Z is for Zigzagoon

There are far too many Pokemon nowadays. More than seven hundred is a good mile or so on the wrong side of ridiculous. Do bear in mind that I say that as someone who grew up with the franchise and still fosters an enduring fondness for it. Although, for anyone who has the slightest interest in the games, I have to admit that I pretty much lost interest after Sapphire. After the game makers insisted on introducing a fresh onslaught of new arrivals with every release, the old favourites lost something of their charm and individuality.

Maybe I’m getting old (please do not chime in and agree, I’m very much not past it just yet thank you very much) or perhaps I don’t really care any more (of course it’s this one. This is a franchise for children, there’s a very good reason why I stopped paying attention to it quite so long ago) but it’s all just too much for me to keep up with. How on earth did they get as far as thirteen plus movies? I still remember when the first one was rather a big deal. They used to show them in the cinema I’ll have you know. Oh dear lord, this is rapidly approaching ‘in my day’ territory, we’ll all be in trouble if we manage to reach those dangerous waters.

But back to the matter in hand and dear sweet fluffy little Zigzagoon. It’s impressive really quite how much information there is on every single last Pokemon on Wikipedia. Someone actually took the time to fill it all out. It was probably more than just the one person. At least, for the sake of their sanity, I really hope it was multiple people. Anyway, my extensive research (ha) tells me that Zigzagoon is extremely curious and so ends up walking in a zigzag path between things that interest it. Fascinating.

Y is for Yacht

Of all the big ticket stereotypical rich man items I would say that I’m probably most tempted by the yacht. Just in case you were thinking of saving up to buy me something special for Christmas. I know it’s quite some way off but I have been ever so good already this year and as far as I’m aware there’s nothing particularly notable about a twenty second birthday (if you’re worried about the extravagant expense then maybe you could do it joint Christmas and birthday thing? I’d be down with that. Then there would be no need for you to be embarrassed when I shell out for that top of the range sports car that I’m very definitely getting for you).

So I like boats. Big boats, expensive boats. It’s not really as if anyone was ever particularly impressed by a little old dinghy. But hardly the prestige of the thing that I’m attracted to (it would just be a thoroughly welcome side effect and bonus). Sailing, that’s definitely the thing, sea air in my face, wind in my lungs, all that adventurous sounding jazz. If I made the astronomical investment involved in the purchase of a great honking yacht (it will have a horn won’t it?) then I’d be absolutely sure to get the use out of it now wouldn’t I? Or I probably would once I moved away from the land locked Midlands.

One of the most important things with yacht ownership is what to name her. Do I go for an incredible, witty, gleamingly glorious pun that no one else has managed to come up with? Because I very definitely can you know. Or something ever so slightly more run of the mill? It’s worth remembering that more thought should go into a boat name than a child’s as a boat isn’t exactly going to be able to develop a winning personality to compensate for a crap name.

X is for X-men Issues

Now I’m no psychoanalyst (the fancy diploma on my wall is unfortunately nothing but a highly elaborate fake) so this post isn’t going to be an intimate discussion of the collected whims and foibles of this particular assortment of superheroes. At least I’m not planning for it to be. Basically, I have some problems with the film franchise regarding these people (they’re still people, just because they’re mutants doesn’t mean that they aren’t people too. Oh you meant that they’re fictional and probably not worth this level of brain space allocation. Hey, it’s getting late on a Saturday and I have yet to write a single thing so, as I always do in times of crisis, I’ve turned to pop culture). I still haven’t seen the latest film but that’s fine, there are niggles aplenty with the ones I have managed to view.

They ruined my favourite character. In the cartoon series I watched when I was little (or at least in the five or so episodes I actually remember seeing), Rogue was brilliant. She could fly, she had an interesting accent, there was definitely something going on between her and Gambit (who was also cool). When it came to the film series they might as well have actually butchered her rather than casting her as Anna Paquin and reducing her to a whiny moron with a curse.

That’s not all, I can kind of sort of begin to forgive them for screwing up the one character but we all know that it doesn’t end there. It’s well known that the last instalment of the initial trilogy was something of a dud. It’s a shame really because there was such potential there. Ok, I just really liked the Dark Phoenix storyline and they very definitely botched it. I have issues Hollywood, the ball’s in your court. Time and past to address them.

W is for What If I Run Out Of Things To Say?

There is no shop from which you can purchase ideas. Trust me, I’ve done extensive Googling and there is no such vendor to be found. At least there probably isn’t (I might have lied about the rigour of that Google search. Or indeed the fact that it existed at all. It’s just a well established fact that ideas don’t grow on trees. Until I invent the plant that will make me rich. There have to be some benefits to a science degree).

Really though, what’s going to happen when the day comes that I can’t come up with a single thing to say on this thing in spite of thinking about it for ages (as if a large amount of thought ever went into this thing) and appealing to the internet for help? I know that you lot have come to depend on me over the years for wisdom and guidance and stunning wit (yes you have, don’t you try to deny it) and I can hardly bear to stomach the very notion of letting you down. How would you be able to carry on once you’ve picked up on the fact that I’ve failed you?

Because there are only so many words in the English language (and I am including in that count all the ones I’ve made up. They were never typos or anything of that nature and one day they will enter the dictionary. If only I could remember what they were) and a finite number of ways in which you can combine them. At a rate of cranking out three hundred words a day, I’m bound to run out of stuff to come out with at some point in the future. Possibly when I’m a hundred and ninety three or so (what a prospect. It’s totally going to happen what with modern technology and healthcare and that).

V is for Vanity Project

Ok, so I did a thing. That’s painfully vague isn’t it? People do things all sorts of different things all the time while some others do next to nothing at all and somehow still feel the need to tell everyone about it (I’m definitely not drawing on personal experience here). Anyhow, returning to the circumstances perpetrated by me. Thanks to Amazon (and their seemingly non-existent standards or minimum criteria or whatever) and their kindle self-publishing feature, I am now a bona fide published author (it’s totally going on the business cards I don’t own).

So what’s this incredible fantabulous book I’ve somehow never mentioned before? I’m really glad you asked me that, points for you my dear and kind considerate reader. It’s the brand spankingly new and most certainly (in my opinion) improved version of the old format of this blog, The How To Guide Song Title Challenge (snappy huh? It’s not at all a terribly unwieldy title). It’s repackaged, repurposed and with hopefully just enough new material for it to be worth paying for (I really, really hope). I swapped out the bits and pieces that make me cringe (please don’t go hunting for said entries. There were times when editing that stuff was mildly painful. I have bruises from kicking myself for using the wrong your) and rewrote some posts entirely. It was like real work or something.

Of course it’s pure vanity, I’ve admitted to as when I decided what to call today’s blog post, didn’t I? But who doesn’t like a bright and shiny title they’ve never had to the right to use before? I mean seriously, what possible better ego boost could there be than for me to know that my book is the 44,204th bestselling book on Amazon. At this point I am rather hoping that the sub-text of this post isn’t just BUY IT (it must be though, especially now I’d said that). Anyway, here’s the link (subtle, very subtle):

http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Guide-Song-Title-Challenge-ebook/dp/B00L8YGSTO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1403709116&sr=8-1&keywords=ros+martin

U is for Unreasonable Disproportionate Reactions

We all need an opportunity to vent every now and again. It’s almost definitely probably not just me. And in the highly unlikely scenario that it is in fact me alone who feels this way then let’s just say that it’s a good thing that this blog exists in order to allow me to air my feelings about how everyone else in the world is a knob (there’s a slight chance that might be something of an exaggeration but there’s no way to tell. I suppose it all depends on my mood and whether or not anyone’s gone out of their way to cross me lately. Probably not but I reserve the right to change my mind).

But every now and then there is no truer, sweeter, more satisfying joy than going off on one for next to no reason at all. A totally unreasonable disproportionate reaction in the form of a illogical, irrational rant will make you feel so much better about the steaming mess that is your life (I’m absolutely not judging). Go ahead, give it a try, things will undoubtedly improve immeasurably. It’s certainly a more palatable option than the alternative, you know, attacking people with sharp implements (that’s very much the reasonable proportionate thing to do in these types of situation. Right?).

So go for it, but in the right way. You can’t just go up to people in the street and begin bellowing your inner monologue at them. Not again anyway (I’m fairly sure that’s what restraining orders were invented for. Not that I’d have any specialist knowledge on that front). Sit alone in a darkened room where no one could possibly hear you, yelling insults at the wall because it refuses to be the colour you wanted. It’s definitely not your fault for painting it aubergine when what you were initially aiming for was beige. How were you to know you were colourblind?

T is for Tell Me I’m Wonderful

Why does everything need to be critically appraised and rated nowadays? Can you not just decide what you think about whatever it is for yourself and then not share this opinion with anyone? And I do mean ever, no one cares what you think. Trust me, I write this thing, I know a thing or two about people not listening to all the important stuff you have to say (not that I’d ever indulge is such a treacherously self pitying thought).

Now before you go and start thinking that this sudden outburst of mine has anything whatsoever to do with my assorted works and any specific comments someone might have come out with pertaining to them then you’d be very wrong indeed. I can’t believe that you’d be that presumptive really. Go and take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror. Alright, that’s enough, stop preening. Pay attention to me again.

I really didn’t mean any feedback or criticism I might or might not have received lately but now that I’ve brought it up it will seem like I did. But it’s my iPod you see. I keep not paying a tremendous amount of attention to precisely what it is I’m tapping on the screen whilst listening to music and this means that I quite often manage to rate my songs out of five stars. You might not think tat this is even vaguely problematic but it’s starting to wind me up ever so slightly (and we really can’t be having that now can we?).

If I wanted to rate things on any scale, be it one out of ten, a hundred or without a single star in the sky, then that’s my affair isn’t it? And it just so happens that I definitely don’t which is clearly why I haven’t done so. Why do my songs crave this level of validation? Can’t they simply be satisfied with still being included on my music player of choice? Not everything that has been in my library at one time or another has managed to survive this far. Yes, this is an incredibly petty concern far beneath the notice of most right thinking people but that’s beside the point. If it’s something that irritates me even a very little bit then it’s something worth remarking upon. Because I say so.

S is for Stupid Formatting

Oh I’ve had a very busy day indeed doing what essentially boils down to nothing. Frustrated? No, not at all, I am a zen-like pebble of awesome and serene tranquility floating gently on the surface of an oasis of calm about to be blown up for some bogus reason relating to development or progress or whatever. It’s not the computer’s fault of course, it just does what it’s told. I’m obviously the one who’s entirely inept at ordering it about.

Or maybe that’s not the case at all. Maybe my new laptop is breaking me in so that it can show me who’s boss (as if I didn’t know already, I’m well aware that it’s a lot cleverer than I’ll ever be. I’ve seen the film Her, I know what an OS is hypothetically capable of if you were to give it a human voice) by screwing with me in highly subtle ways like inserting exclamation marks in places that they have absolutely no right to be in (if you hadn’t already noticed, I’m terribly sparing with them. When I use one you know I’m serious! Wait a minute) or refusing to instantly respond to my every beck and call. So rude.

But for the moment I still have a stack and a half of work to get through before this project of mine that I have been doing for so very long is ready for public unveiling (and trust me, when it is I almost certainly won’t be able to shut up about it so let’s preserve the mystery for just a tiny bit longer). And of course, once the formatting is finally over and done with there’s sure to be checking and proofing and plenty of other things that I hadn’t even considered before to get through. Tired? Yes, a bit. Thank you for asking.

R is for Runny Henna

The things we do for beauty. And by we I don’t really mean me. Not when it comes to henna anyway. I used to dye my hair but I got bored with it, stopped and it’s somehow managed to stay the same colour. I win. But back to henna. I get that it’s natural or whatever but the stuff is genuinely repulsive. At its very best it looks like your head is coated with an unappetising sludge of off spinach (have I put you off your dinner yet? You weren’t eating? That’s probably for the best). Then there’s the other end of the scale when the name poo head is truly justified.

Really though, the amount of unpleasant things we slather on to various bits of our bodies (this is starting to take a turn, I don’t like it) in the name of looking that little bit prettier is rather ridiculous. So I’m led to believe. Even though henna runs every, stains everything it touches and stinks the place out, it does make for a very pretty hair colour.

Whose idea was it in the first place to use such a thing for that particular purpose in the first place? Were they some sort of follicular genius or a twisted sadist who thought it would be a right laugh to get women to paste the stuff onto their scalps? If I had a time machine I’m sure that somewhere on my list of things to do (quite far down in all fairness, it’s a time machine, I’d have a hell of a lot of better things to go and do) would be to sit down and have a chat with this haircare visionary.

The alternative is a far more hideous prospect of course. Who wants to see unsightly grey hairs? I shudder at the thought.

Q is for Quest for Personal Space

Alright fine, it’s hardly up there with an opus written by Tolkien or another of his ilk but the quest for personal space on public transport is an important one nonetheless. Now I’m not looking to dip back into the whole argument of at what point you become a total dick for taking up a whole extra seat you didn’t pay for with your bag or insisting on sitting by the aisle as opposed to that vacant window seat you’re blocking. It’s pretty clear where I stand on that particular issue. No, I’m talking about a whole other kind of space invasion (well, it’s not all that different. It’s actually based on the same principle of occupying an extra seat that doesn’t belong to you but let’s pretend that it’s just about alternative enough to justify me waffling on about it for a little bit longer).

Now I’m not remotely claustrophobic (at least I don’t think I am, it’s not top of my fear list anyway. If I had made such a thing) but it’s rather unsettling and disconcerting when you feel hemmed in when in such a setting. When, as per a random example I totally didn’t experience yesterday, some random guy in front of me leans an elbow back through the gap in the seats and another man behind leans his arms over the empty seat next to me what am I supposed to do?

I’m far too English and repressed to actually have the nerve to say anything. Even shooting dirty looks will only get you so far, especially when there’s little to no opportunity for eye contact. It’s hardly as if it was a massively crowded bus, said (hypothetical) chaps each had a double seat to themselves almost exactly the same as mine so why did they feel the need to encroach on my space. Ah well, tis but a single step along the path that is this noble quest.