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That Infinity War Trailer Though

That Infinity War Trailer Though

Have we all seen the Infinity War trailer?


Colour me so excited that fluids won’t stop coming from me. All orifices, all angles. It’s happening to me RIGHT NOW.

I’ll be back on Friday to talk about Justice League but it seems pretty fucking pointless now.

It’s Gavin

It’s Friday

It’s Friday

I planned to update tomorrow because I underestimated how much blog there was to write this week. 

However, it’s since been brought to my attention that I promised an update every Friday…

So here is some stuff.

Brand New’s album is okay. Taylor Swift is probably evil. Josh Homme doing CBeebies bedtime story is troublingly exciting. I’m going to see IT tonight and I think it’s going to break at least two of my friends. I dislike soups with vague titles. Queens of Stone Age’s new album gets better with every listen. I fall in love with Jimmy Eat World more and more every time I listen to them. I’ve burned my finger on a Pop Tart every week for the past five weeks. If you prefer unsmoked bacon to smoked, what the fuck is your problem? I have a friend who was in bed with a girl who only had magnum condoms in her bedside drawer and she didn’t think it would work out. I’ve had Me and Mrs Jones stuck in my head for like four days. There is no world that exists where I don’t enjoy a bagel. There is a world that exists where I looked into clown schooling instead of journalism, and that version of me is no longer friends with one of the friends with whom I’m going to see IT. I talked someone into keeping their FX lightsaber collectable this week, shortly before he told me he was ready to give it away for a case of beer. Since my blog last week, I rewatched most trailers from Comic-con. I meditate every day and every day I distract myself from it by farting. I once heard a story about a guy who staggered out of a nightclub and saw a hole in a red sandstone wall and decided to start having sex with it – that changed me. I never finished Final Fantasy 12 or 13. Me and Jamie couldn’t finish Street Fighter on easy mode. I don’t mind tuna on a pizza, but pineapple is a nono. Fuck Irn Bru. I have a friend on a wheelchair and the amount of times I ask him to walk or run places is bloody out of order. My beard is soft. A horse is tied to a rope that’s ten foot long, but every day he drinks from the pond fifteen feet from the fence – how?

Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll be back with a proper blog tomorrow!

It’s Gavin, on Friday.

Bad Cooking by Adults

Bad Cooking by Adults

When I first moved out, I had some inventions in the kitchen. I invented such dishes you’ll hopefully never hear of as Supernoodle enchiladas (a rip-roaring success) and chicken dipper fajitas (not a success – like, at all. Easily the least successful thing I’ve ever done in my life. They broke me in half over the toilet in one of longest evenings of my existence. With one damp hand clutching the rapidly emptying toilet roll holder, I text my flatmate of the time such words as ‘help’ and ‘goodbye.’ I’ve never been quite the same since) and a cocktail I call the ELECTRIC GAV HARDTAIL (which lost me an afternoon).

That’s about as far as I got, but I wanted to get better. I must have voiced this at some point because my best buddy got me a cook book for Christmas that year. I found a simple-looking recipe amongst such classics as ‘chocolate and snails’ and several ways to cook rabbit. It was spicy tomato and roast pepper soup. I followed the recipe exactly, and it was lovely. I always figured it was more complicated than that.

Follow the recipe, and your food will be okay.

It’s a simple life lesson. Assuming you’re not looking to invent the recipe (and I won’t go back into what happened when I tried), just follow the one you’ve got. That’s it.

That got me far. With the internet at my fingertips, I managed to cook things. On top of that, Buzzfeed started going mad with those TASTY videos. I couldn’t even check Facebook without having dozens of recipes thrown in my face. One of those videos taught me currywurst sliders. I’m still not sure what to send them to thank them for it.

Each time, I followed the recipe. I was never a good cook because was I actually cooking? I felt like a chimp could batter out a reasonable-enough chilli with enough motivation, that didn’t make him a cook. I was just a monkey following instructions and getting compliments on the results. I felt like a fraud, a scam artist. But that’s all it is! I struggled, for a while there, to understand how anybody couldn’t cook. Do they not check recipes?

So yeah, I got cocky. Any underdog story involves the underdog getting good, then cocky, and then brought SCREAMING back to earth.

At Christmas this year, my girlfriend bought me an ‘everyday Mexican’ cookbook. It’s an excellent little book, I highly recommend it. Providing, of course, you follow the fucking recipes.

Within this book, there’s a recipe for Lonestar chilli. Here it is:



I’ve made chilli before, it’s been good. This recipe did a couple of crucial things differently.

For a start, the recipe is for four. I’m only making for two. Split the ingredients in two. Got it. Next, steak – not mince. Cool. I bought a lovely cut of steak. Easy. Then, cumin seeds and the instructions to toast and grind those seeds down. This is where it started to get messy. I don’t have a mortar and pestle, but it says you can use a coffee grinder. Wouldn’t you know it, I also got a coffee grinder for Christmas!

It took me months to get my coffee to stop reeking of cumin. Months.

Now, at the very bottom of the list, there’s a cheeky block of plain chocolate. See it? 115g of PLAIN CHOCOLATE.

Determined to follow the recipe, evidently to a fault, I needed chocolate. I didn’t have any immediately to hand. I was irritated because I had asked my girlfriend to pick up all the ingredients for this recipe in the shop. With a sigh, I dug around further and found an old easter egg at the back of the cupboard.

And then I blacked out. All sense left me. I don’t know what happened. I got excited, excited that I might get to slam-dunk a full easter egg into a pot of chilli. When I came out of my little hypnotic state, I saw the easter egg rapidly collapse into itself in my chilli, and the problem didn’t immediately occur to me.

About half an hour later I came back to check on it. I took a whiff of the concoction, and it smelled like hot chocolate. Curious, I thought, but maybe it’ll cook down.

Another half-hour later, I checked again. Nope, still hot chocolate with bits of steak floating about.

So I went back and consulted my recipe again and realised one of my two mistakes.

AH! I thought! An easter egg is too much chocolate! This recipe is only supposed to be for two!

And then the second bit hit me.

It asked for plain chocolate. An easter egg is milk chocolate.

So this is where I started to lose my cool and over-correct. I blitzed the awful, chocolate monstrosity with half a bottle of Nando’s sauce and chilli flakes, a tonne of chilli powder, veg stock, anything to get rid of the flavour of MILK CHOCOLATE in my chilli. I even added a generous double dab of Blair’s Mega Death Hot Sauce with Liquid rage – which is as brutal as it sounds – but to no avail.

All I had was some incredibly spicy hot chocolate with steak and basically my first failure in cooking.

Sheepishly, for my girlfriend coming home, I plated her up some Supernoodles. She pointed me towards the plain chocolate that she bought but didn’t store with the sweets. She put it with the rest of the baking supplies in the cupboard. Duh. I hate myself for not checking.

Here’s the life lesson I know you show up here for every Friday: If you think you can’t cook, take solace in the fact that some fat moron out there thought an easter egg belonged in chilli, and then go find a recipe and follow it to the fucking letter.

Oh, and yes – I ate the chilli.

Of course I was going to eat it. I put a full steak in there, you kidding? And to be honest, it kind of grew on me halfway through my second bowl.

It’s Gavin

I’m in an abusive relationship with the Foo Fighters

I’m in an abusive relationship with the Foo Fighters

Jesus Christ, it’s Friday again already.
I’m down to 42 days until I release a bloody book upon you all. The support has been atrociously good, so thanks again.

My week got away from me a bit there, won’t lie. Last weekend I went to a wedding reception in trousers that smelled like a bag of prawn cocktail crisps and nothing’s been right since.

Wait. Let me explain. Hang on. I put my suit in to get dry-cleaned because it’s not been the same since I wore it to a wedding in Portugal earlier in the year (to be honest, I don’t think anything is ever going to be the same again after that). I got the suit back on Friday and went prancing round to the flat with it and thought nothing of it until I put it on. Why would I, right? It was at the dry-cleaners. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CLEAN.

I smelled as soon as I got it out the bag, but thought I might get away with it, but the smell followed me around for about half an hour before I decided to get a second opinion. Danny, the cutlery thief, smelled my knee for me and he immediately asked if I had another suit.

I didn’t.

He asked if I had even another pair of trousers.

I didn’t.

He asked if I’d like to borrow one of his suits? Solid idea, I thought, but then asked for some information on the waistline of his biggest suit. Bless his wee heart, he told me 32”. So his biggest suit is a target weight for me. Lovely.

In the end, I bathed in deodorant, ditched the jacket, wore a nice tie and pretty much sat down all night. It took about seven drinks to lose the deep-seated paranoia that followed me around like… well, a bad smell (HA!).

Anyway, why am I here today?

Oh yeah, the Foo Fighters. I had something else to write about today, but the Foo Fighters released a new song yesterday, and I have a feeling I’m about to get my heart broken again, so…

I love the Foo Fighters. Dave Grohl was my one and only musical idol for the most of my teenage years and everything they did, to me, was golden. I’d defend them abusively whenever I’d meet someone that disagreed with me. I was a chore to be around when it came to the subject of my Foo Fighters.

But even back then, even when the glow was brightest, I knew there was a problem with every Foo Fighters album.

Are you familiar with Ikea? Of course you are. Ikea knows that their maze of a shop can be a bit of a labour to fight through, so what they did is put two food points in there. They put the first in the middle – halfway through your trek – and the other at the end. They’ve done this very much on purpose. This layout programs us to think that the trip to Ikea was much better than it actually was. We’re all hungry bastards here, so when someone asks us how our trip to Ikea was, we’re going to remember it fondly because they fed us twice on our journey through (not only that but they fed us for pennies!)

So, there are unpleasant parts of Ikea – the walking through a warehouse of hundreds of products you don’t need before you get anywhere near the lamps you went in there for – but they were smart enough to position two food areas in there to trick you into enjoying yourself.

Y’know who else does this? The Foo Fighters.

The Foo Fighters understand that an album of 100% BANGERS is near impossible (though Permission to Land by The Darkness managed it, they’ve released nothing of use since). They know that incredible songs are going to make strong songs look weak by comparison. So they hide the less effective songs in the album.

Now, Ikea don’t need to get you in the door. You’re already there. They don’t need to put food at the start, they just need to keep you there once you’re in. An album, though, that’s a different matter. A listener will turn an album off if the first two songs suck. So that’s where the Foos put their best shit. The first two songs on any Foos album are always absolutely insane. After that, the quality steadily starts to decline into an area of white noise where you’re not really listening anymore.

But you’ll pick up on that. They know you will. So they take their last two songs and blast in a couple of epics or emotional tunes to make you feel things before the album ends and before you know it, the album’s done and you think you’ve just heard Jesus.

But, honestly (wink!) I was okay with it. Even with this pattern in place, I still had half an album that blew me away at the very least. So I settled into my relationship with the Foo Fighters. A relationship of unconditional love. Really deeply entrenched, where we have a house together and fart in front of each other and everything. I got comfortable, and sadly, so did they.


Sonic Highways broke my heart.

The Foo Fighters released the first single off Sonic Highways, it was called Something From Nothing. It was just different enough. It was a little bit weird, but it still had plenty of Grohl screaming and the last two minutes had me reaching for tissues. They then released The Feast and the Famine which, again, was just a little bit different, but it worked for them! I had high hopes for the album.


The first two songs on the album – the killers at the start – were the two they released, and then they just went off a fucking walk into a bad Tom Petty cover act. It still followed the Foos pattern, don’t get me wrong, the best stuff was at the start and the epic stuff was at the end, but the stuff in the middle was too bad to cover up. I wanted to love it so much, but I just couldn’t. I must have listened to it FIFTY TIMES, which was easy – by the way – because the whole album is only FORTY-TWO MINUTES LONG. Not only did they fuck me with a poor album, but they also didn’t even have the decency to pretend they were going to stick around and cuddle afterwards.

Apparently, it was a concept album or something, and if I had watched the accompanying TV series I would have appreciated it more. What. THAT’S NOT HOW MUSIC WORKS. I want MUSIC. If I wanted to- I’m going off topic.

Point: I got my hopes up. I got excited about a new Foo Fighters album, like I always do, and they gave me 42 minutes of nonsense and wiped it on my curtains on the way out.

So gutted was I by this album that, when Dave broke his foot and had to cancel a string of gigs, I didn’t rebuy my ticket when they planned to return. I’d seen all the stuff I wanted to see with an active Dave Grohl running about the place in several gigs before – I had no interest in seeing them again with a seated Dave Grohl and some awful new songs thrown in.

I kicked them out. I got rid of that scrub and told him not to come back. I had my memories of the good times. I had plenty of albums of good material to batter into…

So, yesterday happened.

They released a song, and it’s good.

They showed up at my door with a bunch of flowers and this new song. They’re promising me they’ve changed. I’m not sure I’m ready to let them back in yet. I’m on my fourth listen of the song and… yeah it’s good. It’s giving me the old butterflies.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

I’m not ready to have my heart broken again! But, maybe… maybe if I just let them in for a bit. Y’know? Just to see if maybe they’ve changed? I mean, people change right?

Is there any chance they heard some backlash off the back of their last album and decided to do a full 180 on the whole sound?

I’m letting them in. I’m adding that new track to my Friday playlist.


When that album comes out, I’ll no doubt be back here with an entry in all caps – one way or the other.

Oh, and while we’re here, has everybody heard that Fall Out Boy song? The one about menace? If you haven’t, don’t. It’s Friday, it’s a time for happy things. And that song is bloody awful.
It’s Gavin.