Tomorrow is results day, that one day a year where everyone judges you, sweating profusely and clinging tentatively to the envelope containing your results, gently lifting the flap and parting the seal you take out the little slip of paper containing one of 8 letters corresponding to the quality of your performance in the recent examinations.

Honestly, I couldn't really care less; examinations are one of life's discreet pleasures, they really do reflect the level of effort you put into a given vocation.
When it comes to results (obviously with the exceptions of trauma or bereavement ect) there really are no excuses, if you didn't try hard enough, you failed and you're the only one to blame.
Success breeds comp

Tomorrow is results day, that one day a year where everyone judges you, you sweat profusely and cling tentatively to the envelope containing your results, gently lifting the flap and parting the seal,

I'd thrown him in at the deep end, his stupid malevolent smile beaming, like a buck toothed-ginger cat, the thought of the little auburn bastard made my skin crawl, he knew nothing of my world and should my explicit instruction to News International have been followed he would still be sat at home, sat alone with four cans of weak lager and a press pass to the local charity white collar boxing event. (Rhinestone Ricky "The Fist" McAdam pitted against Pucker Luck Kamaran; two overweight 40 year old gentlemen, trapped within the confines of an incredibly dull and conservative suburban life wherein they resigned from what little happiness they could find in order to sit watching Channel Four documentaries on aircraft crashes and occasionally speak to their ageing increasingly unattractive wife.)  Alas, that's photographers for you.

I dont feel the need to express my discontent towards the art anymore than I already have; but you've joined me and my plucky accomplice at what would seem to be an ordinary event, surrounded by two-bit record executives and suited higher-ups; I'd been sent here to cover the release of an album, the name of which escapes my mind but I'm sure I can find this out at a later date;

Pure Horatio Alger

There's something incredibly romantic and tantalising about the freedom of the mind under the influence of narcotics which to some could be an unappealing thought, something about tapping into the subconscious, that little part of the brain that remains hidden from view and is only coaxed out under copious amounts of mescaline and reality distorting drugs. Under heavy use the distinction between "upper" and "downer" begins to blur and external appearance begins to matter not, freedom of expression flows, freedom of thought flourishes and I think only then is the feit of personal exploration fully achievable, not in any sexual or metaphysical sense, but the rewarding notion of merely realising where you lie, its very true to say that one never really realises they are at a peak till they begin to come down and one only realises they are in a trough when they begin to climb out.

But exactly what is it about (in this instance) the lack of narcotics and social interaction that allows the author to experience this moment of clarity? Well I believe myself to be somewhat of an extravert, at least in the company of others, obviously, a term usually found within the reserve of micky-mouse psychologists which tends to be a euphemism for "A bit of an annoying cunt if I'm honest" but we'll roll with it for the time being, it adequately describes the majority of my traits within the company of others, per se: I oft fight for attention within a group and attempt to establish myself as a leader, though this could be said for many. ("Im an enigma" - Of course you are, you titted idiot).

Yet, as I find myself segregated from social interaction for a brief period of illness and a distinct lack of plans made, I dont feel any longing to be with anyone, which is often true for me, I consider myself to be somewhat of a sad, lonely back-bedroom casualty sometimes, though I feel this is offset with the juxtaposing of an outgoing personality and the ability to have a good laugh and make great friends. Though prolonged isolation is never, in my experience, a bad thing. I consider myself to be in a sense, my own best friend, I often think for myself and in my own best interest, thats not to say I am a particularly selfish cunt, I go out of my way to help others, I keep my friends close and I value my friends completely and wholly, but when it comes to it, I do not rely on others for emotional support, as it is I feel that desperately sharing problems with anyone that you can coral into listening often becomes the antithesis of 'Lifting the weight of the world' from ones shoulders; because quite frankly, no one actually cares about your problems, and those that do are being incredibly sycophantic.

Yet, as we slowly begin to realise the downer, to begin to emerge from that trench, tail between the legs and head full of pharmaceutical grade ether and adrenachrome, there is often the very real risk of taking the plunge again as you try to climb atop, shedding all your problems and your deamons, you pick yourself up take the leap and ride the great and beautiful wave, spurned on by the heaving, rolling momentum of the vivid realities created by the acid, or benzine, or methadone or life. The very feeling that whatever you are doing is working and YOU, YOU ARE RIGHT.

But now, as you age and wonder, aimlessly, jaw agape and mind agaze into the deserted forecourt of a twenty-four hour superstore, amidst the bright lights and the nauseating, prickly feeling created by the tail end of a mescaline high; you can almost see the high water mark, that moment where the wave broke and rolled back.

Every day, we wake up and find that another day has gone, fuck, one less day to revise, prepare and bolster up courage to face those looming exams.

Tonight I discussed enlightenment, our common goal, its very rare to both talk the talk and walk the walk, but 

Bicycles

I think what we lack is order, that thread, motif, that connects all the posts in my menagerie;

I Don't Care If It Hurts, I Wanna Have Control.

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground, you try this trick, and spin it.
Your head will collapse, but there's nothing in it, so you ask yourself:
Where is my mind?

I think one thing that has troubled me recently is support, I feel a great loathing to the pop industry as a whole, as reclusive as it may be as soon as an artist I like becomes more well known or spreads to people with other tastes it ruins it for me; I'll use an analogy:
Walking past a shop, finding a really nice top, wearing it about like a smug cunt, three days later you pop past Topman and everyone outside is adorned with it, eating their sausage rolls, getting flakey bits of pastry all over it, pretty soon you stop wearing the top, because everyone else has it.

I think in a sense I work around something that is the opposite, somewhat, of the Bandwagon. Not on a principle that I'm up my own arse ("I'm a maverick, I cant be like everyone else, I need to stand out, I'm a rose in a garden of thorns, my love!" - esq pretentious-indie-cunt) I just like savouring things that I find, as far as music is concerned I don't like sharing my toys, only to a select few that will at least appreciate it for what it is, not blag about it, reposting link after link on social networking sites till every airwave in the country is oscillating with the remnants of what was once a bloody cracking song.

But on the other hand, it is support that drives musicians forward and I guess that can be borne of no criticism, yet with a certain level of support you can end up stuck in a paradigm wherein you have to constantly produce things in order to keep the base happy, churning out entire albums of what would be obscure b-sides in any other age "because it sells". I think this was best summarised by Ricky Gervais in an interview he held with Kirsty Young on Desert Island Discs:
"The first album is easy, it is essentially all your years experiences [before you made it big]; but then the second is the previous year and lets be honest, it wasn't a normal year"

I don't think there is ever a time when an artist does not have the support they deserve, but I personally do not think that support is reflective of quality; you could have the most beautiful voice but if only three people get to hear it, is that really a shame? I really do think it's more important to light up a pub in Manchester than rock a stadium, but each to their own!

Anyhow, I think the next post might be a little less music related; because the entire industry is more pretentious and superficial than I have time to comment on anymore, much like this blog! (haha, hehe, hoho)

Righty o, I'll leave you with a cheeky bit of Mozz :)
I Dont Mind If You Forget Me