Friday, 17 August 2012

17/08/12 - Fighting

There was one British tradition that, thankfully, was demonstrably absent from the London 2012 Olympic Games: fighting. A common pastime for sports fans when they congregate in large numbers, particularly if they’re from different nations, is to swear, spit and get all punchy, but something rather wonderful happened in London this summer – everyone was really nice to each other. The Games raised our global stock immeasurably, portraying our historic city as welcoming, diverse and downright cheerful. Everyone thinks we’re really nice now. Isn’t that great?

I’ve never really been much of a fighter, so this situation suited me perfectly. When I was at school there was always a reasonable level of playground violence rumbling along in the background, but I was more of the running-away-quite-quickly mindset. I wasn’t really interested in being hit. I don’t think I’ve ever punched anyone, and I’m pretty happy about that too. A lot of other kids seemed to relish the thought of a scrap, organising to meet up after school in a particular place at a certain time to do some fighting, which seemed to me like a tremendously organised way to go about losing some teeth; kind of like that documentary where Paul Kenyon goes undercover with the Chelsea Headhunters, and you see him in the back of a Merc with a ‘top boy’ who’s phoning other hooligans to arrange a pasting. All very odd. Shouldn’t violent reprisals be grounded in a core of spontaneity? If you’re going to organise it in advance, you’d be far better off to draw up a treaty or contract that you can both sign – ‘I admit that I called his mum a slag, I’m therefore not allowed within 500 yards of the main football field for three weeks’, etc. (To be honest, it’s surprising that these sort of notions didn’t get me beaten up on a regular basis, it would have been well deserved.)

As the old saying goes, ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter’. And not that impressive a lover either, really. More a cynical whinger who stands on the periphery making snarky comments and chomping away on a bag of Monster Munch. So I’ve never been one for fights, although I have been beaten up pretty savagely – twice, in fact. You can’t call them fights because on both occasions I was a) hopelessly outnumbered and b) too pissed to fight back. On the assumption that you’re probably in the majority of people that find me a bit annoying, perhaps you’d enjoy hearing the stories? OK, here goes…

The first time happened on the cheap Greek island of Kos. I’d gone on a two-week piss-up with about fifteen friends to celebrate the ending of our A-levels and the fact that, having all recently turned eighteen, we were very grown-up indeed. So we booked some apartments surrounding a pool, along with several thousand other excitable teenagers, and spent a fortnight downing fishbowls, buying cheap Aftershock copies for three euros a litre and generally whisking our livers to pâté. It was ace.
One night we decided to go to a foam party. I’d never been to one before, and wasn’t wholly surprised to discover that the two main consequences of filling a large, dark room with Fairy liquid to shoulder height are that, firstly, everyone is really sticky and secondly, people keep tripping over things and generally slipping in the slime, so the lavatories are full of people staunching some pretty dramatic nasal blood-flow. It was quite an entertaining night, but after overdoing the fishbowls I discovered that I’d lost track of all my mates by about midnight. I was pretty hammered, so I decided just to go home. As I was walking down the long, unlit road to the apartments, I was dimly aware of something that sounded like a swarm of angry wasps. As it got louder, it became apparent that it was in fact about eight-ish kids on scooters, who had spied a British tourist and fancied giving him a bit of a shoeing for a laugh. So they surrounded me with their scooters, pushed me into a rusty barbed wire fence – from which I still have a faint, unimpressive scar – then piled in trainers-first, leaving me bruised, bloodied and more than a little confused.
The same thing happened in the same place the following night to my friend Simon, who received infinitely more sympathy owing to the vibrant black eye he acquired from the fracas. So the night after that, after having (predictably) had quite a lot of ropey vodka, we all decided to hide behind the trees along the road and wait for the scoundrels to come back, convincing one of our number to amble erratically down the street as bait. We were drunkenly keen for an ambush. But after about half an hour we got bored and decided to go to a club, which was a lot more fun. And nothing else happened.

The second kicking occurred, somewhat improbably, in the sleepy rural town of Carmaux in southern France. I’d gone on holiday with the same group of friends (although rather less of them, maybe eight of us in total) to my parents’ house. I know, pretty rock ‘n’ roll. My folks were on holiday elsewhere, so we all drove down through France and spent a couple of weeks basking in the glorious sunshine. This was probably about 2004 or ‘05, I think.
One night we decided to venture out into town, to see what local rural colour Carmaux had to offer. My folks’ house is in a tiny little hamlet in the middle of nowhere, so you have to drive to get anywhere; coupled with the fact that I’d always spent my time there with my family, the concept of going out to the local town with my mates and getting smashed was an entirely alien one. We drove into town and let the shining light of booze take the lead.
After a lovely meal in a restaurant on one of the various market squares, we found a charming little bar that was more than a little reminiscent of the café in ’Allo ’Allo – checked tablecloths, wine bottles as candle-holders, and a friendly bartender who let us pour our own drinks to save him the effort. It was a cracking evening, very French. We all felt thoroughly grown-up. Look at us being civilised on the continent.
After the wine fairies had swished their wands and swirled our comprehension of reality into something rather more psychedelic and twirly than was usual, we stumbled en masse to the local taxi firm to make our way home. And as we approached the place, we were set upon by some eastern Europeans (I couldn’t tell you exactly where they were from, I was too hammered to make distinctions of language, particularly given the circumstances). They were wearing shell-suits, which is always a bad sign.
Our group spread out across the street, largely with the gents gallantly protecting the ladies, although I somehow found myself sitting on the ground with my back against a parked car, being repeatedly kicked in the face by three of the assailants. I’m not really sure how you’re supposed to get out of that situation; if you’re boxed in, surrounded and outnumbered (and really drunk), what are you meant to do? I had no ideas at all. I don’t think aggressively bleeding at them and shouting ‘stop kicking me you fuckers, it really hurts’ did much to frighten them off.
Somewhat heroically, the nonchalant chap from the taxi place came out and beat them all up single-handedly, saving me from serious injury. It remains one of the most impressive and unlikely things I’ve ever seen. We took him a bottle of wine the next day as a thank-you, and he was totally taken aback – presumably it was a pretty regular thing for him to fight off hordes of vicious kids. Rural France, eh?

So there you go. Two quite unimpressive stories. Why not attack me on the way home tonight and really give me something to bitch about?

Massive geekgasm

This is what a geekgasm *actually* sounds like. Incredible.

Mo Farah Running Away From Things

One of the best Olympic memes, this. Click here.

Ghost Tits

Circle Line Simulator

Half an hour may seem overly long for a YouTube video game review, but don't run away just yet - this dry walkthrough of an Underground simulator is worth every oddly hilarious minute. (Watch out for some TERRIFYING ACTION around the 12:30 mark. The ending, in which we find ourselves unexpectedly stranded in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, is marvellous too.)

PLANES! BLOODY LOADS OF PLANES! what you can see by clicking here. It's a real-time map of where planes are flying - see something going overhead? You can click on it to see what airline it is, where it's going from and to, how fast it's going... what an age we live in.

8-string Skrillex

I don't pretend to understand dubstep. But I do know that guitars make it better.

Vintage Bromance

And you thought 'bromance' was a new thing. Click me.

Salton Sea: post-apocalyptic hell-hole

Six-and-a-half compelling minutes on an epic engineering cock-up and the ensuing problems. Well worth a watch.

Mouth skills

Stargate backlot reel

Green-screening: more common than you'd think.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

09/08/12 - Ode to Beer

I grew up in east Kent, land of hop poles, oast houses and wafting malty aromas. If you’re from this part of the world, a certain significant percentage of your bloodstream will be pure Shepherd Neame; indeed, my school was next to the brewery – decent beer was a normal part of life. And you’ll feel oddly proud when you see Sheps pubs in other parts of the country too.
Faversham, the home of Sheps, has dozens of pubs, as you might expect from a town that proudly grew around Britain’s oldest brewer (established in 1698, doncherknow), and they range from the warm and welcoming to the frankly terrifying; new visitors to the town would do well to make a beeline for The Sun, which is a quaint and happy little place, or perhaps The Phoenix (although this weirdly isn’t a Shepherd Neame pub, despite being across the road from the brewery) as it has a nice garden and does reasonable grub. The Bear and The Anchor have their charms, but tread very carefully with The Hole in the Wall and The Swan & Harlequin…
If you’re not from Kent, you may still be familiar with Shepherd Neame’s beers, particularly Spitfire which enjoyed a brilliant and somewhat controversial ad campaign a while back (‘rear gunners drink lager shandy’, ‘downed all over Kent, just like the Luftwaffe’, ‘not for Schlossers, Wagners & Kuntz’, ‘no Fokker comes close’ etc – I used to have them all up on my bedroom wall). Other offerings include Bishop’s Finger (aka ‘Nun’s Delight’), Master Brew, which is something of a local hero, 1698, which is a bottle-conditioned celebration ale, the fashionably organic Whitstable Bay, and a variety of seasonal offerings including Early Bird, Late Red and Tins’Ale. And every one of them’s a cracker.
So, for my Sheps-quaffing chums, here’s a handy JuicyPips beer guide to help broaden the horizons of the palate a little – just for those days when you fancy something different. After all, you need to know what the rest of the country’s drinking, to reinforce your local pride and sense of general ale superiority. (The rest of you, ignore all of this and go and get yourself a bottle of Spitfire or two. This horizon-broadening is entirely dependent on having been raised on Kentish hops; if you weren’t, you’ve got some more work to do first.)

Innis & Gunn Rum Finish

Innis & Gunn are a small Scottish brewer who age their beer in oak casks. How does it stay fresh while they do this? Christ knows. Gaelic witchcraft probably. The highlight of their range is the Rum Finish, which is aged in used rum casks. It doesn’t really taste that much of rum, more of caramel, honey and cinnamon. It’s really quite smooth too, distracting you from the fact that it’s 7.4% abv. It tastes almost like a soft drink, you have no concept whatsoever of just how smashed you’re getting. Brilliant.

Badger – Hopping Hare
Dorset’s Badger Brewery have a whole range of delicious beers; to be honest, it was hard to narrow it down to just one for this list. (Which is why there’s a second one coming up in a bit.)
Hopping Hare is an excellent session beer; robust enough to really feel that you’re drinking a traditional ale, yet light and crisp enough to enjoy all afternoon without yearning for something less heavy-going. Rather like Spitfire, in fact. It’s hopped three times throughout the brewing process with different kinds of hops each time, which gives it a peculiar complexity. Tastes kind of citrusy, and slightly floral.

Brewdog – Punk IPA
Brewdog are an angry bunch of Scottish bastards, and proudly so. The labels on their beers don’t so much describe the product as berate you for your pathetic lack of beer knowledge. If they caught you with a Fosters, they’d slap you.
Punk IPA is a brutal thing. IPAs in the traditional sense were beefier than the average ale as they needed to retain their strength while they were shipped to India; ‘India Pale Ale’ was an export product for the colonies.
Punk IPA takes all of the in-your-face elements of an IPA and smashes you in the throat with them: tropical fruit notes combine with unexpected hints of resin – it’s kind of like drinking a tree, then being forced to chew the bark. But in a nice way. A very tasty beer, although not one you could drink all night. It’d make you cry.

Adnams Broadside

They describe it as ‘a ruby red beer like no other’. It’s a really chewy one, this; a bit like eating a cake that’s 6.3% abv. It was first brewed in 1972 to commemorate the three-hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Sole Bay, although it wouldn’t be altogether surprising to learn that some of the ingredients actually were three hundred years old and infused with gunpowder.
I mean this in a positive way, of course. It’s strong stuff. You’ll feel tremendously manly drinking it.

Old Crafty Hen
Old Speckled Hen – named after an MG, fact fans, hence the octagonal label on the bottle – was first brewed in 1979, and has been a British staple ever since. Recent varietals expand the versatility of this delicious beer, with Old Golden Hen being particularly refreshing on a summer’s day. However, it’s with the Old Crafty Hen that we find the real magic: it’s a super-premium version of the Hen, offering an abv of 6.5%, with an extended ageing process that means the intensity of the flavour varies noticeably from one batch to the next. A true connoisseur’s project – buy a load of it, then see if you can spot the difference between them. (The more you drink, the more you’ll be able to convince yourself you’re able to.)

Badger – Poacher’s Choice

Another Badger beer, and a very weird one at that. Poachers are, of course, wily and unscrupulous characters who play by their own rules, so this is a confusing and odd beer brewed specifically for such types. It’s a robust dark ale that tastes strongly of damsons and liquorice. Just the kind of thing to keep your taste-buds entertained as you crouch in a bush, waiting for pheasants.
…like I said, there are many other great Badger ales - be sure to try the Golden Glory, Fursty Ferret, Tanglefoot, Blandford Flyer and Golden Champion too! Lots to enjoy there.

Young’s London Special
It would be churlish to ignore the capital’s fare in light of the wonderfully diverse and exciting year London is having. So this is a rather special effort from Young’s, a brewer which was based at the Ram Brewery in Wandsworth from 1831 until 2006 when they, er, decided to move to Bedford. Hmm.
It’s a live beer, matured in the bottle, so you have to be careful not to get yeasty bits stuck in your teeth. It’s rich, malty, dry, fruity, and really quite strong. Drink this while you’re re-watching the Olympics opening ceremony or the Jubilee flotilla, it’ll fill you with Thamesy pride.

Lager exists. There’s no getting away from that. But if you’re going to insist on drinking light, fizzy beer, please at least do it properly. Fosters is piss-weak, Carlsberg is like licking a dog, Stella Artois is hugely overrated… stop mucking about and go for the good stuff. The Germans have this area covered.
Warsteiner Premium Verum is a light, fresh pilsner that tastes ever-so-slightly honey-like; it’s a lager that doesn’t need to be chilled (but can be, obviously), and should really be served in a vast metal tankard for maximum effect. If you have to drink lager, drink this.

Rather than be overly complex and geeky with this guide, I’ve kept it simple – all of the above can be easily sourced in Sainsbury’s or Tesco. But if you really want to expand your beer knowledge and pick the twigs out of some properly growly ales, go to a CAMRA event. The Great British Beer Festival is on at Olympia right now. Or click here to immerse yourself in a world of thick jumpers, bushy beards and unashamed beer snobbery.

Oh, and most importantly… Faversham hosts a Hop Festival every year. The town centre is shut off to traffic as stages are erected for various local bands to play, and the town throbs and swarms with countless revellers wearing hops on their heads. Every pub is stuffed to the rafters, the streets are lined with beer tents, it’s a magical experience. This year it falls on the weekend of the 1st & 2nd of September, and you’d be an idiot to miss it. An actual idiot. Details here:
Start off early and get a seat in the garden at The Sun, then move off down Court Street to see some interesting bands and grab a beer or several from outside the brewery. Circle back to Ossie’s Fish Bar on Preston Street for lunch – best chips in town - then head over to the other side of the creek, where The Albion will have laid on huge beer tents and you can relax in the sunshine. Then amble back to the marketplace for the main stage, and just stagger randomly from pub to pub. Ace.
Shepherd Neame is the best, you see. Anything else is just a distraction. No Fokker comes close.
Now, who wants to join me for a Late Red…?

007 & The Queen

The Opening Ceremony was ace, wasn't it? This was arguably the best bit:

'It's not made of chocolate...'

Are Olympic medal winners all told to pull this pose, or are they all independently making the same joke...? Click me.

Cockneys vs. Zombies

Um... yes, this actually exists. Bricktop from Snatch and Zoë from EastEnders take on the undead whilst saying 'fack' a lot. Odd.

Sometimes Interesting

'Sometimes Interesting' is a rather modest name for a blog which is constantly fascinating. Click here and kiss your afternoon goodbye.

Adam Buxton’s Counting Song

Harsh realities for kids.

C64 Yourself

A clever little wotsit that C64-ises any photo you drop into it - click here.

Backyard rollercoaster

A home-made rollercoaster in the garden? THIS IS WHAT EVERY CHILD WANTS.

Olympic "official" sponsors

Click here for a handy thingy to turn any website into an official Olympic sponsor!

The Silent Wonder Years

If you remove the voiceovers from The Wonder Years, it's just a demented family staring at each other.

Olympic Doodles

This week's Google Doodles have been interactive little Olympics-themed games - click the image below to have a go. (See if you can beat 36 points on the basketball one!)

Par Floors

This is a masterpiece of unexpected strangeness.

Friday, 3 August 2012

03/08/12 - Rainy Days

Rain. Rain, rain, bloody rain.
…is what we’ve been saying every day since March, right up until a couple of weeks ago. Last week was pretty warm, leading to every person in the country saying ‘about time!’ on Monday, remembering to wear short sleeves on Tuesday, and from then on just carrying on as normal with no acknowledgement of the fortuitous meteorological transition. How quickly we forget.
Since the hosepipe ban was announced four months ago, the south-east of England enjoyed just six rain-free days before last weekend (possibly, I heard somewhere), which really isn’t very good is it? It’s August. It was starting to look like we wouldn’t be getting a summer in 2012, just greyness and damp socks. But hey, there’s no point cursing your life away and being miserable is there? This sunshine may be sticking around for the time being [n.b. I started writing this during that week when it was relentlessly hot, so it made more sense then], but you can be sure that the biblical downpours will return in due course – and will we all start moaning then? Well, yes, of course – that’s a fundamental part of being British. But after you’ve had your fun with that, why not just find something to do that doesn’t involve getting wet, or accept the fact that you’re going to get wet and try to enjoy yourself anyway? Here’s the JuicyPips guide to stuff to do on rainy days – print it out, fold it up and keep it in your wallet. You’ll be needing it soon.

Go for a walk
Really. You might like it. The more torrential the rain, the more entertaining it can be to go for a stroll; as long as you’re prepared for the fact that you’ll have to put all your clothes in the washing machine when you get home, and possibly have a shower to warm up a bit as well, you’ll enjoy yourself. Don’t bother taking an umbrella, just get out there and amble casually around your neighbourhood – trust me, it’ll give you an enormous sense of freedom and cock-of-the-walkitude to be so carefree and unhurried while all around you are scurrying uncomfortably, hiding in doorways and generally grimacing. People panic in the rain, they get all frantic. C’mon, it’s only a bit of water. You are entirely waterproof.

Go to a local museum
I don’t think we do this enough. (Well, you might do, but I mean in general.) I took my wife and baby to the Wandsworth Museum the other week, splashing through the puddles on the way, to find that very few other people had bothered to venture out – we were free to enjoy the exhibits without being jostled or annoyed.
There was an exhibition of local photographs from the past, in which we found a photo of our street in the early 1900s having tramlines lain into it. We had no idea there had been trams in our street. This was literally a NEW FACT.
Oh, piss off. I thought it was interesting.

Go to the cinema… in your house
Watching films at the cinema is ace for a number of reasons: the superior acoustics, the sense of theatre as you hand over your ticket and choose your seat, the way the curtains draw marginally wider after the adverts to signal the arrival of the feature… I love the cinema.
Unfortunately, there is also much to annoy and vex in going to the movies. This is largely down to other people, and the fact that the general public are dicks. There will always – always – be someone cocking about with their phone, which is impossible to ignore in an otherwise dark room. People will invariably chat to one another. Popcorn is a relatively quiet thing to eat, but there’s usually some arse with a bag of sweets who has zero comprehension of the concept of rustling. In London, you’ll pay close to a tenner - or more - to spend two hours in a room full of people you want to wound.
So, why not ‘go to the cinema’ in your house? Draw the curtains, pop some corn, turn up the volume and enjoy. It’s the attention to detail that differentiates this from just watching a film at home – the whole home/cinema idea is a sensory one; you need the darkness, the popcorn aroma, an improbably massive Coke that you should spill on the floor to make it slightly sticky. You will presumably already either be running your TV through your stereo or have some sort of home cinema sound thingy (if not, you or the man in your life has failed), so let the sounds engulf you as you recline in darkness, safe in the knowledge that you can enjoy whatever film you choose to watch without wanting to smack anyone.
Added advantages include:
- being able to pause if you need a wee
- you can skip the trailers
- it’s considerably cheaper and you get to keep the film

Bake a cake
Everyone likes cakes, and they taste so much better when you’ve made them yourself. (This isn’t actually true, store-bought cakes are invariably superior to any shoddy, crumbly effort I can knock together. But you have to say that it tastes better if you’ve made it, because it’s such a fucking hassle.)
My wife and I made a cheesecake last year. From scratch. Yeah, you’re right to be impressed. And it was delicious; not we-made-it-so-we’re-saying-it-was-good ‘delicious’, but genuinely, staggeringly delicious. However, the inherent problems were manifold: firstly, it was a baked cheesecake, and it took about nine hours to make. Seriously. After all of the preparation, there was all manner of faffing about with it being in the oven for differing amounts of time at varying temperatures, sometimes with the door half-open (why?!) – it worked brilliantly, but it took forever. And when we totted up the prices of the ingredients, it had cost about thirty-five quid. Imagine the majestic cheesecake you could buy in Sainsbury’s for that sort of money! It’d be made of gold and moonbeams. Oh, and it was far too big for us to eat and couldn’t be frozen, so we threw quite a lot of it away. Wasteful.
So, don’t bake a cheesecake. Make a nice jammy sponge or something. Ooh, or Rice Krispie cakes – it’s impossible to cock them up, and they’re quite moreish.

Phone people
…in the juvenile way you used to when you were a kid. Go through the phonebook and find people who are listed as ‘Wan, K’, and give them a good taunting. Order a pizza for your neighbours, then laugh hysterically as a wet delivery man has a wasted journey while your neighbour is forced to answer the doorbell unexpectedly. Oh, the japery! Note down the number of the phone box near your home, then call it from your landline and prank anyone who answers, pretending to be a kidnapped dignitary or a trapped child! Except that nobody will answer it, because no-one will be there, because it’s raining.
OK, forget the ‘phone people’ concept, shit idea.

Pretend you’re camping
Camping in the rain is lovely – the sound of pitter-pattering on canvas is a supremely relaxing way to get to sleep. It all stops being lovely as soon as you have to get up, though. If it’s stopped raining in the night and you’ve woken up to a sunny day then it’s fine, as you can boil your kettle on your camping stove while all around you exudes fresh naturey smells, the dew trickling between your toes. But if it’s still raining, it’s just really bloody unpleasant – you’ll find that your sleeping bag’s made contact with the corner of the tent and let all the moisture in, which has saturated your loo roll and your clean socks. Packing your tent up will be depressing because you’ll get bits of wet grass stuck to everything you own, and you’ll do a half-arsed job because you know you’ll have to unpack it all when you get home and drape the tent out in the bathroom for days while it dries.
Sod that. Put your tent up inside your house – near a window is good, but under a skylight is best, if you have one. Listen to the clattering raindrops as you recline safe and warm in your sleeping bag. You’ll awaken in the holiday spirit, and can climb out of your tent bone dry, flick the kettle on without having to start any fires, and watch telly if you fancy. Zero-irritation camping.

Get to know your house really, really well
You know your home quite well, presumably. You’ve got specific places to keep your stuff, you might have redecorated bits of it or whatever, so you’ll be fairly comfortable with the layout of your surroundings. But you don’t know it as well as a child would, do you? Compare where you live now with the house you grew up in (assuming they’re not the same place) – you haven’t looked at your current digs with quite the same sense of wonder and inquisitiveness, have you?
I can still vividly remember all sorts of weirdly insignificant details about my childhood home. The groaning sound the cupboard doors made in the spare room, and the way you had to pull them slightly harder if you were opening them both at once. The bobbly texture of my tiled windowsill after I had a Scalextric-based mishap and spilled paint-thinner all over it. The exact pressure required to click the loft ladder into place without anyone hearing. The small hole that the TV aerial cable disappeared through, down into the floor of the living room. The clickiness of the latch on the cupboard under the stairs. The exact position of the wall-mounted fire extinguisher in the kitchen, over which the garage key would be hung. The varying depths of the windowsills throughout the house, and which could and couldn’t be sat on. The parts of the driveway that had deeper gravel that could impede bicycle progress. The relative weights of the glass jars on the high shelf above the kitchen door. An exact mental map of every creaky floorboard in the house. I could go on all day.
I can’t go into this level of detail about my current flat. And there’s only one way to learn: spend a few rainy days being a kid, playing in your home like only a kid would. Figure out routes from one side of any given room to the other without touching the floor. Find hiding places for things. Pile stuff on top of other stuff to see what happens. Build a fort. Look under the floorboards. Roll marbles about the place and see where they end up. Make the place yours.

Or, y’know, just moan about the rain. Bloody Michael Fish, it’s his fault.

Liberty Mutual: Humans

This advert is American. It is for insurance. And yet it is funny. Who'd have thought...?

Thursday, 2 August 2012

Olympic TwitterCams

Those wonderful organisers of the London 2012 Games have created a series of Twitter accounts linked to cameras within various sporting arenas; what's more, they've given them cheery personalities. Behold:

PoolCam - click here.

BasketballCam - click here.

MatCam - click here.

TableCam - click here.

StadiumCam - click here.

'Taken' - with a Real Dad

lol, etc.

And also... the real Taken 2 looks pretty good:

London 2012's happiest worker

Megaphone banter = YouTube success.

Did You Know Gaming?

All manner of interesting and unusual gaming facts can be found here.

CatFace - Sports Day


The (Secret) City of London

Fail Compilation - July 2012

Lots of people hurting themselves. Brilliant.