There Is No Reason For This Post Whatsoever

Been feeling a lack of productivity lately. Seems like the minute I'm ready to get on with the myriad of things I ought to do, a bunch of far better alternatives present themselves. Why then, I ask, do they not exist on days when there is nothing pressing to do and thus nothing is done at all??

It's a little bit twisted, really.

But then I realised that in some ways, it's alright. Such as, I like making lists, and I'm disappointingly good at it. Plus, I can spend approximately half a day doing so, creating the illusion of being an productive member of the human race whilst actually doing nothing of the sort. Brilliant, isn't it? No, actually.

Contemplating the ever-increasing work list for this summer, I also realised that in many ways I'm over-dramatic and silly. I automatically add stuff to the list that doesn't need to be done; they're just things that rotate in the recesses of my brain, as potential tasks that aren't essential, but could be done if I were so inclined. Truth is, I never am inclined, but those recesses need to be doing something, I suppose. Also, I found myself transposing the same list in various different forms across various pieces of paper, so that my desk is now strewn with six different nagging possibilities. Not so encouraging, really.

But then I thought about the list. About 67% of it (approximate, unsurprisingly) is made up of books which I need to read before college begins again in September (8 in total). I've spent the last two weeks whining to anyone who has been stupid enough to listen about this 'ridiculous' and 'unreasonable' amount of work that I 'don't want to do'. Which is insanity, really, considering I had already created a list of 12 books I had been planning on reading this summer, just for fun. So what makes the difference between 8 eughhghhhhhsss and 12 yeeeeeeeeahs? Probably the fact that the latter were decided by me and the former rather thrust upon me by the academic Powers that Be. It seems I don't enjoy doing something that I enjoy if I'm told to do it; but getting there on my own is completely fine. Yeah, it's screwy. It's screwy and I don't appreciate my hypocrisy. Yet still, here I am complaining about it instead of just sitting down and reading the damn dictated things. Why the injustice, brain?

Basically, I don't know. This kind of pointless hypocrisy seems to be a recurring character trait that I ought to see to. The whole mindset of 'old dogs, new tricks' things has always bugged me, of course. But chances of motivation are still slim. So what to do there?

It's a Saturday here, and since I woke up annoyingly early this morning, I have had approximately 50 minutes of productivity, and then spent the following 8 hours of time in shifting my sitting-position to incorporate the new snack acquired and comfiest positioning of my laptop. It's senseless, but the grip is just so stroooooooooooooooonnggggggg. And if it hasn't occurred to you until now - yes, I am quite useless. A Hopeless Case, if you will.

And frankly, this post is losing steam.

Basically, in an attempt to become enlivened with passion and zeal for life or whatever, I was hoppin' all over the internet reading things and reading about people and shizz. I came across a load of crap that just fuelled my vegetation, but then I also came across these two photographers who do some amazing things and they're young too, which I like. It's kind of like, well if they've done all this and achieved stuff by 22 years, then what the hell am I doing? Answer = I'm doing nothing. Or rather, I've started some things, but that's it. So I managed to read another page of my book, but then I spent another hour looking at all their photos. Yeah. THANKS, GUYS. Anyways, the fact that I managed to write all these words and things makes me feel a little better. It's superficial, but whatever. And I guess I've got better hopes for tomorrow. Or delusions, go for synonyms..

Conclusions? If Saturdays were made for productivity, I wouldn't be invited. Score.

Biffy, Biffy, Biffy, Choke, Biffy, Biffy, Biffy...

I woke up this morning with a grey dent in my right foot, black ink dissipating deep into my left-hand skin and very little voice. For many teenagers across the country, perhaps this is not so unusual after a Friday night out, but for one whose nights out largely consist of nights spent no further than my living room, I found it a little shocking. And very, very funny.

You see, last night I saw Biffy Clyro play their festival warm-up show in Swindon, and to describe it with justice I can really only apply teenage non-words. It was mental. Freakin' insane. Utter madness. And I loved it. I guess you could say I had a few apprehensions; a year and a half ago I saw them play Wembley, and so you might see why next seeing them at a sports centre could feel like a step back. Of all the places in the UK they could have chosen, I simply cannot understand why Swindon was selected. That being said, I'm stupidly glad that they did.

Some people in the crowd seemed to be of a similar mindset, as they contemplated the size of venue and acoustics etc. as we waited for the support band; but frankly, as soon as Biffy came out it just did not matter. They're the kind of band that could play in your bathroom and they'd still be perfect. And so they were.

Their set was longish (21 songs, none of this 15-and-out rubbish) and included some new material which, obviously, was brilliant. They played four new ones (Modern Magic Formula, Sounds Like Balloons, The Joke's On Us and Victory Over The Sun) and the regular favourites (The Captain, Who's Got A Match?, Folding Stars...), whilst still covering material from all four albums, something most bands don't bother with any more. The only significant omission was 57, which the crowd chanted for throughout, but after a set like that you can't really complain.  Frankly, there's very little to say against them, except maybe ask why they used the forest image as a backdrop? But really, it looked so cool that no one actually cares.

Pure Love playing support were similarly amazing. Frank Carter's new project is something he's obviously really crazy for, as he explained to us before wading into the crowd to sing two songs in thick circles. They didn't really need to 'warm us up' though; it was impossible not to be psyched that evening.

And that's kind of it. Sadly I won't be seeing Biffy play any festivals this summer, having tickets for Reading and not RockNess, Download or Isle of Wight. Thing is, they leave you on such a high that I think I'll be able to cope for a few weeks yet anyway, before lapsing into despair and wishing I had had tickets for all three. But we'll burn that bridge when we get there.