Diary of an up and coming sociopath

I know I’m not always around as much as I once was but please remember that I haven’t forgotten you and that I have written a review of JPod on NTS as penance for an increasingly relaxed attitude towards posting. I say “written,” I mean, I started it weeks ago but I decided that it was getting embarrasing and finished it off just now. It’s one of those reviews where, for some reason, I have my pretentious hat on so it might sound sort of like it’s written by a twat, but then I always think that when I write like that they actually seem like the ones in the paper, which from an “I want to be a writer one day” sense is kind of a good thing even if the thought makes me feel slightly violated.

On Saturday we went to Fruitstock. And so did everyone else. Last year we hit up fruitstock, Innocent’s corporate love-in turned festival at Regent’s Park. We went last year and had a pretty nice day so we were quite looking forward to going again. However, it seems that as a result of me blogging about it back then (undoubtedly, this is the only factor) there were a lot more people ready to go this year. So many, in fact, that when I say you literally couldn’t take three steps without having to stop or change direction to avoid walking into someone, I do mean literally. It was utterly ridiculous.

We managed to walk to one side and back, bought some ice cream (discovered, as a result, that Green and Black’s Chocolate Orange Ice Cream is tastier and more addictive than Coke on Lauren Laverne. And I do mean it that way around.) We met up with Eri(ka) and had a quick poke around the Farmers market, where I bought some pre-mashed potato shipped over from Ireland under 24 hours ago, as my recent building obsession with finding decent mashed potato begins to reach critical mash.

I’ll give you a moment to recover from that one.

We also bought more Eglu eggs. It seems relatively ethical, but then it also costs a quid for 4, so you can kind of understand why battery farming is winning the day. After we were done I walked back to Camden and Nikki and Eri went to spend their Pizza Express vouchers, procured as a result of the last time they went for food. On the way back I bought a can of Vimto in Camden, then on the way back realised I had to go to the supermarket, went to Covent Garden to do so, bought a can of coke as well because I was still thirsty, and then read the newspaper on the surprisingly pleasant (mostly empty) tube home.

With my food, I watched Charlie Brooker’s screen wipe and Armando Iannucci’s Time Trumpet, both of which have reaffirmed my faith in British TV as an industry, if only because betwen them they were both so horribly scathing towards just about everything, which is exactly the kind of bitterness I like on screen. Just go and download them yourselves, otherwise you may never experience the simple joy of sharing in the hate of that which is crap.