If there were any justice in the universe, there would have been a pair of drunken, lairy squaddies sharing the bus, who would have been only too happy to render him into mulch for such a comment. Instead, he got off unharmed, and went off to his astronomically high-paid job probably designing things like this:
Ah yes, the 2012 logo. A baffling jumble of visual and stylistic what-the-fucks, designed by a consortium of Hoxton fins, for the bargain bin price of £400,000. It is sure to go down in history as the most universally detested icon of recent times, besides the Swastika and possibly Frank Skinner's face. I've got to say that I agree with popular opinion on this one. Even though I don't have two shits to scrape together over any televised sporting event, least of all the month-or-however-long-it-is entertainment blackout that is the Olympics, I still think The Logo© is pitiful, brown-streaked man pants, and I will only become further intrenched in this position as it is inevitably jizzed over every vertical surface in the city over the next five years. This WILL be the case, as Sebastian Coe seems to have final veto over the thing, no matter how loudly the people doth protest, and, inexplicably, he thinks it's any fucking good. I might point out that Lord Coe is also a notorious paedophile, and has claimed culpability for both the Challenger and Columbia disasters because, in his own words, "I fucking despise astronauts". Which shows how much his opinion is worth.
Oh man, my brother got an Xbox, and last week I went round to his and we played GTA: San Andreas in two player mode for the better part of a day. It is stupidly good fun. Our afternoon's rough agenda was to go on a wild Hunter Thompsonesque journey to Las Venturas (the game's lawsuit-avoiding proxy for Vegas, baby), but this was hampered by our inability to resist bloodthirsty rampages on the way there, and the police affection that comes with this. At one point we managed to thieve a light aircraft from a nearby airport, flying over the heads of the Old Bill, only to be blasted from the sky when I foolishly flew us over a military base. Eventually we got there, and realised we hadn't actually planned this far ahead and didn't really know what to do, so we just caused mayhem until I was run over and killed by a tractor driven by a black Elvis impersonator. As you do.
Claudia is now officially Done With University, this very morning I finished helping her move out of her Cardiff student house. This is good for her because she is now back with her family at a stressful time for them, and good for me because I now definitely never ever have to go to fucking Cardiff ever again. I'll miss the place, in a way. The same sort of way you'd miss a disfiguring skin lesion that was fun to pick at. The place is a seething nest of anonymous 'modern' architecture populated by braying self-absorbed students, morose buzzcut scallies, and worst of all, Welsh people. Welsh people, whose one calling in life is to seek out people who are not Welsh, and inform them of their own Welshness, which said non-Welsh people are meant to be impressed by, on pain of being glassed with a shattered flagon of Brains - apparently Wales' favoured alcoholic beverage, which is ironic seeing as it is named after the one thing Welsh people do not have in great supply. Oh, I did NOT!
The coach journey was fun, as directly behind me were seated a pair of complaining toff students, who were apparently either annoyed by or terrified of absolutely everything in the world. When we were stuck in traffic for about 15 minutes, they complained impotently to the driver, as if doing so would make the make him remember that magic button on the dash that deploys the helicopter blades, so as to fly over the traffic jam. Later, when a coach full of school kids drove past and the kids waved and poked tongues out at people in our coach, they responded by calling them "little cretins" and wishing ASBOs upon them. That's right, they were intimidated because some six year olds waved at them. God knows what would happen if they were actually threatened, they may literally have shat themselves to death.
Today was Father's Day, so I decided to wander into town after my coach got into London, with intent of finding shiny gift for pa. My efforts were hampered by the majority of Westminster being closed off due to the Falklands memorial ceremony taking place. That's right - I, Benneth, was briefly inconvenienced just for the sake of honouring some mutilated war heroes. It's a sad testament to the treatment that cowardly, lazy blokes like me - who would last three seconds in the army - are given in this country. Anyway, I did get to see Cherie Blair's gigantic hat. It's the first hat visible from the International Space Station. She wants to watch out, or it'll get punched off by that Mr. Jerky character. Which reminds me, it's his birthday today. I point this out not because I particularly like him, but because this means he is a year closer to dying, whereupon I will inherit the key to his Sex Room, and I'll finally get to find out what's in there. I heard it's full of sex!
Bye!
