Thursday, 3 October 2013

Interviews with a Dogger: Bristol, Tog Hill

So here is an article that should have been finished a week ago if it wasn't for Illness and University which have been knocking me for six on respective days now. But yes, enjoy, hopefully my content production should pick up now that I'm over "Freshers Flu", though boy did I cringe typing that.

It is a well known fact that here at What About Cynics we do very little in the field reporting, because frankly reporting on Aquaman and the 3DS rarely has that component short of visits to Comic Con. But aren't you in for a treat because last week I embarked on a four man mission to notorious Bristol (Bristol, United Kingdom) dogging spot, Tog Hill.

Car chase will be exaggerated until it sounds like this scene. 

Monday, 30 September 2013

The Danger of The Drunken Stranger - A PSA About Inviting Crazy Bastards Into Your Home When You're Too Drunk To Defend Yourself

This is an article that I wrote for another website. I was promised by its owner that after a trial period of 3 articles, I would receive actual work and an account with them. As with most things, it turned out to be bullshit and I was subsequently ignored once he had received my trial pieces and then led me on that he was snowed under and would get back to me. Enough time has now passed that I no longer care and would like to label him a cunt and repost it here.
Enjoy. I won't give the name of the website here because it will only swell his views for his shitty website which is comprised of nothing more than paid for review articles of protein shakes and festivals, which has given his website a Google page rank of 0 because he's a greedy asshole.
Completely in opposition to the in depth journalism regarding things that we hate and angry masturbation that this website publishes.

The night after any party is never a pretty sight. Discarded bottles stand upright nervously in close herds awaiting their fated trip to the bin bag. Beer cans with a deceptively heavy amount of liquor lying hidden in the bottom, weighing the can down just enough to outdo any pressure that your grip can exert whilst picking up the can and send it hurtling back down to sticky up the already sticky floor. The stick is what must be dealt with first, for it is far spreading, all the way from the door to the sofa and onwards into the limits of your patience. It holds the discarded ash and cigarette filters of careless rollers and ignorant ash flickers, and as you follow its path, it only leads on to the continuing demise of your spirit as you go on to discover the treasures of the night which include an empty Wotsits packet and a discarded chicken bone form some late night chicken hut.