I wasn’t feeling so good last night. I have a bit of a cold, you see, and I’m a massive girl (in the derogatory, not literal sense). The kind of cold that even a Rogan Josh couldn’t set straight. I’m doomed, I know.

Feeling sorry for myself I’d decided to jump into bed early and cosy up to a lovely bit of Nazi occultism in the form of Steve Barker’s Outpost, which is quite possibly Scotland’s greatest export of 2008 (not that such status is difficult to attain, at all). Outpost essentially takes Neil Marshall’s Dog Soldiers, replaces the Scottish Highlands with some ambiguous war-torn eastern European region before blowing any pretensions of subtlety to boot by introducing undead Nazis in lieu of werewolves (no, I’m not going to call them Lycanthropes, they’re ruddy werewolves).

Unfortunately I believe we’ve grown a little too accustomed to Nazi’s being the bad-guys, and although they are rather terrifying they just don’t quite have the same edge as eight-year-old Japanese girls dragging themselves along the floor whilst whispering inanely. That’s not to say that the atmosphere within Outpost isn’t powerful, and is certainly aided by a diverse cast of antiheroes who are persuasively characterised during the film’s reasonable ninety minute duration. Incidentally, bonus points for not being three fucking days long. I can fit an hour and a half into my life. That said I will permit one film to grossly exceed the aforementioned duration, but only because Coppola actually managed to make a Conrad adaptation that was vaguely interesting. Fucking Conrad.

Regardless the potent atmosphere of fear is of course aided by some classic horror techniques: creepy noises, underground tunnels, and dark corners complete with faceless Nazi supersoldiers lurking within. Yet all clichés aside, it works quite well, effectively complementing the morally corrupt mercenaries that one ultimately sympathises with. It makes a nice change from some Hollywood blonde with her tits out and her gaggle of toned twenty-something ex-male porn stars.

Outpost’s relatively influential mood proved rather too convincing, in my case. I dozed off with a bit of a fever, hoping to sleep the whole thing off, only to awake with a start at stupid o’clock tripping ruddy balls. I have a bit of a history with flu induced hallucinations, unfortunately, and at 3AM this morning I was frantically pacing my room convinced that Hitler was a Hollywood movie director at large and that there were Nazi zombies in my walls. Scratching.

Probably one of my more efficacious bouts of insanity, however since I don’t wish to disappoint, booked for tonight is The Bunker to be accompanied by a bloody straitjacket and 150 micrograms of LSD.

However try to forget all that, including the gloriously inappropriate image of Mister Claus that I may or may not have burned upon your eyes and behold: it is the fourth day of the Advent Beard, otherwise known as Murray’s Beard (link subject to the response time of Wikipedia’s finest). Yes, a select few of us heroes have elected to part with the razor for twenty-four days and nights in the spirit of Christmas, Santa’s magnificently pure imperial, and having no-one around convince us otherwise.

I’m going to be honest. It’s going badly. I look ridiculous.

You’d think that what with being unemployed (which I presume the majority of this event’s participants are, myself included) you could magically spunk up some testosterone, sprouting an unconquerable bale of Brian Blessed magnitude that one could hide Viet Cong in for a decade or two. Not so. I have a collection of blonde and black hairs, far and few between, that seem to insist on growing in no more than twos at any given time. I have a quarter of a sideburn underneath one ear and nothing below the other. To quote from Scrubs (which mortally wounds me, however that doesn’t make it any less appropriate): “I look like tiny hamsters have died all over my face”.

Really tiny hamsters. Bad times.

I feel like I’ve prematurely ejaculated with this blog. Really, I came too early. I should’ve saved the Hubbard piece for later, and now I can’t find anything remotely interesting to write about. So I’m going to have a bit of a ramble in the hope that tomorrow my motivation wont resemble a morbidly obese child sleeping fourteen hours a day and dining on various savoury snacks. Furthermore, in order to ultimately avoid doing anything that may actually benefit the blog (read: feigning productivity) I’ve shuffled things about a bit and lightened up the banner, much in the same fashion as when I suddenly feel inspired to clean my entire beastly pad in order to avoid studying for an upcoming essay. I wasn’t very successful either. It looks silly.

Finally*, I’m really not fond of the title “Roflopolis”. It’s a bit shit. So if you can think of anything better, please leave a reply. Since I’m so desperate for attention I’ll also accept all derogatory entries along the lines of “this dickface says things”, “assclown’s blog” et cetera.

I considered inserting some motivational phrase here in order to avoid finishing on a downer but I’m rather tired of otherwise decent stories being castrated by happy endings that stick out like AA Gill at a PETA meeting. Then again that all sounds rather emo and whiny, so fuck it. Be cool: stay in school.

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*I’m really not fond of starting a sentence with “finally” either, but after my vow to shoot anyone on site that uses the phrase “at the end of the day” I’ve limited my options. Edit: Moreover, it’s not even the final ruddy paragraph.

‘Opportunities within’ read the unreservedly magnanimous sign outside. I adjusted my tie. I buttoned my cuffs. I ventured inside.

1.53 pm, L. Ron Hubbard Academy of Personal Independence

The exclusive, tightly wound spiral staircase rose up at least three floors before it broke into a tidily presented and well-lit office. As I pushed through the glass door I set off the first booby-trap: a bell, to be followed by the dull thump of footsteps on a hard wood floor, emerging from further within the ‘Academy’. A suited gentlemen, grey-haired, with half of a mouth of teeth appeared behind the desk. Within five minutes I was seated in another room, awaiting a ‘FREE’ personality test, and a speech on the benefits of working for the late mister Hubbard.

“Hitler was a great man, you know, he got some things wrong but he was very intelligent, he had some right ideas”

He was now behind a podium, scarcely three feet from myself, standing directly below a large, black and white photograph of Hubbard. Positioned exactly at the centre of the wall above an ornate wooden fireplace, the ageing Hubbard leant on one upturned palm complemented with a subtle grin. I had noted that the only other images in the room advertised various products and secret clubs complete with pricing plans, before my attention was brutally dragged back during the brilliant display of Godwin’s law.

“…my wife’s Jewish though, she’s Israeli, I met her in Israel”

I suddenly became aware that I had to control my facial expressions, which proved harder than would normally be expected. His speech reached no real conclusion and after a brief conversation he abandoned his podium to leave me to my questionnaire. As he passed he stopped, and outstretched his hand in what would become a very gentile handshake.

“I’m Tom , pleased to meet ye”

“Duncan” I replied, before I could bloody stop myself, “Johnston”

At least it was half a lie. Regardless, the clichéd performance on my part stung a little. Tom took no notice, and the initial meet had gone well as he introduced the prospect of me joining the others who worked at the ‘Academy’. I had to complete my personality test first, however, and two hundred repetitive questions, none of which were efficiently worded, proved too much. By Q.15 I began ticking boxes at random.

Placing down the pen and paper, I realised I could monitor the glass door behind me through the reflection in the sixty-inch plasma television in the corner. After fiddling suspiciously with something at the top of the door, a well-timed elderly woman entered to take my test away for ‘marking’. I was left once more in the company of Hubbard’s gaze, and decided that it would be in my interests to return the stare. I settled into an expression that I presumed emanated some form of awe, and waited to be caught, supposing it would work in my favour.

As I struggled to hold the air of admiration a younger girl, perhaps in her mid-twenties, entered with several sheets of paper and sat opposite me. I immediately recognised her as Tom’s prodigy of whom he had spoken of previously, and kindly likened me to. After an exchange of pleasantries we dove straight into my test results. According to her graph, I hit a score of negative one hundred. Had I been any more depressed, it would’ve been off the scale. This was news to me. ‘Jen’ politely informed me that this was the fault of my so-called ‘friends’, who were simply out to exploit my goodwill. She presented the solution: Hubbard’s book entitled Dianetics; complete with a ten-word blurb and securely wrapped in plastic.

“You really need to buy this book today”

“I’ll think about it”

“No, you need to buy it now”

“I think I’ll let this sink in first, and come back for it tomorrow”

“No, you’re not going to come back unless you buy it. You didn’t even ask how much it is!” Her tone changed sharply, suddenly aggressively determined. The exchange continued for several minutes until, painfully aware of the rate I was sweating at; I too abandoned the charade and went on the offensive:

“So you’re a salesperson now, are you?” She was physically taken aback, before composing herself to resume the effort:

“If I need to be”

Sensing the end, I took to my feet and made for the door, with Jen in hot pursuit. Making it out, down the stairs, and back onto South Bridge, I stopped, agonizingly aware that they had half of my name.

Given that I’ve eaten more fish fingers this week than at any other point in my relatively eventful life, it was only a matter of time until the Universe decided to lecture me on my heathen ways. I was caught off-guard, not expecting a sudden thoroughly researched piece on the consequences of my frozen pollock diet. I can only conclude that the combination of processed childrens’ food and unemployment (which I presume go hand in hand) has softened my bitter, angry-old-man persona to the extent that I was surprised when I turned the television on (another side-effect of my recent lack of work) to find something negative being said about the world.

Regardless, once the familiar buzz of the ageing TV set’s speakers began to die down, and the initial flash of life dimmed into recognizable shapes and colours, the Universe’s devilishly brilliant plan burst into motion. With half a fish finger still protruding from my mouth, I was confronted with the undeniable plight of the world’s aquatic eco-systems, courtesy of “The End of the Line“. No, not the 1987 Jay Russell film about the valiant but seemingly futile attempts of seasoned rail-road workers to confront the token evil corporate president to prevent mass redundancy whereupon over a hundred minutes of working-class shenanigans ensue, but the 2009 documentary about the fish. Or the lack of them.

“End of the Line” comes with a stark but powerful message that by the year 2048 wild stocks of the world’s favourite seafood dishes will be extinct, should current industry trends continue. Returning to my predicament, that is to say the sudden difficulty I was faced with in chewing and swallowing my mouthful of aquatic delicacy; I’ve never found it so hard to finish my tenth finger. I would say my situation was comparable to one faced by many of westerners who sit down at 6pm, dinner on their lap, to be greeted by images of thousands of starving children on the evening news. But, being British, we soldier on, and masticate the hell out of that second pie.

But no, this wasn’t quite the same, as in order to draw a true comparison between these images I would have to be sitting there, dinner on my lap, with half a Sudanese child hanging from my mouth.

It’s pretty rare for something to provoke any other response out of myself than outrage, except for the all too common instances of finding the hilarity in dire situations, however I was pretty pissed. I was so influenced by the film that I had almost been convinced to renounce my staunchly anti-socialist ways and lead the charge of the cause of conservation, protecting future generations from seas comprised solely of jellyfish (I hate the bloody things anyway, so I suppose it wasn’t too much of a stretch), but then it happened. The program followed the usual tactic of hunting down the upper-classes in posh restaurants to catch them wide-eyes, with their mouths stuffed full of endangered species. Now this may sound familiar to you, as one may say it’s comparable to the situation I was enjoying, with the exception that these poor pillars of society were caught doing it in an international film that premièred at the Sundance film festival.

However, unlike these sorry bastards, I wasn’t caught with the marine equivalent of a ruddy panda on my fork.

And in tune with almost everything else I have endeavoured to create after investing a pitifully small amount of time in, my lack of competitor research has run this ship firmly aground. Perhaps I am being over dramatic, however once this guy realises I exist he’s likely to ram me clean off the open sea… (I’ll stop with the nautical puns when you stop reading) Yarr…

Just look at his banner, it’s glorious. We’re doomed. Well, I’m doomed, since I’m presuming that the seven of you who read the last entry will have no hesitation in jumping ship. Baww.

Otherwise I suppose I owe you some kind of explanation as to exactly what the purpose of this fine internet weblog is (yes, that’s where the word ‘blog’ comes from, and yes, I was the last to find this out). If I were to pick a genre, I would dub this ‘irony 2.0′, because:

1. I’m trying to sound more intelligent than I actually am, and
2. Because it sounds better than ‘Sarcastic prick’.

However I’m not the first to coin this term, by a long shot. If you’ve not figured it out yet, it’s a hil-arious injection of the word ‘irony‘ straight into the techno-term ‘web 2.0‘. I know, stop me, I’m just way too good.

All incredibly fancy wordmaking aside, I intend to travel into the darkest, deepest bowels of the world wide web (read: Google) in order to dredge up the abandoned babies (not literally) of contemporary culture and, well, be sarcastic about it all, in a sort-of deadpan, bitter fashion.

Why? Because like the millions of other bloggers out there, I lack any imagination of my own. This begs the question why are you here?. It’s likely that I’ve simply pestered you into visiting however if you’re unfortunate enough to stumble-upon this (damn the commercialisation of that phrase), then I apologise. This is my first venture into the big bad world of blogging, and thus I have no idea what all these shiny buttons do. From time to time I grow bold enough to press them and it all goes horribley wrong, so for now I’m going to take it slow.

Regardless, if you believe the internet needs more sarcasm then you’re:

1. An idiot
2. My target audience

Yeah, you just got burned by some useless technophile hiding behind a computer screen. Welcome to the big leagues, kiddo.