The Art of Rhysisms

Rhysisms [Reece Is-ums]: Stupid, no meaning sentances. Created by Rhys Wynne [Reece Win] for his blog, The Art of Rhysisms. [more..]

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A Googlewhack for the words "Pocketable Tourniquets", which I created myself.

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Member of the New World Whore-der in the Liverpool University Ten Pin Bowling Club.

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Friday, November 28, 2003

Last night we headed off to the Blind Tiger Quiz, and, becuase our team was severely depleated (and I had run out of WAP minutes), we finished a glorious last. Still, got a free absinthe T-Shirt and Bacardi Twist Shot out of it, so jobs indeed a goodun.

Hubba Hubba!
Another interesting fact is that last night I fully severed my 2 year love affair with Carling, as I have gone off it. In a statement that will have Britt doing backflips, I have converted to Guiness (incidentally Britt, I would so love to give you a drinking contest one of these days, we'd both go in favourites methinks!)

Anyway, what I want to talk about is how our education money is being spent, and let me suggest a way to improve it. Okay, I am not good with money - I still shout "Hold the bells" on fruit machines and whatnot - but even I can save the University and the government a little wad of cash that could probably go towards a pint or whatnot.

After the Quiz which will forever not be mentioned ever again, we were pretty drunk or genuinely merry. We took a route past the medical buildings (a couple of buildings we, as engineers, in University folklore, supposed to of burnt down in the mid 60's. As there was only two engineers in a group of five (and no matches), we resisted the urge to re-ignite (no pun intended) our pyromaniac darkside, and saw two things that maybe, we could subtly take as a two finger salute to the bastard medics.

Look at them just standing there, mocking me. I have so many uses for them it's unbelievable.
Outside the medical building, with no armed guard, were two traffic cones.

Yes, the traffic cone which is a stamp on the night. When you had as much Irish Stout as yours truly, we just had to take one. Hell, even Dave Lister from Red Dwarf, millions of miles away from Earth, after a bender, managed to wake up with a traffic cone sandwiched between his thighs. If he can do it, then by god so could we.

We left, swaying the flourescent bollard in the wind without a care in the world when a white van, Starsky and Hutch esque, pulled upto us, and a big, burly guy stepped out of the shotgun seat and spoke in a deep scouse accent:-

"C'mon guys act your age, drop the cones."
Being rebellious, but not that rebellious, we dropped them, and scarpered. Afterwards, we reccollected on what could of been, and what fun we could of have with a traffic cone.

After furious (mass) debating, I suddenly thought. The University/Government (was in an unmarked car, so it could of been a mafia. Even so, I wouldn't of messed with the guy. He made me look like Danny DeVito) actually paid these guys to watch out for traffic cone looting/general tomfoolery. There were only two traffic cones there, and the area was sealed off, so no cars could get in or out. I'm sorry to the families of the families of the party-poopers, but surely two traffic cones cost less than a vans petrol plus two guys wages per night?

I had plans for that cone as well.

Keep the faith


|UPDATE| My most rebellious streak since that time I weed on the school fence when I was twelve continues as I (along with about 2 dozen others) help break the lift in the Electrical Engineering block this morning! Result! (it's working now)

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Paid a Mallu Cachu
Congratulations to Marty Pellow, who - even after last Thursday's events - has now removed himself from the "Rhys Wynne's Black List of People Who He Hates But Doesn't Have The Balls To Do Anything About It So He'll Slag Them Off On His Blog" List. To be honest, a rendition of 'Love Is All Around' on Top Of The Pops 2 earlier today just showed how much I like his songs, and I really know it was more my own ineptness that caused me to answer that question wrong.

I'm sorry, but if my future son/lesbian daughter brought home that, I'd go postal.
Who's in his place? Janet Street Porter, and she gets on my fucking tits.

Now, massive apology to all you Yankenites who - for the endless bliss of not knowing who this individual is - sacrifice the fact that they won't have a clue what I'm talking about. To bring you upto speed, JSP (from now on) is a television celebrity for the pure reason that she can be probably the only person on this planet that can be both ugly and annoying. Of course, some of us posses one of these traits. Some of us (which I am happy to say I'm am one of them. Honest) posses neither. JSP posseses two, and in equal abundance.

Of course, I'm not cruel to anybody for good reason, but whenever JSP (who, for all you SM:TV ex-viewers must all agree, looks a bit like a Fulham, uglier version of Cat the Dog) is on the box, I not only want to change channel, but change country. Nevertheless, she actually hasn't done anything personally to offend me.

Until tonight.

I was watching the excellent Graham Norton (an individual who I have been compared to which - despite his homoerotic demeanour and godawful dress sense spanning from this - I took as a hell of a complement. My biggest, until the "You could front The Darkness" complement. I think my dress sense is at fault here lads.) when JSP came on. "Give her one more chance Rhysie Boy" I uttered to myself. Within ten minutes she uttered the following:-

"Do you know who I hate, the bloody Welsh. Actually, just the North Welsh. They are the most miserable, small minded people who annoy me with their language they insist on speaking. I mean, they have no word for television in their language."
Okay. Now it's personal.

I must confess, I'm using creative license and it may not be the exact statement, but that was the jist of her whole interview. Resisting the urge to plunge a brick through my 5 and a half incher (that's my telly, incase you think I'm into that S+M stuff), I decided to wait. Ready to critically tear JSP a new arsehole with her statement, as there were some huge flaws in it that make moon craters seem like pinpricks.

Firstly, the miserable bit. Now, in the small chance that JSP visits this blog, I implore her to read through some of the back entries. The bits when, oooh I dunno, you're nowhere to be seen? Maybe from slagging us off, you've made us so that whenever we see you we are so miserable, we could write songs that could make Radiohead say "Jeez, we're done writing miserable stuff. Lads, how about a cover of Lolly's "Happy Song"? I am not usually a miserable person. Even last Wednesday, when my homeland came this close to qualifying for a major tournament for the first time since 1976, I still had a hell of a night, I remember singing "We've got a God Called Craig Bellamy" down Lime Street. That sound miserable to you?

The second thing that riled me was the small minded people. Oh great JSP - master of linguistics, you have literally shot yourself in the foot there. For goodness sakes woman, by saying that "All North Welshmen are small minded" you are, well, quite ironically, being small minded yourself?

Finally the two language words. I admit, I am not the greatest ambassador to the language. Hating Welsh lessons at school coupled with my mates speaking perfect English sort of led to me trying not to speak any word except that really long welsh town name at any given opportunity. However, she hates that we speak are own language. Jeez woman. Okay, you mentioned when she heard it in Fulham, and that's understandable. But in Pwllheli? Speaking Welsh? The Bilingual road signs? Sorry Janet, but in Wales, aren't we allowed to speak Welsh. I'm sure you would be the first to complain when Dai Davies poleaxes you at a crossroads when he doesn't understand "No Entry".

Oh, and incidentally, "Teledu" is Welsh for "Television". And we're even more advanced than that. "E-Bost" is "E-Mail".

Normal happy Rhys service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Keep the faith


Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Christmas Is Well On It's Way
Last night, halfway through a very surreal Frank Skinner show, I saw it, the sure sign that Christmas is coming. That Coca-Cola advert.

Christmas is Coca Co-ming. (ooh punnage)
You know the one - Max talks more about in this entry (which, after reading, made me even more excited than I usually am for Christmas), the 'Holidays are Coming', the convoy across the winter landscape, the Santa Claus drinking everybody's favourite frosty vegetable extract beverage. The sure sign, as if it isn't drilled into your head through the advert, that - by god - holidays are coming.

So, it is with a fluffy feeling in my stomach (bloody dodgy kebabs) that I implore you all to capture this feeling, and e-mail me your address for a Christmas card, as - at the moment - I have enough entries to make it worth my while (ie. 3), but not enough to feel loved.

Make me feel loved dammit!

Oooh the Jack Daniels is kicking in. Pass the Alka Seltzer....
Rhysism of the Day
During a fairly uneventful C++ double lecture, we bagan talking about stuff. Yes, stuff. To be more specific - life and even more specific, what we did last night. One of my mates talked about going out last night, pulling more women than Mr. Casanova, getting fabulously drunk, and right and ready at 9am for Digital Electronics. Another of my mates was talking about how he took his girlfriend out on the town, slap up meal, movies, McFlurry in the drive thru (or, as they are more humourly called - "McDrivetrus" - bet you too all day to think of that) followed by unmentionables. I on the other had did nothing last night (well, not quite nothing, but we'll get onto that later) that could be considered constructive.

My mates questioned my reasoning. After all, I go out and get wankered on evenings before exams, and for no explicable reasons, I stay in when I could get away with it. So I described my life in an unbelievably philosophical way, which they found pretty funny so, like anything amusing, important or damn near disgusting in this world, it goes onto my blog:-

"You see, I am like an asteroid, just drifting along. If asteroid hits a planet, it happens. If asteroid disintigrates, it happens. If the asteroid wakes up in the morning with a massive arsing hangover, it happens."

- Me, errr, Today

Okay, it may not transfer well into the written word, but by god I had my mates in stitches after that quote. Honest.

Alpha, b3ta, Gamma
As yesterday I had sweet fuck all to do, and bowling was cancelled, I had oooh about 16 hours of free time. So, all I could manage with this is an entry to the most recent competition entitled "If only we could convince animals to do our jobs...", and I made a picture. Yes it's obvious how it's done, yes it's a crap pun, but I made it, therefore it rules:-

In order to find the wearabouts of Saddam Hussein, the US government planted a Mole in the Iraqi stronghold.

Alas, the expert punnage was not fantastically well recieved, but still, I thought it was funny.

International Jetsetter
Thought I mention this, but Cyn is currently experiencing the sights, sounds and smells of this fair isle. No doubt by the end of the stay, she will understand what a chip butty, yard of ale and footie are.

Incidentally, it's the most I've cared about a plane arriving in this country this week. Yes, even more than this and this.

Cyn, I hope you feel speshul.

Keep the faith


Saturday, November 22, 2003

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town
I arrived back in Colwyn Bay for job interview mid afternoon, to which I was greeted with a hell of a suprise.

Colwyn Bay has the biggest bastard Santa Claus in Wales, and boy, did it give me a shock.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!
Yes, in a town which 'Christmas Decorations' consist of a few broken bulbs and tinsel, we've seemingly gone the whole hog, with the pinnacle of the festivities being a massive inflatable Santa Claus. It's hard to explain, but there's posters advertising it all over town, pointing in a fun "Santa Trail" kinda way to the big thing. Not that it's hard to miss.

You walk up Colwyn Bay's "High Street" and you cannot miss it. The twenty foot monstrosity is placed up against the wall of the Colwyn Bay branch of Natwest, and it's meant to picture Santa climbiing up the building in a King Kong Stylee. However due to the way in which it's left leg is bent, and the experession on St. Nick's face, he looks like he's humping Natwest. Which could lead to humerous "Hole In The Wall" gags.

However, the council - in their infinite wisdom - have made the arsing thing inflatable, which wouldn't be bad...if it was under twenty four hour surveilance in a nice part of town. Unfortunately for Jolly Old St. Nick, there is two things working against him that will mean he won't make it to Boxing Day:-

  1. He's in a rough part of town
  2. He's opposite a boozer that hosts the Colwyn Bay League Darts Championship every Friday.
So, the outlook doesn't look too promising for our blow up Santa.

Heh heh heh Bevis. He said 'Inserting A Floppy'.
Money For Nothing
Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who want a get rich quick scheme that works, then read on...

In our Database Module, we are covering the brand new form of data storage that are....errr...punchcards. You know the sort, how programs used to be stored on before the world discovered the wonders of 5 1/2" floppies (oh, and magnetic tape as well). Anyway, we look at how they are stored (in a ring binder) and what they do by running them. Who said "Mickey Mouse Course."?

Inbetween giving us a 'fascinating' insight into the world of paper with holes in them, our lecturer went off on a tangent, and talked about the first punchcard machine, the Census counting machine of 18 hundred and summitorother.

So, what's this to do with getting rich? Well, the lecturer will pay ?5000 if he can get his mitts on one of those arsing cards produced by the said machine. Why? I do not know. But if anybody has got one of these cards somewhere down the back of the sofa, send it to University of Liverpool, and I'm sure my lecturer will soon part with his hard earned cash.

Myself? Well, I cut a bit out of a Cornflakes box, and stabbed it a few dozen times with a compass. Didn't work. Bugger.

Signed. Sealed. Delivered.
As seems to be the fashion at the moment, people are asking for addresses to send molotov cocktails christmas cards to. Not being one to think up of my own ideas, I've nicked it. So if anybody wants a cheap 20p christmas card brought from the local Esso, but with my...ummm...unique handwriting scrawled all over it, and the joys of recieving a card from a far off land, let me know your address by emailing me. Also be sure to include your name (not for the regular readers and such, just for the unknowns), as I'm not making any cards out to I guess the offer's limited to the first thirty cards. Not like I'll get 30 requests in the first place, but I'm not spending a fortune sending cards. It may be Christmas, but I'm not in too much of a giving mood. Sorry!

Oh, and unlike the others, for a small fee, I can probably secure some dodgy white powders (if you consider Sherbert dodgy).

Keep the faith


Friday, November 21, 2003

What Would You Do If I Sang Outta Tune?
At the age of 19 and 8 months, I can happily say I have a purpose in life. Sure, I could of chosen a meaningful mission: World Peace, Eliminating AIDS or Educating Third World Children. However, my mission is revenge.

I will make my purpose of my life that the rest of Marty Pellow's dreams remain unfulfilled.

Sure, it seems a bit harsh. I mean, despite my mum having a crush of Wet Wet Wet's Scottish frontman, what could the aging crooner have done to hurt me?

Tonight, it was quiz night at the Blind Tiger Bar. As regulars, we haven't even come close of winning the jackpot that is increasing faster than my waistline. Tonight, we came close.

My team of 7 worked dilligently on the quiz. Okay, not really, I had my Los Guerreros "Cheat 2 Win" T-shirt on, and by god did I ever subscribe to Eddie and Chavo's philosophy of living. With liberal use of WAP Google (because I get it free from O2...probably as a peace offering from when they screwed me out of an X-Box), we ended up with a stonking 32 out of 50, more than enough to win the chance to go into the final round - a simple question and a correctly picked envelope between my team and £400 odd.

Ceefax: A monocromatic godsend
As the captain of 'Team Spongebob Squarepants', and the fact that I am full of useless knowledge (to which I am now pressing to be known as "Ceefax" by the bowlers - on the account that I'm slow, ugly and full of useless crap. I like it, better than my old nickname anyway) I was chosen to answer the final question. I can honestly say my heart was thumping like a jackhammer, even more so that the question was on Popular Music - as my performance on the Pepsi Chart Quiz Machine will testify - my knowledge in that area is almost microscopic.

No amount of back rubs, ego stroking and alcohol could prepare me for the question:-

"What was Wet Wet Wet's first number one."
I cracked a would-of-been-funny-in-1997-but-not-now joke of "Can I phone a friend?" and I said "Love is All Around" on the basis that:-
  1. It was a Wet Wet Wet Song
  2. It spent 15 weeks at #1
Of course, I was well off. The song was 'I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends.'. I thought that was a Beatles song? Oh well, I left the stage dejected, and bursting for the loo. Last I thought of it.

Or so I thought, it has followed me around since then. It was played in the bar after the quiz, on the car on the way home, and this morning on Launch. So much so, that I am humming the arsing tune this morning to myself.

So, Marty Pellow, if you're reading this. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Keep the faith


Thursday, November 20, 2003

C'Mon This Feeling, You Know How It Is. Wake up in the Mornin', Everythin' Fits. I hope I Have More Times Like This, My Perfect Day.
Yesterday I didn't expect to be special, as I was on a bit of a downer after hearing my Gran's been rushed to hospital (though she's doing fine) and being a bit overwhelmed with work at the moment, so I really didn't expect much. It's with this in mind, that I find it hell of a good that yesterday was, near enough, perfect.

I may be a technological guru, and love all gadgets, but you'll be damned if you see me near one of these.
The day really began to get better after 10am, where I got back my results for Digital Electronics, and - like Cyn in her Computer Science exam - I got 100 freakin percent. Unlike Cyn, who prepared diligently for her exam, I spent the night before out on the piss and was fantastically hungover before the exam. Minimum effort, maximum results!

As I was leaving the office of my tutor, my phone started vibrating like a....errr.....old washing machine. Turned out it was a manager of a certain well known reputable computer games vendor, which I applied for a seasonal post there. He rang me up to arrange an interview, and - despite bricking it - I cannot wait.

At this point I saw a few of my bowling buddies, and talked about my day. Whilst only about 11:30, I was having a pretty good day, and there was three more things that could make my day perfect:-

  1. A good game of bowling.
  2. Wales winning.
  3. Pulling.
Well, was my day perfect?

I've neglected to mention my twice-weekly bowling exploits recently because - quite frankly - I've been shite. I've been getting better, but I've been pretty unstunning (is that a word?). Yesterday I was different. I employed a style that was ungraceful, rushed and decidely ropey. Balls to all that mind, as I bowled like some sort of bowling dynamo. I won all three games on my lane, and was second on our pair of lanes. The scores? 106, 84 and a "Jesus Christ almighty where the hell did that come from?" 120. One hundred and frickin twenty! That's almost Olympic standard!

Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi.
Wales Winning
Well, we all know what happened don't we? Although dissappointing game, and overall, we can pretty much hold our heads high as a nation, as narrowly coming second in a very tough group, and faultering right at the death has been better than the previous campaigns which have written us off after about 3 games.

The only thing that really bothers me is that Russia are a nothing nation. Name one thing that Russia has contributed to the world that has been worthwile? Okay, discounting Tetris, Vodka and Anna Kournikova. But everything they've ever done has been bad for the world. Stalin? Definitely. Mir? Of course. Lada's? Dreadful. Wales (and inparticular Ryan Giggs) need a international stage to truly shine.

And if anybody calls me 'Comrade' again, I will open up a can of whoopass. Well, try to. If I can get a left handed can opener.

Still, we could of been like The Scots, couldn't we?

No, again didn't happen. However, I did have a date with Lady Double Jackpot. £50 quid is not a bad return off £3, is it bargain hunters? The double jackpot made even more sweeter was that I got an earful off a Scallie when I put £1 into another fruit machine before that, on the account that "She put £90 into the fruit machine, and didn't want anybody to win it.". She followed up with "Insociable Tithead". Hmmmm. Look who put £90 in a fruit machine alone, and look who's out with...oooooh...about 35-40 people who I consider 'friends'.

The double jackpout put me in a good mood after being in near tears following the Wales game. Shame I didn't pull, though a couple of ladies were being quite motherly to me (ie. "Awww...bless", "Are you sure you're alright?" etc.) which is quite nice. Also, I led a singalong to "I want to Know What Love is" which a couple of ladies said I never knew I had a voice like that. So, complements a plenty, but none were "Oooh Rhys, fancy a snog?" or summit like that.

I left at about 1:30 with a few mates of mine and hit a KFC (the K standing for 'Krunchie'), and had a gorgeous Chicken Fillet Burger, and the news that my C++ deadline has been extended.

Oh what a perfect day

Keep the faith


Sunday, November 16, 2003

For I Shall Return, For You, On Christmas Day
Like nuns, Christmas comes but once a year. I usually look foreward to the festive time of year with gutso and joy, and - whilst still present this year - I have to face one fact. Jesus Christ Almighty I am most definitely getting old.

For all those who say 'Oooh. Rhys. Brilliant at Christmas Shopping'. BEHOLD!
You see, today I went Christmas shopping in Chester. Unlike almost every other male on God's green Earth, I have managed to get most of my Christmas shopping done before December 24th. Anyway, I think on my fantastically tight budget I've done okay, so on the sharing knowledge of whatever we've bought to stop people buying same presents type situation, my Mum paid the ultimate complement to me at the time:-
"Rhys buys some brilliant gifts."
Obviously forgetting the atrocious "Abba-Mania" CD I got for her a few years back. In any rate, Christmas is apparently a good time when you know Rhys A. Wynne and he buys you a present, which is quite a handy trait.

So, what has this apparent knack got to do with the rather depressing thing about me entering my twilight years. Well, my mum took me to one side and said "Rhys, I have lost touch with what your brothers want, and your gifts are brilliant for Rick and Aled. Do you mind buying more presents for him - and I'll pay you for them.". Balls.

You see, I can manage one stunning present each year for family, but filling both my brother's stockings could be quite a challenge. Nevertheless, it's a sure sign of getting old. Why? As my mate Jace used to say, it's the Three Santa Rules to show your age:-

  1. You believe in Santa Claus
  2. You don't believe in Santa Claus
  3. You are Santa Claus
Christ, I'm 19 and at stage 3 already! I mean, I may not have a white beard, be plump and wear bright red clothes, but as far as my brothers are concerned, I am Jolly Old Saint Nick. And, they are repeating the classic Bart Simpson line: "Oh please, there's only one fat guy who brings us present, and his name aint Santa." to increasing annoyance. So, to counteract this I've threatened them with either the money going on instead of Coldplay CD's, Shirts, and novelty pooping reindeers, it's going on Barbie dolls, sacks of coal and all sorts of manky stuff which I am too creatively drained to think of at this moment of time. Never the less, I put the fear of God (or, in my case, Santa Claus) in them.

So, in what do I get in return from the premature Christmas-baton-passing between myself and my mother? Nothing really, just the warm glow that I am bloody fantastic at Christmas shopping and maybe a couple of quid for my troubles. And do you know what? At the end of the day, I couldn't be happier.

Yes, despite playing a very convincing Scrooge in Pen-Y-Bryn's Christmas Production of Scrooge, I love Christmas...

Keep the faith


Friday, November 14, 2003

Out On The Razz
Guess who, after nearly three weeks of vowing never to go to the Blue Angel/Razz, guess who ended up there again? I really shouldn't of, as I had an exam the next day, but I am far too easily persuaded to go on these jaunts.

Blue Angel: Not only does it sound dodgy, but it also looks dodgy. And it smelt a bit. Also, I cannot remember that lampost being there.
The night began pleasantly enough. The official Ten Pin Bowling and Hangers On Incorperated Pub Crawl began at a pub called 'The Varsity'. Four things of note at this public house are the following:-
  1. You have to fork out ?2 to get in
  2. Once inside, every single drink (bar tapwater, which is free anyway) is ?1
  3. It has a couple of video game machines (including Virtua Striker)
  4. There is a wierd machine in the blokes bogs.
The last one inparticular I'd like to talk about. It intreagued me, as I walked into the lavvie, opened up, looked around, and saw this big red machine (no Popdog + Rob, not Kane) staring me in the face. The distance from the dispenser, coupled with the half a dozen Kronenbourg sloshing around in my bowels meant that I couldn't read what the machine was dispensing. I stopped mid flow - which, as any bloke would tell you, in itself is a fucking achievement - moved to a urinal closer to the machine, and saw what it was.

Suprisingly, it wasn't a johnny machine. It contained three goods: a 'Sexual Attraction Pack' (which I would never, EVER need. Honest), an inflatable sheep (which I can see coming my way on my 20th should we end up in the Varsity March 4th) and a dispenser Cannot say it. They were selling "D Word" in the blokes bogs.

Listen, I don't fancy saying it, and I don't like to be held responsible when Little Jimmy - when visiting this site - asks his mum what a dildo is.


After sloshing more lagers down my gullet, hammering everybody on Virtua Striker and talking them through it, and trying to blag some free alcohol, we buggered off to the Flute.

At this point, I stopped drinking, and started gambling, as I won jackpot on the fruit machine in the Flute. ?25 almost paid for my night.

We stumbled to The Razz after that, and after much dancing and shit like that we buggered off home.

Sorry for the vague description because, like when light cloud covers the sun in a Autumns day, it's gone a bit hazy. Sure I did alright.

Anyway, I woke up the following morning with white fluidy substance surrounding my mouth (which I later worked out to be Mayonaisse...honest), short stabbing pain in my kidney, and realising I have a Digital Electronics in half an hour's time.

Bugger Eh?

Keep the faith


Wednesday, November 12, 2003

Here Comes The Pain
Like any of you care, but I feel like I've been away from this blog for ages. So this is my triumphant return. I'd love to give a good story from my absence: girlfriend, won the lottery, drunk loads. Hell, I'd love to say that my net's been cut off, so that I can verbally kick off on BT or Freeserve. The truth, like so many things in my life, is that I really haven't been arsed.

No, I'm not abandoning this blog, far from it, but my life is a bit dull at the moment. Money is tight, times are hard, and I've just bought Smackdown 5: Here Comes The Pain.

Actually, scratch the first two excuses. The truth is that since last Friday, every concievable free minute has been occupied by this gaming masterpiece.

Hell, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you could take a crap, slap a WWE Licence on it, and I'd still buy it. Thankfully, HCTP isn't crap, it's good. Very very good.

One of the wrestling industries' leading writers (and, in my humble opinion, the best) - Paul Heyman - was quoted in saying that 'Wrestling is like an art form. I don't try and make everybody understand it, I just try and satisfy those who do'. Smackdown 5 achieves this quite well. Gone are the simple grapples, level competitors and makeshift storylines. In it's place? Greater choice of grapples (although slightly more complicated, but still straightforward), character strength and weaknesses (the lighter competitors, for example, cannot suplex the larger ones) and storylines that do make it quite compelling at times.

Matt Fact: Matt Scored 1330 on his SAT's
Commentary is gone, however as a quite sad habit of mine, I regularly add my own ("Twist of Fate! Oh My Goodness, Randy Orton has been busted wide, wide open!" and whatnot). The character entrances (Matt Hardy's and The Rock's standing strong in my mind) are all dead on, and the Create A Wrestler - whilst not as good as the prequel - does add a few nice touches, such as entrance attire and some brillaint new moves.

All in all - no pun intended - but this game is a stunner. Of course, I am horribly biased due to a deep emphatuation with the WWE. Nevertheless, I reccommend even non fans going out and renting it for the weekend. After initial confusion, you will not be dissappointed.

Right, well I don't know when I'll update this next. The amount of work I've got to do over the next two weeks is incredible, and - unless anybody's got a Borland C++ program that can fit a line of best fit to any graph known to man - I'm probably going to be very busy. I could update beforehand (infact, truth be told I probably will), but don't go in a huff if you don't hear from me before next week sometime.

Keep the faith


Monday, November 10, 2003

Video Nasty
Inbetween helping my mates win some random pub quiz, I watched loads of telly tonight (which is quite a rarity for me) and played tons of Smackdown: Here Comes The Pain (review of which will be coming soon). Focussing on the telly bit, inbetween Antiques Roadshow and Top Gear was a program that only my Dad finds even remotely funny: You've Been Framed.

For all you Yankenites out there, it's Britian's longest running clip show, and - unlike the seemingly endless stream of "When Porno's Go Wrong" that's on Channel 5 - is fit for family viewing.

It's also probably the worst programme that has ever been made.

Britains Favourite TV Presenter: Jeremy Beadle
For those of you who think I'm just being harsh, let me explain a couple of points.

Firstly, Western civilisation prides itself on being politically correct - which I don't like - and loving children and animals - which I do. Kinda. In any rate, this program is incessantly cruel because we laugh at kids crying, dogs running around with the fear of god in them, and hamsters busting a nut running on wheels. Sure, we get the odd clip of a 20ft African Pyton biting a once proud man in the knackers, but that's to keep people from complaining. The people who shoot these videos, by god, they're the worst. Instead of helping remove the venom-tipped fangs firmly lodged in some bloke named Gary's nutsack, they laugh like nothing's happened. Okay, whilst some may see my hypocritical nature (due to my love of Jackass and Dirty Sanchez), there is a difference. If consenting adults/people just dumb want to hurt themselves for money, then so be it. As for laughing at "Oooh look, Billy's fallen off the swing and broken his neck, oh ho ho ho ho!*", not me - thanks.

Push Me, then just touch me, till I can get my, Satisfaction....**
The other things is the video's themselves. There is a very small gap between setup for a sex scene in a porno and a setup for a blooper on You've Been Framed in the theory that you're not supposed to see it coming (no pun intended). For example: on You've Been Framed tonight there was someone drilling a hole in the wall. I mean, what sort of person would record someone drilling a hole in the wall (with the possible exception of the Benny Benassi - Satisfaction video)?!?! Do these people sit at home and thing "Ooh, it's Sunday, and I'm bored. Tell you what Doris, you break out the Black + Decker kit Uncle Jimbo gave us for Christmas, I'll get the Sharp ViewCam Steve gave us for our wedding, and lets drill random holes in the wall!"? Sound's cruel yes, but that what it seems is happening.

But the worse thing? The audience clips shown seem to love it. All sorts, kids, pensioners and middling types all sit in the "Live" audience, and are fed these "home vieo howlers" for hours on end. The disturbing thing? They love it. As someone who has read Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History Of Time" and understood most of it, I consider myself to be a very logical, and smart person. However, I cannot comprehend how these people can sit through debatably funny clips and laugh like they've seen a Morecambe + Wise reunion gig.

Right well, that's my half arsed rant over and done with, so I'm off, and I'll leave you with this thought: why are we the only planet to enter Mr. Universe?

Keep the faith


* Okay, it never happens, but you get the drift....
** If you have no idea what's going on here, don't bother writing in, as I cannot be arsed explaining it....

Sunday, November 09, 2003

It Works. It Really Really Works
Yankenites: there is a telly program in the UK called Top Gear. Until the glorious day that they collectively show beyond series 7 of The Simpsons; Match of the Day returns to the Beeb and they show a new series of Red Dwarf, Top Gear will remain the greatest the greatest thing on terrestrial TV. It's about cars, unbelievably sexist towards blokes, and gets away with it.

In any rate, it discussed a quite peculiar fact. If any of you have remote locking, you can test this. Basically, you go to just outside the range of reaching it, put the remote locker against your head, and press the button. Sure enough, for some inexplicable reason, it works.

I tried this out last week, and - with me jumping around with incredible joy in a car park in Liverpool - it works. So, as Neil Buchanan said after creating an Art Attack: "Try It Yourself". It caused me so much joy, and I'm sure it will cause you some too (car with remote locking required).

More Of The Day 2 - Conversation/Complement of the Day
Okay, this technically happened yesterday, but it's still cool, for the reference early on:-

In case your totally blind, here is the picture
Rhys' Mate says: is that pic graphically enhanced?
Rhysie Boy says:which one?
Rhys' Mate says: on your blog
Rhysie Boy says: yeah...which one
Rhys' Mate says: top right
Rhys' Mate says: you
Rhysie Boy says: nope, why?
Rhys' Mate says: well, er... you look cool and sort of more handsome (in a completely non gay way) in the pic
Rhys' Mate says: must be my monitor
Rhys' Mate says: never repect that
Rhys' Mate says: repeat*
Rhysie Boy says: balls to that, it's going on me blog
Rhys' Mate says: ill deny it
Rhysie Boy says: I'll take a screenshot
Rhys' Mate says: anyone can fake an msn convesation window
Rhysie Boy says: well then I'll take a screenshot with me webcam
Rhys' Mate says: ill cry
Rhysie Boy says: Rhys' Mate: You have commented on my appearance in a complementary way. It may never happen again. At least let me milk it, please?
Rhys' Mate says: fine
Rhysie Boy says: I'll XXX out yer name
Rhys' Mate says: k
Rhys' Mate says: i can take it

- Conversation 25th October 2003

Anyway my (totally not gay) friend said I wouldn't put it on my blog. Hah hah, look who's wrong.

Funniest Thing of The Day
Olden, but Golden: is this. This post was actually written ages ago, before Roland talked about this, so I aint giving him credit for the link.

Keep the faith


|EDIT| This post was written about 3 weeks ago, and only just been arsed to post it, so a couple of the words (ie. yesterday) don't apply. Except for the bit about Top Gear. That I just added on now.

Thursday, November 06, 2003

Everything That Has A Beginning, Has An End
For those of you who think "Woah! Rhys' blog is ending" from my rather cryptic title will be relieved to know that it actually isn't. I'll explain the title (unless you've had your head out from under a rock, at which point you'll probably know):-

Last night I went to watch 'Matrix: Revolutions'. Can I firstly say that, whilst I'm happy at the ending, I'm not entirely satisfied. Nevertheless, onto the cool bits:-

Meh, seen it all before.
  • Firstly and foremostly, when the bleeding hell did Monica Bellucci (or whatever her name is) grow a rack like that?
  • Those of you who loved the cheesy lines of the second film will love the ultimate cheesy line in this one:
    "You did it...."
    "No. We did it...."
    All together: lets throw up in unison.
  • Whilst that last point hinted at something, it doesn't really tell the whole story. There is quite a nice twist (well, I liked it. Though I love twists so much that I practically go orgasmic at the sight of a tornado) towards the end which I didn't really see coming (but should of expected it), and a scene which made me go 'Bloody hell, I cannot believe they did that!'.
  • The CGI effects have improved from the second, as they aren't as easy to spot. However when you see "The Punch", you should be able to see them.
  • That being said, "The Punch" is fantastic.
  • And you never would of thought it, but right at the end, Neo admits he's gay. Never would of thought it.
  • Last point aside (which - for the benefit of the retards - didn't really happen), I hope I've put some things to look out for, without revealing too much of the plot. Although 99% of Western Civilisation would probably buy a turd that has a Matrix licence attatched to it, it is a good film....if you've seen the other two.

    But, then again, who hasn't?

    Also, should you see the film within the next few days, I reccommend speaking loudly about plot lines in public places. I haven't seen so many people cover their ears since Aqua split up.

    Fighting Fit
    I had my medical yesterday, and was shitting myself. Luckily, the doctor gave me constipation tablets.

    Oh, alright, only kidding. I was nervous, as visits to the doctor are generally bad for me, as I usually leave with either a bottle of penicilin or a sling. Yesterday, I was fine.

    No, seriosly, I was fine.

    I'm kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable (except I cannot survive bullets. Well, maybe I can, but I daren't risk it), there is nothing wrong with me. Blood pressure is normal, BMI (my falling point) is okay, urine is brilliant...

    Yes, before all you twelve year olds get excited, I had to take a urine sample. Who would of thought it was so hard to piss into a bottle in public. I mean, I haven't done it since I was three.

    Incidentally, I've pissed into a box in public recently. Well, if the box is considered a phone box. Yeah, did that last Saturday at 2am. Whilst holding a kebab as well.

    Oh, what a multitasking son of a gun I am.

    Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation.
    Whilst many individuals may not understand this link, I'm sure Max has had many of these sorts of games (such as myself). What am I talking about? The definitive Playground Football rules!

    Keep the faith


    Tuesday, November 04, 2003

    Boom, Shake, Shake, Shake da Room
    Pardon my French, but I bloody hate Fireworks/Bonfire/Guy Fawkes Night. Before any aspiring pyromaniacs write in to complain about my little shown love for the explosions every night, allow me to explain:-

    Look at it! It's evil!
    1. Stick in the Mud
    There are tons of 'put on' fireworks displays (the ones at Liverpool Sefton Park being specifically impressive in my mind), where, not only fireworks, you get food cabins and makeshift fun fairs, all designed to charge extortionate prices to further aid enjoyment of the night. However, the biggest problem is leaving the bastard things. Bonfire Night is in November, which - until global warming kicks in - is generally considered to be wet, windy and generally miserable. Couple that with the fact that a lot of display fireworks are held in big fields, and that my wardrobe consists of mainly white trainers, and you will understand that every single November 6th, 7th and in extreme cases 8th, I spend most the day applying "White-shine" to me shoes.

    2. 'Tis Just Like T'War
    Of course, that is if you bother to go to these organised events. People who subscribe to my general 'Cannot Be Arsed' theorem will go to the side street, put down £100, and buy the biggest large exploding object seen since the The Hindenburg.

    Rhys? You been lighting your farts again?

    Now, I don't mind that, what I do mind is that (well, in Liverpool at least) someone has changed the name of the event from Bonfire Night to Bonfire Fortnight. For seemingly a week, every night my room has experienced explosions and bangs not seen since the Falklands War.

    3. Getting Your Facts Right
    The most wierd thing is that one of the traditions - Guy Fawkes being burnt on the bonfire - isn't actually historically correct. Guy Fawkes was hung, drawn and quartered (well, he was supposed to be, but he apparently jumped as the platform was pulled under him from hanging, and he immediately broke his neck).

    Still, the nicest thing about the night is treacle toffee.

    Pictures! Pictures! Pictures!
    Matt has kindly tagged my tagboard with a website that features pictures from WWE: Passport To Pain. If you want to see what it was like, visit his site, and read my destinctly average post again.

    Lets get Physical
    In little under an hour, I will have my medical. Anybody willing to bet what diliberating illness I find out?

    Keep the faith


    Saturday, November 01, 2003

    Combinational Logic
    It's a well known saying that "Two wrongs don't make a right." I can now prove it's bastardized cousin that is "Three rights make a wrong.".

    Thursday Night was quiz night down at the Blind Tiger. I had woken with a hangover, and my voice had more croaking than the famous Gambodian Toad Massacre of '63. My gutso singing of the Fatman Scoop song that - despite going against every indie rock bone in my body - is fantastic has taken it's toll. It's quite obvious: I'm not a overweight, hairy black man. I'm an overweight, hairy white man. At this point during the quiz, my voice had cleared to almost perfect levels. Sure, it was a bit higher than normal, but no biggie.

    Secondly, I won an award. The Official Minnie Willie Skinnie award. This award was largely due for my 102 in the bowling. The prize? A free shot of Baileys and Samuca, on the condition I wore a pink T-shirt. Hell, it's a free shot, so I'm not complaining.

    I took her for a beer, to talk about old times. Just to find the beer, dear, was now a sweet white wine*
    We entered the quiz, and our team (largely due to me knowing the ins and outs of 80's rock) won the infamous buzzer round. The jist is that you play a piece of music, and as soon as you know it, you buzz in. Thankfully, my knowledge of 80's rock music is pretty good, and it won through. The prize? A bottle of wine for the team.

    During the main quiz, I sat there enjoying my bottle of dry white wine, wearing a pink t-shirt, and speaking with a slightly higher than usual voice, when a realisation struck me.

    And I'm not even going to insult your intelliegnce to write down what I screamed out exactly 0.03 seconds after the realisation struck me.

    The Body Beautiful
    A few weeks ago, a handful of my 'Lets take advantage of the female freshers' mates caught freshers flu bad. Real bad. They were in bed for days on end, pretty much missing the entire freshers week due to ill health. This bothered me, as my natural charisma, stunning looks and inseccent charm with the ladies meant that it could of very easily been yours truly in that situation, and that I'm not registered with a doctor.

    Five weeks on from that realisation, I went to rectify that.

    After bullshitting my way through a couple of forms, I was informed that I need to take a medical.


    The secretary told me it was just nothing to worry about, but I've got two reservations firstly is all those commercials on TV for Health Insurance. You know the ones:-

    "I thought I was in a clean bill of health. However, I went in for a checkup and they found out I had leprosy!"
    Okay, maybe not that extreme, but I hate going into doctors when I'm well, because they'd probably find something. Bad scalp, ezcema, tapeworm, loss of appitite. Something that they can pick up on.

    The second thing is that they called it a 'medical'. A medical sounds like an exam. A medical kept Ruud Van Nistlerooy from playing for Manchester United for 17 months. Ruud Van Nistlerooy is a tee-total, super fit, top draw football player. I am a computer programmer who hasn't been in a gym for 4 months, has been in a kebab shop in the last 24 hours pisshead. If Ruud Van Nistlerooy (admittedly, with a broken leg) failed a medical, then by God there's no hope for me.

    And my leg is still bothering me. Okay, I can walk, run and do my impression of Rocky, but it's still a pain in the...well...leg.

    Keep the faith


    * If anybody can name the song that that line comes from, ultimate props will be given.

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