Hello dear bloggers. As no doubt you have all noticed (seen as I am sure there in facts hundreds of readers of my humble blog, me being of course familiar with the blog success stories of the films; just like in "Julie and Julia", I'm probably famous in some terribly arty circles for my two posts) I have been absent from blogging for a couple of weeks. This is not actually because I've been away, or because I'm so emphatically busy with school and my social life; it's because I'm a lazy shit.
You may be thinking, all hundreds of you, 'Oh, he's just being a bit modest and silly'. This is incorrect as I am genuinly a lazy shitebag. Today, for example, I was supposed to hoover the house, do the dishes and practice my double bass. Just wee things really. I hoovered half the house, and left upstairs to do until after dinner. I also left double bass until after dinner, because I didn't shower until four this afternoon, and I'd already done that hoovering. So, we eat dinner. I don't do the dishes immediately after, I have a wee break and catch up on X-Factor (I missed it last night having out with a friend in Edinburgh). Then I did actually do them fine. But by then it was like seven, and I just felt like I'd done enough so I've agreed to do the hoovering tomorrow. And I haven't practiced double bass because it is actually later and it's so big and has to be packed and un-packed and tuned and the bow roisined - too much effort for a Sunday night.
Now, what the fuck is all that?
Essentially, I've just pissed about and hardly done anything and given rise to a whole new meaning of lazy through the blame of tiredness and over-exertion. But why did I have to do that? They are not hard tasks, at all, and if I'd just done it all, it would've been done relatively quickly.
So why didn't I?
Perhaps I'm seeking some latent thrill of rebellion, not doing what dear Mummy says. Perhaps I'm more adept to periods of higher thinking and I'm merely not destined to do such tasks. Or, perhaps I was involved in a complex moral dilemma that left me working over the bare fibres of principality in order to decide what to make of the situation, and, so consumed was I by this predicament, I just couldn't possibly do anything else.
No.
The answer is this; Elliott Alexander Fulton is a lazy bugger.
There. Having identified such a fatal flaw in my character, I feel like I'm able to really work on it, really come to grips with this personal aspect and try my utter best to avoid it's relentless claws. Totally. So, I'm going to end this scintillating post and go be productive!
Also, X-factor is on, would not want to miss that.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
Turn the lights on!
"My guilty pleasure I ain't goin' no where, baby long as you're here, I'll be floatin' on air!"
These are the words that I thumped out while grinding my hips in the style of Beyonce's 'Sweet Dreams' video, trying to eminate as much diva quality as I possibly could. Earlier, I had performed the "Single Ladies" dance to a cheering (or perhaps jeering; when in the thralls of dance, who really minds?) crowd, strutted like I was the crown glory of a fashion show to that new song by the Sugababes (not technically a good song at all, but beautiful to dance to), really 'broke-it-down' to various hip-hop stars and danced the YMCA.
This took place, needless to say, at a traditional disco.
However; the disco was only supposed to be for first years.
Woops.
As sixth years, myself and the girls were invited along to help out with the mums running the disco, you know, sell bottles, open doors, stop children spinning into one another, the generic 'we are the helpful happy pupils of legend' stuff. But the music was irresistable, and it became a disco for our group. (And a small ginger boy who kept trying to touch our bottoms. This, I felt, was both guttsie and a little bit on the rapey side.)
The thing about music is that it makes you feel sexy.
There can be no denying, by anyone involved in a proper dance, that this is the ultimate feeling of cool, collected sexual energy. (The exception, naturally, being sexy time. But that's different, obviously; I certainly don't wear shoes during sexy time.) You feel in control of your body, being able to forget in the dark that you have size eleven feet, or that your hair is slowly deflating - it's not deflating, it's becoming more moveable to the beat! You feel as if you are a dancer, that what you do is ultimately sexy because you are such an artist of the body. You feel like a performer, a 'Beyonce' who looks and is the personnification of esteemed 'hotness.' When you hit the beat by a flick of hips or move in symbiotic Christina Aguilera 'Dirrrty' motion with a friend, it's just you doing so that matters. The little group of friends and the man with the big black music makers is all you need to make you feel so fantastic. And you do feel good, really good, because you're in control of everything for once, you're close to the people you want be with; because your endorfants are being offloaded by the truck-load and your body is loving it!
I am sexy, sexy sexy sexy.
I am brilliant, a star, all that matters is me and my lovely torso!
Look at me go, I mean, I have snake-hips!
That's right, grindy grindy grind, sexy sexy sexy.
Sexy.
S-E-X-Y.
SEXY.
And then the lights go on.
You and your friends are sweaty, as in, lashings of the heafing back sweat sweaty.
Your faces are red, and you look a bit tired.
God, I am thirsty.
Oh, ouch, these shoes pinch a bit don't they!
And, as happened to me earlier this evening, the first years are cutting a berth around you so large that it brings new depth to 'personal space.'
Then reality asserts itself, you become a normal shade again, your breath returns and you can go and find that cardigan that you lobbed in the corner. Despite that brief flash of embarassment, you still feel bloody good.
The best thing about dancing is that you always have the memory of how good it was, how it made you feel. You can be sexy. And the feeling remains, and gives you something to mentally nibble on when you can't get into your really nice jeans.
"I am sexy, just maybe not when I'm re-inventing male cameltoe."
So, okay, technically, we should have helped the parents out, and maybe we should have allowed the disco to be more about the first years, but I think I've been able to convey that I felt the dancing really was worth it.
Apart from the ringing in the ears; that sticks like a bitch.
These are the words that I thumped out while grinding my hips in the style of Beyonce's 'Sweet Dreams' video, trying to eminate as much diva quality as I possibly could. Earlier, I had performed the "Single Ladies" dance to a cheering (or perhaps jeering; when in the thralls of dance, who really minds?) crowd, strutted like I was the crown glory of a fashion show to that new song by the Sugababes (not technically a good song at all, but beautiful to dance to), really 'broke-it-down' to various hip-hop stars and danced the YMCA.
This took place, needless to say, at a traditional disco.
However; the disco was only supposed to be for first years.
Woops.
As sixth years, myself and the girls were invited along to help out with the mums running the disco, you know, sell bottles, open doors, stop children spinning into one another, the generic 'we are the helpful happy pupils of legend' stuff. But the music was irresistable, and it became a disco for our group. (And a small ginger boy who kept trying to touch our bottoms. This, I felt, was both guttsie and a little bit on the rapey side.)
The thing about music is that it makes you feel sexy.
There can be no denying, by anyone involved in a proper dance, that this is the ultimate feeling of cool, collected sexual energy. (The exception, naturally, being sexy time. But that's different, obviously; I certainly don't wear shoes during sexy time.) You feel in control of your body, being able to forget in the dark that you have size eleven feet, or that your hair is slowly deflating - it's not deflating, it's becoming more moveable to the beat! You feel as if you are a dancer, that what you do is ultimately sexy because you are such an artist of the body. You feel like a performer, a 'Beyonce' who looks and is the personnification of esteemed 'hotness.' When you hit the beat by a flick of hips or move in symbiotic Christina Aguilera 'Dirrrty' motion with a friend, it's just you doing so that matters. The little group of friends and the man with the big black music makers is all you need to make you feel so fantastic. And you do feel good, really good, because you're in control of everything for once, you're close to the people you want be with; because your endorfants are being offloaded by the truck-load and your body is loving it!
I am sexy, sexy sexy sexy.
I am brilliant, a star, all that matters is me and my lovely torso!
Look at me go, I mean, I have snake-hips!
That's right, grindy grindy grind, sexy sexy sexy.
Sexy.
S-E-X-Y.
SEXY.
And then the lights go on.
You and your friends are sweaty, as in, lashings of the heafing back sweat sweaty.
Your faces are red, and you look a bit tired.
God, I am thirsty.
Oh, ouch, these shoes pinch a bit don't they!
And, as happened to me earlier this evening, the first years are cutting a berth around you so large that it brings new depth to 'personal space.'
Then reality asserts itself, you become a normal shade again, your breath returns and you can go and find that cardigan that you lobbed in the corner. Despite that brief flash of embarassment, you still feel bloody good.
The best thing about dancing is that you always have the memory of how good it was, how it made you feel. You can be sexy. And the feeling remains, and gives you something to mentally nibble on when you can't get into your really nice jeans.
"I am sexy, just maybe not when I'm re-inventing male cameltoe."
So, okay, technically, we should have helped the parents out, and maybe we should have allowed the disco to be more about the first years, but I think I've been able to convey that I felt the dancing really was worth it.
Apart from the ringing in the ears; that sticks like a bitch.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
"Alright sweetheart."
Of all the stylish and ultimately 'cool' greetings that one could have chosen, I have chosen "Alright Sweetheart" which is about as formal as a chippy at the proms and leaves a bitter vocal after-taste not unlike the taste of fresh cider, seven hours later.
Why I did so is utterly beyond me because I don't really want to come off as a half-cut middle-aged man advancing on a gaggle of poor defenceless underage drinkers in their slinkiest primark-new. But I'm afraid I may have.
Now, you probably aren't actually falling for the ruse that any of what I just typed is just some careless mistake, and if you were, I'd kindly ask you to vacate my blog space now before I use the word 'flibbertijibbet' and your head explodes from the utter wrongness of such a word's existance, or the funny patterns it makes on your eye.
Flibbertijibbet.
There. Now that they're gone, hello, I'm Elliott.
I'm entirely new to 'blogging', being spurred into joining by a fellow youth who writes real good.
I would like to assure you, in the main, that I will try my utmost to avoid such boring matters as 'current affairs' and instead will focus on those things which are obviously the most important to social culture, ie. gossip and myself. I'll let you know about my hair, my favourite trends, my upcoming book tours (pending on writing of actual book), my upcoming stage tours (pending a record deal, and propa' lush tour bus), and of course, what happened recently on The Kardashians!
Actually, I'm kidding. Ha ha ha. Little poke there at teen culture, sure you're all on the floor veritably piddling your pants in hilarity.
But for real, I probably will just write about myself as it's the most readily available fodder to rake through, so I hope you do end up enjoying it. I also hope you understand that they will, in thoery, have more point than this one; I just had to start somewhere!
Why I did so is utterly beyond me because I don't really want to come off as a half-cut middle-aged man advancing on a gaggle of poor defenceless underage drinkers in their slinkiest primark-new. But I'm afraid I may have.
Now, you probably aren't actually falling for the ruse that any of what I just typed is just some careless mistake, and if you were, I'd kindly ask you to vacate my blog space now before I use the word 'flibbertijibbet' and your head explodes from the utter wrongness of such a word's existance, or the funny patterns it makes on your eye.
Flibbertijibbet.
There. Now that they're gone, hello, I'm Elliott.
I'm entirely new to 'blogging', being spurred into joining by a fellow youth who writes real good.
I would like to assure you, in the main, that I will try my utmost to avoid such boring matters as 'current affairs' and instead will focus on those things which are obviously the most important to social culture, ie. gossip and myself. I'll let you know about my hair, my favourite trends, my upcoming book tours (pending on writing of actual book), my upcoming stage tours (pending a record deal, and propa' lush tour bus), and of course, what happened recently on The Kardashians!
Actually, I'm kidding. Ha ha ha. Little poke there at teen culture, sure you're all on the floor veritably piddling your pants in hilarity.
But for real, I probably will just write about myself as it's the most readily available fodder to rake through, so I hope you do end up enjoying it. I also hope you understand that they will, in thoery, have more point than this one; I just had to start somewhere!
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