So About That Video… Yeah… Sorry

Hey boys and girls, and anyone who identifies as both or neither (Equality for you all, free of charge!) do you remember that super awesome chocolate fudge mega video special edition I wanted to make for you all to celebrate 1000 views on my blog? You do? Well now here’s the thing – turns out that scripting and animating a video worthy of being my YouTube début is tricky business, especially when trying to fit it around college and caring for Alice, alongside my brother’s birthday and two days of stomach-related hell, so instead of it being a 1000 view special, I’ll make it 2000. As it stands, I have almost 1800 views by now so making it a 1000 view special seems like celebrating Christmas in March, too late and eerily ironic. I promise to do my best to get it up and running for the 2000 view mark, but remember it will all be hand-drawn and stop-motion animated so it does take it’s time, like seriously!

Right, moving on, if I can find the time I’d also like to expand what you see on this site to something beyond standard rants about the little first world problems I seem to encounter and kick up a fuss about worthy of being promoted to Archduke of Hipstertopia. This coffee shop is too expensive, these trousers are too low, this hat is too silly and so on and so on. Granted, occasionally I get up my own arse more than usual and give a rousing speech on why Thatcher’s funeral should be nothing more than digging a hole and dumping her in it, followed by pissing on the body for a bit but to be honest, my usual rant is basically me loading my verbal cannon with big words and delivering a sharp shot of sarcasm to society’s ugly mug. In that respect, I’ll try to broaden the topics to film and game criticisms when I get a new film to watch or game to play that I think you might be interested in and I’ll also do a few nerdy rants about cult classics I follow that I have a bone to pick with (Watch your ass Moffat!)

I’m pleased to see this site picking up ratings at long last and after asking so nicely for a little more attention from you all and effectively making a harmless arcade game into a psychology lesson for dummies, I shot back up like a dead pop-star’s CD sales. On the subject of broadening my horizons, I’ve often been asked to bring back an old series of short stories I used to write called ‘Tea-Drinking Wisecracker’, a collection of episodic adventures about the British equivalent to your comic book anti-hero and his battles with the creatures of hell and corporate masterminds, filled with smart-ass references to everything from Devil May Cry to V for Vendetta. Well, if you knew the series and liked it then I have good news – I will attempt to revive the series and honour it with a special page on this blog for you to follow. I hope this experiment does not fall foul of audience expectations, though I expect the derivative content to be the butt of many a snide remark from snooty elitists as it has been before but not to fear, I’ll sell it as being an ironic statement about the conventions of anti-hero drama. Boom.

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A Latte Of Old Rubbish

I went to a coffee shop recently, one I’ve held a grudge against for a little while since the manager went bat shit crazy at me for showing my girlfriend affection by cuddling and kissing her, a little peck I should add, whilst at our table, in the corner, away from everyone who didn’t seem miffed. Honestly, the hot-headed she-devil screamed at us for making a scene, when we hadn’t even made a sound and had previously gone unnoticed by the perfectly happy introverts in the rest of the room. Demonic bitch. Sorry, I’m rambling, what I meant to say was I was dragged in there again because it’s the only coffee shop in fair old Shrewsbury with comfortable furniture that you are allowed to lie down and fall asleep on, and my girlfriend and I ordered a pot of tea to share between us, which did nothing short of earn my disappointment and remind me one of the other reasons I avoid coffee shops nowadays.

The teapot was a cutesy little blue clay pot, around the size of a fist, with the most ridiculous little spout that was barely that long in comparison to a beetle’s dick and about as useful for pouring tea as a pancake is for digging a grave. The cups were wide at the top but again tiny and could only really hold what I could spit into it. As for the tea itself, flavourless and overpriced – £3.00 for a pot worth four tiny teacups, which in itself would probably only just about fill a mug. For the record, since when did a standard cup of tea become ‘English Breakfast’ tea? I drink tea pretty much all fucking day, not just at breakfast. If I say tea, you will serve me a teabag subjected to boiling water whilst sat in a teapot then poured into a mug, a mug bigger than my testicles I might add, that has a splash of milk and two sugars at the bottom. I am not Arthur Dent and you are not a computer, why do I need to go through a routine with you from Douglas Adams’ most well-known book? Earl Grey is Earl Grey, tea is tea.

I’ve decided I don’t buy into the coffee shop craze, tried it and liked it for a while when I was younger but that was before it really caught on, that’s right, ultimate hipster here folks, was a hipster before the hipsters were hipsters or hipster trends were even established. I only ever visited them late at night mind you, when the only other people who’d be there would be people I knew or people who just wanted somewhere to work in peace. As my budget tightens and my cynicism flowers into a hideous plant made of shit, I’ve noticed though that for what it is, it’s overpriced and not too much in it. I’d probably spend more time and money in these places if they didn’t ask me to empty my wallet for half a cup of tea then offer me the most expensive cakes imaginable, which measure in at the same dimensions at my finger. Call me a philistine but I do sometimes think I got more bang for my buck from old cafes, who lack the pretentious prettiness of your cute coffee shops but at least they know what size a cup of tea is and that I want it to come from a teabag that came in a multipack, not the extracted nostril hairs of a mystic yak or however these ‘fancy’ brands come about.

One argument you might hear is that it’s not just the food and drink you come out for, it’s the atmosphere of a coffee shop – the smell of the coffee brewing, the sound of cups and tea spoons clattering and the crowds of dapper and intelligent academics sat around discussing literature and art all around you… or at least, so you think. From what I’ve seen, everyone thinks this is the case so everyone turns up expecting to become part of this stylish crowd of super swots from the planet of book-smart sex gods so suddenly the coffee shop becomes jam-packed with anyone and everyone then your paradise of poetry becomes little more than a pretentious service station. I don’t hold some sort of elitist grudge against people entering a coffee shop if they don’t intend to mention at least one classical composer but my point is that if everyone goes to a coffee shop to feel like sophisticated somebodies then they’re not, they are just buying in on a fad. Irony fucks in the arse here as well, because the main customers of coffee shops are liberal-thinking students who hate big establishments, yet discuss their loathing of international monopolies whilst sat in Starbucks – somewhere on the same spectrum as discussing your hatred of racism with your mates from the EDL.

I guess a coffee shop is a nice place to stop off for a warm drink and a social gathering with friends, but it isn’t one in itself to be honest, not for me, and if you really want that kind of atmosphere that badly then invite your friends over and put the kettle on. You run your own cafes, all of you, it’s called your home – you’re the boss of the menu, the drinks, the music and the seating arrangements. A coffee shop is a pleasant, if pricey, pit-stop for a chat or a nice venue for a cosy little meeting between two people who aren’t on fully friendly terms yet but don’t mistake it for a place to form your day plan around – you probably don’t have the money to keep forking out on it and if you do, you’d get more for it buying a tin of biscuits and a packet of teabags to go home with.

The Truth About Pacman

I’m in a foul mood today, more so than usual, and this isn’t the kind of foul mood where you  whine that the game you ordered on Amazon will be a day late and have to fill the time with a game you’ve played to death, this is the kind of foul mood where if you can justify murdering something, you will suddenly find yourself holding a hatchet. I’m no stranger to this kind of mood and once I’m in the rut, I’m in there for the rest of the day and possibly the next if I don’t sleep well. I won’t bore you with details as to why I feel particularly vicious today but seeing as I’ve effectively alienated and upset the people I rely on for a while, I’ll distract myself with something else.

Pac-Man, that yellow face pellet popping bastard straight out of the eighties, is probably the most easily recognised gaming mascot alongside Sonic the Hedgehog and Super Mario. You know the score, a simple game in which you are 80% of a pie chart, fleeing for your life from four ghosts whilst munching down on anything that stands in your path, including those spiritual sods if you get the Power Pellet. Hardly the complexity of Bayonetta but then less is more sometimes right? Don’t believe me? Play Bayonetta and follow the plot the first time round, I dare you. Back to the matter at hand, I think I’ve come about a hidden plot to Pac-Man that adds a little more flavour to the game, however bitter and bizarre it may seem.

I saw a picture of Pac-Man overdosing today, stuffing himself with Prozac and it got me thinking that what if Pac-Man isn’t eating pellets, he’s actually trying to overdose? Work with me guys, this may or may not blow your mind ‘Ed, Edd and Eddy are actually dead’ style. Ok, so Pac-Man lives alone in an empty maze, surrounded by the various types of medication he’s supposed to take to help him cope with reality because he actually suffers from delusions of being chased by ghosts. The ghosts all represent something, I dunno, but basically if Pac-Man doesn’t keep up to date on his treatment then he can’t escape these visions and the ghosts take his sanity, or force him to disappear in the game, thus he loses his life. Pac-Man’s visions become so vivid, he kills himself (The ghosts never physically interact with Pac-Man in the losing a life animation). Moving on from this, the smaller pellets represent placebos or out-dated medication that are of no use to our yellow amigo and so when he takes them, the ghosts aren’t even miffed and still haunt his mustard-coloured ass to high hell. However, the Power Pellets represent actual anti-psychotic drugs and so if Pac-Man takes one, he can ward off the ghosts and overcome them.

I’m not done yet because a knowledgeable gamer will now that there are 255 levels in the original Pac-Man and as the levels go on, there are less big pellets available and in the final few levels, the ghosts are unaffected by them altogether. Pac-Man has developed an immunity to the effects of his medication and now it is useless to him, even as a chemical strait-jacket for his pain. At this point, you are taking pills for pills sake and to no avail until finally, in the 256th level, everything crashes. The game has a technical goof here in that Normally, no more than seven fruit are displayed at the bottom of the screen at any given time but when the internal level counter, which is stored in a single byte (8 bits), reaches 255, the subroutine that draws the fruit erroneously “rolls over” this number to zero, causing it to try to draw 256 fruit instead of the usual seven and this crashes the game. Game over. You caused a small yellow mascot to overdose on anti-psychotics and now he is totally dead inside, his mind a burnt out wreck. Am I reading too much into this?

Happy gaming.

Can I Please Have Your Attention? No, Seriously, Gimme!

I remember a golden era when people saw the three words ‘Old Man Wolfe’ appear on Reader or Facebook and would click like hamsters would for pellets and my blog was at this comfortable height of at least 30 views a day upon which I would sit with a proud grin and ponder my future as a television presenter or famed critic. However, long since gone are the days where it looked likely that Jacob Wolfe would become a household name soon to be in league with Frankie Boyle and David Mitchell and now I feel a little run-down because I’m struggling to script and animate a video for your amusement but my written work goes unnoticed.

Right War, a rant about how extreme feminism is actually harmful to the image of women in our society, is still the most renowned work I have ever written and upon it’s publication, I received over 100 views in less than two hours. Right War was a success because of two critical factors – controversy and a widely discussed subject. Ever since Right War, I have been aiming to emulate that success once again and so far, it’s all fell short in much the same way that throwing rocks into the air isn’t quite a fireworks display or  that ejaculation on a slice of bread isn’t a mayonnaise sandwich. I can’t seem to hit that mark again, even with some rants clearly made to evoke a reaction in my audience (Past Iron) just seem to go by with little to no success.

Today, before publishing this rant, I have had three views in total and six yesterday. Admittedly, nothing new has been published since Past Iron and you’re all probably waiting on that video but still, you’d think I’d get a little word of mouth? I’ve got ten shares in total, mostly from one guy who does it at my request, and as I try harder and harder, I get less and less success. I’m not sure if it is the fact I’m less interesting to read than I once was, that my readers are actually women-beaters or pensive feminists that doubt themselves, or the fact that reading is too time-consuming and a lot of work for some lazy people.

However, if the latter were true then why are other bloggers enjoying crests of success in an age where peoples’ attention spans are shorter than an unfortunate midget’s wedding vegetables? Do inspirational blogs get the spotlight and outshine cynics like me or am I doing something wrong? A lot of questions here and not many answers, as per usual sadly. I’ve asked around and less people read my rants than I thought, with varying responses but the underlying themes being lack of time or understanding. How can that be so? A five minute read is too much time to spare? In regards to understanding, again, is it me or them that’s the problem here – am I just a rambling loon that makes as much sense as bringing a spoon to a shoot-out or is my current audience not the right one? How do you change that if that is the case?

I’m sorry, I’ve just always wanted to be a success using my imagination and creativity and when I walked away from my Art GCSE with a D, I knew illustration wasn’t my ultimate destiny. I fancy tackling fiction writing and if people express interest, I may put up some short stories or drafts of novel chapters on here but please, express an interest (That means leave a comment saying you’re interested, nobody has said anything in response to these requests before except my girlfriend!) However, it feels like I’m not reaching my goals here and this blog might not actually be my ticket to a career in entertainment as a comedian or a columnist. Who knows, my fiction writing might work out better but I’m not hopeful. I feel crushed and drained and am now questioning why I bother when nobody else does – my biggest fan is my girlfriend and that’s about it.

Well, if you took the time to read this, thank you, and if you can spare a moment to leave your thoughts below that’d be twice as cool. Thank you, please go about your day as before.

Past Iron

I would like to think the people who read my rants also do their best to follow current issues in the news, if only from Facebook statuses, but my British audience at the very least should know that the “Iron Lady”, Margaret Thatcher, has passed away from a stroke and this has left the nation divided once again, between people grieving as they munch on Rivita with weepy eyes and the underclass gathering together their tuppence to throw little parties. Now, I have said I would respect the dead but frankly my dears, I didn’t respect her when she was alive. However, I’m a man of controversy, not plain and simple bullish vulgarity, so I’ll be as nice as possible about this… or try to.

Death is always tragic, that can’t be argued and I don’t think the world has ever waited with baited for anyone to die since Hitler, though you’d be forgiven for thinking Thatcher received the same reception. In Thatcher’s case, her death was received with cheer by anyone who works for a living but otherwise politicians across the world shed a tear. John Major, Barack Obama, Nick Clegg and even her former opponents, the Labour party, all paid their respects to the late Baroness but I just couldn’t get myself to feel a sense of loss here. What has Britain truly lost here? A gay-bashing dinosaur that made everyone who wasn’t middle or upper class into starving tramps? Excuse me for not paying my respects with a glass of wine at a dinner party, I was too busy living in a hovel.

Ok, so some of you probably just choked on some caviare at my tasteless remarks but why don’t you get off the high horse and listen to my tale? Cue tragic back story. I was born your typical son of a man who made his living with his hands, not due to a lack of intellect but because he left school in the same year Thatcher came to power and changed the system so drastically the floor vanished. My father, Mark Leese, was in the top 2% for IQ in the country, as tested by MENSA themselves, and has such in-depth knowledge of motoring that he could probably build you a functioning motorcycle from spare parts with his hands tied together and an angry squirrel in his boxers. However, being the son of a bus driver, my Dad’s starting place in life was the equivalent to starting a 70 metre sprint against Britain’s finest runners whilst paralysed. As a result of Thatcher’s changes to the system, my starting place in life was less than that and my Dad went from door to door to get them all slammed in his face so hard he got splinters in his nostrils. Tell me, oh wise Thatcher, if you need experience to get a job and a job to get experience, how  in the name of Christ do you break into the cycle? I wasn’t born with a job waiting for me by birthright and seeing as I live in Shrewsbury, one of the worst towns in the world to be underclass and starting out in life, I’ve struggled to get anywhere fast and am currently a drain on my family’s minimal resources because there just isn’t work anywhere.

Jacob, I hear you say with disgust, you can’t blame Thatcher for all your problems. You may well be an unskilled monkey child and the only reason you can’t get anywhere in life is because you aren’t trying hard enough, you just want to live off the state don’t you? Well to that I say why don’t you try living without your privileges and start from scratch as a man without anything to fall back on. If I fuck up, that’s it, I’ll be searching the slums for the cosiest gutter but if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you might not even learn what a gutter is, let alone sleep in one. A generation lost out to Thatcher’s regime but that’s not all I’ve got against her, not by a long shot. Oh ho, in case you didn’t know, she wasn’t the nicest of folks about gay rights either: ‘Here, as with most of her achievements, it’s a mixed bag. As a member of Parliament (MP) in the 1960s, she was one of only a handful of Conservatives to vote for the decriminalization of homosexuality, a truly forward-thinking and brave gesture that she deserves a great deal of credit for’  Sounds lovely right? She supports gays? Wrong, in 1988, Thatcher’s government legislated Britain’s first new anti-gay law in 100 years: Section 28. At the 1987 Conservative party conference she mocked people who defended the right to be gay, insinuating that there was no such right. The stigma surrounding the homosexual community as ‘the reason STDs exist’ was not something she aimed to disprove, but rather confirm. As a friend and relative to a number of gay people, I instantly feel the urge to stab someone viciously if they’re so ignorant about sexuality. I don’t mind ignorant people that are just ignorant, but a powerless idiot pales in comparison to one that runs a country. I find it ironic that she did so much to support equality abroad in Africa, but in her own country she sees fit to be a prejudiced dragon.

Erhem, I was being nice wasn’t I? Sorry, I’ll calm down. A dragon as she is, she had her uses and did a lot for this country, unless you’re a mechanic, shelf stacker, student, cleaner, builder, plumber, electrician, honest human being… Pardon? You cry all you want, you latte-sipping, horse-racing, house-owning, people-firing biggots, but if you’re like me, born with nothing that you can’t take by force, you probably find a slight smidgen of comfort in the idea this woman, who fucked you so hard you weren’t even born a virgin, has passed away. However, she’s not the first or the worst so I’ll leave it be like this and I won’t get up in arms about a death again hopefully but this woman was the bane of my life when I was a fetus, allow me to feel relief she’s gone from this Earth. If you disagree, buy my silence.

Coming Soon!

Hello there peoples of the internet, hope I’m not interrupting your search for sloth memes and dead baby jokes. Well, the whiteboard arrived at last so I’m going to see about getting started on animating a video rant pretty soon. I hope you’re excited… or even interested… slightly curious? In any case, don’t expect the world of me because although it will be hand-drawn stop motion animation, it won’t be a seamless ‘Draw My Life’ gig for two major reasons:

1. The style of my rants is aggressive and rough-edged so to match that up to beautiful illustration with loving detail and aesthetic rhythm would look too bizzare – much in the same way you wouldn’t tie a red ribbon around your penis before your honeymoon.

2. To draw in that style would imply I can. I can draw, certainly, but it’s a hell of a lot of effort to draw true works of art every time I want to rant and I’m not up for it.

So, what can you expect from me? I’m not going to be treating your eyes to such visual splendour your tear ducts will release jizz but rather, a quirky little stop motion that will draw from the style model of the infamous Zero Punctuation. Yahtzee, writer, animator and narrator of the series, uses basic animation alongside sophisticated and verbose rants to deliver his point of view without distraction or hesitation, and I often find myself inspired by his works so I’m going to emulate his style to some degree. Plagiarism, I hear you cry, but by emulate I don’t mean rip off but rather, take inspiration from. I will be using basic animation but it will distinctly be my own work you see on your screen, not some total tool trying too hard to be someone else.

The video rant will be available on my blog but I will also see about setting up a YouTube account exclusively for my rants, as I aim to animate more and more of them. If you are interested in animating some of my work yourself, go for it but do give me some credit for the written work and send me a link won’t you? I don’t expect to hit Game Grumps success on that front and be bombarded with countless fan creations but it’d be nice to see someone try it.

Now then, the video rant I will animate first is tricky to decide so it’s up to you, my lovely lovely audience to decide. That’s right, you’re going to be working on this too. You didn’t honestly expect me to be your monkey butler and serve you my soul on a silver platter without a tip did you? Foolish human, you must help me decide what I am to do. Is there a particular favourite you want to see brought to life as a cartoon? A topic of interest you’d love to see me beat to death with a club? I could bundle together some little things that piss me off and make a video about that? Please, I ask that you leave your opinions below, it won’t take long honestly. You can write a comment can’t you? The floor is open to suggestions and I promise this isn’t a trap so that I can call you out as a useless twerp and then cyber-bully you into non-existence. If you’ve got something to say, I will listen.

Hopefully, video rants will be the future for Old Man Wolfe and if they take off then I may consider buying some serious software and improving the quality but I’m not going to fork out at this stage to find my videos are not of any interest to the world. Do not expect crisp clean audio and perfectly drawn creations, but I promise to deliver good content and implement some aspects of visual humour to get an extra giggle out of you. For now then, I’ve got to learn how to animate properly and think of what to make my YouTube début about and as I said, suggestions are encouraged. Thanks for reading, keep watching this page. Current view figures are 1341 total views!

PS – If you haven’t seen Zero Punctuation, look it up.

Make Me Laugh

I sometimes find people asking me the question ‘How do you do it Jacob? How do you write these posts all the time?’, to which I usually make the smart arse response of ‘By using my hands usually because writing with your feet is difficult and unhygienic’  but, if you’ll excuse the assumption, I am a comedian by nature and the difficulty therein is a nightmare, especially when faced with a blank page that seems to stare at me and whisper ‘Make it count’. Comedy is seen as the most pleasant of escapist entertainment forms, second only to dreaming that you’ve suddenly inherited enough money to have four spare mansions in case your first one so much as smells funny, but in this day and age I find it’s more and more difficult to keep pace.

The society we live in follows a predictable and easily measured pattern when anything enters human interest and that is a process of conception/occurrence, interest, fame, overuse, lack of interest and then it either returns through the ironic use or it becomes an ugly muck monster emerging from the depths of the dead joke and you suddenly find that a daytime chat show has recorded their own version of the Harlem Shake or worse yet, Gangnam style. If you want to be funny, you’ve got to be fast and you’ve got to be the first one to make the snide comment, and if you time it just one day past the golden peak, you suddenly find yourself being ostracised as an internet hermit. For example, if I were to Rick Roll you right now, or make a joke about Charlie Sheen’s breakdown, you’d think I had my head buried in sand for twelve months whilst also being locked in a maximum security prison underground on the bloody moon. Our society, built around instantaneous connections and exchanges, leaves no room for you to be late to the mark and once it’s dead, it’s dead. You can be ironic sure, but that’s a difficult art to master and quite frankly, even if you did, most people are too stupid to notice your clever sarcasm, but all in all the lifespan of a trope for humour dies off faster than an underclass amputee in Cameron’s Britain (Yeah, couldn’t miss a chance to have another dig at that golden shining turd ruling over us all could I? You tosspot, living in Cloud-fucking-cuckoo-land and leaving the common ‘scrounger’ to starve and die like Scrouge’s complaints of a surplus population in the bleedin’ Christmas Carol)

Erhem, as I was… I guess one reason that this blog isn’t more of a success is because I miss out on the chance to make some great observations about our society and by the time I get chance to tell you an aspect of popular culture is bloody ridiculous, you’ve all figured that much out for yourselves and are now all trendy cyber hipsters that spit spam mail of hatred at anyone who so much as thinks of typing the words Harlem Shake. You’ve got to be fast and the key to being great at observational comedy is to be quick on the scene or just wait until something else of interest crops up and use that instead. Let’s think back to the death of Michael Jackson shall we? Do you remember where you were when you heard the news? Ok, how long was it until you heard a joke about it? I would guess anywhere between five minutes and a week at most and the point therein is strike whilst the iron’s hot and get in the laughs quick before people have heard it all and then start getting all snobbish about comedy and abhorring you for your silly outdated puns. However, by contrast, you can often hear the phrase ‘Too soon’ get tossed around in this situations and honestly that counts for bugger all nowadays. Heart failure? Cancer? Car crash? Overdose? If you had a claim to fame, the moment you die you become more famous as a running gag than you possibly ever were as a living being until suddenly everyone jumps on this sycophantic bandwagon of remembrance and then your last mentions are of how the world isn’t the same without you in it and that florists made a fortune on selling bouquets for your public memorial service, then you just fade from our attention slowly. Too soon? Comedy is born from tragedy but it’s an ugly creature at times and if you’re that determined to get a laugh from someone, you’ll make the nastiest blows you can before anyone can shed a tear and hopefully win over the kind of psychotic cretin you see as admin for a page along the lines of ‘HURR DURR DEAD BABIES!’ and so forth. If ever you thought I was a vile creature, thank your lucky stars I show a little respect for when people are grieving and give things a miss.

Well where does that leave me then, if I’m not going to be the one to play the piper for the internet arsehole but I’m not exactly family friendly comedy you’d let your kids watch with dinner on a Friday evening? I guess I aim for issues that don’t age too quickly, such as equal rights and pretentious vegans, because the lifestyle I lead leaves little time to be sat at a computer waiting patiently to make the first smart remark about a celebrity death or make a meme out of a catchphrase in a show and so I tackle issues anyone may well discuss at any given point in time. If ever I become a big name, the advantage I’ll have is despite my writing style, my content is universal and won’t just be forgotten about as the month passes, because there will always be someone still getting in a huff about all men being dick-swinging dream destroyers or that tattooing your first child’s name on your wrist is ridiculous because you then have five more and realise you’ve ran out of wrist. However,  I felt my rant about the welfare state was pretty on the ball and that contributed nicely to it’s success in ratings but still my best days are days where I publish generic issues we all get emotional about. To date, I have not had higher ratings on any rant than ‘Right War’ because it is about feminism – a timeless reason for women to rant and it drew in such a mix of readers that regardless of whether or not it spoke to them, I got noticed.

Ultimately, I’ve always considered myself a writer but also a man who wants to make people laugh and I do so by criticising everything around me for any justified grounds to do so, which makes a figure for controversy and that in itself makes me more noticeable. I enjoy what I do and people enjoy reading it usually, which shows in both my rants and my viewing figures that continue to swell over time. In the long run, I aim to do a lot more with both comedy and writing – write a serious novel, a funnier novel and maybe one day star in a comedy of my own design. I realise that said goals are probably more realistic than my childhood dreams of growing up to either be Doctor Who or a Transformer but it’s still a lot of work, as is comedy itself. I’m never going to lose hope though, and you won’t get rid of me any time soon so expect to keep hearing from me and watch as I get better with practice. With that in mind, I’m expecting that whiteboard soon so look forward to a video rant in the near future.

So that’s everything covered now, which leaves me with these final words for you to consider:

NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP
NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN
NEVER GONNA… Hahaha, fuck you society, and your dated jokes. I just rick rolled you.