Sinister: Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be all of S Club 7.

[The Boy G]

Hey all. You're not armadillos and you never will be. Clean your teeth. Keep
your hands to yourself. Careful with that axe, Eugene.

Anyways, enough about you, lets talk about me. Greg. Greg Pallis, the boy G,
whatever. Bubba, if it makes you happy. I dyed my hair yesterday, and
it's now a lovely comic-book-good-guy sorta golden colour. And you know
what? Final Fantasy Nine is going to be shit, just like every other one of
the Final Fantasy games, which, lets face it, have the depth and complexity
of the average Papa Roach song. I mean, yes, pretty graphics and all, but
can anyone really be bothered with unskippable 2 minute plus cutscenes just
to cast a bloody spell? I think not. Go on then, send me an e-mail telling
me how you cried when Aerith died, and I'll laugh in your face and tell to
play Planescape: Torment or Loom and /then/ talk about poignant pixelage.
Also, Playstation Two is a far worse system than the Sega Dreamcast. Fact.

Actually Sini isn't that geeky really, so most people will probably not be
offended by that at all. So I'll inform you that I truly, honestly,
genuinely believe that the three best singles of the noughties so far were,
in ascending order, Supreme by Robbie Williams, Every Time You Need Me by
Fragma and Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus. 'Cos I'm that pop.

Hum, this has gone a bit queeny here, hasn't it? Lets say some nice things:

1) Stevey Kado, many many thanks for the No Logo e-mail, and sorry for not
replying. Agree with most of what you said, and also gave printout thereof
to teacher as part of "what do contempories think of Naomi Klein" homework.
Again, thanks.

2) Stuart Gardinier said: "IMHO, Coldplay is NOT as good as having your
teeth removed, one by one, by a blind traffic warden, using a pneumatic
drill.". And I laughed, and laughed. Thing is, I'm sure I felt only mild
ambivalence towards Coldplay back when they were indie squibs the NME liked.
Funny thing, this music lark.

3) B&S release things and tour soon. I approve heartily.

4) Erica said "Download Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg by TLC". I did. It is fantastic.

5) Baxendale are nice people too. You can now get some obscure Baxmp3s from
"Baxster" at musicforgirls.co.uk, a good thing, obviously. You can also get
a free e-mail address at baxendale.co.uk, which is very neat.

6) I want a rodent, so I can call it "Grozny Papa". No reason.

7) List people, I give good, impartial advice. Go to a Library a get
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. It will not cost you money to do
this, and you will get an unbelievably fab book as a result of this
transaction. Seriously. Do this. Really. Yes. Today. Please.

Did you know, if it's Monday, and you're in London, instead of going to
Trash like a good citizen, you can go to a place called "Bubblicious" at the
Camden Underworld? You have to queue for 75 minutes or so, and it's full of
sixteen-year-old public school rudeboys (So that'll have been me eight
months ago, then) with Fake NUS card IDs, and the sort of fifteen-year-old
girls who wear Playboy T-Shirts. If you're Greg and don't have any ID, you
can get in by using flirty body language on the doormen. If you are my
friend Nat (and thus wearing a cardigan, as in, an actual cardigan), you'll
get bounced out even though you've actually brought ID, which is quite
funny. Once inside, they will play eighties shit "to be ironic". Ben Sherman
shirts and boob tubes. Adidas Tracksuits. Then they played "Not that
innocent" and I leapt onto the dancefloor and lost it completely, doing the
whole Britney video dance thing, and making up the about 90% that I couldn't
remember. About three quarters of the way through I noticed there was this
big circle, like literarily twenty foot diameter, around me of people
looking and clapping and cheering me on, and I became very afraid and ran
off. It was quite good, actually. They played 'Pop ya Collar' by Usher, too.

Assuming I wouldn't be caught, I'd much rather shoot someone than pull the
wings off a fly. Apparently, this is unusual. I don't really know why that
should be so, but then it might be to do with the fact that I'm staggeringly
self-centred, and most people aren't. And vain. And shallow. I was trying to
explain the work experience counsellor the other day that all I cared about
was that my future job be considered "cool", and I wasn't at all interested
in money /or/ job satisfaction, and I think I confused her snotty dichotamy
system, 'cos she stormed off in a huff. Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag,
baby.

Say what you like, though, seventeen is a great age for silly little
narcisstic boys. There was I, in this shitty little Camden venue, chatting
away with Alice Cave, she of the B. D. B. W. A. H. K. B. H. T. L. G. M. A.
S. D. P. R (Badly Dressed Boys Who Aren't Hard Kids Because, Hey, They Like
Guitar Music And Smoke Draw! Punk Rock!) clique, an ex-goth and still a blur
of make-up but actually the most fancied girl in the year, for the first
time (her BDBWA...etc boyfriend being away, or dumped, whatever), and she
gets all flirty and asks me to massage her back. And I'm like, okay, and so
I do for about ten minutes, which is frankly dull, and she keeps saying how
well I'm doing it and everything, but the thing is, we both know it means
nothing. And I know she'll go to all her friends afterwards, and say how
she's so good at flirting, and can get some random guy to give her a proper
massage just like that, and by the way, Greg's shit at massaging. And she
knows I'll go to my friends afterwards, and say hey, I just spent ages
groping Alice Cave's upper back. And everybody's happy. Yeah, I'm just a
teenage dirtbag baby, like you. Yes, you.

There's a forthcoming U.S. high-school movie version of Othello called "O."
coming out soon, and I suddenly thought that it would be far, far more
realistic if instead of making "O." and (I presume) "D." different races,
they just put them in different cliques. Cheerleader and nerd, perhaps, with
her jock friends unable to accept she'd chosen some C++ programmer instead
of "R.", the perhaps slightly uncool but still far more acceptable punter
for the "Enfield Academy Halations", the school football team. That's not an
Orin reference, by the way. Hum, that could actually work.

Wow, how long is this post? Am I your list crush yet? Go on...

People have been mentioning Sylvia Plath. Fair enough. I've never read any
Sylvia Plath at all, except one poem called which was called something like
"Box" and had bees in it. It was quite good. I don't rate poetry at all
though, I'm one of those horrendously boring people who simply can't see the
point in deliberately limiting your own writing. Oh, I recognize there's
such a thing as very good poetry, but it's like, imagine this crazy Japanese
guy who devotes his whole life to writing one perfect haiku, and he does.
Now that's gonna be one top clusterfucking haiku, let me tell you. But will
it be as good as Infinite Jest, say? No, because I'm not interested in
extent of mastery of a form, I'm interested in the effect it has on me. But,
you know, whatever. I'm getting a digital camera next week, so I say to you
all "Torso! Feet! Irish things!". You know you're hip when you refer to a
post that predates you subbing to sinister.

And now... Friday night TV! It's top! Fucking TOP! Spaced at 11.20 (new
series soon, at last), then Buffy right after that finishes, and then Robot
Wars, which is the official best program in TV history, especially when
Hypnodisk is on, making the other 'bots spew mechanical guts. Oh, you
wouldn't understand. You're just a bunch of gurls.

I ain't 2 proud 2 beg...
    Greg.

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