You're Wearing Other People's Hair..

I can count the number of friends I have who DO NOT own hair extentsions on one hand. Which goes hand in hand with the fact that the industry is worth in excess of £65 million a year in Britain alone (and the fact that I'm going to piss a lot of people off by writing this) But did any of them ever stop to think where the 'real', non-synthetic hair extenstions come from?

A friend and I pondered this thought over a cup of tea. We concluded that
A) it couldn't come from animals as they would never have hair long enough, and it would all have to be bound together.
B) to get the really long hair extensions she was wearing someone would have had to literally shave their head and sell the hair.

We were wrong on point A as some of the hair does come from horses tails, which we were not open minded enough to think of, however conclusion B was to lead us down a horrible trail of internet investigation.

The hair that you weave or clips into your heads, comes from a number of disturbing sources.

The first being 'Hair Factories' which initially send scouts out to the poor villages in India to find women and young girls who they can pay not very much money to grow their hair to an agreed length. They must also keep the hair in perfect condition by avoiding any contamination with chemicals.. which often means years of living under house arrest while it grows. The women are then taken to the 'hair factory' where their hair is shorn off and died and washed and packaged. The women are of course sent off to start growing it again.

Aside from these larger organisation there are also many many people who exploit the booming Western industry by offering poverty stricken families, the equivalent of mere pennies, for their children's hair. Which is then sold on the black market.

The last, disturbing origin of the hair on your head, is from a Hindu Temple in India, where women and girls are encouraged to shave their heads as a ritualistic sacrifice and cleansing cermony for the gods, in the hope of happiness and health in return. Little do they know, their hair is collected and sold by the people who run the Temple for vast quantities of money.

Now you know.
I'm not trying to preach or scaremonger or say DON'T WEAR HAIR EXTENSIONS BECAUSE THERE ARE POOR BALD CHILDREN IN INDIA WHO HAVE ONLY SEEN £2 OF THE £45 YOU PAID FOR IT.. Well I am saying that a bit.
But I have been forced to understand the confidence boost associated with them for a lot of women, so if they make you feel good then who am I to suggest you go without?
The contrast just makes you think, women selling their whole head of hair so they can eat or feed their family.. and girls buying whole heads of hair... so they can look good.
The same can be said for a lot of every day consumables though, as is the way of the world unfortunately.

Fairtrade hair extensions anyone?

Peace out from a non judgemental Elf x

You've Got to Laugh..

Hospitals can be deeply depressing places, but when you are submerged in the sickly society, humour must be found wherever possible. It's not nice to laugh at others' expense, but on occasions such as this it can be necessary to avoid perishing at the hands of the searingly painful reality that you are confined to a place which oozes death and decay from its very walls.

Take for instance my 'next door neighbour', an epitomy of everything Essex, but not the fake tan, fake boob, fake hair kind of Essex.. far from it. Her name was Shirely and she was 71 and spoke like no-one I've ever heard before 'Oooooh no, I fink I've done a poo in the bed. I fort it was just wind but it was a little bit more than that.. ooooh nooo' was a regular utterance from her mouth. In fact on the first night she arrived she did 5 accidental poos in her bed, thinking it was just going to be wind. You'd think she might learn after the first time?
And I would like to now take the opportunity to mention that in standard NHS style, my bed was probably less than 2feet away from her.. and old people's poo has a tendancy to waft...

Not only did the smell keep me awake through most of the night, everytime she 'soiled' the bed, the nurses would have to come and turn on all the lights and start banging and bashing everything around as they try and change the bed linen whilst she moans ' Ooooh nooo, I'm so sowwy nurse I just fort it was wind. Yoo 'aven't got any laaaperimiiide ave yoo?'

I'd also like to add that she felt it necessary to tell me that her 30 year old son just had an operation because .. and I quote ' he had free (3) testicles ya know! One was the size of a football!' Oh Shirely, I am so pleased that I now know of your son's testicular abnormality, although I sincerely doubt it was the size of a football as I imagine that would be somewhat difficult to walk.

But worse, much much much much much worse than dear old windy Shirely, was Pamela. The nutjob of the ward. True and complete stereotypical nutter, but with an added touch of violence and insanity. Pamela was also early 70's, with long sinewy grey hair and one lone tooth which hung from her top jaw like a tombstone. She would roam the corridoors all day shouting for 'Simon' and 'Johnny' and having imaginary conversations with them about gardening and babies, none of which made any sense. This kind of behaviour is tolerable if a little disturbing, but the other side of Pamela was the most terrifying. At random intervals she would switch temperament and start screaming abuse and attacking doctors and patients. 'YOU CHINESE C***' she yelled at one nurse as she yanked a handful of her hair. 'GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME' she would scream at visitors merely walking past her.

She also used to come into our bed spaces at night and even tried to rip Shirely's drip out her arm and another patients drip from her chest, only to be shoved aggressively away by the woman attached to the other end! Possibly worst of all she climbed into bed with another patient in the middle of the night! Now that is nightmarish. I'm just so grateful it wasn't me. (Lest I forget a previous hospital experience of another crazy lady urinating on my clothes in the middle of the night)

And what did the nurses do while Pamela was in action, while she was attacking patients and putting their health at risk...? They stood 5 or so feet away softly calling her 'Pamiiila Pamiiiila, come here please. Come back to bed'. Very helpful indeed.

Aside from these two characters, my ward alone featured a number bizarre people, from an old woman with very heavy green eye make-up being dragged backwards in a wheelchair from the ward by her husband, every night at 9pm sharp. Or the shifty alcoholic woman in her leather jacket and spotty PJ's striding back and forth on the hour with her drip stand, to and from cigarette trips downstairs (apparently they found empty wine bottles in her toilet.. scandalous).

The whole brigade of mad and somewhat interesting people at least have to be thanked for forcing me to laugh at their ridiculousness.

Peace out from a happy to be home Elf x

My Inability To Age

Tonight I've been looking through pictures with friends of times gone by, when we were much wilder and frankly quite considerably cooler; which is quite a ridiculous thing to say bearing in mind that I'm only 22 now. But the days of 2007/2008 when we partied hard were definitely my heyday, dramatically more exciting than my life now.

My point however, is not that I'm now a boring boris, but that over the past 3 years, in my opinion, I have completely and utterly failed to physically age. I look the same, if not younger than I did when I was 17. And I didn't look particularly old then so you can only imagine how stupid I look now when people gasp, mouths agape when they are told my age or when my ID is produced to their questioning eyes.

That of course being the bane of my life. Ignorant, foreign (not an important trait but worth noting) shop attendants asking for my ID with a mocking smile as if to say 'HA don't think I'm going to sell you any contraband you stupid child' only to be confronted with a 1988 year of birth. Those mocking smiles then twist into confusion, their eyebrows furrowed with disbelief, they look again, show their colleague for approval and then.. they LAUGH. Most of these people genuinely snigger in a ridiculing manner.
HOW BLOODY DARE THEY. For all they know I've got some horrendous medical problem which causes me to look young. The bastards.

I don't in fact have a horrendous medical problem, as fas I'm aware. I think it's in my genes as my mother is often suspected to be in her 40's, and is certainly not, whilst my father in his late 50's has managed to miraculously maintain a whole head of jet black hair with not a grey in sight.

But the worry is. What if I keep not aging? I'll turn, 23, 24, 25, 26 and still look not a day over 16!

However, by the time I reach 40 it will probably be a good thing as all my friends wrinkle up and sag around me. HA.

Peace out from the childlike Elf x

The Most Googled Person

Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga. These are the top two Googled people.

What the bloody hell is wrong with the world?! In what crazy universe do I exist in that these two POP STARS are invariably more talked about and highly revered than great inventors, authors, scientists and heros of the past and present?
How warped is our society that most young people would never think to google Thomas Edison, the inventor of the electric lightbulb, something they use everyday without thought or gratitude?
Instead they would rather Google a woman wearing raw meat as clothes. A month or two ago the bookies put her at 1/100 odds to be the next American President.
HAVE WE ALL GONE MAD? (I haven't but has everyone else?)

What is the fascination with these disgusting people? They sing songs that have videos on the television. OH MY GOD. They must be worshipped in that case.
The magazines full of gossip about all these celebrities, I don't understand it. Why does anyone genuinely care whether Jennifer Anniston was seen out with a 'dark haired stranger' or that Britney Spears had a Mcdonalds.What might be intersting is if Justin Bieber was seen coming out of Katie Waissal's prostitute Grandma's house or Eva Longoria was seen with a new 7 armed hunk with seaweed for hair. But just to get excited over a 16 year old wimpy, vile, joke of a human existance Bieber and google him more times than anyone else in the whole world is MENTAL.

I'm certainly not condoning Hitler's behaviour but even he deserves to be Googled more times than these twats.

In fact I'm more angry at the Googlers than the Googled. Yes these celebrities are irrelevant but they are just making a living, it's the deluded fanbase and society we live in that has really pissed me off.

In fact fuck Google entirely.

Peace out from a Bieber face smashing Elf x

VNA

The first page of my interview with the incredible Miso in VNA Magazine.. to read the rest you'll have to buy yourself a copy!
VeryNearlyAlmost.. VNA.. the best street art magazine in existence

Hope..

It can be hard to have hope when you are curled up in bed, battling the pain of what feels like 700 very small kangaroos boxing and kicking inside your intestines, it can be hard to see the bright side.

It can be hard to have hope when you have been battling the kangaroos for the past 15 years, when men with knives have repeatedly come and extracted the kangaroos from inside you, when other men with drugs have tried to kill the kangaroos.. and yet there they are. Kicking and punching and wrecking havoc inside.

It can be hard to have hope that one day they'll finally leave, after so many years of constant disappointment and constantly finding yourself back where you started.. with nothing positive to show for all that wasted time.

It can be hard to have hope when you hear the words 'this time it will help, we've had great results' for the thousandsth time.

It can be hard to have hope of any happy future when you waste away in a hospital bed with wires and tubes trying with all their might to do their best and keep you going.

It can be hard to have hope, but I've got you and you give me not only hope but the power to cope.

Peace out from a kangaroo battling Elf x

I Hate You

Listening to you makes me want to claw my own eardrums out using a ferocious, miniature kitten who has a complex which allows him to believe my eardrums are tiny mice he must hunt and savage.
You are truly one of those sycophantic idiots who is so desperately obsessed with their own life that you can't possibly begin to comprehend anyone else around you and how penetratingly irritating your loud, incessant yapping is to them. On a coach full of people where 95% are asleep it does not enter your petulant mind to shut the fuck up, or at least keep your constant whining down.
'I'm hot. I feel like I'm on a sweatbox. This is the worst journey ever. I can't believe there is still 2 more hours to go'
No, neither can I, two more hours of your childish moans to endure. God kill me now. Did it ever occur to you that the person you are talking to is right next to you, it obviously did as you keep mentioning how squashed you are (which would not be a problem were it not for your fat ass) you therefore do not need to screech and scream your complaints to him, you unholy lump of noise.
The emergency exit is just there, perhaps I can relieve you of your cramped conditions?

Peace out from an irritated Elf x

Bad Career Move

BAD CAREER CHOICE. CLICK TO SEE WHAT YOU WOULD HAVE TO BE MENTALLY FUCKED TO CONSIDER DOING FOR A LIVING.

You certainly got your comeuppance didn't you Mr. Lion Tamer?

I'm sure there are many animal activists, or just people with a penchant for dangerous pussys, who would cry and exclaim how cruel these men are for caging and attempting to train these wild animals and how they deserved to be attacked for that.
Which is true. But not my point.

My point is, if you are so unbelievably disastrous at making life decisions that you would chose Lion Tamer as your day job.. then you more than deserve to be mauled by lions. They can see how stupid and misguided he is for trying to tame them, and they are merely punishing him for being such an arrogant and deluded man.. with a serious god complex.

GO LIONS

Uprising of the Foetuses

Never before have I passed so many pregnant women in one month. Wherever I turn their laden bellies scream out to me "There is a a baby forming inside this mound!". Beautiful, natural, the miracle and joy of life; that's what they say.
But the sheer quantity of pregnant women in the London area at the moment raises a flag of warning in my eyes. Sure it could be down to the need to copulate during those cold spring nights 6months ago, to keep warm in eachother's embrace. Or the concept of spring lambs brainwashing these women into deciding now was the time to have a baby. It COULD be these factors and any number of others. But more likely, and more realistically there is some kind of uprising/revolt/plot being hatched by these unborn embryos.

For so many babies to all be born in London around the same time, there must be a purpose. I can only conclude that a super army is in the making.
Imagine it, hundreds upon hundreds of babies, children, teenagers and then adults.. all born around the same time and in the same area. Growing up together, becoming ever more powerful and structured and organised in their plot to overthrow the government.
We as a nation should be on alert, our security is being threatened by these fingerless foetuses.

Just imagine a vast sea of crawling, stumbling babies breaking into our offices, our homes, pillaging our livelihoods. Smashing our furniture to pieces with their rattles, squirting poisonous milk into our eyes to blind us from the destruction they will surely wreak. Their bibs fitted with bullet proof material, their nappies filled with grenades. WHO WILL SAVE US?!

The next time you see a pregnant woman on the bus, don't give up your seat, you're only helping the foetus inside to gain strength for their massacre.

DISCLAIMER: Please do not heed any of this advice. I have the upmost appreciation and respect for the tribulations of pregnancy. You should always give up your seat.
... But the uprising is something to bare in mind...

Peace out from the suspicious Elf x

Short Nothingness

She never feels. She never smiles or feels that rush of happiness. She never cries or feels the searing pain of sadness. She never laughs or frowns or regrets or feels all consuming jealously. She is neither kind nor heartless. Her face is set in stone as it will always be. If she could experience the pleasure of human emotions she would long desperately and deeply to hate. To know the sense of pure disgust and unadulterated vengeance. To crave the thrill of the kill. To hunt and attack and rid her life of the despised.
But she never feels.

Written by a Blank Elf x

Road Kill

I watched in sickened shock as the crimson blood oozed from his legs like liquid velvet. The syrupy consistency made me think of pancakes. But I quickly remembered not to think of pancakes and instead be more concerned with the baby deer bleeding slowly and excruciatingly to death on my kitchen floor. Then I thought of Bambi and how it always struck me as bizarre that a deer could have a rabbit for a friend. There was no rabbit to be seen here. The deer was dying alone, with no-one to comfort it apart from me, an unsympathetic killer of small animals.

I'd hit it on the road turning into my driveway and had been so surprised to see a deer in the city that I almost forgot to be concerned at all. But, heartless as I was, I was definitely not accustomed to dealing with roadkill in the presence of my neighbours; so I scooped the bloody mess of bones, fur and skin into my arms and carried it into the kitchen. Which is where it lay now, it's hind leg bent at an awkward angle and pointing towards it's right ear.

I wasn't really sure what to do. Most people would have panicked and called the RSPCA, but I just stood by the sink watching it quiver and convulse like an awkward, electrified toy. Right it was time to act. I opened to kictchen cupboard to find a blanket; as we kept clean laundry in the kitchen in those days, space saving was the reason I think.

I gingerly placed the pale blue blanket over the deer - Bambi; I had christened the mess in my head. It turned brown instantly as the sticky gloop soaked through. Oh dear, I hadn't achieved much at all aside from ruining my pale blue blanket.

There must be something to do. Kill it? Put it out of its insufferable misery? No, I wouldn't want to bloody anymore of my possessions with brain pulp. What could be done then? I supposed I would have to leave it to die alone in the kitchen, Grand Designs was on soon anyway and I needed to catch the episode for space saving, laundry storage tips.

He'd clear it up for me when he got home. He doesn't like a messy house.

Written by an Elf x

To Tap or Not to Tap?

It's late at night or it's a Sunday. The gates at the station are open or there are no gates, only a lone Oyster card reader on the platform. What do I do?
If I take the risk and don't tap, hoping to get my much deserved free ride from Transport for London, then what will happen if I get to the other end of my journey and the gates are shut! I won't be able to get out and I'll have to buy a full price ticket when I could have just tapped in at the start and tapped out at the end!

But if I tap and then the gates are open at the other end, I will have wasted money as I've got to tap out. I'll be charged for a journey I could have got for free and kick myself for tapping.

It's such a cruel game of chance of the Underground. What I really need is an informant at the stations I frequent to tell me in advance whether the gates are open or not, so I can make a much more educated decision on my tapping habits.

It's the morning commute and I KNOW that by catching the 9.49 train, it will pull into the platform in Euston where there are no barriers, where I wont need to tap to get out. The station I get on at has 'up to you Oyster readers', no gates, just casually positioned readers which offer you the chance to tap or not to tap.
Therefore, I KNOW I don't really need to tap in or out, because there is no automated gate system either end. But what if a ticket inspector gets on and checks my Oyster card and sees that I haven't paid for my journey! Then I'll receive a fine!

So do I take the risk? Do I not tap and save £3.40 but sit in a state of anxious panic the whole way, expecting the inspector's bellowing voice to penetrate my nervous mind at any second and risk a £20 fine. Or do I just pay and enjoy my journey in the comfortable knowledge that I am abiding by the TFL laws. But if an inspector doesn't come then I'll be frustrated for at least an hour and wish I'd just not tapped in or out!

AAAH commuting is a daily dilemma.

Peace out from the Elf in an Oyster x

The Spawn of Satan

Always Say Yes

A very wise and wonderful woman once told me that the secret to her half century marriage was 'Always say yes' yet modern magazines and the general consensus amongst woman kind is 'Just say no'. So which is the right approach?

Just saying NO is meant to empower you and give you control over the nasty, chauvinistic men of this world who want only to find the quickest and fastest route into your underwear with a complete disregard for road safety along the way.
It's meant to make you feel like you have choice over your behavior and that you don't have to conform to the wants and needs of your male counterpart. [as no self respecting person wants to conform to the man these days.. rebellion is cool, so I've heard]

But could it be that saying NO can get out of hand.

First you are politely but firmly refusing their offer to pay for dinner and your taxi home -I'm a woman with a job, why should they pay, we don't live in the 1920's!
Then outraged at his advances you say no to a goodnight kiss -I only wanted to show her I like her, I wasn't going to try and rip her clothes off on the doorstep!
Next you're refusing that second date, why? Because saying NO is empowering. So where has this left you hmm?

Alternatively we could look at the implementation of the NO technique within a relationship.

You say no to sex, to him going out with friends, to his request that you just try Call of Duty to see what it's like.. and just like that you have one angry man with nothing and you, the empowered woman are left wondering, why he doesn't seem to love you anymore?

The YES method can be applied in a reversed fashion, despite the obvious fact you may be agreeing to do many things you don't want to. Like taking a 7month trip around Asia in a canoe, or similar.
But as much as it pains me to say it and I am expecting a feminist riotous mob to come bursting through any second now.. could it be that the road to happiness lies in a man's happiness? AAHH don't shoot!

Perhaps I can put it less controversially and take it back to the start. The secret to a wise woman's 50 year marriage was Always say yes..
So the road to relationship success is pandering to your partner's every need? compromise? love? laughter? happiness? quiche? Who knows really. Certainly not me.

But it is an interesting thought to ponder...

The soon t0 be lynched Elf x

Why Advertising Has Lost Touch With Reality

Socks Don't Stand a ..
Watch the ad...

Why why why why does it matter whether the BOTTOM, the SOLES of your socks are white or not?! The only time someone would ever see the sole of your sock would be if you had your shoes off and feet up.

This would mainly happen when you are watching TV on a sofa in a super relaxed fashion; and the people you would do this around would tend to be family, loved ones or friends, who realistically could not give two fucks whether the underneath of your socks is dirty or not.

Your partner is never going to turn around to you and say 'MY GOD THE BOTTOM OF YOUR SOCKS ARE WHITE. MAKE SWEET LOVE TO ME IMMEDIATELY'.

The type of people you may need to impress with cleanliness and smartness are your boss, or someone giving you a job interview, or on a first date, but in all these instances you would never ever ever be in a position where they would see the bottom of your socks.

Oh and Ariel. No one lives in a house where the ceiling on the ground floor is clear perspex and you can see the socks of the person walking above you on the second floor.

Please come up with an advertising campaign which is realistic. Thanks.

Peace out from the dirty sock Elf x

Blank

Sometimes he just lies and thinks of nothingness. The ultimate meditative state, a blank mind, blank body, blank soul. The existential emptiness of the universe courses round his blood stream, flowing to the tips of his extremities. He is one with human suffering; his heart beats in unity with the hungry, his lungs deflate with the last breath of the dying. Stillness overwhelms. He doesn't flinch as the screams pierce his ears, their desperate pleas for solace unable to penetrate his consciousness.
The machines beep periodically, signaling the end of the infusion. He needs to press the call bell but his paralysed body wont allow it. With all the effort in the empty vessel he once knew as a body, he attempts to produce some kind of audible sound from his dry, cracked lips. But his labours are in vain. His most prized tool now a functionless facet on his face; it used to spout beautiful poetic melodies in the company of women who gazed up adoringly.
The control centre refuses point blank to send the signals he needs.
Frustration bubbles and brews, trapped in his skin with no outlet with which to spew out.
The machine beeps and his expressionless eyes portray no signs of the sadness within. He takes a breath and closes the lids. He falls back into the ultimate meditative state, a blank mind, a blank body, a blank soul. He just thinks of nothingness.

Written by an Elf x

Things That Sicken Me on The Morning Commute

1. The depressing realisation that chivalry is without a doubt, no question, absolutely, definitely and ceremoniously DEAD
Commuters have one thing and one thing only on their mind, BE THE FIRST. Be the first down the escalator, the first on the train, the first off the train, the first through the barriers, the first to knock you out the way. As they partake in this highly competitive Olympic sport, the voices in their head commentate and spur them on 'And I'm coming up on the inside, smashing that child with my suitcase, taking those perilous steps 3 at a time coz I am the King of the Underground! I AM SPARTA'
No sir, you are not. You are just a man living a monotonous life where the only excitement you can exact from your day comes from bulldozing me out the way to get on the train a fraction of a second before I do, or before the pregnant lady with the buggy and shopping does; because god forbid she, oh weak female, should beat you in the race of all races!

2. The sound of couples kissing next to me
When I kiss my boyfriend it's fine. But when you start kissing and sucking and slurping with your partner next to me on the train it is completely unacceptable. The sickening sound of your saliva mixing and spreading around each others' mouth is enough to make me want to vomit all over your faces so you can swap that around as well.
Just stop.

3. When people seem angry that I'm studying them
I'm on a train, there is not much going on apart from what is around me. And unfortunately Sir/Madam, you are a part of the scenery and I want to look at you. I want to absorb every detail about everyone around me, I want to scruntinise your expression, all the lines on your face, the scuffs on your shoes, whether you have hairy arms or an immaculate manicure. I'm not judging you, I'm just looking. I'm just passing the time and noting details about the variants of humans.
Just let me look at you. I'm not perving. I'm just looking.

4. When people study me
Why are you looking at me you pervy man?! Stop taking in every detail about me, stop scruntising my expression and the state of my shoes and my nails! Stop judging me and sizing me up! Let me travel without your eyes boring into my psyche.

5. The notion that it's unsanitary to eat my sandwich on the train
For some unknown reason I never want to get out uncovered food on the train; I feel like it would absorb all the germs of the people around me and make my sandwich taste like sweat and snot and saliva. I know this is a completely unfounded thought as I'm happy to eat food walking along the street, with all manner of pollution and germs seeping into the bread. But on a train. NO WAY! Are you kidding?! That's disgusting.
I get hungry on the train, all that looking and pushing and waiting, but I musn't eat my sandwich. I've got to wait until I'm out in that fresh, fume filled air.

More to be added I'm sure.

Peace out from the travelling Elf x

The Lunatic is in My Head

The lunatic is in my head. He spins my thoughts around his wooden wheel like yarn, twisting and warping them to his satisfaction. Normalcy once resided within me but now I exist as a vessel for his psychotic games. He forbids me from looking at my reflection to see a human form peer back, instead I see an entanglement of memories, forged and crafted into limbs and torso; the words and images swim and swirl before me. He exploits my past to shape my present, forcing me to live as a desolate entity with no escape. I dream of death as my strongest desire and when I'm permitted to speak I beg him to allow it. But without my susceptible brain to house his damnable being he would forever perish, and so my pleas serve only to rile him further until he bestows his ultimate punishment. He stops the clocks and propels me into timeless suffering where moments passing cannot be gauged and the past is as present as the future. His occupation of my mind therefore continues to suffocate my thoughts, choking me with self-loathing and desperate confusion. I feel nothing and hear only screams. He manipulates my movements to force my survival, a cruel puppeteer who obviates any attempt I may make to perish my withered body into the comfort of nothing. I am barely alive, hanging on by a thread he will never allow to fray.

Written by an Elf and inspired by Pink Floyd x

A Story About Nothing

This is a story about nothing. This is a story about everything. This is a story that isn't a story at all. It is a vessel of empty meaning; of no consequence or purpose or function or worth. It has no agenda, it is trying neither to persuade, prove or promise anything. It is not a scandal, it is not a shock. It is a story without a hero, without deceit or deception, without love and jealousy, without magic and miracles. All it can offer you is words. Words of it's existence but nothing more. It occupies this space but does not breathe or think or express emotion. It is not a written embodiment of life. This is a story about nothing. This is a story about everything. This is a story that isn't a story at all. It requires no imagination, it contains nothing to conjure a mental picture of horror and devastation, it is blank. As this page was before this story; that is not a story at all, was written upon it.

Written by an Elf x

E-Books or E-verybody is Ridiculous

An e-book (short for electronic book and also known as a digital book, ebook, and eBook) is an e-text that forms the digital media equivalent of a conventional printed book...An e-book, as defined by the Oxford Dictionary of English, is "an electronic version of a printed book which can be read on a personal computer or hand-held device designed specifically for this purpose.

Books have been in existence for hundreds of years with many people slaving laboriously to copy written documents over and over, so that a wider audience could have access to these rare and near obsolete gems of knowledge. The process of compiling a book was tedious, parchment to prepare, scribes to write, book binders to put it together etc. Do you think that these literary heroes, forgoing their opportunity to fornicate with slave girls to compile books, deserve to have their legacy defecated on by the money grabbing goblins behind this E-Book technology.

Convenience they say. The ability to 'Read on the go' to keep up with the pace of 'modern living'.
Shut up.
People have been reading and carrying round PHYSICAL books for centuries with no trouble at all. No - one has been inconvenienced or suffered as a result. So someone please tell me, what is the point of having a digital book. You pay as much to get them, and yes they may all be stored beautifully on your ultra hip I-Pad, but I ask you. What is wrong with a book shelf?!
You don't need to have 100 books on your person at once.

The whole thing is a bloody travesty to humanity. Let us pray and hope and plead to whatever god or deity we turn to in times of need, that books do not disappear forever in favour of computer powered ridiculousness.

Peace out from the technophobe Elf x

NO

YES

600 Degrees of Separation

The theory goes, you are never more than 6 people away from everyone in the world. So there are 6 people between me and Joseph Fritzel? 6 People between my next door neighbour and Bin Laden? Or even better, 6 people between me and Huan Fernandez, of Mexico mustache grooming fame?

Surely these frankly shocking figures can't be correct!

It all seems a bit like something a lone, bored male, living in a remote village of the coast of Greenland might have made up on a whim when his daily routine of Xbox and masturabtion became stale. However it has now become a recognised and believed concept, so much so that they are using it for an advert promoting blood donation. What proof could we possibly have that EVERYONE in the world is ALWAYS 6 people away from EVERYONE else in the world?

It's one of those things like ' If you walk round the perimiter of London once it's the same as a disabled snale crossing the equator with a backpack on' .. which for some reason people accept to be true purely because they have heard it said so many times.

If I were the lone male with excess time who made up this ridiculous, unprovable concept I'd give myself a stern talking to and pledge to never make bogus claims again and put peoples lives in jeopordy, like blood donors. Kind, innocent blood donors, thinking that if they give blood, their husbands, students, grandmas, bus driver's, daughter will receive their selfless gift. (the actual line of links in the advert)

Go back to playing Xbox you pathetic human.
There are 600 degrees of burning flames in hell for you to perish in.

Over the top as ever. But seriously, what a silly silly claim that you are only ever 6 people away from everyone else. Silly.

Peace out from the skeptical Elf x

Doubtful

The Sun is the Devil

When we think of hell we think of an insufferably hot chasm, where flames lick the extremities of our flesh for eternity with no hope of escape or refuge. Within the realms of life the closest comparison to this is Summer; with it's dry, sticky humidity. The air is stifling and there is not a thing you can do about it. You can only remove so many clothes and short of ripping off your skin there is no further way to cool down. The heat of Summer is inescapable; much like the devil's hellish lair.
Winter on the other hand is easily comparative to Heaven. There is choice and comfort to be found; you can infinitely control your temperature by removing or adorning clothes, layering up to keep warm or stripping to cool down.
This may seem a dark and cynical take on the seasons but there is a lot of truth to be found in my somewhat extreme analogy.
Bring on winter, I can't wait to be in my element.

Peace out from the overheating Elf x

My Desperate Desire for Memory Foam

I want nothing more than to lie in a bed and the mattress mold to the contours and shape of my body. Why do I want this so much?
Is it because I spend most of my nights on a thin mattress on the floor? No because I feel comfortable and rested on said thin mattress.
So it must be because I have back problems I'm trying to solve? No my back is fine despite the old crack here and there.

Oh so it must be because the only thing on TV late it night are 'infomercials' for Memory Foam mattresses! Their blatant target audience are those poor unfortunate souls who are laying awake at night, desperate to sleep but unable to. Why oh why can't they fall asleep? What could be the problem? Ah what's this!
"do you have trouble sleeping?" YES!
"do you wake up tired in the morning" YES! (doesn't everyone??)
"do you need an answer?" YES! OH YES PLEASE SAVE ME FROM MY MISERABLE INSOMNIA...

"then buy our memory foam mattresses bla bla bla bla"

Problem solved right? No probably not. As much as I'm sure memory foam is a delight to sleep on it is unlikely to solve the sleepless nights of many of their excited late night viewers.

The only way to figure this out once and for all is to become very stressed and anxious about something, so much so that I can't sleep. Then purchase the miracle of Memory Foam.. using the spare £800+ I don't have.. and see if it makes a difference. I'll keep you updated of the progress.

Peace out from the sleepy Elf x

The Danger of Cows & Their Secret Lives

Since watching the BBC documentary The Secret Life of Cows I have begun to realise that the existence of cows goes a lot deeper than we may think.
Entering your local supermarket and perusing through the shelves will lead you to conclude that cows and their faces are EVERYWHERE. Flicking through the adverts on TV will lead you to conclude that cows and their faces are EVERYWHERE.

THE TAKEOVER OF THE COWS HAS BEGUN!

There is no doubt in my mind that The Cows are planning an organised, underground revolt as we speak. Their monopolisation of our lives has already taken effect and their grip on society will only increase with time. Listen well for I have warned you of the cows; and awareness if the first step to combatting this global problem.
See the links & photos below as evidence and have a look at the shelves next time you go shopping...

'Thank You Cows' Muller Advert

'Made by Cows' - Anchor Advert

'Tap Dancing Cow' - Cadbury's Advert

GO

So I did it. I caved and have fallen victim to the lure of the Blog, whatever that might be; I'm yet to find out! And despite the fact I'm approximately 5 years behind the times I look forward to documenting everything and nothing for everyone and nobody.

Will this be a page of hot girls, hotspots and hot topics? Doubtful, I'll leave that to the experts Love Food Fashion Peace
Will it be a page of cynical, bitter observations from my high horse? More likely!

The problem arises, and will forever remain, how do you talk about your life, thoughts and daily activity without offending, naming and shaming?! This is of course the true loop hole in Sex and The City.. why didn't any of them get pissed off with her constantly writing about their sex lives and shenanigans? Don't get me wrong, I'm no Carrie Bradshaw, nor do I even like Sex and the City that much; despite how it might seem considering its the first thing I've actually mentioned so far..
I just wonder why they didn't pick up her laptop, smash it round her head, stub her predictably lit cigarette out in her eyeballs and clobber her with a pair of Manolo Blahniks (googled for spelling). I guess America is a very different world.
My point being, I'll try my best to censor and in turn avoid attack from angry mobs.

Peace out from the intrepid Elf x