that had a successful night stagger home. I’d then turn to the camera and say “Oh, shit. I’ve left Jonathan.”

New song idea I came up with today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oqfz9tVpRYY&feature=youtube_gdata_playe

Sober in a Club? No, no, no. A X M

I've never made it a secret; I'm not a fan of clubs - and I likely never will fully embrace them. But since shipping myself to Glasgow, I've had no choice but to embark on the wild, overcrowded (and occasionally overpriced) club lifestyle. Adapt to survive, that sorta thing.

Failing to do so would have likely resulted in the drastic decline of my social life; however, my kidneys and liver would most definitely hand-deliver me a glorious bouquet of flowers and a thank you card that reeked of dialysis-free gratitude.

There is no way I could hack sobriety in a club.

How many people really endure a club for any given length of time sober? Not many. And here's why. Clubs are essentially horrible, concrete slaps of money and presentation designed to appeal squarely to absolute wankers. Communication is near impossible unless you're adept in sign language. You're guaranteed to loathe 60% of the music; not to mention they're overcrowded, causing you to sweat more than a miner. The vomit inspiring tang of B.O and sweat rapes the opening of your nostrils, causing one volcanic heave after another.  In order to get to the bar, which the entire populous of the club has now adopted as their own, personal Mecca, you have to wade through a dance-floor rammed full of whooping twats who appear infinitely ruder than anyone you've ever met, including the person that just bumped into you 10 seconds ago. 

Muscled-up body-fascist lunkheads loudly bellow slurred chat-up lines at drunken, tango-coloured girls, whilst you try and sheepishly signal to the barman that you would like a diet Coke. However, with all the pre-fornicating ruckus caused by the Beefcakes and Wotsit-Barbies, the barman mishears you and promptly serve you a vodka + diet Coke instead.

Somewhat disheartened, you steer through the packed club, attempting to pick your friends' drunken faces out of the crowd to no avail. By this time you're nearing breaking point. Everyones face slowly morphs into a pair of spectacularly ugly testicles. You start creating scenarios in your head that would be infinitely more appealing than sobriety in a club. Eventually you cave and proceed to down the vodka and diet Coke in your hand, and the world begins to look like a slightly more tolerable place.

Earlier today, whilst I was casually scrolling through my news feed on Facebook, I noticed that there was a lot of hub-bub amongst the homosexuals. There is a new gay club opening up this Thursday in Glasgow called AXM. It's essentially the illegitimate, bastard sibling of the infamously popular Manchester award-winning club/bar on Canal Street.

As I kept scrolling,  I noticed countless amounts of hysterically excited  homosexuals flailing about on my news feed, harping on about the grand opening of AXM and inquiring about which of their homosexual brethren were attending. I counted 17 posts, all within two-three posts of each other, all more-or-less asking the same thing.

I don't know what it is about gays...I hate them?  Well, no, that's harsh. My best friends gay. I like him. Rather fond of myself too, but it was just the vacuous bombardment of copy+paste posting that really sent me on a frenzy. It was like someone had announced the second coming of Christ at Mass; Agh, donate more! Someone go on a wine run. Jesus is back, hide the nails! All I could see was AXM, AXM, AXM spat across my screen.  I thought I was in some weird, queer version of The Shining. AXM AXM redrum redrum, AXM.

I'm just not excited about it opening, or any other club for that matter. And by stating this I fear I'll be on the receiving end of some kind of point and giggle-shittery,  dished out by fellow club attendees & homos.

Maybe it's me (and lets face it, it likely is) that has the problem. After all, look how many people flock to various clubs at least twice a week. Chances are it's me, I'm just socially inept. Maybe it stems from the fact I'm from East Fife, the Narnia of Scotland. Or maybe it's my dislike of dancing; I put minimum effort into the awkward shuffle that is my one dance step. Either way, if you want to take me to a club I'll need to be intoxicated.

SEX NUDE RIHANNA BIEBER 9/11 FRANKIE COCOZZA

Okay, so I’ve lowered myself to using attention-grabbing keywords but whatever; it’s now standard practice.

“Search engine optimisation” is what it’s called. It really is the only way to generate a lot of traffic and steer attention towards your blog/website these days and, let’s face it, you have to pull out all the stops these days to be noticed on Internet Lane.

Seriously, ask yourself this: How many times have you written a blog, status or rant and posted it thinking, proudly, “that’s really good” or “this post is astounding; step back, readers. You’re about to be cut with some razor-sharp wit” only to then have your beautiful, wordy offspring beaten down by some irksome, dictionary ignorant ‘Facebook friend’ whose post of “OMG Jessie J is soooo good” has racked up at least 60 likes; all the while your well-thought post struggles like a fat, wheezing child to stagger past the 10 likes mark. 

Ever experienced this? Or maybe you’re a part of the illiterate hoard of miscreants that pollute Facebook and Twitter with pointless, mind numbing posts? If you’re a member of the latter, I implore you to take an axe to one of your poison-spreading fingers and, whenever you feel the uncontrollable need to post something similar to the above, promptly chop one off. Eventually you’ll learn to stop clogging up our News Feeds with irrelevant waffle, whilst doing me and millions of others a massive favour.

You can imagine my dismay when I finally got online today, and was greeted with only four notifications, where other users were hitting the 60 and 70 mark on the ‘like’ scale. You see, I suffered a terrible grievance this week as my laptop exploded. It’s not comic exaggeration, it actually made several farting sounds and went ‘boom’. What’s worse is I woke up this morning with a bitch of a fever; sweating profusely. I’m on the cusp of hallucinating.  

Being cut off from the internet is horrendous. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Smartphones and laptops now have the same significance as a crack pipe – the sole things that provide five minutes of relief. I can confidently report that being disconnected from social media sites is far, far worse than international terrorism and child abuse combined.  

I’m like a blinded orphan; helplessly wondering the cold, lonely, filth-laden streets; trying desperately to find someone to interact with. Only my quest is ultimately pointless, as I never find anyone. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve tried the logical remedies; I’ve read, studied, even cleaned but I fear I’m going feral. Staggering in a fragmented haze of confusion around my flat, slapping the walls and howling like a rabid wolverine.

Internet withdrawal combined my feverish symptoms has left me paranoid and with Pete Doherty-gone-cold turkey coke-jitters.  Before I know it I’ll be slavishly obeying every command a 12-foot tall transvestite ballet dancer barks at me: “Dance, beloved homosexual. Miss two steps and I take your kneecaps. Miss four and it’s your head. Dance, dance! Stop weeping and dance!”

The general public serious underplay the horror that is being cut off from the internet.

My life, the TV show: Homosexualiteehee.

I'm toying with the idea of making a TV show of my life. It'll be a seven-part series, in which I will struggle with shopping addiction, finical deprivation & binge drinking, whilst practicing incompetence at an Olympic level. It'll be like an episode of 24, only I'm under constant threat, not from terrorists, but from myself.

Tune in and watch as I lurch from one crisis point to the next in a dramatic lead up to the season finale, in which I promptly beat myself to death with a stapler after finding out that, thanks to our glorious government, there have been more cuts and Topman has been forced to shut down & the price of alcohol continues to rocket.

Trust me, it'll have you sprouting fingernails at an unnatural rate to keep up with the amount you're chewing off.

Jeezo, Old-firm madness!

Getting back from town today was absolute chaos. Literally had to wade through sea of Rangers fans to get to my bus, before having to pull some ninja-style moves to get on it. Add blistering heat to an over-crowded bus composed of fired-up, half cut football fans to the equation and you've got a very stressful bus journey - that said, it was still more pleasant than any Stagecoach venture I've ever taken.

Flip the Bird.

 - In which seagulls get told to f*ck off; the Americans stick their nose in and St Andrews is set upon by feral birds.

Seagulls; the unfavorable addition to any seaside trip. If you’ve ever visited a coastal town you’ll be no stranger to them, in fact you may have even done battle with one in order to save your chippy. They’re local residents in any seaside town you go to, but what do you think of them? Do you find them cute and cuddly or do you see them as feral, winged menaces?  Members of the St Andrew’s local residents’ association and other householders have engaged the Angus-based company, Senna Environmental Protection, for assistance in dealing with seagull ‘problem’ that is causing misery to townspeople.

Welcome to upper-middle class society and the toils and trials they are forced to face.

 

The proposed solution to the seagull quandary is to release South American Harris Hawks into the town centre in a bid to scare off the significant number of seagulls. The hawks will be employed (yes, they have National Insurance numbers) for a four-month period and will patrol the skies like fearless, winged guards, warding off the gulls and hopefully decreasing their population. 

 

In theory, if you bypass the comical insanity that is this over-dramatic measure, this is a good idea.  Seagulls have their irksome traits; swooping, flapping, scavenging our waste. They’re noisy and not to mention the unsanitary bird droppings that litter the pavements, buildings, roofs and balconies. But I can’t help but feel that bringing hawks in is somewhat cruel to the seagulls that, after all, are just doing what comes natural to them.

“Seagulls are a serious issue! I was in Aberdeen once and I got this posh cheese sandwich, and this seagull swooped down from the air and stole my sandwich!” complains Lauren Aitchison. 

The pestering you’re subjected by seagulls when you’re eating is an inconvenience that we all can relate to, but that’s all it is; an inconvenience.  There are complaints of the aggressive behaviour exercised by gulls. According to the NBC ‘Bird and Pest Control’ website seagulls often attack people during nesting season to protect their nests and problems also extend to swooping at people. Their droppings also pose certain health risks. Seagull guano, as it formally known, is not only unsightly but a potential health risk especially near ventilation systems and rooftop plant machinery – it’s also acidic and can cause damage to vehicles and buildings. Imagine that! Acid poo droppings dissolving through and messing up the paint job on your BMW - brave fellows driving around in St Andrews.

 

After I read through the problems gulls cause, and my fit of hysterical laughter had subsided, I was left with the following image:  Mass amounts of seagulls launch a winged attack on St Andrews, swooping down and mugging locals; thieving their handbags, car keys, skinny hazelnut lattes and Subways. Like an out-of-control, riotous mob they pillage, plunder and plague the townsfolk – snatching up children from the warm embrace of their mothers arms,  manically laughing whilst soaring high into the sky before proceeding to drop them, forcing the mothers to watch through tear-stained eyes as the children plummet to their doom. A well-raised elderly couple cower in fear as the gulls descend upon their home,  “Hilary, there’s a bird on the roof. Fetch me my hunting rifle!”

 

Then in fly the Americans - erm, I mean hawks - complete with their own theme tune. Like intrepid, brave winged soldiers they bolt through the sky; taking no prisoners as they do – you can run, but you can’t hide from, dum dum dum, The AMERICANS! I mean, The South American Hawk Patrol! A family of three have been backed into a corner by a flock of overly-aggressive gulls, who are sporting switch blades and flaming batons. The family, struck down by terror, mutter prayers under their breath, desperately asking their fictitious Lord for assistance, fearful that their demise is upon them; but suddenly their prayers are answered. Their winged saviour swoops in and lands gracefully upon the guano-riddled ground, “step away from the family, gull” he bravely squawks, before viciously destroying the seaside menaces with his razor sharp talons and nunchuk skills.

In all seriousness though, there are a lot more logical, less extreme and more humane ways with dealing with bird pest problems. ‘Gull scarers’  could be put up, leading the seagulls to simply think there are birds of prey about. Also, electric bird control deterrent, oiling surfaces and bird ‘fake fire’ gel are other solutions that can be engaged and asking the hawks for assistance raises problems of its own.  Other seaside towns over the UK have had problems with ‘the Falconry response’ program. They have been known to terrorise locals and launch kamikaze attacks on unsuspecting passersby. So really, you’re just swapping one problem for another aren’t you? I’d pick gulls over talon-sporting hawks any day – those things draw blood, you know. Really, what's worse? Potentially acidic seagull droppings/occasional food theft or a rogue, military-trained hawk suffering from post-traumatic stress trying to peck your eyes out?

Over all I think that, given the other problems that our planet has faced/is facing (poverty, war, Alexandra Burke) the seagull situation isn’t really a crisis that calls for such immediate attention. They’re an annoyance, not an epidemic, and at the end of the day the seagull ‘problem’ is just a (bird) drop in the ocean.

I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore, Toto.

- In which Ken Livingstone gets rabies, my life grinds to a halt and I am awarded clarity.

Alright, before I begin: Ken Livingstone, dude, three things:

1) You pissed a lot of people off because there have been great efforts made to denounce homosexuality as an issue in politics, the fact you’ve managed to make it one again with one sentence is inexcusable. 

2) “Riddled” was a very, very poor choice of words – we aren’t vermin, Kenny boy. 

3)  Perhaps more focus should be shone on the Tory Party’s polices, or perhaps the fact their leader is moon-faced robot, rather than the sexual orientation of its members.

Good. Glad that’s out. Phew, I can sleep again.

Of late my daily morning routine has been tragically and considerably underwhelming. Awaken from the land of slumber, do something that resembles exercise (I call it quasi-exercise), indulge myself with boiled eggs and wholemeal bread, perform an ancient ritual that makes hot water fall magically from the ceiling, get all soapy with lynx and beat off hoards of woman with a large stick (not that one, pervert), end ritual,  scutter  towards the internet machine, proceed to be even more underwhelmed by the brutal murder of the English language that takes place right in front of my peepers each day on Twitter and Facebook – eventually you become desensitised to this slaughtering and begin to think we should just gather all copies of the Dictionary in the land, pile them high and set them ablaze. 

Once I’m done clambering over the broken grammar that litters my news feed, I tend to spend up to a couple of hours simply trolling various social networking sites in the vain hope I’ll find a comment/post/picture that will alleviate my crippling boredom. My life has fast become a dull flame of desire; I yearn for numerous things, but can’t seem to conjure up enough energy to go out and get them.  I long for water, but the kitchen tap is stiff; I grieve for butter on my toast, but the knife is harsh and cold against my fragile skin. What a conundrum – guess I’ll dehydrate and wither and die then. However, there is reason for this behavior.

My entire life was well and truly turned upside down several weeks ago, when an earth-shattering blow was delivered to my already fragile, somewhat chaotic, world.  The City of Me was plagued by a wicked storm of mendacious tales. It howled and tore through the streets like a rioting mob, gathering up more and more force as it thundered from end to end, leaving nothing in its wake except the shattered shards of hope scattered across the cold, cracked ground - and any attempt to mend these frail-yet-razor-sharp pieces would only end in multiple lacerations, leading to substantial blood loss, ultimately resulting in me bleeding out and lying broken, blood splattered and hopeless on cold, betrayal-sodden floor.  Just to put things in some kind of perspective.

So, I guess it’s time to clear the debris.

The reason this blog has come into play, other than having itchy fingers, is because I wish to express the grave disappointment-soon-to-be-loathing I’m currently harbouring towards about 80% of the people I used to know. I shall convey these feelings in the most simplistic way possible. Thanks for leaving me in cold, guys. When friends are in trouble, in need, you’re meant to band together and offer your support - not help fuel a witch hunt. You’re not meant to treat someone’s suffering or life as idol gossip or a cowardly, pathetic excuse to cut them out. You may think this ‘dig’ is a tad juvenile, but I honestly believe it’s justified.  It wasn’t for a few select people, I can safely safe I wouldn’t have gotten by.

When you’re bombarded with doubt and betrayal like that, it feels like a knife through the chest. I'll get through this, I don't need you. At the end of the day though, it’s a lucky break for me – best rid of folk like that, eh? Good, glad I got that out in the open.

Has Music Lost Its Soul?

This is an article I wrote last year for college.

As you watch MTV and are entertained by a red-headed woman, who can’t remember her name, a lady who is a bit “gaga” and a dancing boy – don’t worry Justin, lip-syncing is a part of growing up – a question will thunder in through your mind: has music lost its soul?

Thanks to various record companies the charts being dominated by auto-tune, dirty-bassy beats and electro-based pop. Deliberately provocative outfits are being sported purely for attention and pop stars trumpet their indiscretions on the front page of any publication that will have them – welcome to 21^st century show business, where you’ve got have to the looks as well as the hooks.

So why does image go hand in hand with the song these days? Glasgow-based singer/song-writer Mr Wishart reckons it’s because “Sex appeal can help; attaching an image that people relate to means you can release anything you want and it’ll sell. It’s kept Robbie Williams in business and allowed Cheryl Cole a baffling solo career but it’s getting less and less subtle every passing year. Compare 1999 Britney, controversially sexy at the time, to her latest videos for evidence of that.”  

And it’s true; sex does sell. Celebrities like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashion, who let’s face it aren’t exactly oozing music talent,  release singles purely as a way to make some extra money and by wearing outlandish pieces of clothing, that scream nothing less than “look at me”, their record sells.  Other artists embrace that use of image as part of their act. Lady Gaga once said during an interview, “I would rather die than have my fans not see me in a pair of high heels; I would never give up my wigs and hats for anything. You see legendary people taking out their trash - I think its destroying show business.” 

“Lady Gaga’s biggest asset is image” continues Mr Wishart, “she seems to know how important it is these days and she’s fully embraced this. Missing from all this hype, however, is the fact that her music ranges from fairly good, if simple, pop (Telephone, Just Dance) to decent, but bland, dance tracks (Born This Way, Poker Face.)” and The Pictish Trail, a fellow independent artist, is of the same opinion, “Stylistically, I’m a bit disappointed with her records - as they’re not quite as provocative, or edgy, as her image.”

The controversy that lays behind Lady Gaga, and indeed a lot of other artists such Katy Perry and rock-chick Avril Lavigne stems from their “it’s okay to be different” attitude. Being signed to a particularly mainstream label leads fans question if what they say is what they really believe in. You would also have to assume that there would be co-producers, stylists and so forth collaborating with these artists and as a result people often question their artistic integrity. “Lady Gaga had the same sized army of producers and co-writers as Rihanna or Ke$ha on [her album] The Fame so how much of this music is her and how much is manufactured is debatable.”  

There is no-doubt about it: if you have a massive cooperation footing your artistic bill, then you will be able to afford more elaborate, provocative outfits whilst having better produced songs and albums. This in turn will get you more attention from the media and, in Gaga’s case, gain you mass of fans. “I’m actually more impressed with RedOne who seemingly did as much on The Fame as Gaga (producer, instrumentalist, co-writer on every song), while being able to take Alexandra Burke, Jennifer Lopez etc. to the top of the singles charts at the same time. And guess who didn’t produce Gaga’s disappointing 2nd album single, ‘Born This Way’?”  Mr Wishart adds. “She’s a step above the usual pop diva but not the massively artistic female people seem to think she is.” Both Mr Wishart and Iona Marshal appear to be on the same page, “Not through choice, I’ve had to hear these songs more than enough times pumping out car radios, shops, pubs, mobile phones and such…Bad Romance and that Poker Face one are ok tunes for a laugh but highly manufactured right enough.”

But what does being manufactured or for that matter selling even mean?  “For me, selling out is really just a question of doing something you don’t want to do.” thinks The Pictish Trail.  Iona Marshall takes it further “I guess it’s handing yourself and your creative potential over to a record company and/or publisher who may want total control over the arrangement and sound of the music to make money thus compromising your own thoughts, ideas and essence of a song.”  

Pictish Trail continues, “There are big hang-ups with a lot of artists about having their music used in adverts or TV programmes and films, and whether that constitutes selling out.  The decision here is really an ethical one - do you want your art associated with someone else’s product?”

He continues, “If Coca-Cola offered me £1,000 to use one of my songs in an advert, I’d definitely do it. I drink Coke, I enjoy Coke - so why not?  However, if the Army offered the same for one of their commercials, I’d turn it down.”  

So, does being manufactured mean giving up your sense of self and allowing someone else to write your music or perhaps letting the label portray you in a certain way, just to attract a larger audience? “I don’t really know what ‘being manufactured’ means.  I wouldn’t want to be physically and artistically ‘dressed up’ for the sake of appeasing an audience - so, I suppose, to that extent I would resist being manufactured.”

The Pictish Trail and Iona Marshall are both apart of the FENCE collective; an independent record label which comprises of many acts of the alternative-folk persuasion. Though based in a small, quaint town called Cellardyke, it has an army of fans across the globe.   “Both Kenny Anderson and I run the record label” Pictish Trail informs us, “and yet neither of us is bothered about making money out of anyone else’s music but our own (respectively, King Creosote & Pictish Trail).  This means that we can promote a wide range of styles on the label, and we don’t have to concern ourselves with selling a large amount.” Iona Marshal says FENCE inspire her, “I think it’s amazing that the original Fence Collective members have grown and developed to create a national (and international probably) following, produce records on their own label, host their own music festivals and put shows on around the country”

So, how did a group that has a lot of non-MTV friendly, folk-based musicians become so popular?  “Fence Collective and Fence Records is a great thing - and I’m really proud to be a part of it all.  I think what the label and the collective have tried to do is to instil a healthy amount of collaboration and competition in the local music scene, and beyond. In this day and age, something can be niche/alternative and be financially viable.”  FENCE is where artists like KT Tunstall and Marina and the Diamonds started.  They preformed gigs up and down the country, slowly but surely gaining more popularity and a bigger fan base. “There’s an audience out there for every style of music - you just have to find it.” 

Believe it or not Pictish Trail is right, and you don’t even have to look that far anymore.  There are now a lot more artists in the charts that still cling to their musical values and, shockingly, the public seem to like it. Bands like Mumford and Sons or modest, heartbroken-superstar Adele have been scooping up awards and selling records to the same market targeted by massive labels, purely because they possess the ability to write good music. – It’s madness, I know.

Even this year at the Brit Awards manufactured mainstream got given the elbow. Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream was shot down by Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs, and Cowell-assisted stars were sent packing. Another unexpected result at this year’s awards was when the underdog, a winsome sing-songwriter called Laura Marling, unexpectedly triumphed over Cheryl Cole; proving that pouring your heart into a song works just as well as taking your clothes off.  Marling actually once said during an interview, “I don’t like the idea of being prettified or dolled up or sexualised.”  

So it appears there are still writers out there that are content to write and perform a good, honest song that is appreciated by as little as six people, just making just enough to get by. But what inspires these artists?  How would they describe their music?  “The main inspirations for my writing are, without a doubt, my girlfriend, family, and friends.” Answers Pictish Trail, “The Fence Collective are a constant source of motivation: King Creosote, James Yorkston, Lone Pigeon all have a sizeable back catalogue of music - and it really pushes me into creating something of my own.  I’d describe my music as ‘DIY Pop’, I suppose.”

For Iona Marshal it’s “When some major event happens, you definitely want to write something about it - getting together with someone, breaking up from someone, a friend leaves town, you go travelling to some far away land, a relative dies…. The process of writing a tune is kind of like escaping the world yet giving your own impressions back to the world. If what I create sounds good and lyrical ideas are coming along nicely then it’s one of the best feelings ever.”

As galling as it is we must face the fact that a lot of artists are, to use the Facebook parlance of our times, in a relationship with cooperate tyrants. They’ll gladly blow out some of their artistic flames and allow the record label to call some shots, in the hope they’ll be rewarded with fame. Does this make them any less of an artist than someone who prefers to go it alone? Possibly, depends on your own personal opinion.  Art is relative, and the way people perceive it will continuously differ. Some songs may make you shake your booty like Beyoncé, others may remind you of lovers lost.  See, what makes a real artist is self-expression and inspiration; the ability to turn something negative into art – regardless if you make millions or not.

During an interview Gaga said, “When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condom-less sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time.”  She may have fame, but Gaga doesn’t have a fortune. The millions she makes go on her shows, outfits and dancers – that’s what matters to her.

“Music shouldn’t be about maintaining a supposed artistic integrity, or fitting in with a current trend.  It’s about doing what feels right to you, and representing your music in a way that you are comfortable with.”  - The Pictish Trail.

 So, maybe there is still hope for music’s soul

The Dating Site Fiasco

 - In which I attempt to find love, Harry Potter lets himself go and Cupid is eaten by zombies.

As I write this blog, I am comfortably positioned on my king sized bed...alone. There are two reasons for my lonesomeness:  1) my powers of romantic persuasion are very, very limited, therefore any chance of me luring someone to bed – let alone down the aisle – is unlikely, and 2) the fickle nature of the homosexual community  - I appear to be a leper in their eyes, albeit a well dressed one.

2012 – This year I shall embark on a likely futile quest to find love, be it true or drug induced. To aid me on my expedition, I’ve enlisted the help of dating sites. These sites, such as Match.com and Oasis, are Cupid’s last, and someone lazy, attempt at finding even the most unlovable, dried up shell of a human being someone to share their days with. Aw, cute.

Dating sites are, essentially, Cupid’s internet shopping centres. Their stock however isn’t unlike most stores at the end of the January sales; the only things left either ugly, don’t fit or you’d only wear drunk. After ten minutes on Oasis, I realised that these sites are soul destroying. They are ego denting, mind numbing love traps set by those in desperate need of romantic assistance; sort of a human safari, if you will.  However at the end of your hunt, you still fail to fill the ever expanding void that lingers in your heart – but seeing as I’m desperate, I joined. Pass the spear.

Upon joining, you’re required to fill in a profile detailing what you’re looking for. Whilst filling in this part you’re allowed to be very specific, to the inch if you’d please.

Cautiously I filled in this section, being weary of every preference I put down. What sort of education does my future husband have and how tall is he? What are his political views and, if given the choice, what sort of cuisine would he prefer? Does he like bees? How many freckles does he have? When he goes to sleep at night does he prefer the bedroom door to be closed or left slightly ajar?  How would he ensure my survival during a zombie apocalypse? (We all know it’s going to happen, as does the government and all the movie companies. Why else would they be releasing so many zombie flicks? They’re trying to subtly drum survival skills into our heads in an attempt to ready us for the hoards of zombies that will soon plague, over run and damn our planet somewhere around June 2012.)  As I said, down to the most specific detail.

I am however fearful of what fellow hunters will think when they stumble upon my profile. Although I did upload a few professional mug shots that my friend Jeff took, the vast majority of my photos will likely leave the viewer thinking, “Fuck, Harry Potter let himself go didn’t he?”  They’ll then likely rouse up some astoundingly witty comment, like offering me a ride on their broomstick or wand (again, preference) to which I will then repeatedly and rapidly bash my head against the screen of my laptop until my fallow lifespan ends, thus rendering any endeavour to find love ultimately pointless.

If these sites fail to capture love for me, which I’m thinking is the likely outcome, then I’m fresh out of ideas.  I suppose I could always clamber to the top of a building and threaten to hurl myself of it, demanding someone declares their love for me or I’ll jump. Then again, the threat will likely be met with chants of “Dinnae jump, Harry!” and “Land on my wand!” from fellow dating site hunters who’ll have gathered below, like a judgmental herd, and likely be thinking “Not even I’m that desperate.” Or I could launch a military style assault and storm Cupid’s love shack, tie his chubby, baby faced, Cherub ass up and proceed to brutally torture the winged fucker until he eventually caves in and aims his love arrows at Lloyd Daniels for me, thus allowing me and Welsh love puppy to live happily ever after. I'm open to suggestions.

Sadly Cupid’s location is unknown; he went MIA after Jordan and Kerry Katona horrifically abused him by falling in and out of love about a thousand times in the space of two months. He likely feels party responsible for us being forced to endure the series of monotonous reality shows that depicted their shattered love lives. Personally I’d go into fucking hiding too.

Anyway: here’s a heads up, Cupid. Best get them wings flying; I’m coming for you.