Trying to free up space on my hard drive, found some old footage of Middlesbrough I shot before I left (yes, I used a potato – very funny.) Decided to stick it on YouTube with a Ghostbusters tune behind it.
The Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art is a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. The staff are friendly, knowledgeable and don’t check pupil dilation. Paul Daniels is from Middlesbrough.
Every man, woman and child should try a Parmo before they give up the ghost.
I wish I’d filmed more; there’s another video a comrade and I made for Teeside University: it can be found here.
A couple of years ago I was studying Multimedia Design and Communication. A prerequisite was a personal web-site containing an e-portfolio. All that code is redundant now but for posterity’s sake here is the content from the old ‘About Me’ page. Please understand that at the time the side effects of my pills were quite, quite maddening.
Christopher John Parlett (born June 5th, 1979) is a British mongrel dog; a drunk, a hack and spiteful, anchorless trash. He is best known amongst those unfortunate enough to be acquainted with him for his pernicious satire, gluttonous hurtful appetites and poor life-choices.
The following notes from the pub are a waste of my time and yours. Consider yourself warned.
If you think it’s a rhetorical question it isn’t, and vice versa; if you find it offensive, it’s meant as a joke; if it makes you go all tingly down below in your sexy parts then I have pornographic movies in my apartment, and lubricants, and amyl nitrite.
I should be reading the 12th chapter of the phenomenal page-turner Essential Public Affairs for Journalists, or actively seeking to contain my growing impression as an agoraphobic misanthrope, or working on the news-writing exercise, or doing some laundry, or perhaps even working out as I listen to current affairs via iPlayer; but no, I feel the need for another extraneous ramble.
I’m pretty sure the people I live with think I’m a bit of a freak. Notwithstanding my forgotten but undoubtedly questionable conduct when drunk, I have shown to have in my possession an amount of kitchen equipment that would seem to rival all but the most thorough of small rural restaurants; and yet I haven’t cooked once.
I’ve been here nine days or so yet I haven’t cooked once. There’s a reason why – a mighty, engorged, sweating mass ten inches above where I would want adjectives like that used. Yep, I’m a fat bastard. A condition I wouldn’t say has exactly crept up on me but nor have I attempted any form of escape. I’m one of those guys where the fat sits hard on the belly and the arse, if I was a dead president’s head in a jar, 1000 years from now, I reckon I’d get on alright with the ladies. Nervous twitch n’all. Continue reading Living Tasted Better Than Healthy Felt→