toppoblog

Peter Pan

2012-03-09T17:57:00.000+00:00

Got my hair cut the other day. Don't pretend you hadn't noticed. Walked in off the street, no appointment, uninvited because that's how I roll. I asked if anyone could deal with my hair, there and then, right now.
A sleeping polar bear, or Ben, as it turned out, was awoken from his snoring slumber by the receptionist that we'll name Candy for fun's sake. An alarmed Ben jumped to his feet, the magazine that was bobbing up and down on his sleeping belly now hits the floor but remains standing, just as I sit to receive my shampoo and massage. A little while later and big Ben is cutting my hair, nervously, asking me for tips, instilling no confidence in me at all that he is competent, or up to the cut. It was a hairy situation to say the least.

I remarked, perhaps stupidly I now realise with hindsight: "New premises eh, you used to be in a smaller retailer unit. This new big store is much nicer, better location too".

"Aye", he retorts. "That's Max so it is, full a ideas, that Max, with his ideas."

"FUCK!" I screamed in my head as I see the flash of an evil face in the mirror. I know, instinctively somehow, to look outside. To my horror, yet slight curiosity and benevolence all the same, what I will refer to as the riddler, grinning from ear to ear, draped in hooded dark brown garments, a wooden cane, beard - medieval looking, you know. He's holding a little box and he gives it a big shake.

All I could focus on was the single beating subwoofer as it pulsated away to Gino Soccio's Human Nature (Fen Acid Nature Edit) in a dark underground bar with red velvet and gold everywhere. A disco ball, dancing shadows, coloured streamers littered all over. An empty stage with a brass poll it's only act. A gun to my head I'm forced to place high stakes bets on which fat naked man on a space hopper will cross the line first. At this very moment, a flared, afro'd Hendricks doppelganger whips out a pistol and says in a long slow accent: "you gotta focusssss...."

Overjoyed, floating saxophones playing themselves appear. I catch a glance of the fat man I placed a bet on as he licks his lips aggressively, the sweat from his brow reflecting the disco light.

I then wake up in Lawrence Street in a cold sweat with the meaning of life firmly realised.

It's a Friday, let's do thisssss.

ZZ Top

X

Toppoblog's Christmas Special: George Michael and Me.

2012-01-11T01:37:00.091+00:00

I know this is late, the height of Christmas has passed and we are all focusing on the new year, but Christmas is my time of year and the Christmas tree is still up. I STILL have tinsel and scented Christmas decorations in my bed room...from Christmas 2006.

I just really want to have Christmas Special in the title. I apologise in advance for terrible spelling and punctuation. I also apologise in advance for starting so many sentences with "I" and "It's".

It's uncertain what really happened, but a logical explanation would be that I was removed from the Corinthian at Hogmanay. I can remember conversing with some of the finest dressed and most powerful people in Glasgow whilst the Drive soundtrack played on repeat from someone's black iPhone 4s 16GB that was connected to the Karaoke machine. I am pretty certain it was the same iPod I used to frape the owner, posting on a girl's timeline something like: "Hey im in Glasgw whre are you?!". The spelling mistakes were accidental and due to my nerves at having this vital 5 second window which I had managed to clamber in, a joyeous expression on my face, my tongue dangling from my mouth's corner, the dibelief that I'd managed to breach security, realising I was getting away with it, realising the spelling mistakes made it seem like he was drunk and thus more authentic. All these thoughts flowing through my incredible mind. In other words, I was in my element participating in pointless meaningless pish on the sidelines whilst everyone else enjoys life.

Then, somehow, I was shirtless and pantless, stumbling and staggering down a nameless lane somewhere near the Clyde River. On the back of my mind a voice suggesting perhaps it'd be best if I just went for a little swim, catch up with some Salmon. Bouncing from wall-to-wall down this nameless lane I picked up momentum. With the winds of Hurricane Bawbag behind me I was picking up speeds at an aggressive pace. Before I knew what was happening I had been ejected out of the lane like a stone ball shot from an Edwardian cannon, it's only purpose to reek havoc and to destroy. To smash-up and decimate. To tear apart and split. Expecting to have a wall to bounce off of again I staggered at an awkward diagonal, but there was no lane wall to cradle me this time. My speed slowed abruptly and I remember desperately trying to maintain balance as I crossed the street dodging cars as they honked their noisy horns and headed toward the brambles and shrubbery opposite.

Reaching for a tree branch I fainted. A leaf fell landing gently on my bosom, turning itself over, as the bells from a distant church rang out for the New Year.

I've still to pick up my muddied white Versace suit from the dry-cleaners.

I blame George Michael for the fact I am never fully satisfied with life. He has been my inspiration and has set the benchmark for many of my life's aspirations which I have just not really been able to meet yet. But you've got to have faith. When I started to write this shitty post I was in the mood for writing about George Michael in more detail, but like all real things that are close to one's heart they are often hard to talk about. Hard to express and hard to deal with head on. How can I possibly put it into words? To put a long story short, in the eighties George represents a zest for life and being in your prime. The last Christmas Video, Club Tropicana, Careless Whisper....I want to experience it all.

It's a Sunday, it's 12:37PM and I'm laying in my cradle. Veridis Quo is communicating with me through my mono loudspeaker. In the background I can here a friend conversing with my flatmate. I am still fully clothed from Bamboo last night minus my socks. Like all socks they are probably now gone forever. This cup of coffee is going down soooo well and through my curtains I can see a teal-blue sky and the occasional hoodlum being evicted from Adele's party flat. It's perhaps foolish of me to give away clues to my current location as the death threats have been more aggressive recently. Gaddafi supporters still believe I was a significant coil in the Arab Spring. They're correct.

In front of me, by my television I have just spotted a miniature sized bottle of Grey Goose that friend brought round last night. It looks so self-contained, lonely and innocent but makes me want to go back to last night. I have a love hate relationship with Sundays. It's a day to enjoy being hungover and lazing about but means that the Weekend is firmly over. I've just now realised that it's important to enjoy your job as I have no feelings of dread for tomorrow morning. In fact, I am looking forward to starting the working week.

On that note I'm going to wash and get something to eat.

Over and Out...

Tappy Jnr

X

On Toppo' the World - Tenerife

2011-10-28T19:11:00.000+01:00

In this edition, toppoblog writes to you from the tropical, distant and uncharted island that is Tenerife.

Tenerife is located off the North West coast of Africa, but is populated by nearly one million persons who regard themselves as Spanish since it was conquered by Spain in the 90s. That's the 1490s. The only invading peoples in the most recent 90s, have been the British who have been invading the island each and every year, despite having already conquered the territory in the 70s. As if it weren't enough to have a British pub on every corner, the Brits will cease to stop their hegemony until the flag of Tenerife is simply a photograph of a plate of egg and chips, made in a caff somewhere in East London.

Argentina, however, claim the island is theirs and rumours are spreading that they lay claim to the Isle of Arran as well.

Let's start with the fantasy.

Day 4, Toppo's Log.

I etch another line into the stone wall with piece of flint from my lighter. It's been four full days now, or so I believe, that I have been held hostage in this God forsaken prison cell.

My plane crashed somewhere when trying to cross the Atlantic to reach the Kingdom of Fife. I drifted for days, running low on supplies. Luckily I remembered my SAS training that says the most important thing to have when stranded at sea, in a rubber dingy, with no food or water, is a shaving mirror. After having a shave I had the most lovely smooth-to-touch skin. Other than feeling more self-confident and

The Sun, once a friend, now a torturer

sexy, I failed to find the benefit of my increased sexiness when potentially thousands of miles from land. The only use I found with having it, was looking at myself. I looked at myself, and I looked at myself. I guess I didn't feel so alone, as I could talk to myself for hours and hours. Like all seasoned sex tourists I had multiple packets of condoms on my person, which I used to fractionally distil the sea water to gather salt. The salt, I thought, would come in handy for preserving any fish that I may catch until I could make fire to cook it with. With my bare hands I wrestled with many a fish, but their slippery bodies were too difficult to grasp. My fish-cooking plans never materialized. I must have dozed off for some time, as I awoke to shouts in some discernible language. Men with Kalashnikov rifles approached in a black rubber dingy, akin to the type associated with Somali pirates. I reached for my mirror instantly, and reflected the sunlight, killing two of them. The other two, fired warning shots, and I put down my powerful laser shooting mirror immediately. I was forced to board their dingy. I was embarrassed, because my dingy was a child's Sponge Bob Square-pants one, which I managed to steal from a child passenger just minutes before our plane impacted into the ocean. The embarrassment was overshadowed by my shame however. Only I survived the crash, and did I deserve such luck?

I was hit with the bud of a rifle and knocked unconscious. When I came to, I found myself naked on a tiled floor. A prisoner. If not a prisoner of war, then perhaps of love. The first thing I noticed was a blue tag around my wrist. Some sort of identification I assumed. Here, it would seem, I'm just another number.

All inclusive...whatever that meant

Through the bars of my cell, I could only safely see the sky with the sun beating down. I could hear the sound of children screaming, lots of splashing and what could only be the sick laughter of their torturers. "Animals!", I wanted yell. I needed to look through the bars to get the bearings of my surroundings, but I feared the guard at the watchtower directly opposite may see me, and I did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself at this stage. Announcements were made throughout the day via a loudspeaker over the same repetitive surrealist dance music. It sounded like Japanese Rape Techno. When night fell the situation was not much better, as the guards sat in a shack throughout the evening drinking liquor and playing Russian roulette.

On day II, I had a snap-opportunity to take a prolonged peak out through the bars to see what took place whilst the Japanese Rape Techno played. My worst fears had been answered. It was some sort of labour camp, perhaps a Re-education through Labour program as used historically by totalitarian regimes such as 70s Cambodia and present day North Korea. What alarmed me the most was it was the elderly who were picked on. The lyrics of the music must be filled with propaganda, this country's national anthem, perhaps. With shaken hand I managed to capture some footage first hand.

Before watching:

Note at 00:16s in, the man by the base of the tree in the pool starts to frantically rejoice. I can only suppose this was for one, or perhaps all three of the following reasons:

a) he had been successfully brain washed;
b) he was begging for his life, and hopes that by praising his masters he would be freed; or
c) he completely lost his mind and was acting out of delirium.

I point this incident out, because at 00:43s into the footage, those sick torturing bastards then throw his wife into the pool as punishment for his stepping out of line.

Now watch:

For some reason the guards never bothered to confiscate my electrical equipment, so this is how I am able to keep a log and take some photographs. They must have assumed I'd have no source of electricity to charge my belongings. Yes, I could use my laptop to keep track of the date and time rather than use tally marks on the wall, but my source of energy for my electricals is finite. This is because I am using a potato that I found in the corner of my cell. The potato must have been left by whoever inhabited this cell before me. Next to the vegetable, on the wall, were tally marks and a most peculiar tri-colour, rectangular symbol of some sort, with the colours green, white and orange. I wonder what the previous inmate was like, and where they were from? It is perhaps impossible to ever know the answer to this mystery.

The Reality

Let us be honest. When it comes to toppoblog, the reality is likely to be far more bizarre than the fantasy.

I'll cut to the chase. I spent the whole time basking in the sun, enjoying the free food and drink, listening to music and reading books, one of which, was an erotica book, called The Eye. It was so erotic in fact, that I decided to go by myself...twice. At first, this seemed a rather daunting and strange challenge, but one which I managed to do successfully (relative to most challenges I face) and I now think going out alone abroad is brilliant fun. First night I went out alone I wandered round the corner from my hotel to the first club I could hear/see. When I walked in, it was pretty empty and the steward said I should come back around 1am when things get busier.

So, back to my hotel I went and got tanked up at the bar by myself. At about 12.30, I stood outside the hotel brandishing a packet of cigarettes, in the hope that someone would ask me for one. Two guys were nearby, I asked if they wanted a cigarette, one agreed. I said my phrase, the only thing I can say in Spanish "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish", and would then explain by saying "solo" and pointing at myself that I was alone. The guy who took the cigarette then suggested I hang around with him, his mate, and their two girl friends, and to the club around the corner we all went, joyfully, singing and dancing. They were very friendly, they bought me drinks, I returned the favor, we talked about football, they gave me sleazy Spanish phrases to say to groups of girls in the club for their entertainment, etc etc. Just a normal night out really. The only issue, however, is that they asked me if I had a girlfriend. By this point, I was firmly on my way, having tried my best to live up to the romanticized alcohol-immune Scottish stereotype they had in their heads, and that they were so fond of. I didn't want to disappoint. Anyway, I said sarcastically that I did indeed have a girlfriend, but that she was dead. My next sentence was going to be something silly like we were bungee jumping on our honeymoon and the rope snapped, or something equally dark and unfunny like that. But, before I could get to that sentence, I was already in the strong emotional embrace of the two Spanish couples, and it was too late for me to say that I was joking. So, I had to play along, and pretend to be very, very sad.

That is my last memory of that evening. I woke up the next morning fully clothed bar my shirt, at a 45 degree angle with my legs off of the corner of the bed, my toes bearing the brunt of my body weight.

A successful night all round I'd say. I wish I had their details, as they took lots of photos, but perhaps it is all for the best.

Night out numero 2.

Biggie Smalls R.I.P.

Using the same ingenious system that I devised, I went to the same club the following evening, on the Saturday, and stood outside at peak time, brandishing a crisp, unopened packet of Marlboro. After a few minutes, two girls approached me, asking for a cigarette. I gave the same line: "I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish, I am Scottish". I was quite tanned by this point, and they did not believe that I was Scottish. Fortunately, they had both lived in London before, and so were happy to speak in English. When they realized I was alone, they said I should hang about with them. Naturally I did. We bought drinks, we danced, we had a laugh, and it just made me confused. Two girls, what to do. It's like splitting an atom. We ended up leaving that club, and drove around in one of the girl's car at 5am looking for a party. I was excited. But, their excitment started to fade, and eventually they said there were no parties on and that they will take me home to my hotel. I still think it must have been something I said or did. Maybe they saw me in the light?

Toppsy

X

I Wonder

2011-08-27T12:00:00.004+01:00

Let's refresh.

AMEN

Blogging to me is a safety valve outlet. It allows me to clear the slate, and summarise my past week or month in a coded way. Technically, it's my diary. I don't like the word blogging though. I'm not sure why, but it seems too buzzwordy. Buzzwords (buzzword is a buzzword in itself!) irritate me because they make me feel stupid, like I'm just using this word that is in fashion. Take for instance, current affairs. You hear people say "current economic climate" a lot in a bid to sound clever and as though they have a dissertation to back up the ridiculously bull-shit statement they've just made. Also, I think it excites them to use a word generally associated with the weather in a different context. And in the "political sphere" those left and right of centre have their own core phrases and words that they use over and over and over and over and over again. Eventually, we all become obsessed with re-using these buzz words to sound knowledgeable about subjects we know fuck all about. Take the riots for instance. How many times did you hear "televisions" and "trainers", or "children as young as ten" in news reports. True it may be, but why tell us the same things constantly as if it we are hearing it for the first time. After the 12th time I'm bored. I mean, it's not as though they are trying to manipulate our thoughts or anything.

Blogging is a recent hobby of mine and I like it. it's nice that I have a humble core of people who seem to enjoy it. In fact, I love you people who read it and understand it...you are rare. You share that passion for dark surrealist humor as much as I do, and what is key is your understanding of irony. Can you imagine that people didn't know this blog was for comic value?! Can you imagine people read my blog, and called me a "cunt" because of it, advised to me close it down, or thought me arrogant as a result?! Apparently I'm "creepy" "egotistical" and "weeeeeeiiiiirrrrrdddddd". Somehow, the blog has projected an image of narcissism. Somehow, I love myself and some people have taken from it that I think that I am great with women??? Yes, from reading my blog, people think that I am showing off how great I am with women...??? And, dear followers, can you imagine I'd be so much of a bitch to be affected by this and temporarily not write blogs?! I am sorry. I can't apologise enough for having let you all down these past few months. So, next time you are brushing your teeth, I want you to pause for a moment, look at yourself in the mirror, and whisper loud enough for it to be just barely audible... "you're special". Try to make a sort of gentle whistley sound.

I know at least one of you will actually do this. You have my personal thanks <3.

The worst part is, these people are correct. How on Earth did they break my code. I do love myself - LOADS!

Golly gosh oh golly.

Anyway, "Shazam - Pool Party" has just come on my iTunes - I had to check iTunes to see what was playing. Never heard of this song, or remember hearing it either for that matter. When had I gone to the effort of purchasing this song? It's making me wish I was somewhere more glamorous.

Perhaps I downloaded it that time I was involved in a foursome with those three Scandinavian girls who read my blog about dona kebabs, deciphered the code, and realised I was really writing about Kama Sutra positions and all of my loving experiences, chartered a flight to Glasgow and broke in through my bedroom window.

By the way...when brushing your teeth, try not to get froth on your clothes as a controversial stain reappears later on in the day. This stain can lead to break ups bust ups and resignations. All this paranoia because of a little bit of toothpaste. It's just a little patch of toothpaste that has landed on your groin area. It's only a white stain by the fly of your black trousers. You go to the toilet, wet a tissue and scrub vigorously until it disappears. But, does it really disappear? Oh no, it comes back....with vengeance. You then find yourself walking around with not only a controversial white stain all over your groin area, but a moist white stain. Yes, a moist, white, controversial stain, just beside your fly. You frequent the toilet to scrub vigorously with dampened cloth. You are seen leaving the toilet each hour with a moist white controversial stain by your groin. This happens every day. You never learn. Every morning you are so tired you spit and miss the sink, and thus the vicious cycle of moist white controversial stain begins again. It is like a biblical curse/plague. Let's put an end to it. Let's raise awareness.

Let's catchup.

When I touched down in Gatwick airport a funny thing happened. Waiting for my luggage, I saw a group of elderly people, let's say seven or eight of them, trying to conquer the conveyor belt and get their bags back. They were officially elderly because they were all beige, white and cream from their hair to their shoes. What was interesting however was their behaviour. It was very collective. They were focused heavily on the task in hand: OPERATION BAGGAGE RECLAIM. I suspect this collective thinking comes from the London Blitz. The elderly men were on the front line, YES, I am making WWII references, but they were literally on the yellow line; not a step beyond it. Confused and perplexed they stood, shuffling around and trying to remember why they were there, scoping out for some beige luggage, through their chunky transparent plastic spectacles. Bless them.

Gift from the Queen on your 75th Birthday

After a few minutes, a beige bag was on the radar. Alfred shuffled frantically. As he shuffled his eyebrow hairs tickled the elderly fellow on his left, causing him to turn his head, subsequently tickling Alfred with the white hairs protruding from his ears. This tickling went on repeatedly until the real action started.

I know his name because "Alfred, no! your back" was shouted by a confused, concerned yet adoring wife from the sideline.

Alfred had mobilised. He breached the line, and with two hands he grabbed the beaten beige leather handle of his luggage, and two-step shuffled in parallel with the bag down the straight of the conveyor belt. In the confusion, Alfred's pal had dropped his walking cane, now half rested on the conveyor belt and making its way round the track. He looked on, not knowing where he was. All he wanted was a scone, he hadn't asked for this.

The rest of the mob slowly but surely made it over towards Alfred to give him a hand. It was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead. It was a middle-aged businessman on the phone that lifted the bag up for him in the end, and Alfred had to take a little while to recover and get his breath back. Proudly he lifted his wife's bag up on to the trolley and the whole group just stood there trying to figure out where the exit was.

Such events are becoming rarer as this generation's story draws to a close.

The Hol Royd Arms

Don't be fooled by this picture

So, lucky me. Arrived in Surrey, it was a beautiful day and I was in an optimistic mood. All was swell until I arrived at my highly recommended accommodation. A beautiful, cosey little bed and breakfast in the heart of Guildford. Free WiFi, television in room et cetera.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, he did something that I know was difficult for him to do. He cared for the welfare of his passenger. With the engine still running, he hopped out of the red Skoda, jogged to the back of the car, opened the boot, got my suitcase out, opened my door, said: "ten quid mate" gave me his taxi card and said: "look, if you need to leave here, just call this taxi number and ask for Steve. I should be taxiing around this area tonight and I'll be able to pick you up quickly". He drove off in a hurry.

I turned around and started towards the Hol Royd Arms. Sat outside were two fat lads in Red England jerseys from the 90s. I was wearing purple skinny jeans. I was also Scottish...

I need to go buy toothpaste. I will continue later...

Toppsy

x

Quiet before the Storm

2011-07-01T14:42:00.000+01:00

Haven't blogged in too long. People are whinging. Strange, I used to just have to get smashed and write shit when hungover and stuff would flow.

Since I'm moving away soon, I handed in my notice for my previous employer, and so had this month free to become addicted to day-time television and extreme pornography. What I've realised is that as a result of not working, my brain has not been as stimulated, the weekends not appreciated as much, and as a result, nothing really to blog about.

Sunday night, in Bamboo's hip-hop room, at the bar ordering 20 sambuca, I was confronted by a gentleman and a scholar, who informed me that he really quite enjoyed my blog. I decided at that point, that before I embark upon my DMT trip, that I will NEED to write something. I'm doing this for you all, not me. As usual, this is a selfless act. When I could be oot pumpin aw the burds, im instead sat by a fire...NAKED, quill in hand, pondering my existence and battling with writer's block. Which reminds me, I've written something inspired by Descartes before. So, I'm cheating a little bit, as I'm simply going to now copy and paste from something I'd written last Christmas time on the Buff Club PRs facebook group when I worked there. It's relevant, so why re-write in different words? That would be wasteful in these times of austerity.

Basically, the Buff's facebook group became abandoned, and I wanted to inject some life into it; like the quantitative easing equivalent of social media, perhaps. Here it is:

Cogito Ergo Sum

"It has come to my attention as of late, and I think its fairly obvious anyway, that this group is destined to become yet another desolate/baron/bleak/austere...DEPRESSING waste of cyber-space.

Something so disenchanting about neglected forums, where an antique, or fossilized comment is left unnoticed ad infinitum. There may as well be three dots after the name of this facebook group, or a figure of 8.

In denial, and being a natural optimist, I had hoped this group would be exciting, with lots of user generated content. Alas, for you can't kid a kidder, and here I am having to save the day again, unappreciated, just like the Buff's birthday night out (a single teardrop has just issued from my right eye and landed on my nipple).

As I lay here at 6 in the morning, naked, physically exhausted, yet mentally as discerning as I've ever been (think Stephen Hawkings in bed naked, but with a MacBook and a massive erection), I pondered, as Descartes once had, "do I really exist?" and if so, "how can I be sure?". My conclusion differs some what from Rene's however in that I believe:

"I PR, therefore I am".

Unable to sleep, and I see blue liquid swirls when I close my eyes anyway, I thought I'd do what I enjoy most, and that is generating heated debate and stimulating primitive sexual emotions over things that either don't exist, or are pointless :). And, also, why keep my thoughts to myself?

I hate tragedy and there's simply no need for loss of potential."

So, it's relevant, as it relates to themes of neglected cyber space, tragedy and my aim in life, which is always remained true - to stimulate sexual arousal. It's always there, just needs to be tapped.

Just to let you know, in the passage above, when I mention the Buff Club Birthday night out crisis, this refers to when I felt nobody cared for my safety, or much for my company either. What happened was I basically couldn't find anyone after about 1am, staggered home in the freezing cold snow alone, my tears turning to ice and freezing my face. I was then mugged and beaten with sticks by about 20 street kids. They stripped me naked of my clothes, leaving me only my sneakers. I then managed to claw my way by tooth and nail to Cafe India and traded my shoes for a large portion of chips and curry sauce. The issue in Cafe India was that they had run out of polystyrene boxes and so gave me mine in a blue plastic bag with no fork or napkin. with the lack of cutlery i was forced to eat the curry sauce with my bare hands, out of what now resembled a bag full of steaming human shit. With each scoop, came a great deal of pain, even through the pleasure of tasting the finest of curry sauce. A stray burning thread of cheese that was whipped up in the gale force winds managed to strike my eye ball, causing me to grimace, flinch and slip on the ice. Head over heels I fell at Kelvin bridge in a pile of snow...yellow snow, as a group of homeless street urchins had just pissed all over the place. Down with me fell the burning hot curry sauce, cheese and fragments of lava-hot, melting blue plastic that attached themselves to my now burning face and ass. I lay there, ashamed, quivering, but my groans fell on deaf ears. Like my grandfather's story of the German that lay calling out "Mutter, Vater" for hours till he slipped into infinity...

At this point, I'm not sure what happened next, but I recall...recalling, a hymn at school, from the classic "Songs of Praise" book, with the line "I was cold I was naked were you there". None of you were there. Perhaps if I'd been more God fearing, such terrible runs of luck wouldn't happen to me. What made matters worse was the fact that I discovered, to my embarrassment, that my fellow Buffers had in fact not dingeyed me, but rather I'd drank too much Guinness and essentially dingeyed myself. The girl of my dreams I'd been planning for ages to meet also arrived and apparently came over to talk to me. I gave her the victory sign and left. Only she must know what I said to her. I don't want to know. I certainly ain't gonna call her and find out.

Was a low point of my life, let alone my week. It was shortly after graduating with a Masters Degree. Five years of studying, and I was naked in snow covered in curry sauce. Once I came to the next morning, I used the pita bread to sheath my penis and managed to break back into my own bedroom to safety.

Thankfully, things are looking up at the moment. Well at least It's not snowing.

So what causes it to snow? What creates a storm, directs waves and determines temperatures? I don't have fucking clue. But, I know that for waves, they are affected by the gravitational forces of the moon and sun. A wave isn't a wave of water, as water particles move in small circular motions, but rather an actual wave of energy, which is pretty kool. I'm trying to find ways of talking about the moon, so I can get onto the subject of outerspace and quantum mechanics, time and fascinating sciency shit like that.

The reason is, I hate things that are mundane. The idea of hanging up wet socks to dry (oooohhhh that reminds me. Got in a taxi the other day, was trying to relate you know, tried to sound a little less posh, tried to talk about Greggs sausage rolls and Irn-Bru and shit like that. I was heading S Side to visit the fam, and as usual, I had a bin bad full of stuff that I was needing to take back. And, as usual, I got asked the same question:

"This you takin' yer washin' hame aye, heh heh heh?"
"Ahh, ye cannae beat it, hame cooked meal and washin' done by yer mammy"

It's perfectly friendly chit chat, and I like it. I agree! But, I took it too far. I went on about how much I just hate washin'. Naively, I mentioned briefly that I hate hanging up wet socks individually. I may as well have head butted a bee hive. Like a lightening bolt; as if it were on the front of his mind or had been niggling at him for years.

"I fuckin' hate soaks. Goat a big basket aw em. I just buy soaks, I can't be fucked washin' them, I just buy them"

By this point he takes both hands of the steering wheel to describe the immense size of these multi packs, which seemingly cost a mere poun'.

"The big fuckin' multi-packs o' soaks." Before I knew it, I was joining in the conversation about "wumin" and how there's no need for a washing machine or dishwashurr, cuz "that's wit a wumin's fur".)

or being that guy on Buchanan Street that pretends to be a statue, when we are all floating in space, and have no idea where we came from or why we are here, or anything. It's stranger than any fiction ever imagined, and possible are things we can never imagine. Really, what is life? This is the kind of question I'd like to dedicate my life to solving, as opposed to dealing with most of the questions I deal with in life, such as which kebab, or should I get a pint or switch to spirits now? Wish I was an astrophysicist or something.

Life's just so tragic, in the literal sense of wasted potential. Everywhere you look, people could be doing better, could be far happier. It's just so injust, like the timer switch in the toilet of the hotel lobby in barcelona. It basically persecutes those who are taking a shit. Timer switch lasts about 30 seconds. Sitting there on the red leather sofa's at the kinky hotel I was at, and frequently I'd see guests waddling out of the gents into the hotel lobby, chinos down by their ankles, an arm outstretched, the other rubbing their eyes, bellowing: "I've gone blind! I've gone blind" only to realise they're now in the hotel lobby, humiliated in front of their children, wife, friends and general public. I suspect the hotel staff set the timer switch accordingly for their own amusement. There should be some sort of siren and flashing light, with a hotel porter ready with a medal to award them as their "100th today!".

Whilst in Barcelona, I was looking at the moon quite a lot. Namely because after a while I mistook it for my cigarette lighter, but it was far more prominent in the clear night's sky; as were the stars. I was thinking though, whilst I was there, how the moon and sun and stars have been behaving the same way for millions of years (all in all), consistently orbiting in the correct way, and following the correct patterns. Jesus looked at the same moon we look at, as did Galileo, and all of your ancestors. It will be there long after we are gone too.

AHHH, i'm getting pissed off. I neeeed to be semi-pissed to write shit that makes sense. Too rigid when I'm completely sober. This is all boring. Nothing in the news amuses me, and I don't have any one off events to write about. Nothing strange has happened to me recently. I'm also scared my new employers get a hold of this and I'll be sacked. Well, there is one thing I could write about. The REAL reason I was in Barcelona. I loved Factor 50, Thunder Disco are definitely causing a storm and will continue to into the foreseeable future. But, although that was a bonus to see them, it's not why I was there.

A week before I went to Barcelona you see, I was in Cafe India (default location circa 4am any night of the week) and I didn't have enough cash to pay for my donner kebab (they don't accept American Express). I may be their best customer, but in the world of doner, it's all business. You can't fuck about, there's no tick, and people get shot, no questions asked. So I had to strike a deal.

So after hours of torture and interrogation - "who sent you?" slap slap, "who are you working for?!" electric shock to my nipple, they knew I was innocent. I had no knowledge of any of the main doner meat gangs or distributors, so I couldn't make the torture stop from admitting anything.

I still had a debt to pay however.

All I could hear was the squeek of what sounded like an un-oiled wheel. I was correct. The men in Cafe India wheeled out the God Father of Doner meat from the backroom storage area. His wheel chair unglamorous, a rusty wheel squeaking every 10 seconds as 15 men grappled to push him out. It took hours. The old man was so decrepit and bent double that his face was literally in his groin. They had to all strip naked to reduce weight and enable them to force him out on to the passage way between the doner meat skewer and the display cabinet. The reason it was so tough was not because the old man was heavy (as he was not) but because the wheels to his wheel chair so badly damaged.

The old man spoke, but I could understand nothing as he was merely grumbling to his own testicles. One of the doner lords translated for me. Basically, I needed to smuggle three skewers of doner meat into Barca, and deliver to his three brother's outlets. Once I deliver, I have to take a photograph as evidence, and send it back. The following three images make it look easy, but boy was it difficult:

OKAY. Let me continue writing drivel later you unappreciative cunts! I wanna watch the tennis on my last day before I go. But I will continue later, so stay tuned.

Toppsy

x

Laying Down The Gauntlet.

2011-05-27T14:41:00.001+01:00

Can we please inject some more excitement to our lives.

The safety is off. Not on my gun, but on my phone.

I want to frape, and frape hard and fast. I expect the same in return.

"live by the frape, die by the frape" - anonymous.

To Inspire, let us review a recent campaign:

"Operation Let's Dance"

"Hey, seen you around in Bamboo. Dj told me who you iz ;p

you wanna dance with the devil?

They don't call me The Doctor for nothin'.

Let's cut to the chase...YOU, ME, Nicholas Cage, Angry Driver and 3D glasses.

Maybe grab a beer afterwards at the cineworld bar...I know the manager. I'm somewhat of a regular. Crazy stories about me in there, I once drank all their god damn beer...American beer ;)

I’m free Monday 1-5, Tuesday (anytime after 6pm, excluding September) Wednesday I pump iron with the boys. Thursday is me day, but we can make that an ‘us’ day. Friday is the day I unbotton my shirt and drink full fat cola, you can join me then, if you dare ride the wave, so bring your own arm bands.

PM me for my digits. We can talk business.

Ciao

I want to be defamed and discredited. Tease me.

The prestigious think-tank, The Institute of Social Networking Defamation, Framation and Frapation has not yet concluded it's inquiry. The mastermind is still out there, on the loose, down a moss-ridden, dim, sodium-illuminated-yellow/rouge street-lamped lane with a smart phone.

Do your worst.

Toppsy

X

The PSB.

2011-05-16T23:38:00.000+01:00

Today has been quite a good day, and nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting for me when I got home. I opened the door, and there it was. A brown envelop from the PSB.

Pictures tell a thousand words. So just let these images speak to you right now.

If you want to know how I really felt, and to make the experience more authentic, you really aught to be listening to Pet Shop Boys - King of Rome whilst you scroll down and take it all in.

I just can't believe Neil Tennant wrote to me because of my blog. What a life. :)

Good things happen in threes too.

It's been a month since I started this pishy blog, and have had 1,210 unique page views, spanning 7 continents. A shame that I had 2 views from Israel though, sort of ruins it all.

So that's the second kool thing today...

Third decent thing is my back pain has officialy ceased, and I can now pick up 2 pence coins off of the street without groaning and cursing the fact that youth is wasted on the young.

But yeah, that's it, really just wanted to share these amazing PSB images with you all.

Take it easy, and good night,

Toppsy

X

Bin Laden Dead

2011-05-14T17:55:00.000+01:00

I was walking to work via Kersland Lane when I saw the headline: "BIN LADEN DEAD" printed on the front of a passerby's fresh-off-the-press tabloid.

When I saw this headline, I didn't realise its significance.

I'm so used to seeing the full name, Osama Bin Laden, so when I saw "Bin Laden dead", I thought they meant, THE bin-laden are dead. As in:

Bin: |bin|
noun [with adj. ]
a receptacle for storing a specified substance : a vegetable bin.

laden: |lādn|
adjective
heavily loaded or weighed down : a tree laden with apples | [in combination ] the moisture-laden air.

Basically, I thought that people covered in bins had died. I was shocked and horrified to say the least:

"How could this happen in this day in age?! How has our society fallen this far?!", I put to the newspaper-reader.

"They're celebrating in New York" the passer-by replied calmly.

Angered, I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. I shook her and shook her, till I realised she was quite attractive.

"Sorry", I said, "I just can't believe this news...

gimme your number"

"NO", she said sternly, and walked briskly away toward the safety of Great Western Road.

I still don't understand what her problem was, unfriendly I suppose. Probably a lesbian.

So I continued to walk down the lane, and saw council workers rummaging through a heap of rubbish by the bins behind my flat. There was a blue and white police ribbon sealing off the area too. I ran over and punched one. Scuffled with an other.

I just couldn't believe that such a tragedy could happen on my own doorstep.

"Where are they?! where are the bodies you bastards?!"

With tooth and nail I searched frantically amongst the litter for the bodies. At school I learned the Dr's ABC, and believed I could bring them back to life.

There was no Danger, no Response, and no Airway, Breathing or Circulation to revive, as there were no bodies. I stood, puzzled, and scratched my head. The councilmen looked as confused and perplexed as I did.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" they pleaded. I started to reply, when a sheet of newspaper gently and innocently floated like a snowflake to the ground at my feet. Looking down, I was greeted with an image of Osama Bin Laden, the text displaying the message: "Gotcha".

It then dawned on me. Ashamed, and embarrassed, I told the council workers to go fuck themselves, so as to save face, that I was insulted by their lack of enthusiasm, and I hope the cuts hit them hard.

I then checked my phone to read about the news myself.

It's hillarious that he was booted overboard. How American! I heard a rumor that the navy seals brought a crate of American beer on board to celebrate. The captain said: "this vessel's carrying too much weight. It's either that crate of American beer, or Osama Bin Laden that's going overboard."

A Seal of Scottish heritage then Scottish hammer threw him over board.

5 seconds later and the Navy Seals were daring each other to take a shot of Bud Lite.

"I can shoot the World's number one terrorist target twice in the head, but I aint no psycho. No Navy Seal training can prepare me to take a God Damn shot of American Beer" said Hicks, the Seal from Tennessee.

After hours of naked wrestling and beer drinking on deck only one seal made it back to the States. Unfortunately when he stepped off of the vessel he collapsed from beer poisoning.

May these fine American men rest in peace. I hope they have Bud lite flowing through Heaven's taps.

Toppsy

X

Tea and Coffee: An Appreciation

2011-05-07T16:47:00.000+01:00

Realised recently how much I love tea and coffee.

The whole process, the boiling of the kettle, and that peaceful calm that comes after the climax ;). The way the glorious Scottish aqua bubbles it's way to boiling point, releasing a cylindrical plume of steam (no innuendos, I swear).

Then my favourite stage: the poring. I usually sigh with satisfaction as the sound changes from the water rising, making a sort of unique foamy swoopy sound.

Not particularly that unique I suppose, living in Glasgow where it rains 9 months of the year, with burst drain pipes spewing rusty water onto the pile of litter and dead pigeons. And that's just the affluent parts.

Now I'd hate someone to make me choose, but would have to admit I'm verging on being a tea man recently. Although, it all depends really, as soon as I thought that I craved a coffee.

If I'm out, say at a restaurant or a cafe, I'd rarely ever order a tea, unless eating a full English, which on second thought, is actually all the time.

Let's be honest, I'll probably have one in the Corinthian tonight.

Apart from that though, It seems to be only at home that I can really enjoy tea.

Coffee has its advantages. Boil the kettle, and its made in seconds. Of course, for the pretentious cocks reading this, you'll be smirking that I'm obviously an instant coffee drinker. I'd love to own a coffee machine, but I don't, and the French Press just, well, French. Nescafe Gold and Douwe Egberts do the trick. Sainsbury's own budget one though, false economy, nearly ruined my week at work when I thought I'd be clever buying it on the Monday. Was probably the God of Waitrose testing my faith.

With tea there's an awkward period of 70 seconds or so, just waiting there, thinking about stuff before removing the soggy bag. Thinking about childhood, and whether or not I can still claim to be extending it. Thinking about the Universe, and what is, or isn't it. Thinking about tits, and how great they are. Thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking.... ad infinitum.

Tea first thing in the morning, and last thing at night is perfect.

Coffee is especially great when you need energy at work or after a meal.

I'm tempted to make a conceptual model, but cannot be fucked.

I think what really appeals to me about tea and coffee, is that, compared with other pleasures in life, there are no real risks or negative side affects. I couldn't think of one, till my friend informed me that it can badly discolour your teeth. Small price to pay in my opinion.

After hours of heated debate some friends and I concluded that only water and lettuce can be enjoyed without negatives - apart from the fact that an isolated lettuce is incredibly boring. Fortunately, I love water.

But I suppose everything comes at a cost to your life. Only when a nanosecond young are you pure and healthy, and from that point onwards, you're using up your energy and health.

But who wants to be the proverbial energy saving light bulb that lasts for ever but enjoys a rather dim existence.

Energy saving light bulbs actually make no sense anyway. In the past, say 70-80 years ago, lightbulbs were made to last decades. Only when manufacturers realised the huge profits to be yielded from planned obsolescence, did that change. If I were a lightbulb I'd be a bright one with an elegant tint, hanging in a Parisian whore-house left over from the 1930s.

Anyway, back to Tea, the world's second most popular beverage after water.

Thought to be "quintessentially English" by most of the world, I'll often here someone forget their Glaswegian and on a Sunday afternoon smugly say:

"there's something so quintessentially British about a cup of tea" whilst sitting cross legged watching cash in the attic.

To get the correct idea of the manner in which they say it, YouTube: Tony Benn; the old British MP, and imagine him saying that same phrase but with dark chocolate melting in his mouth.

Or a segment of Terry's Chocolate Orange. Whatever you wish. Set your imagination free.

(Just to clarify, I highly respect Tony Benn, he's a great man. It's just his voice suits what I'm typing about).

Anyway, I'd like to change this Glaswegian handicap forever, and allow us to say with confidence that tea is "quintessentially Scottish" instead. So we can sit legs open, naked, in our council houses whilst watching Highlander (episodes, not the movie), or Weirs Way.

"I was looking for Asian tits not tea!" :(

I'd like to enlighten you all with a history of the Scotsman, Robert Fortune, who was instrumental in Britain's love affair with tea, and helped to "fuel the expansion of the British Empire."

(I actually doubt this. And I dislike such strong statements, but authors commonly say that to sell their books).

Don't just take my educated and amazing word for it though. I'm citing much of my research from Sarah Rose's non-fiction: "For All the Tea in China: Espionage, Empire and the Secret Formula for the World's Favourite Drink" - worth the read, if your not too aroused from reading my posts. (If you are, just wet a towel, lie horizontally and rest it on your forehead).

Before we proceed on our journey, I would like to remind us all about some of the great things Scots have contributed to the world:

Adam Smith - Economics (we wouldn't have this global meltdown without him),
Alexander Fleming - Antibiotics (The Sandyford clinic wouldn't exist without),
Alexander Graham Bell - Telephone (Angry birds on your iPhone directly links back to him),
John Logie Baird - Television (Sky HD 3D would not be here),
Sir Robert Watson-Watt - Radar defense system (Call of Duty would be rubbish without. If only this man hadn't gone and ruined it all by saying something stupid like "I saw Nessie" he died a laughing stock)
Bob Marley (little known fact that his dad was a Scotsman)

and trillions more. Most of them practical inventions, apart from maybe the Kaleidoscope, sheep cloning and golf.

Robert Fortune: Putting the 't' in Scotland.

(BTW, don't make the error of going to http://robertfortune.com/ and thinking it's a site about him. You'll be lead to the page of some shocking metal band. Their song Cadillac is amazing though).

Born on the 16th of September, 1812, in the town of Berwickshire, Scotland, his father was no more than a common gardener. Robert, however, was studious and ambitious, and the skills he learned from his father were soon put to good use at the Botanical Garden in Edinburgh. He was known for having a unique grip and pull technique for removing weeds, and other than natural weeding skills, could uproot a small tree with his bare hands. Before long, he was working along side some of the most elite botanists in Europe, at the Royal Horticultural Society of London's garden at Chiswick.

In 1842, a dynamic and curious Mr Fortune was ordered to go to China following the end of the First Opium War, to discover and document Chinese species of plants unknown to Europe, for the sake of science, and also to satisfy Victorian Britain's obsession with all things rare, foreign and exotic - a result of her vast empire which covered so much of the globe. The expression "the sun never sets on the British Empire" was completely true. Kinda like toppoblog.

Years later, when he was back in London, the East India Company (a British-run trading company, operating out of East India, with monopolies over many commodities) approached him based on his botanic expertise and his experience in China (such an ideal candidate) and offered him four times his annual salary if he would go on an espionage mission to China, to steal the secrets of how to properly cultivate and produce tea.

For the sake of keeping you interested, let us forget about the ins and outs of the historical backdrop, and just focus on the interesting part. All that is important to know is that going to China on an espionage mission at this time in World history, was extremely risky, and had a Brit been caught by Chinese authorities, they would most certainly have been killed by poking.

The Interesting Part.

In order to be able to journey safely around China, he had to disguise himself as a Chinese Mandarin, highly respected Civil Servants in that day. A vast country with a multitude of ethnicities, Robert was able to disguise himself more easily than you would perhaps expect. With a solid knowledge of Chinese from his last experience there, he was well equipped for the mission.

Unfortunately, he was struck by fever only weeks into his expedition. The savage tribe he was staying with believed in old methods of medicine. They stripped him naked, beat him with sticks, smothered themselves in their own semen and then rubbed their naked bodies against his bosom.
He was then dipped in a pool of burning hot tar. They took him out, then set him on fire. Just when Robert had the cheek to think his ordeal was over, the chief of the savage tribe sodomized him for 45 minutes with a banzai tree.

Amazingly, this method cured him, and he writes in his memoirs:

"I felt ashamed and a fool, for being so arrogant, for being such a cultural imperialist who'd assumed Western and Victorian methods of science and medicine were the only methods".

What's more, Fortune had a eureka moment (not running down a street naked however) whilst the chieftain penetrated him. He would smuggle tea back to London via his arse. His friends at the time reportedly teased him for this feat. If Freud had lived before this time, I suspect he surely would have been teased for being too "anal" about tea.

After refusing to be married off to the tribe's goat, he was banished from the tribe, and had to set out naked, with nothing but his woven, worn, beaten sandals, for weeks across baron rural Chinese land in search of something...anything.

Just when he thought nothing could possibly get less hopeful, he was ambushed by a group of bears.

A witness recalled at the time: "All I saw was the naked body of a white warrior wrestling a bear. He is also the first and last warrior I have ever seen tomb stone a bear".

This witness was Sho-Kein, the member of a tribe fortunately inhabiting some rural land close by, in the Zhejiang region. Sho-Kein advised Robert to sheath himself with a flower, and he was invited to stay with his tribe for a as long as he wished, so as to ward of future bears.

Luckily for Robert, this province was the famous Tea-making region he had been headed for in the first place. Such good fortune.

To be continued...

I have company now, and don't want to be anti-social, we shall complete our journey soon.

Just next time you have a tea, raise your cup and toast it to good Fortune.

X

PART II.

The following morning, Robert was afforded the luxury of a lie in. After bathing himself all day, and tending to his wounds with hot water and towels, his new friend Sho-Kein informed him that after dinner he'd have to meet Rupert the Wise Giraffe.

Night had fallen, and around the fire Robert sat, basket-legged with Sho-kein on his left, and a beautiful and exotic tribeswoman, named Chenguang directly opposite, her head angled downwards, eyes looking up, staring at him madly whilst noodles escaped into her mouth.

There was no time for arousal however. He just could not stop thinking about Egg and Chips. It's all he bloody well wanted. Egg, haggis, black pudding, things he missed dearly. A warm watered down Tennents. Ginger hair. Sauchiehall Street.

Robert's chain of thought was interrupted by the arrival of a six-manned formation of lantern-yielding, robe-wearing, trance-like persons. They signaled to Sho-Kein, and in turn, Sho-kein summoned Robert to go with them. They led him away from the more open area with the majority of the tribe, who were all largely too busy enjoying their dinner to notice, toward the absolute blackness of the surrounding forestry. Through naturally occurring pathways they led Robert, till after 10 minutes of walking, the glow of a fire started to appear on the horizon. The glow grew larger and larger till all of a sudden another opening appeared, and stood by the far back right corner, was who could only be, Rupert the Wise Giraffe.

Rupert wore a white fluffy beard, monocle, tweed jacket and an eccentric patchwork bow-tie. He nodded wisely with his long wise head and neck. So wisely, in fact, that Robert felt himself drifting off into a rather beautiful dream. Like gently and effortlessly floating back and being carried by a cloud, through a pink and misty sky. Various varieties of tea floating past with wings on. Some being carried by other clouds. Some being brewed and enjoyed by a group of smiling monks.

And then Rupert, galloping through the sky toward him, saying "wake up Robert, wake up Robert, wake up Robert" with a voice a blend of Winston Churchill, Sean Connery and Tony Benn. Robert awoke: "But I'm still on a cloud. I'm still dreaming".

"aahhhh" groaned Rupert. "Another one. A classic case of somebody who doesn't believe in magic" Magic was said with a whisper, so soft and gentle, that it was nearly inaudible.

Never underestimate the power of magic my dear fellow. This is all, very real. You score a zero on the dial of the Magic Barometer. It is going to take a lot of magic to save you."

"from what?" a perplexed and slightly pissed of Robert said.

"from yourself Andrew"

"It's Robert"

"Oh, I must be getting ditsy in my old age. Anyway, it is your destiny to tickle the belly of the beast. Trufflepuffle and Dingleepoopywoopy will fly you there. Go now, there's not much time. Just remember the word "Azuraflippiteedippiteewippitteedooooo. Actually, that's wrong, it's "Azuraflippiteedippiteewippiteeskippiteepoooo".

"What the fuck is this? What are you? For Christ's Sake!!"

"I am getting old Steven, and I am going to need someone to take my place, and to defend magic...from the forces of darkness..."

A chilling wind started to blow, causing Robert to quiver...sexually.

"For the sake of Mankind and Christianity, my name is Robert Fortune, Sir Robert Fortune. Now explain yourself man, or I'll have you charged with treason and put in front of Her Majesty's court. You are meddling in the affairs of the British Crown".

"Very well pettle, your name is irrelevant anyway. Pah! The British Crown, do not make me laugh".

"Lies, how dare you! How dare you insult her Majesty!" Robert screamed through his tears.

Rupert turns away from Robert.

"So, considering smuggling tea back to Great Britain via your anal canal, are we? You really do put the but, anus and tea into bot-anis-t. What if I were to tell you that instead you could take a colour photograph of most of the specimens meaning only the most vital would need to be smuggled back physically for analysis? Or should I say, anal, y sis?"

"Enough of the jokes, and I don't have a sister anyway so that last one doesn't work. Wait, was that an incestuous joke? Fuck off! And also, it's pronounced botanist to those who speak normally, not butanist as you say it. More to the point, how do you know about my mission?" Robert said.

There was a slight pause...

"Magic", Rupert whispered.

"Well, with regards to photographs, nonsense, there is no such technology, it is impossible to take coloured photographs" Robert Said.

"At present, impossible yes, but I've just come back from 20 years into the future. A young and ingenious Scotsman, named James Clerk Maxwell, in 1861 produces the first coloured image in history. Have a look" Rupert gestures for Robert to come forth. He cautiously steps toward Rupert's outstretched....eh, leg...and with care allows the image to rest lightly on his now sweaty palm.

"Is it the Playboy logo?" Robert asked.

"No, a tartan ribbon. Trust a Scot to make the subject of the first coloured photograph, a tartan ribbon" said Rupert.

"So, the elephant in the room. Or, the Giraffe in the room. Why are you a Giraffe?!" Robert asked.

"Well, I can adopt any persona I wish, and well, the Giraffe just clicks. I was the Zebra of Zhekiang for a while to achieve the alliteration, but, I just didn't seem as wise. People didn't respect me. Plus, lazy folk started to call me ZZ, or ZoZ, which just didn't suit my self-image."

"But a giraffe? Why not a dragon or something useful at least?" Robert asked.

Rupert ignored him, and Robert could sense it was an awkward subject.

"There's too little time for this dumb foolery. You must go now with Trufflepuffle and Dingleepoopywoopy." Rupert walked away into the dark forestry, the glowing lanterns of his minders fading gradually like Robert's understandings of reality.

"Good luck Simon" Rupert's wise and mysterious voice echoed from the distance.

"But my name's..." he started, but it was no good, Robert resigned himself to his immediate fate, and turned to face Trufflepuffle and Dingleepoopywoopy.

To Be Continued...

toppoblog: Gone Global

2011-05-02T22:33:00.000+01:00

On topp'o the World.

At the weekend that's just passed I received a great deal of feedback from my fellow Glaswegians with regards to toppoblog. The reviews were mixed, but overall positive. One fellow said he loved it, one girl said: "I liked your thing about...unicycles was it?", so she was perhaps just being polite (which is fine by me), and a local poet criticized my choice of template.

I thought the template comment was strange too but on reflection I realise this was just some sound constructive criticism. At the time, however, I was defensive, offended and took it as personal assault on my family crest. I had rolled up my sleeves and adopted the traditional Victorian boxing stance and was challenging the man to some fisty cuffs.
Then I realised it was out of love, not disrespect, and forgave him.

What topped off my night was the taxi driver informing me that he is a massive fan of the blog and that I'm a "real man of the people".

So overall, I felt touched that people had cared to comment. Not emotionally, but physically; as if someone were touching me. The pleasure was intense and I just want to feel chronically touched.

Oh and just to let you know, the interview with Rachelle Kruger was real.

But yeah, the purpose of this post is because I glanced at my stats and realised that so far this week I've had a visit from Bahrain.

In that country right now people are being shot in the street for protesting. I'm starting to feel like I have some sort of involvement with the Arab world's uprising. Funny though, I'm trying to picture it in my mind, the idea of someone in that civil-war torn part of the world taking some time out to read toppoblog.

I mean, is it a member of the Al Khalifa family? Have they googled: "what would Neil Tennant do?"? Is it a rebel leader? Has someone been at gun point and made one final request: "No, no cigarette for me, get me toppoblog on that dial-up connection...NOW!"...?

There's not really many more possible logical explanations that I can think of, so it must be one of the above.

The fate of the computer after displaying my controversial blog

Although, a wild-card possibility is that a family traded all their belongings and gave their eldest son, Khalid, money to flee via plane to Qatar. Khalid, being a rebellious teen who appreciated the majesty of British Victorian craftsmanship, was searching for information on Penny Farthings. After reading my inspirational review, he chose to spend his family's savings on a PF, and is going to cycle out of Bahrain instead.

Anyway...enough drivel.

Upcoming events to feel aroused about:

Launching a website soon, will be super fancy.

(Merchandise will be for sale, such as mugs, t-shirts and bum-bags that say "WWNTD?" - "What Would Neil Tennant Do?", for example).

There will of course be signed naked photographs of myself.

Toppsy

X

An Appeal.

2011-04-29T20:55:00.000+01:00

For those victims of the Kelvin Grove Riots - you'll pull through.

Neil Tennant has agreed to duet with the lucky raffle winner in his classic, Numb:

Pet Shop Boys - Numb:

Tickets are a mere pound.

Even if we only raise one, it's one more than none...think about that.

Toppsy

X

An Interview with South African starlet Rachelle Kruger.

2011-04-29T19:21:00.000+01:00

Rachelle Kruger, best known for her appearance in the loved and well-known Mattessons Sausage "Hunger Drums" advertisement, commonly referred to as "that sausage advert girl!", has been one of the most influential events in Britain's recent history, leading many commentators to say:

"[the advert] is perhaps the most pivotal event in recent British history since the Suez" - David Starkey

It even made it's way into political discourse, with the then Prime Minister, Gordon Brown warning:

"the over consumption of Mattessons sausages as a direct consequence of this advert threats the banking system, and risks a sharp fall in Britain's standard of living."

This advert was daring. If it were a song, it'd be known as an anthem. It challenges our relationship with sausages and the way that we consume foods in general. Eating a Mattessons is like saying "fuck the cops. fuck the aristocracy. fuck the world. fuck me. fuck yourself."

Rachelle appears in this advert at roughly 4 seconds in and again at various times throughout.

toppoblog caught up with starlet Rachelle Kruger at her local cafe ZUPA in Cape Town, for an exclusive and controversial interview. Rachelle, reportedly a massive fan of toppoblog, was keen to talk.

Her local cafe was quite busy, and as she sat down, we both had to take a moment to adjust ourselves and get comfortable. I was just enjoying observing the Cape Town atmosphere, till I was interrupted by a waitress asking for my order. I thought to myself: "let's be wild!", and asked for a decaf mocachino.

Rachelle was drinking a latte with an extra shot of coffee.

we had some off-the-record and controversial chit chat, then commenced the interview.

INTERVIEW.

toppsy - "How did you land yourself a role in the Mattessons Sausage advertisement?"

Rachelle - "Well, basically, when I was in..."(Rachelle's face froze all of a sudden, one eye more shut than the other, looking a little lop-sided, like she'd had a stroke).

toppsy - "Rachelle, can you hear me alright?"

Rachelle - "What? no, not really"

toppsy - "your face has gone all weird?"

Rachelle - "Really, shit, why?"

toppsy - "Fuck, my fault, it's the internet connection here in this internet cafe Rachelle. The screens frozen, I'm sorry, it obviously can't cope with Skype!"

[After a stern word with the waitress I got the internet fixed and a complimentary caramel short cake. Who says you can't have it all?]

toppsy - "How did you land yourself a role in the Mattessons Sausage advertisement?"

Rachelle - "Well I'm at an agency and they send me to castings for adverts and movies and it sends me castings.

So, I just went to the casting for Mattessons and I turned out to get it"

toppsy - "What was your reaction when you realised you'd actually be starring in an advert for such a prestigious British sausage brand?"

Rachelle - "Well honestly I never knew it was such a big brand, and that it was very popular ? But when I started getting adds on facebook and people started chatting to me, I thought wow! okay! This is great. I felt pretty honourd to be in the advert" she beamed.

toppsy - "Were you alarmed by Glasgow's reaction to the advert, and your subsequent legendary status in our humble land?"

Rachelle - "Yeah, I didnt know it was such a big deal, I must say the feedback was really sweet", she says with a big smile.

"Would love to do another advert and let it be shown there. There are some really cool people there" smiling still.

toppsy - "What is your favourite sausage variety?"

Rachelle - "Hmm, well to be honest I like chicken sausages, I wouldve loved to have tasted mattessons! Would have been quite an experience."

toppsy - "What music are you into? - favourite song/band?"

Rachelle - "I'm into all kinds of music. Personally I don't like rap that much, although I do enjoy Eminem. I like Indie music . I'm also starting to enjoy French music, although.... I don't understand any of it! haha.. Very merry music. I guess anything that can relate to my mood. I like to listen to stereomood on the internet! That's the best site ever!"

toppsy - "favourite movie?"

Rachelle - "Wow! um ... that's a difficult one. I must say that I enjoy one of our local movies , Spud. Its really funny and it also is a drama, quite a mix and it has a twist. It made me realise that SA has a lot of talent and made me very proud! I cant wait for the next Spud movie to come out!"

toppsy - "What do you do for fun in South Africa?"

Rachelle - "Well, I'm quite adventurous and like to be thrown out of my comfort zone.

When its summer I like to go hiking, Ive climbed and hiked table mountain before, it was quite a mission!"

I love to surf, although Im pretty bad at it, but it hasnt stopped me for trying even harder!

In winter... I hibernate! hahaha! No Im joking. Um, I just chill out a bit and hang out with my friends and we go out to lounges and we also have 'kuiers' those are like little get togethers where you have a barbeque, we call barbeques a braai (br-eye)"
toppsy - "What's your favourite colour?"

Rachelle - "I have many favourite colours and I sometimes asscoiate colours with my mood. So, its always changing. I'm also quite artsy and I think all colours are beautiful."

toppsy - "What's the silliest thing you've ever done?"

Rachelle - "Wow! Ive done many silly things!

I guess it was one of the summers when i was with my best friend, it was really really hot that day, and we were quite bored so i thought of some thing quite genius ... haha.. I sprayred the tar(road) with spray and cook. Got a spatula out and crcked and egg on the ground to see if it would fry...
Unsucessful" :(

toppsy - "What would you do if you won the lottery?"

Rachelle - "My life is good, so I'd give it to some one or a family who is less fortunate.

I'd also use some of the money for my studies."

toppsy - "Were you star-struck to share a set with Samuel Robertson?"
Rachelle - "hahaha, yes of course I was. I must say he really is a sweet man and is down to earth. He also has an amazing voice!!!"

toppsy - "Have you considered auditioning for Scotland's River City?"

Rachelle - "Umm... Ive never heard of it to be honest (blushing). Id first have to know what its all about I guess? :) But I love opportunities, and wouldn't mind. Plus my grandfather is Scottish! Id love to surprise him with great news if I ever did anything for Scotland :) Better start practicing my accent!" :)

toppsy - "When will you visit your adoring fans in Glasgow?"

Rachelle - "Aaw :) hopefully very soon ! I would love to travel before I go and study so I will make a stop in Glasgow :)"

toppsy - "And finally, have you ever seen Braveheart?"

Rachelle - "Heard of it :) haven't watched it.... YET! :) I'm quite the busy one, I'll see if I can get hold of it tonight and watch it :)

Thanks for the fun interview! had a blast answering the questions :)"

toppsy - "God loves you. Glasgow loves you. Toppoblog loves you.

Thank you Rachelle. Thank you."

Exhausted from that intense interview, for which there was limited time, I didn't quite have the chance to reflect and take in what I had just experienced.

Now I have had time to recover, I appreciate that this may be the greatest interview of my career.

Toppsy

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The Highs and Lows.

2011-04-24T03:54:00.000+01:00

The Highs and Lows of my Week

The Highs

Having the £5.95 Munchy Box for breakfast.

The Cafe India on Great Western Road's incredible Munchy Box.

It included:

Doner Meat,
Chips,
Chicken, Vegetable and Mushroom Pakora,
Spicy Fritters,
Salad,
Soft drink of my choice

It was actually so good, and reflecting on it is making me hungry again.

But why the stigma? Why does society hate Doner meat so much? Do they not believe in magic?

Even the man who sold it to me shook his head slowly in disappointment.

"Why?!" he bellowed, teary eyed, as he kneaded the meat with his bear hands.
"You are from a good family, why bring this shame upon their name?".

I embraced him.

"Fear not my brother, for this meat is misunderstood. Follow me into the light and and you shall live forever in the valley of peace", I replied.

I instructed him to slice thirteen ribbons of doner meat, and to keep a slither for himself and the other 12 disciples.

"The doner is my body, and the sauce my blood. Eat and drink, and I shall be with you forever."

"I will be crucified on a rotating kebab skewer. But don't worry, I'll roll back a rock and in the future they'll eat chocolate eggs in my memory".

I reckon they should rebrand doner meat. If they don't, I'm going to:

Put the price up to a tenner
Wrap it in goldleaf
Sponsor Mercedes

Fast Facts:

A research study found it to be the best possible thing you can eat to restore your liver after drinking alcohol, which perhaps explains why you only really crave it after a drink.

BBC Radio 2

Never thought much of radio really, till I realised this week that I LOVE Radio 2.

The music selection is varied, and not once has a song been played that I didn't like.

The news coverage and the topics for the phone ins are great too. Always coincidentally about things of particular interest to me. For example, they had a debate about blogging, and whether or not it is good for you. The conclusion was negative.

It's changed me too. My favourite song at the moment is by Tim McGraw:

Click to open in YouTube

And I shazamed a song, which turned out to be Get in Line, by Ron Sexsmith:

Click to open in YouTube

I think I might get a mortgage, kids and buy a Ford Mondeo now. Does that mean giving up doner meat?

The Lows

Uploading Cats :(

Inspired by Twin Peaks I recorded myself speaking to a cat.

Only when I woke up a few hours later did I realise I UPLOADED THE VIDEOS.

Got 53 views. WOOPS.

Maybe the controversy will have long term gains.

Got Framed

At work, went to go for a pee.

A shadowy figure leaps out the toilet and exits the building (Probably a delivery man)

I naively enter the place.

SHOCK AND HORROR.

He didn't flush.

I then flee out of horror.

The women in the next office then runs in to communicate that she rly needs a pee!

There's brief silence followed by a few flushes.

WHAT MUST SHE THINK?!!

The next day I was locking up and to make sure I didn't lock anyone in, from the hallway I said:

"Hello?"

Hadn't spoken to anyone all day so voice was croaky.

"What?" she replied from the next room

"I just didn't want to lock you in" I croaked.

SILENCE.

My highs and lows.

Toppsy

Statement

2011-04-24T01:08:00.000+01:00

A few people have complained that I haven't made any recent posts (that's 3 people out of a potential readership of 5).

The tone of voice and the facial expressions were disapproving, like when you have a draw of a cigarette after not touching a single one for nearly 2 years.

Fear not fans, for the only reason I've not "blogged" since Sunday is because I've not been hungover since then. It's only then that I can think clearly

Whilst lathering myself in a bubbley bath today, smoking a Cuban and listening to my own cover of George Michael's - Careless Whisper (available now on iTunes) I realised that if i don't make a blog entry by the end of this weekend then I can't claim this is a weekly thing anymore, and a monthly would be pointless and boring.

I just want people to feel intellectually stimulated and sexually aroused at the same time.

It's tough!

I'm hoping people will appreciate it enough, that I can have more than 3 people following this. ffs it's embarassing. Although I've had 244 views this week, which isn't bad going?

Something will be written by the end of this weekend.

Toppsy

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What Would Neil Tennant Do? - Gaddafi.

2011-04-17T03:49:00.000+01:00

I don't sympathise with Gaddafi, but I wonder what I would do in his situation.

When faced with difficult situations, I ask myself: "What would Neil Tennant do?"

Neil Tennant is a genius, and his specialty is making joyfully depressing music. Case in point, Electronic - Disappointed, or Pet Shop Boys - It's a sin for example. What other artist can make you sing happily along about being disillusioned, ashamed, and so on, when you are perfectly happy?

In this case, as it's more complex than my decision whether or not to buy a snickers, the WWNTD? formula doesn't work perfectly.

As Gaddafi, faced with two options; suicide or exile, I'd probably opt to write an autobiography.

This is because:

a) If choosing death, I'd at least want my version of events to be considered in history, and hopefully protect my family after I'm gone.
b) If choosing exile, I'd hope that sympathisers may appreciate my lies and help me regain some sort of power.

In my bunker, a little bit stressed out and shafted for time, I'd sum up my tyrant life (missing out about 40 years of history) chronologically on a page using Neil Tennant songs:

My rise to power:

Pet Shop Boys - Did you see me coming? (the coup d'etat of 1969)
Electronic - Getting away with it (Viewed as suitably anti-Marxist by the US, the UK's assassination plan is cancelled)
Pet Shop Boys - Being boring (The 42 years of undisturbed rule)

Since 21st Feb 2011:

Pet Shop Boys - Domino Dancing (Popular uprising sweeping the Arab world, creating a "domino" effect)
Pet Shop Boys - What have I done to deserve this? (assets frozen)
Electronic - Disappointed (no-fly zone imposed. Even Berlusconi says he can't make it to the next orgy)

Reflective of my dirty past:

Pet Shop Boys - It's a sin
Pet Shop Boys - I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing
Pet Shop Boys - Yesterday when I was mad

Running out of money, munitions and ideas:

Pet Shop Boys - Send me an angel
Pet Shop Boys - Go West
Pet Shop Boys - It's alright

And depending on whether I'm exiled or not:

Pet Shop Boys - One night in Bangkok
Pet Shop Boys - Home and dry

Toppsy

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THE PENNY FARTHING

2011-04-17T02:58:00.000+01:00

Ahh the Penny Farthing.

A classically eccentric Victorian machine, that nobody at the time thought ridiculous. I want one. If I were still at school, I'd cycle to and fro on one of these. In fact, I may participate in the cycle to work scheme NOW just to see the reaction.

With an angry expression on my face and with an air of superiority I will peddle my squeaky Penny Farthing frantically down Great Western Road, waving my fist at other drivers and pedestrians, cutting through red lights, switching lanes, undercutting Ferarris and deliberately crash into the side of a bus.

In front of my bus audience, I will angrily try to reconstruct my Penny Farthing with suitably over-the-top Victorian devices.

A gigantic spanner to reattach the peddles and once I get the big wheel to stop spinning, will use the hugely inefficient brass and wooden Victorian pump to noisily re-inflate the pneumatic tires. Even if they aren't penumatic.

There's a noticeable trend in Glasgow, and I'm sure the rest of the UK at the moment, to own and ride a retro/vintage bicycle. I Predict the Penny Farthing is just the natural next step in the contemporary consumer's obsession with reverse evolution. Look out for the increasing number of PFs that are soon to be squeaking about the UK.

What's next, unicycles? Probably. And why not? This is 2011 after all, so let's all be 1811!

Everything in those days seems alien in fact. Think about old coinage! There was a coin called a Penny Farthing too!! And then there was the Half-penny (huffapenny) and the Hapney (hay-pnay)! and often the word "piece" was said after the coinage, and so your granny was saying to grandad: "geez a haypney piece for wur messages!"

Imagine cycling to the local shop on your Penny Farthing, to buy cigarettes you thought would help your sore throat. You pay a shilling and your change is a sixpence (sikspince) a haypneypiece n a huffapenny.

Forget the Euro. Let's get back to old money!

Toppsy

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Genesis.

2011-04-17T02:10:00.000+01:00

I have a lot on my mind. Things, any respectable man should keep to himself.

I am however, not a man. I am animal, beast even. Well, at least I've been told I'm a bit of an animal ;).

No, not in the sexy way, but in the concerned way.

You'd call me animal too if you caught me down a lane in the red light district on a Monday night, Casandra in one arm, Bliss in the other, around 4 am, eating steaming hot donner meat laced with black-pudding (WITH MY BARE HANDS) washed down with bovril, mostly streaming down each side of my face, staining my white linen suit. Fortunate then that a stream of bog-roll is stuck to my shoe...so I can use it to absorb the spillage, and keep some for laters.

So this is why I'm doing this. I believe that to rid my mind of all my stresses will not only benefit myself, but society as a whole. After all, "we're all in this together".

This blog shall follow "no rules" or have any general theme, unless I can think of one, but rather just a "puurrreeee raaannddddommm" set of posts, that I will perhaps never share with anyone. If you are reading this and you are NOT Paul Toppin, then I've obviously foolishly yet buzzingly chosen to:

>>GO LIVE!<<

R.I.P. Biggie Smalls.

Toppsy

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