About Me

I'm a Geordie living in Birmingham, and, after a year and a half, people still laugh at the way I say film.

Friday, 18 June 2010

Ode to a fantastic weekend

Well not so much an ode, more just an excited retelling of last weekend. It was the Isle Of Wight festival 2010, and I was on my way! 5 am coach journey to kick things off wasn’t ideal, so I just slept. I’m good at that, i managed the whole 2 hours to London without waking up. For reals. I got to London around half 7, and there to greet me were all my friends from Newcastle, who had been on the road since 11 the night before. Unlucky for them, but we were all in high spirits because it was festival time! A quick 2 hour hop to Southsea and we were on the hovercraft (thats right, and ACTUAL hovercraft!) to The Isle of Wight. The sky’s had stayed relatively clear, but by the time we got to the festival site the heavens opened and rain began to pour. And I mean pour. As we scrambled into a newly opened camping field we threw our tents up quick as possible to keep the ground dry, and by the time we’d panicked and faffed around, the rain stopped.

Typical

So that was the weekend underway. An hour or so later the rest of the crew arrived, we all got settled and headed into the arena to see some music. Are You Experienced kicked off my weekend, playing some classic Hendrix, celebrating the 40th anniversary of him playing the festival. Amazing, and well deserving of the title ‘UK’s best Hendrix Tribute’. The same, unfortunately, could not be said about The Apple Beatles. They were, quite honestly, a VERY POOR Beatles tribute act. A few more drinks might have made them slightlybetter, but I didn’t have a few more drinks, so they weren’t slightly better. After that diversion, it was back to the campsite to do what us geordies do best: drink. The hours flew by, and before we knew it it must have been about 3 o clock in the morning. Thing is, we had been travelling all day, and what seemed like 3 in the morning was actually 1 in the morning. Bed time.

It’s a well known fact that you can’t sleep in at a festival. Not out of fear of missing bands, but just purely because it’s so uncomfortable you actually look forward to getting out of your tent. 9 am rolled round and we were up. Quick facial cleansing wipe around the key areas and the carlsberg were open. Bands weren’t starting till about two so we had plenty of time, and we used it wisely by getting drunk. The prices in the arena are extortionate so this was actually a very smart move on our part to save money. We got to the arena and settled into the field of dreams (BT’s screen to show all the world cup matches) to watch South Africa’s opening match against Mexico, and it came to a draw. Amazing goal by South Africa though. We headed over to the main stage after that, and watched Mr. Hudson, who was actually quite good. I feel for his old band though, because clearly Kanye West said ‘drop the band and I’ll sign you’ and that’s what he did. And to be honest he doesn’t look like he regrets it one bit. A swift bit of the doves after him then it was back to the field of dreams for the rather uneventful France - Uruguay match. The most entertaining thing about it was Paul calling them ‘You Are Gay’ all match.

Then it was time. The Jigga Man was due on stage, and he did not disappoint. His flow was spot on (can you say a flow is spot on? I’m not down with the youth, clearly) and he just evoked confidence. He swaggered about the stage telling us about the ‘99 Problems’ he has and how he stays in an ‘Empire State Of Mind’ when he’s on stage. Put quite simply, he was quality. I don’t see why Noel objected to him at Glastonbury, he clearly fits in at any festival and draws big enough crowds. The Jewel in his crown though? Bringing out Kanye West on run this town. I was literally dumbfounded. Amazing.

The next morning, still in shock about Kanye, we awoke and started drinking. Today was England’s day to shine against the Americans, and we were all showing our colours. Danny however, looked a little confusing, wearing a St. Georges cross wig and a T shirt which said Florida. Before the match kicked off Charley and I caught Vampire Weekend, who are officially the perfect summer band. The sun was beating down as their music filled the air, and it just felt right. Biffy Clyro were up next, but so was the England game. It was a hard choice to make, but at the end of the day, Biffy are Scottish. Patriotism beats music. Theres nothing quite like sitting in a field with about 300 people shouting at a screen without commentary. Chants filled the air as we all boozed and screamed as Gerrard slid a ball past the keeper to put us 1-0 over the USA. This was it. The start of our World Cup campaign. This was the start of our road to victor…….oh wait the USA have scored. An absolute clanger put them level, and we had the smirks wiped off of our faces. Some people kept morale going though, kicking off Mexican waves which never quite made it around everybody, and chanting ‘He’s tall, he’s lank, his missus makes me wank, Peter Crouch, Peter Crouch!’ So eloquent. The match ended in a draw, and so, a little deflated, we headed to the main stage to watch The Strokes.

I’ve never seen a more awkward gig in my life. Technically, The Strokes were amazing. They were so tight, so well maintained, that you wouldn’t think they’d ever stopped playing, let alone had a 4 year hiatus. They bombarded us with a hit parade, but no new material, which was expected. Technical proficiency aside, the band themselves didn’t gel. There was no inter song banter, it was just song after song. They clearly don’t like each other, a fact made clear by them recording the new album separately from singer Julian Casablancas. There was an air of confrontation about them, which hindered the gig a little bit. If they’d made the effort it could have been a lot more fun.

Sunday. The Big one. Pink was going up just before the living legend that is Sir Paul McCartney. We were all excited. Pink has always provided a visual treat in terms of her stage show, and we were eager to see what she would pull out of the bag. There was something else before her though. Something we had to see. Spandau Ballet. A guilty pleasure in anyones books, but I’m not afraid to admit that they were sensational. They played with the energy of a band half their age, but with all the class and experience you would expect from them. Soaring rock songs and heartfelt ballads pumped out across the field, and they left the stage triumphant. Something caught our eye while they played. A crane was behind the stage, which hadn’t been there before. Why was it there? We would soon find out. After pushing our way to the very front of the crowd, 7 o clock rolled around, bringing with it Pink.

The crane began to move around as the sound of the circus filled the air. Hanging precariously from it was a box, all wrapped up like a gift. The bottom fell open, and from 50ft in the air Pink descended onto the stage. Amazing. Her energy from the get go was astounding, and she had more in store for us. Half way through the set, she climbed into a zorb ball and rolled around on top of the audience! She was such a great performer, and she put it all on the line for us. After the zorbing, Pink decided to slow things down with some acoustic songs, which was when Paul decided to cry. In his defense, it was because of the sun lotion we were using. When you sweat, it dripped down into your eyes and really stung, and as a result your eyes watered. It just happened at a very unfortunate, but hilarious, time for Paul. The last trick Pink had up her sleeve was a wire above the audience. She came on for her encore, strapped in, and flew over the crowd singing ‘So What’. I’ve never seen a better festival stage show than that.

It was time. 9 o clock, Sunday night. Time for Sir Paul McCartney. After a video introduction by James Corden, he strutted out to ‘Venus and Mars/Rockshow’, before launching into one of my personal favorites, ‘Jet’. When he came on to that stage I literally screamed like a girl at the height of Beatlemania. The feeling was indescribable. He’ still got it, his sense of humor, his touching lyrics, and he can still hit the high notes. It was 2 hours of pure bliss. When he grabbed a ukelele and played ‘Something’, it was beautiful. I could go through every song but it would all sound the same; In a nutshell, he was amazing.

Alas, as he came to an end the heavens open and it began to pour again. It almost bookended the weekend, both beginning and ending with rain, and we went to bed, ready to get a fresh start the next day to come home.

That was a saga! Christ we waited almost an hour just to get a bus to the hoverport, and there was more drama waiting there for us. My friends were all on a shared ticket to Newcastle, and had a coach to catch at 12.30. It was 11 o clock, and we were told the queue for the hovercraft was going to take an hour and a half. I was fine, I wasn’t booked until 3, but they had no chance. We went to exchange our tickets for boarding passes, and the lady behind the counter looked up at Claire. ‘You’ve got a coach to catch. You’ll never make it waiting in that queue, let me see what I can do’. We waited with baited breath for 15 minutes while Claire and the lady behind the counter did what they could. Claire came out of the office. ‘We all need to go inside in small groups now’. The woman had sorted us out and managed to swindle ten of us places on the next hovercraft. What a wonderful person she was. So there we were, on our way to Portsmouth, in plenty of time for my friends to catch their coach, but I was going to have a 3 hour wait in Portsmouth for my coach. There was nothing around us except a run down seaside funfair. I decided I would try and get on their coach to London, so even though I’d still have a wait, at least it would be at the coach station in London.

‘Sorry mate, no room on this one, you’ll have to wait for yours’. The words swirled around in my head as I looked at my friends on the coach and prepared to wave them off. I looked like a lost person, sat at a bus stop with my rucksack and a pair of wellingtons. ‘Alright squire, where you off to?’ I looked around, and saw the kindly co driver of the coach who was loading bags. I told him I was going to London but wasn’t booked until 3. He looked at the coach, then back at me and said ‘Are they your friends?’ I nodded. ‘Chuck your bags on here and we’ll see what we can do at the next stop’. Another very kind person. My friends cheered as I boarded the coach, but I wasn’t out of the woods. At the next stop, anyone not booked on that specific coach had to get off. There were seven of us, and the driver looked us up and down. He was not the kindly old co driver. ‘Where are you going?’ A couple said London. ‘Get on the coach, bags in that front locker. Next?’ There were a group of 3 who had been there before me, and so I gestured for them to go first. London again. ‘Right, bags in the front locker and on you go’. He looked at me. ‘Sorry mate, no space, you’ll have to wait here until your coach’. Gutted. I’d tried and failed to get to civilization. I was stuck at Portsmouth ferry port on my own for the next three hours. I resigned myself to this fate and settled down on an uncomfortable bench. My friends shot me sympathetic looks, and I sent them back a look that suggested ‘Oh well’.

The last people boarded the coach, and the engines started. The baggage lockers hadn’t closed yet though. The driver’s head popped round the door. ‘Chuck your bag in there and get on now!’ I couldn’t believe it. I was greeted with another cheer as I bounced triumphantly to the back of the coach. I’d done it. I drifted off to sleep as we went towards London, knowing I was one transfer away from my coach to Birmingham. It had been a great weekend, but I was shattered, and so I lay my head down for some much needed rest.

Stay safe

Tuesday, 15 June 2010

The times they are a changin'

Evening faithful followers. I thought I'd let you all know I've moved over to Tumblr. You can find that blog at www.mathewfrostsblog.tumblr.com. But don't fret, as I will still post the same things on here from time to time, or at least a link to my latest posts, but Tumblr will be the primary source for my misadventures from now on. So look me up there, and also if you're a follower on here and want instant notification as to when my blogs are posted, add me on facebook (Mathew Frost), as that will let you know when a blog has gone up.

It's been emotional, so lets keep it going in my new blog home.

Stay safe

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

Honesty is...

....the best policy. And i'm being honest with you when I tell you that the burgers I made for my BBQ on Saturday were delicious. Tasty burgers aside though, the truth is a powerful thing. It can have a lot of different outcomes. It can get you a job, it can make or break a friendship, it can even begin a romance. But you can't predict what the truth will do until you speak it. You can prepare for any outcome but your reaction will be decided for you in that solitary breath after you've said something truly honest. I think what I'm trying to say is listen to yourself, listen to your brain, and listen to your heart, because they'll always be saying the right thing. The truth can set you free, so use it more often.

Be true to your heart and things might just go your way.

Stay safe

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

Karma Chameleon

You come and go, you come and go. Today, i'm talking about the K word. Karma is a funny thing. Some people say it makes the world go around, and in some way, yes, it probably does. Do good things, and good things will happen to you. But although that sounds easy enough, sometimes it can be hard to keep the faith. Sometimes you'll do a lot of good and nothing will come of it, and sometimes you'll see someone getting things they don't deserve because they're a bad person. The key to Karma is you just have to keep on keeping on.

I like a good analogy so here's one for Karma that I made earlier. Karma is like a penny drop machine in an arcade. You put a penny in, and, fingers crossed, that penny will push more out, therefore rewarding you for the faith you had in the first place. Sometimes it happens straight away, with your first penny. Other times, it can take a while. You could spend a whole pound (doesn't sound like much but thats a hundred goes!) and get nothing in return. The key is to believe in it. If you have it in you to persevere, eventually you'll get that money to drop.

Karma. Keep doing good things, don't lose faith, and it will come back around. I think George Harrison can sum it up here:

It's gonna take time, a whole lot of precious time

Cheers George

Stay safe

Monday, 10 May 2010

You wanted the best, you got the best, the hottest band in the world...

...KISS!

The words rang out through the LG arena as Modern Day Delilah kicked in and Eric Singer pounded the drums. From behind him, Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley and Tommy Thayer rose like Gods while fireworks went off all around them.

And thats how the greatest gig of my life so far began.

It was Wednesday the fifth of May, and I had just handed in an Autobiography that was hideously over the given word count (4766 words over to be precise), and I was in need of some r&r. I knew what was happening for the rest of that day. I was going to be giggling like a school girl for the next 12 hours, knowing that I was going to see the Spaceman, the Demon, the Cat and the Starchild do what they did best: rock and roll all night and party every day. I hurried to town to meet Paul and Danny, my best friends, at the train station. They were travelling from the motherland to be there with me that night, and as soon as we saw each other, the excitement level rose. we headed back to 219 HQ, to have some tea, chill out, have some bevvies, and put our slap on for the gig. As there were only three of us, no one was going to be made up as the Cat. But no one wants to be the cat. No one wants to be Peter Criss. Not even Peter Criss wants to be Peter Criss. So no major loss as we got prepared. I assumed my role as Ace Frehley/Tommy Thayer AKA The Spaceman. Danny took up the post of Paul Stanley AKA The Starchild. And Paul, our resident lady killer, donned the guise of Gene Simmons AKA The Demon. We were tipsy, made up, and ready to rock, so into the taxi we went.

The Taxi driver had no knowledge of KISS, and looked perplexed and mildly terrified the whole way to the arena. However, being a great guy, he said that rather than get another taxi home at the end of the night, to just ring his number and he'd come back for us. Sorted. No taxi to worry about after the gig, now we just had to enjoy ourselves.

And that we did.

Here's the Setlist:

Modern Day Delilah
Cold Gin
Let Me Go, Rock 'N' Roll
Firehouse
Say Yeah
Deuce
Crazy Crazy Nights
Dr. Love
Shock Me
I'm An Animal
100,000 Years
I Love It Loud
Love Gun
Black Diamond
Detroit Rock City

WOW. What a setlist. A great mix of old and new, although some classics like Strutter and Hotter Than Hell could have took the place of say 100,000 Years and Firehouse. But they weren't finished yet. Did somebody say encore?

Lick It Up
Shout It Out Loud
I Was Made For Loving You
God Gave Rock 'n' Roll To You
Rock And Roll All Nite

Boom. Five song encore? Yes Please! Great way to end the gig, but it wasn't just the songs that made it special. How about Spaceman and The Cat having a solo duel, before Spaceman launched some fireworks from his guitar? How about The Demon slapping the hell out of his bass before spreading his wings and flying up to the scaffolding high above the stage? How about The Starchild grabbing on and flying out over the audience to a stage in the middle of the crowd. Everything about this band screams showmanship. The Amazing light and sound show. The pyrotechnics being as hot as hell and dazzling to look at. The costumes. The make up. The ridiculously high boots. This band have still got it, and I hope they have it for a long time to come yet.

Best. Gig. Ever.

Stay safe

P.S If you fancy looking at some pictures of what we looked like at the gig, and some pictures from the gig (coming soon), check this out:

Sunday, 9 May 2010

As I sit here on the 13.06 from Newcastle to Manchester, it is peaceful. The train is quite empty and there is an air of calm on the train. It's a Sunday, people are tired and just want to get home, so the enjoy the peace and quiet.

Until it is broken at York. Magnificently broken like a sledgehammer breaking through a brick wall. As I write this to you my fearless reader, I can hear the half drunk half hungover tones of what is inevitabley a stag do or lads weekend of sorts, screaming their lungs out about nothing and everything. They're from Manchester I think, judging by their accents. Their annoying lager lout accents which sound more like a drunken moan than anything else. I just wanted to sit here and read my book in peace, but these men grabbed peace, gagged it, stuffed it in a duffle bag and threw it out of a moving train window. One of them has just said 'we haven't even got tickets'. Do they know where this train is even going? Or in their stupor have they wandered on assuming it's like a taxi and it'll take them wherever they want to go?

They've merged with a howling group of middle aged women who all have filthy laughs. And here comes the ticket inspector. This should be good. He approaches like a shark stalking a flock of seagulls on the surface of the water. Even if it catches one in it's jaws it's a victory. They laugh in his face. He walks away with their money. I think we know who won that. One needs the toilet. He looks through the carriage door, sees that it's a stones throw away and announces, to the whole train, 'oh no, i'm not walkin all t' way down there'. Please don't piss on the door instead mate.

Back to the women and their filthy filthy laughs. They're the kind of filthy laughs that hint at a dirty girls weekend with straws shaped like cocks and chocolate shaped like cocks and all manner of other things shaped like cocks. The kind of filthy laugh that suggests the only thing missing from said dirty weekend was an actual cock.

For all my ranting about these blokes, I bet I'm no different when I'm jazzed up after a few bevvies on the weekend. I guess it's that hipocrisy we all have in small amounts. It comes out when you're alone and you see a group having a good time. I guess you just have to remember that at some point or another were all that loud group on the train. I just hope when I'm that group there are leas cock shaped things abound.

Stay safe


- On the fly

Thursday, 6 May 2010

I'm not a cleaner...

So why every time I use a public bathroom do I have to clean up someone elses piss before I can sit down? Is there no sense of cleanliness anymore? I mean it's not hard is it, if you dribble a bit (or in most cases piss all over on the seat) to just tear off a bit of paper and wipe up after yourself. This is something the pm candidates should look at sorting out. On the spot fines for pissing on toilet seats. It would stop people doing it and the fines could pay for courses teaching people how to clean up after themselves. It's a serious problem that needs solving, and fast. Use yor vote wisely today, because it could be you who next sits in piss.

PS. Stay tuned for a review of the hottest band in the world, KISS, later this weekend.

Stay safe


- On the fly

Friday, 16 April 2010

Why haven't I wrote this yet?

This story is not for the faint of heart. It gets pretty graphic. If Martin Lawrence was here, halfway through he'd look up and go 'this shit just got real'. The girl's name has been changed to spare her blushes. The dirty dirty girl. Thats how real this shit is going to get. If you can handle that, then carry on my wayward sons.

Special mention goes out to Tina Ball here for highlighting the website 'FML' to me. Her blog's down the side there, called Watch This Space. That'll tell you all about FML. I was going to write this on that website but I reckon I can spin it out for a while on here for you. Set the scene, establish some characters, you know the crack. So here it goes.

University. First year. Wild parties are a normality, but so are boring nights. This was one of those nights, which was impregnated by a wild party, and it left its drunken mistake in my bed. Right in the middle of my fucking bed. So I'm sitting in my room, on Facebook, probably watching like, Anchorman and essentially chilling. I know what you're thinking. This is one wild party. Thats where you're wrong because this is actually the boring night (unbelievable, I know). So I'm sitting there when BOOM. Facebook chat window pops up:

Michael David Howse:
I'm coming over. We're going out.

The night just got knocked up a notch. I throw on some clothes, it doesn't matter what, everything I own is sexy as hell, and await Mike's arrival. The door buzzer goes. I answer it, and in comes Mike with a girl, who I vaguely remembered from freshers. 'Alright Mat, you remember Michaela yeah?'

I sure don't

'I sure do, how's it going?' She's fine, but already drunk. We have some catching up to do. 'We're going to a flat party Mat, you ready?' I was ready. We went across and I can honestly say I felt as out of place as N Dubz at an awards ceremony. Why was I there? I didn't know anyone, I had no alcohol, and it was up like, 6 flights of stairs. It was already a failure of a night. Luckily there were some surplus beers and everyone was too pissed to notice them getting drunk. Still, a few free beers wasn't enough to keep me there, and I gave Mike a look that said 'Lets leave. Right now'. He looked back at me as if to say 'I can't read people's minds when they look at me, but I reckon you want to leave so I'm going to nod like thats what you suggested'. We blew that joint, but Michaela followed us. She was drunk enough for the entire Coppice (legendary halls of residence and birth place of the 219 crew) and was staggering all over the place. We went back to my flat to chill and watch some t.v, maybe a movie. But she was the kind of drunk where you get really chatty. And really fucking annoying. But eventually sleepy. I got her some water and suggested she drank it, and, while me and Mike watched Terry Tate, office linebacker, she drifted off to sleep. Sweet. She'll stay down, wake up in the morning and leave. I can sleep on the floor for one night, I am, after all, a gentleman.

We got restless in my room after a while, and thought we'd go chill in Mike's for a while. Michaela was down for the count, so we slipped out quietly and went over to Chestnut House. We watched some more Terry Tate, had a cup of tea, listened to some Blessed By A Broken Heart (absolutely brilliant band, like, imagine if Atreyu raped Jon Bon Jovi and they had a bastard love child, they would be that bastard love child), and probably watched some South Park. The sun was coming up, and we knew we weren't going to sleep, and thought that a brisk walk back to Oak House (The superior house of The Coppice) in the bracing wind would awaken our minds and spirits. We got back to my room, and Michaela was still there, fast asleep, and Terry Tate was still on YouTube. A few more episodes wouldn't kill us. But then I noticed something.

The floor at the edge of my bed was wet. And there was an empty glass on my floor.

She's spilled the fucking water in my bed, the idiot! There's nowt worse than wet bed sheets (if you've ever tried to drink water while lying on your back in bed, then you'll understand that this is how you get wet sheets). But hang on Mathew, didn't she finish her water before you went to Mikes?

Why Yes, yes she did, because you put the empty glass on the floor.

I looked at the water, and saw it was dripping from the bed. And saw that the drip was coming from a trail on the mattress. And the trail was coming from under the covers. I lifted them up.

The trail came from a pool underneath Michaela. She'd pissed my bed.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

I think I went into shock, probably from the no sleep, but also probably because SHE'D PISSED THE FUCKING BED!

I couldn't even look at her, huddled up in her own filth. She started to come around. What was I going to say? 'Oh morning pissy pants, fancy cleaning my sheets?'. I stared at Terry Tate tackling a worthless peon in an office block. I heard Mike begin to speak. 'Erm, Michaela, I think you should apologise to Mat', 'Why' she said. 'Just look down, then apologise to him'.

She knew what she'd done. She grabbed her bag and said 'I just live down the road, if you want you can come round while I wash these for you'.

Too bloody right thats what we're going to do. We marched her there, and she was still wearing the dress and tights (so I'm assuming the underwear?) she'd pissed in. Before that night i thought she was alright looking. Image shattered. We got to hers and she washed the sheets, but They were never the same again. I always just thought, whenever I had those sheets on my bed, 'A girl pissed all over these'. And whats worse, she was cuddling a pillow while she slept, so that was gone forever.

Fuck My Life.

On the plus side we watched Teen Wolf while my sheets got cleaned.






Hope that wasn't too real for you guys

Stay safe

Thursday, 15 April 2010

I've just seen a face...

...I can't forget the time or place. Good song by The Beatles there, and it just makes you feel good. Even if you haven't just seen that face, you know it can happen that quick, and it makes you feel nice about the world. Just the thought that someone is seeing that face, and they wont forget it.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you can spend a lot of time looking for the right person, but when it comes down to it, sometimes it's better not to look. When you look for something, you have an idea in your head of what you want to find, and some stuff can go under the radar, and you might never see it. If you stop looking, lose the preconceptions, then more things come to the foreground, and when there's more to see, there's more to discover. The Beatles, quite frankly, knew their shit.

Like, you could take their songs and craft a love story out of them. Oh wait, thats been done. Have you ever seen Across The Universe? What a film! The music is weaved into the story so well, it's like The Beatles intended the songs to be interpreted that way. I like feeling good like this my dear readers. When you feel good you do good things. Like today I just walked places, it felt gooooood. Then I realised two nights out on the trot actually makes you feel like Satan's ring piece, so after a can of relentless I did some more walking in the fresh air. Nice. Spring has indeed sprung, and you've got to take advantage of the tiny moments of sunlight we have. You have to leap on any opportunity that comes your way. And you'll have more opportunities if...

...you stop looking. That was awesome, totally linked this back without thinking about it. Probably because I wasn't looking to make it link back, and when you're not looking....

...good things happen. Nailed it.

Stay safe

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

A word I hate


Unrequited. Such an eloquent word for such a horrible, horrible thing. Not so much on its own, but double team it with love and you've got a doozy.

Unrequited love can be hard to avoid. Feelings are feelings at the end of the day, and if you're not true to your heart then who are you kidding? But thats the thing. It can be hard to tell someone, and because you're worried about the consequences you keep it bottled up. And because you keep it bottled up you keep thinking about it. And because you keep thinking about it, it consumes your days. What i'm saying is unrequited love can destroy someone. Not just the person feeling it, but the person on the receiving end. Think about it; You tell someone how you feel, and they don't reciprocate the feeling. You go off into your own little world of despair, but think about them. They now don't know how to act around you. Are they overly nice to try and gloss over an embarrassing (for both of you) event in the friendship/short amount of time you've known them-ship? Do they try and keep their distance until the event has faded into memory? Whatever happens, the outcome is never good.

I'm not the first person to talk about this. It's been in music since forever, just listen to Damien Rice. Fantastic music. In a way, I think rejection and heartache can help a career. I mean, who wants to listen to a happy comedian? Heartache, difficult times, trials and tribulations, they're all things that can be expressed vividly and touchingly through words and sounds, so it's not all bad. At least if you get your heart broken, you might be able to make somebody laugh by telling them about it.

It might be someone you work with. It might be someone you go to university with. You might just see them in passing. You might see them all of the time. But at the end of the day, I think the best thing to do might be to leave it alone. Just leave it alone. I know it's easier said than done, but I think I can put forward a valid argument. For starters, if they've never given a sign that they feel the same way as you do, it's probably safe to assume that they don't hear the same Burt Bacharach song as you every time they see you. Next reason: They might be in a really good place. They might be seeing someone, and if you're a good friend, vomiting your feelings all over them might make things awkward for them and their partner, and might make the partner feel weird around you. Thirdly, and I think this might be a big one, is if they're an ex, let it go. There's a reason they're ex-boy/girlfriend and not boy/girlfriend. And that reason is probably still there, and though it might not be obvious, give it a week and those reasons will be knocking at your back door baying for blood. If your situation is three, take solace in the lyrics of Dallas Green:

'When you cry a piece of my heart dies, Knowing that I may have been the cause'.

Do you want to cause more tears?

Now, I'm probably a huge hypocrite because I never listen to anything I say, so if I get slapped with a restraining order in the next few days, know it's because I probably didn't read this. Hopefully though, I've helped someone who's read this, and maybe even annoyed someone by it so much that they thought 'Fuck Mathew Frost, what does he know?', went and told someone how they felt, and it worked out for them. That'd be nice, if it happens, get in touch. Thats all for now, but as a closer, I think Charlie Brown said it all about unrequited love:

'Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love'

Well said, Charlie Brown, well said

Stay safe



Wednesday, 10 March 2010

A retraction

To Rosie Stacey,

I'm sorry. You are not a massive dickhead as previously stated in this blog.

Please forgive me

Stay safe

Long time no blog

Evening all. I know it's been a while, and I honestly can't give you a reason, so lets all forgive and forget and let this be a tiny black spot on our otherwise spotless history as friends. Got it? Good.

Well welcome back, I'd like to say I've been busy but I haven't. There has been the small matter of biography writing though. Lets chat about that. So for life writing at uni, we had to choose an author and write their biography, focusing on a point in their life where it could have split in two different directions. A fork if you will. A point where their life 'forked up'. Yeah. I went there. So I chose to write about little know (yet should be MAHOOSIVELY known) author, Max Brooks. Brooks writes books (ha ha it rhymes!) about zombies.

Now, I'm a zombie nut, and dedication goes out to Lewis Maull right about now. I've read his books and he has crafted an amazing alternate reality where the zombie apocalypse is all too real. his 'World War Z', a collection of interviews with survivors of 'Z day' is a beautifully crafted and scarily realistic piece of literature, which, with enough reading into it, could be seen as an attack on the incompetence of todays militaries all over the world. His 'Zombie Survival Guide' begins as a laugh, but, halfway through the book, you begin to think it may be a good time to buy a machette and lots of tinned food. With this in mind I thought it would be great to get into his mind and look at his inspirations, research etc. Since his books are quite recent I thought he would be easy to get a hold of.

But he wasn't.

No information on his books or website, except this nugget: 'Max Brooks currently lives in New York but is ready to move to a safer and more defensible location'. Funny ha ha ha ha ha but how does that help me!? Next I try contacting his publisher to obtain an interview. Funny story. I knew they wouldn't just let a student from across the country just ring him up and chat about zombies and the like. So I turned to lecturer and fountain of wisdom Ian Marchant, to see how he would approach the situation. 'Lie'. Lie. It sounded like a great idea. 'So you reckon I should email them saying I'm a new magazine focusing on alternative and cult literature and we would like to write a piece on Mr. Brooks for our first issue?' 'Yeah, that sounds good Mathew'. So thats what I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I decided the time had come to find a new author, because by the looks of things, lying doesn't work. So I racked my brains. Tommy Cooper? Didn't write books. The Beatles? Didn't write books.

Stephen Fry? Has written some books AND is a hugely interesting human being. A new subject had been found. That afternoon I bought his excruciatingly honest autobiography, 'Moab Is My Washpot' (a fantastic read, and only £3 if you get to HMV quick), and began reading it on my bus home. I got sucked into the world of public school and the country side, and soaked up every page. Thing is, I still hadn't started writing. With 10 days to go, I went back to the motherland (Newcastle, upon Tyne, not under Lyme) to clear my head, and maybe get some work done on the train. Oh but I forgot...

I WAS GOING HOME TO SEE EUROPE!

Thats right! Europe of 'The Final Countdown' fame! What a gig. I can honestly say it was one of the best gigs I've ever been to. They sounded so good, played old and new hits, and generally pleased the crowd. If you get a chance, go see them.

O.K, so I spent the weekend in a haze of drunken debauchery, and started writing a draft to send to Ian that night. I managed 400 words. Shit shit shit. Feedback for the 400 words was good, and so, 7 days to go, I started to write. In my mind. I started to write in my mind. Nothing went down on paper, or keyboard. Skip to Sunday night. 6 P.M. The FA cup ties had finished. No more distractions, it was work time. Except my house mates were ALL IN. Now, this isn't normally a problem, if you can work in your bedroom. But I can't. I always find some form of distraction. I can work better in say, a front room with a bit of company and atmosphere. I was in the front room, writing, when the movie Wrong Turn began, bringing with it petty jokey arguments between my house mates which really get to you when you're stressed. I persevered, and by 11 PM I had something written, something I felt confident about, was pleased with, and had received good reviews from my peers. Done. Dusted. I was still stressing about it though. I always leave things to the last minute. I'd just rush written an essay which I genuinely had a huge interest in. It could have been better.

I arrived at uni a little late the next day, my tail between my legs. And thats when the bombshell was dropped by the aforementioned fountain of wisdom (and porky pies), Ian Marchant: 'Yeah, it was a false deadline to make sure you got a draft to me'.
I didn't know how to feel! Angry, grrrrrrrr, I rushed that for no reason! But elated, YEEEEEEEEEES! Not due until the 5th of May! Get in!

So I write to you now a changed man, not leaving anything until the last minute any more.

That said no presents have been purchased for Mothers Day yet. Ah I've got like, 3 days? I'll be fine. Yeah, I'll be fine.

This isn't leaving it until the last minute.

Stay safe

Sunday, 21 February 2010

A link you may never find...

If you're at a loss one afternoon and want a minute's joy, do this.

go to www.google.co.uk

Type in 'finding Chuck Norris'

Hit 'I'm feeling lucky'

You wont be disappointed. And if you don't do it, Chuck Norris will find you.

Stay safe

So here's a weird thing that happened...

It was probably about two or three years ago now, and it was one of the most terrifying nights of my relatively short life.

I think I had been to drama, and I went to meet my friends, Paul and Danny, for a drink afterwards. Now Newcastle has an amazing nightlife, there are plenty of bars, clubs, bar slash clubs, clubs slash bar slash diners to keep you going for a week. Now one particular bar takes the biscuit. If by taking the biscuit you mean 'it's a shithole'. Basement. an underground cavern with a sticky floor and stickier women. Imagine the cantina scene from star wars with weirder looking people. And more chance of being stabbed. Normally it is a hive of human activity (using the term human VERY loosely), but tonight it was very much empty. Apart from two men at the bar, who we will come to in a second. I met Paul and Danny in there, they already had a drink.

Oh the drink. I need to explain. I forgot to mention that Basement is a trebles bar, and if something can have at least a treble measure of some for of spirit, it will have a treble measure of spirit in it. The signature drink of Basement is called Skittles. Available in either red or green (like bags of skittles, hey, they don't miss a trick), I can't even tell you what's in it. All I know is that the green one's made with orange juice and the red one's made with cranberry juice. For a fiver you get two pints of the stuff. Two PINTS of cocktail for a fiver. Now you understand why it's normally always full of people. And stabbings.

So I meet Paul and Danny and they've got their two pints, and I head up to the bar to get mine. At the bar are these two blokes, and they're steaming, absolutely, for want of a better word, fucked. I stupidly stood next to them to get served, and I'll never ever forgive myself. One was tall, shaggy hair, seemed more like he was on drugs. The other was shorter, well built [read fat], bald, and looked like a mean mother fucker. I ordered my drinks, and the mean looking son of a bitch says 'whats that you're having?'. I explain about skittles, and he says 'well I'll get them for you'. I said no thanks, and thats when it started. He got right in my face and said, in no uncertain terms, 'NEVER look a FUCKING gift horse in the mouth'. Now I didn't want to die young, so I let him pay, and walked off to my friends in need of a new pair of trousers. As I got closer to them I saw their faces wide with confusion and terror. I though 'It's just two pints of skittles, nothing unusual'. I turned around and they were there. The guys from the bar. Dennis, as we discovered the mean fucker's name, had followed me to my table. 'Alright lads, you don't mind us joining you do you?'. A collective 'no, of course not'. He looked Danny up and down. He's not the biggest guy, and he was wearing a checked shirt. 'What are you supposed to be, a lumberjack or summit?'. Danny didn't know what to say. He looked at Paul. Paul's got big shoulders, and normally a beard or some form of facial hair. 'You look like you should be wearing that, you look more like a lumberjack'. As Dennis interrogated my friends, the other bloke, we'll call him lanky from now on, spoke up. His words were slurred, and almost incomprehensible. 'I'm sorry mate, we'll go if you want'. Ah don't worry about it mate. Why the FUCK did I say that? He repeated it about 5 times! I should have just said 'yes mate! GO! FUCK THE FUCK OFF!'. But I was scared and really wanted to live, so they stayed. Dennis looked at me and Danny. 'I like you, and I like you', then he turned slowly to Paul. 'But I don't like you'. This was when we got worried. He stayed chatting to us, but kept glaring at Paul. We all kept looking at each other, and then the door. We knew what we had to do. 'Aye I was in the army like, but these days I like nothing more than just having a fight. I love it'. We did NOT want a fight with this bloke. He was like a fat Ross Kemp but actually hard. He stared at Paul. A stare that looked like it went straight to his core and intimidated his soul. 'You. I want you to punch me in the face. I want you to break my nose'. Fuck. What the fuck happened to a few drinks with my mates? Now we were going to break a man's nose? 'Ha ha, no, no I'm not going to break your nose' said Paul. 'Break. My. Nose.' I looked at Paul and Danny, shaking in their bar stools. 'I'm just going to go outside, someone's ringing me' I said. I power walked out the door, looking back to frantically signal to my friends to follow. 'Are you gonna break my nose then? What about you, gay lumberjack?'. Danny got up slowly and inched away, unnoticeable at first, until he was clear and out the door. Just Paul to get out. I felt like a green beret willing his brother in arms to get out from behind enemy lines. 'Fucking break my nose! Are you a puff or something?' 'Ah hang one mate, my phone's ringing'. Paul jogged to the door and we ran. We ran up the stairs. We ran out of the front door. We ran for a good five minutes away from the bar. We didn't know where we were going, all we knew was we had to run and get far away from Basement. As far as we could. We stopped short of Sports Cafe. Out of breath, heaving, still struck with terror. We looked at each other and laughed. Relief, fear, sheer disbelief. We didn't know why we were laughing, but we were, for the rest of the night.

Stay safe

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Starchild....come out to play...

I am presenting to you, here today, what I feel is a cultural artifact which should be noted. Actually, that you be who I feel is a cultural artifact. I am, of course, talking about the hottest band in the world, KISS.

What other band had the balls to just come out in full glam make up, 7 inch high leather boots with a stage show to rival even the best Broadway musicals? Four guys from New York, with guts and guitars, ready to show the world what they had to offer. KISS instigated the use of theatrical sets and stunts at musical gigs. Paul Stanley flying over the crowd to his middle of the audience stage before pulling the trigger of his 'Love Gun'. Gene Simmons' grisly transformation into the 'God Of Thunder', blood spilling from his mouth as he slaps his bass. Ace Frehley's guitar smoking as rockets shoot out from the top of it's neck towards 'Detroit Rock City'. They paved the way for this stuff. Take That's Circus tour? Lady Gaga's Monster Ball? Girls Aloud's out of control tour? I put forward the idea that these wouldn't have come about without KISS. Still going strong after 37 years, they may have been through several line up changes, ditched the make up, and expanded into different genres of music, but they still deliver that rock and roll which is sorely missed in music today. I myself have tickets to see them this year, and I am VERY excited, I shouldn't physically be able to see a band 37 years after they formed.

KISS aside, I do have something else I feel is worthy of being noted as a cultural artifact. In 1979, a film came out which offered escapism, as well as a potentially terrifying look into the danger of gang violence in New York. I am, of course, talking about Walter Hill's masterpiece 'The Warriors'. An outright gritty film, from the dirty electronic music accompanying the opening credits, to the ultra realistic violence between the gangs throughout the film. Although differing from Sol Yurick's novel, the film gained a cult following of it's own. Even people who haven't seen the film will be familiar with the brightly painted faces of the baseball furies. The gangs could be imagined in real life New York, occupying their territory like feral dogs, yet Walter Hill offers an almost comic book version of them, so as not to paint too real a picture of New York's underworld. It showed the solidarity of the brothers in arms, the disorder in the ranks, and the fear which was shot into young gang members hearts. I hear a remake is being penned, set in LA. It will apparently focus on the all too real threat of gang war between the crips and the bloods. In my opinion, I can't see either of those gangs tussling with a Baseball Fury or Gramercy Riff. I'm not holding my breath.

Stay Safe

Sunday, 14 February 2010

I hate this day...with spelling corrections

February the14th. Bloody valentines day. It's an awful day for singletons everywhere. Even worse when you're only single one in your house. I almost didn't get out of bed today, I just wanted to wallow in my pity until the day passed. Alas, the bare cupboards called my name and I went to asda to resolve the issue. I resolved it with £44.18p. This was indeed, a big shop. I hope it lasts me a while because money is dwindling. Fast. I suppose that's one reason to smile, the fact I haven't spent X amount of money on a gift and a 'fancy meal' which I probably wouldn't enjoy anyway. The pub seems the logical option for drowning sorrows. Get a few tetleys down me and I'll be right as rain. I hope.

Tetleys as in the alcohlic bitter. Although a brew would be a treat.

Stay safe


- On the fly

Friday, 12 February 2010

B to the LOG update

It's been a while. How are you? Good? Then we'll begin.

It's coming to that time of the year again. The time when most of the world celebrates love with their partner. The time when I sit on my own and listen to the noises coming through the paper thin walls of my house, wishing I was somewhere else. Valentines. I may be a hypocrite, as I myself have celebrated extravagantly, but when you're alone you can be as miserable as you want. And anyway, heartbreak is comedy gold. Well, any sort of pain or disappointment is comedy gold. I'd say stand up is the best form of therapy if you've got anything on your mind, you can speak the truth and not only do you get everything off of your chest, but people laugh at it and you feel better from that. Plus if you're any good you'll get paid.

Another place for comedy nuggets is the bus. Sometimes you don't even need to look for it, it'll just find you. For example, last Friday I was on the bus back from Cricket training (I was only knocking my bat in because my leg is still being dodgy), and my bat was sticking out of my bag. It's clearly new, the only knocks on it from a mallet I used to knock it in. Without invitation, a man of West Indian descent plopped down next to me and said 'Do you want to buy a brand new, top of the range bat?', to which I said 'no, I clearly have one'. He then went on to tell me about a charity cricket match he played in, mentioning a lot of celebrities, after each one saying 'I bet you don't believe me'. I didn't. Not one bit, but, as the bus was from Perry Barr, I said 'I'm sure it's true!' because I have an aversion to stab wounds.

Newspapers are good too. Here's a quick one. On a page of a free newspaper, primarily distributed on buses, was a large news story with the headline 'Justice for honor killing victim'. I thought wow, this is newsworthy, this is a real victory for that family. Sharing the page was the headline 'Porridge may have been eaten 100 years earlier than previously thought'.

Hope you've enjoyed this one, and keep watching for that short story!

Stay safe

Monday, 1 February 2010

I wish I was imprisoned...

So I can break out with scolfield et al. Prison break is officially
brilliant, but only half the first series has been viewed! Thankfully the second half is winging it's way to the house in the post, courtesy of Liam Frost, my big brother. Who, by the way, is performing at kings manor tomorrow night if you're Reading this from the Newcastle area.
Go see him. He's like me but not as good.

Nah I'm just kiddin, he's good, and if it wasn't for him I probably
wouldn't have got into comedy when I did. So check him out.


Short story coming soon

Stay safe

Friday, 29 January 2010

Blog this you motherbloggers

Said Rose while giving Kirk and I the finger. She'll probably not read this though so blog off Rose, you massive dickhead.

Well, new blog, new book to read. Simon Armitage's All Points North, and 12 pages in it's enjoyable. A story of the North, of Yorkshire and Manchester, football, work, education, told with the inherent wit which comes with us northerners.

As Gripping as the book is, I'm about to embark on Prison Break, series one. My brother absolutely raves about it so it better be good. Look back on here in a few days for a short bit of writing from class the other day, it might just be enjoyable.

Stay safe

Saturday, 23 January 2010

Mathew Frost's blog is so totally suspended above water...

...and shit.

This quote was uttered many a time last night as the drinks were flowing. Free gig at The Flapper it was, saw a great new band called Talons. You should check them out. You too. But maybe not you. As well as some good music, the night led to an epic plan for the day ahead, which is, as the smarter among you will have worked out, today. A plan so simple, it couldn't fail...

Wake up. Brew. Fry up. Soccer Saturday wit Jeff Stelling, Chris Kamara and friends. Have some drinks. Hit up Stitch in Mosely.

We've yet to drink, and we're not decided on Mosely, but the fry up was epic. I really want to go to Moseley tonight, it's a motown and 60's soul night on at the Cross, and I've not found many motown and 60's nights since the move, so I'd like to go, but it's whether we actually feel up to it later, as last night was a heavy one. 

One weird thing. My dream actually came true this morning. I dreamt that my Scott Pilgrim book had been delivered, and, lo and behold, this morning it was here, in the house. Maybe tonight I'll dream that the postman delivered a girl my age who's in to good music, fifa, and is a bit of a geek. We can all dream.

Stay Safe

Friday, 22 January 2010

Birmingham City's Got Talent and other topical stuff

Yes, thats right, BCU's got talent kicked off again last night, and I was hosting. As I will be for the following 8 weeks. It was a little nerve wracking, but hopefully I'll settle into this presenting malarky in the next few weeks. I will be missing one week though, as I'll be making a pilgrimage back North to Newcastle to see the one and only EUROPE! There'll be 'Danger On The Tracks' as I travel home, and each minute will feel like 'The Final Countdown' to the gig!

Cheesy I know, but it had to be done. I'd kick myself if I hadn't.

Back to the gigs, and I think I might take this opportunity to try out some more topical stuff. I'm not great at topical, it took me 3 weeks to write a swine flu joke, I was pig sick by that time.
Zing
But seriously, I'll try. Like this week, Amy Winehouse was in the papers again after abusing and attacking a stage manager at a panto. I heard he only asked her to help out because the two blokes who do the horse were ill, and well, just look at her. She's perfect.

Good or bad? Let me know.

Stay Safe

Thursday, 21 January 2010

Sushi, Sake and Good Times

Good evening readers. Today I tried sushi for the first time, and, to my surprise, I enjoyed the stuff. Had some raw prawn stuff, was good, followed by dumplings and noodles. Result. Cap that off with a small bottle of 13.5% sake and you've got an afternoon on your hands. 
Back to tonight, and Birmingham City's Got Talent begins tomorrow and I'm hosting, and to be honest, I'm a bit vague about the whole thing. I'm not sure whether I'm doing comedy, or just pandering to the gathered masses. Either way I predict few laughs, and possible a lone clap which resonates like a nail being hammered into my comedy coffin.

There's an idea. Comedy coffins. Just imagine, paying respects to your loved one when BAM! Their pocket flower sprays your face with water! Doused from beyond the grave! Forever remember the ones you've lost with a sense of humor.

That took a strange diversion there. Hope you enjoyed.]

Stay Safe


Wednesday, 20 January 2010

For everything you never want to know about Mathew Frost

So here it is. Blog entry number one. A strange thing to be doing at 01:20 on a Wednesday, but thats what happens when you're a student. So I suppose you can check back here (often, if you wish) for any information on up coming gigs, maybe some short stories, some rants and some witticisms, there'll be something for everyone. Which probably no one will ever read. Enjoy.

Stay safe

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