Weekender

The Weekender features the best work, the most brilliant arts writing and some of the more, ahem, irreverent things that dance across our desktops in any given week. All hail the weekend!

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    The end of the week is a cause for celebration for most of us, but spare a thought for those who help make our weekends extra special. I’m talking about the bar staff, the taxi drivers, and cheery kebab vendors who help our end of week plans come to fruition. So if you’re heading out tonight maybe on a Christmas do (Martin from accounts was TOTALLY checking you out by the way) then give them a smile and help brighten up their weekend too. This is for them…

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    So two and a half weeks to the big day people. Now you know The Weekender is your pal, it’s not here to tell you what to do, rather just maybe give you a nudge in the right direction. But you’ve got two days off after this and THERE”S LOADS TO DO. Ok, sorry, I didn’t mean to panic you. It’s fine, plenty of time just get the food sorted. And the presents. And cards (everyone you know or have ever met should cover it). You’ll need decorations. And a tree, obviously. Oh and you need to get all this done in and among the many, many parties organised on the most joyously spurious “festive” grounds; “Penultimate Tuesday before Christmas drinks anyone? Mine’s a pint…” Dance to my merry tune…

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    The secrets of The Weekender’s relentless energy and encyclopaedic knowledge of whimsical internet detritus have long been the subject of much debate, but have remained a closely guarded secret. Until now. You see, The Weekender exists in a state of perpetual hyperactivity, brought about by a regimented diet of caffeine pills, chocolate milk and Jammy Dodgers. In this heightened state of awareness it reclines in the centre of a multi-screen interface that bombards it with meme after meme of Paris Hilton photographs, Rick Astley and cats. You thought it was all fun and games over at The Weekender’s house right? Wrong, this is a serious business. Laugh with me!

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    This week was Thanksgiving over in the good ole U S of A and so The Weekender decided to make a list of the things it was truly thankful for. Unfortunately after several hours’ meditation on the subject it was left with a piece of paper with the phrase “jacket potatoes” scrawled in one corner, which was just a bit sad. So here’s some things the Weekender is kind of grateful for if you really twisted its arm – 1. Gin (delicious) 2. That lions are either quite rare or in zoos (scared of lions) 3. Table tennis (I’d beat you) 4. Gin (again) and 5. Laser Quest (makes an ace birthday party). Onto this nonsense…

  5. Weekendermain

    Hey gang. How’s your week been going? Really? You did what? You filthy, filthy devil. That’s right, The Weekender’s back, and it’s going to smash into your bewildered face just like the hangover’s probably going to tomorrow morning. Until then, onwards to our doom…

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    This week in America some people said they wanted a new man to be the leader but more people said they wanted the man who’s already the leader to keep being the leader for a bit longer. This fundamentally simple process became a bit more than that though as first of all the two sets of people were VERY SURE they were each right, and the rest of the world piled in on the Twitter telling them which man to pick. To mark this historic moment, The Weekender this week is donning its cowboy hat and whitening its teeth to bring you a US election special (although as ever these constraints may prove to be quite loose…)

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    You know, The Weekender reminds me of that kid (there’s always one) who soiled himself in assembly. Whilst you don’t want to be anywhere near the crime scene, you still want a piece of the action, and you don’t really know why it’s so funny. Well, just as Tommy Shat-Pants will go down in history for his accidental bravery (or just get picked up by his mum at morning break) so will The Weekender, in all its strange strange glory.

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    The Weekender likes to think of itself as a cosmopolitan kind of weekly culture round-up, attending all sorts of trendy parties and hobnobbing with young, attractive folks. It reckons it’s the life and soul of the party, the teller of the best jokes and the mixer of the best cocktails around (it calls itself a mixologist). But the truth is The Weekender is the loudmouth in the corner that nobody actually invited, recounting garbled, bitter anecdotes about how handsome it used to be with its mouth full of Special Brew and its beard full of crumbs. But whatever, who cares. The Weekender’s throwing its own party right here, right now and you’re all ruddy invited. So come on in and have some fun – the Special Brew’s on us!

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    With winter drawing in, The Weekender has decided it’s about time it got a mate, a fellow whimsical culture round-up with whom to share days out, nights in and sushi binges. To this end The Weekender has been to see a flirting expert and is going to try out some of its new tricks on our dear readers if that’s ok (which we’re sure it is!). So here goes – Hello. I’m The Weekender (points at your shoes with whole arm) I like your shoes. Do you like days out, nights in and sushi binges? (Points at your hair with both arms) I like your hair. Do you want to see my room? – and scene! Money well spent I’m sure you’d agree. Bring on the nonsense!

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    “I am James, prince of The Weekender and defender of the secrets of witty cultural humour. This is Liv, my fearless friend. Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic keyboard and said, “By the power of It’s Nice That! I have the power!” Liv became the mighty Laughter Cat, and I became Weekender-Man, the most powerful man in the universe! Only one other shares this secret — our friend, Rob Alderson, but he’s away in Turkey. Together we defend friday afternoon from the evil forces of boredom." And erm… that was how The Weekender was born. Or was that He-Man?

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    “Hey, what’s wrong with you? You’re looking kind of down to me. ’Cause things ’aint getting over. Listen to what I say.” As a bright-eyed young teen The Weekender used to rush around the playground singing those thought-provoking lyrics to all the other kids, beckoning them to gather round and listen to its wisdom. But the children used to kick The Weekender in the shins and tell it to sod off. Not anymore, not now that The Weekender has a cult international following and a harem of sexy young women hanging off it’s every word (it DOES!). Things have changed. Bring it on…

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    There’s no denying it any longer. It’s time for The Weekender just to put this out there and be who it really is. Tired of living a lie, of conforming to the “norms” of “society” it is time to reclaim myself and hang the consequences. Ready? My name is The Weekender and I prefer mandarins to clementines. Take that The Man! Here goes nothing…

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    And so The Weekender sent down some tablets onto which were scribed the Ten Commandments of Weekenderism. 1. Be nice. 2. Be creative. 3. Make coffee sometimes. 4. Do exercise. 5. Don’t be a ruddy idiot. 6. Smile. 7. Sing. 8. Laugh until you snort. 9. Laugh at other people for snorting thus exacerbating their laughter.10. Read The Weekender EVERY Friday and tell your pals about it. And the people rejoiced and made a massive statue out of fudge in celebration. here ends the lesson. Boom!

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    The Weekender is a big believer in karma. Just the other day a woman stopped me in the street and asked me for a pound to help her get home. Of course I gave her one, at which point she spat in my face and ran off into a pub. Karma eh? Have I got this right? Bring on the nonsense!

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    This weekend sees the official end of our Olympic summer here in London and we’re not going to lie, it’s been quality. London became an unrecognisable bastion of smiley, happy people and we all cavorted around the city in a newfound spirit of fraternity and respect. Will it last? Will it heck. But The Weekender is humbly putting itself forward to take up the baton (little athletics metaphor there) and become the focus of worldwide attention until Rio 2016. Not out of an inflated sense of self importance (perish the thought) but out of duty. Think about it world, yeah? Let’s delve…

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    Outgoing, professional (ha!) weekly nonsense round-up WLTM readers for fun and frolics. Enjoys silly Tumblrs, picnics where all the food is one colour and bear-baiting. Looking for a vivacious, saucy partner with own teeth (negotiable) and segway (non-negotiable). Willing to travel (if you cover reasonable expenses for bus fares, Fishermen’s Friends and paper). No timewasters or vertigo sufferers (I have my reasons). Call me!

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    The Weekender is no prude, it enjoys a bawdy limerick as much as the next weekly irreverence round-up. But I don’t mind admitting the constant discussion of Prince Harry’s crown jewels has all got a bit much. Amid all the discussion about the press being muzzled (love that verb) in not printing the pictures, there’s one thing NOBODY is talking about. Well The Weekender will not be cowed and is just going to come right out and say it. What on earth is strip billiards? Of all the strip-based games who picks billiards? What Las Vegas hotel suite has a billiards table? I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it kills me. Ever onwards…

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    Hang out the bunting and uncork the cava (I’m not made of money)– we’re celebrating! It’s one year since The Weekender first came into the world and it’s fair to say we’ve had 12 months of super-fun silliness. It’s been a joy and an honour filling your Friday afternoons with the finest stuff and nonsense we come across and we hope you’ve enjoyed it too. Three cheers for bizarre videos, ridiculous Tumblrs and crazy-good creative work! Let’s make some magic, birthday style…

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    How awesome are NASA? They seem to have been quite quiet over the past few years and then all of a sudden they pop up and tell us that they’ve landed a little camera-explorer thing (technical term) on Mars. The photos they beamed back were pretty cool but it strikes me that someone in Team Curiosity missed an absolute belter of a prank opportunity (prankortunity) by not superimposing a tiny Welsh flag or a box of Pringles in one corner. Hang on, what if Mars sees this as an invasion? What if this is seen as Earth’s hubristic highpoint after which we are all enslaved by Martian overlords? The Weekender is taking no chances. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

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    Something odd is happening in London. After weeks of frothing at the mouth about transport meltdown and everyone being sued for doing anything marginally Olympics related (“I heard their going to sue frogs for JUMPING!!”) the British media has had to grudgingly concede that it’s actually been kind of great. The transport seems ok, frogs are legally unmolested and we’re winning a few medals (admittedly in sports where you sit down but still..). So, happy to jump on the passing bandwagon of Games-based bliss, The Weekender is, like Sanka in Cool Runnings, feeling very Olympic today…

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    There’s a thing going round at the moment, popular with advertisers and Twitter wags where you pretend you’re talking about the Olympics by saying something like “All eyes will be on east London tonight for an iconic event sure to attract thousands of fans” and then at the last moment you reveal that it wasn’t the Olympics at all by saying “…IT”S MY BIRTHDAY” or “DO THE LOTTERY” and everyone congratulates you for being hilarious and carries you shoulder-high through a joyous throng of well-wishers. So everyone ready? “I am sure you’ve been waiting for today for years but it’s finally here to put an end to the speculation and anticipation…” wait for it, “IT’S THE WEEKENDER!” Hahahaha, oh mercy!

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    If I had a hammer. I’d hammer in the morning. I’d hammer in the evening. All over this laaaaaaaaaand. I’d hammer out danger. I’d hammer out a warning. I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters. All over this laaaaaaaaand. Ok couple of quick things. Is a hammer really the best tool through which to show worldwide love? And why aren’t you hammeirng in the afternoon? Lazy. Here comes trouble…

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    Turn up the volume, pump up the jams, lights out, gorilla radio, come with us, I’ve got the poison, I’ve got the remedy, but no sympathy for the devil. Yeah you heard me, I’m coming at you with musical references you probably don’t even understand. Deal with it. What’s that, you’re completely, unashamedly confused by what’s going on right now? That can only mean one thing. The Weekender.

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    The Weekender is a pretty jazzy affair right? It’s that time of the week when we like to let our hair down a little and have some good old-fashioned fun. Sure sometimes it gets out of hand, people get hurt and occasionally there’s tears before the week is out. But that’s what it’s all about, taking the rough with the smooth, the ups with the downs, the spice of ruddy life. This week however we’ve decided to take things a bit more seriously, so we’ve got some existential poetry, an in-depth examination of the current economic climate and Proust’s entire works translated into latin…. Nah just kidding, on with this nonsense!

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    The Weekender is a simple creature with straightforward needs. Fed and watered a couple of times a day, a good brisk walk and a never-ending stream of whimsical, vaguely creative nonsense and he/she’s a happy boy/girl. But cage him/her in and he/she will come back harder, better, faster and stronger than you could ever imagine. Everyone clear, yeah? Yeah??? Good. Let’s do this…

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    The Weekender is painfully aware of the awfulness of the humble brag – an insidious attempt by a person (often on social media) to prove that their life is better than yours (they can teach you, but they’ll have to charge) usually cloaked in some thin veneer of modesty. There’s even a Twitter account set up to collate the best examples, such as: “Why is it that every time I have a softball game someone walks up to me and says , are you on roids ! Hahaha dude I don’t even lift weights.” Quite.

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    Aside from serving you fine folk up with regular artsy-weird-whimsy, The Weekender is a big fan of jogging and can often be found pootling up down the Thames path drinking in the views and staving off a heart attack. Almost without fail while out running, someone will shout “Run Forest Run!” at me, it could be a tramp, some yobs or even a street entertainer angling for a cheap laugh (which they usually get). Now The Weekender can take a joke (kind of) but this just seems baffling. All this “joke” does is reference an old film where someone also does some running. If you pass an off duty soldier you don’t shout Apocalypse Now! because they’re also wearing camouflage. If you see a potentially lost child you wouldn’t scream Home Alone and then high five a passer-by. Actually maybe some of you would. To business!

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    Football! Football! Kick the scores! Up the boot! That’s right it’s that time of every two years when we all have to go football crazy (football mad) as another tournament appears on the international horizon to mock our cruel patriotic hopes. I for one hope Roy’s boys are up for the cup in Polkraine (never heard of it) and return to these shores without having disgraced themselves (either in sporting or a tabloid way). Also I hope nobody is racist and there are no massive punch-ups, which aren’t necessarily hopes I pin just on these few weeks. Football!

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    The Weekender is staying at a friend’s house this week and what else do you do when you’re not at home? Eat junk food, stay up late and watch inappropriate (legal) movies. But with a four day weekend ahead what else can Weekender do? Jubilee-themed fun of course! I suggest trifle balancing on heads, asking everyone to carry you like a Queen (who didn’t do that in junior school?), shouting “off with his head!” to everyone that passes by because that will never get old and the traditional diamond hunt that may take more than the four days, but no matter, here’s some treats to get you in the mood…

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    Mein Gott es ist hot. London is wilting under the sun and we are not terrifically happy about it, I saw a tiny baby (sex indeterminate) today bawling in pure p*ssed-off self-indulgence. That little guy/girl spoke for us all. But never fear, The Weekender is here to offer some games that make heatwaves fun. What about Too Hot or Not, whereby you and an opponent try and guess how uncomfortable passers-by are feeling? Or Bamboozle the Pervs, whereby any time you see a man wolfwhistling at a passing lady, run up to them and drop a stick at their feet from your mouth. Stick with us kiddos and you’ll do just fine. Speaking of which…

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    Do you think Adele gets bored of winning things? She gets so many awards I can’t work out what she does with them all. Maybe if you trick and treat Adele you get given a Grammy or something. Or she wraps them up and doles them out at Christmas to her unimpressed cousins. I’ve had a think and maybe Adele should make her next album a bit worse so she doens’t have to go through all this rigmarole again? Just a thought. Thank me later Adele (not with a Brit)…. And so here we are again…

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    Weren’t the pagans ridiculous? With their animal pelt clothes and their henges and their obsessive worshipping of the weather. Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Take that pagans. You guys were loopy! Not like now when we’re all modern and that. Our clothes are much better. But thinking about it all anyone has been able to go on about for weeks is the weather. Jokes, curses, threats – meteorological matters have taken over. And we’ve never built a good henge. Touché pagans. Touché indeed. Let’s be appalling…

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    This week The Weekender has packed its bags and come away to Amsterdam, a city predominantly famous for its excellent tram system. What’s that? Really? It’s legal! Whatever next? That too?! My tram-spotting plans are starting to look a little staid. Let’s do this thing first, European style (imagine an accordion playing throughout).

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    There once was a post called Weekender, its line between wisdom and nonsense was slender, yet it wasn’t a freak, foretold the end of the week and it appealed to readers of either gender. That’s a limerick (kind of) because I am feeling particularly playful this fine Friday (frisky if you will). I may have a spritzer or three tonight, so before I go completely off the rails you had better read on…

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    Right everyone. Word association. What colour is Friday? What smell? What EU country? What 1980s pop duo? What material? What musical instrument? What medicine? What sound? What texture? What size? What potency? STOP! No wrong answers remember. Now take that list and send it everyone you know in the world. And that’s how we roll. Use a hammer to break glass, The Weekender is going off…

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    You know what we need? A new word. A word that in one fell swoop encapsulates what it means to be The Weekender. The wit, the wisdom, the taste, the beauty, the style and the modesty. The ceaseless striving for online excellence and the razor-sharp writing. The terrifying strength and the mesmerising shimmies. The delicate empathy and elegant verbosity. But how would we even begin to coin such an all-powerful word, I hear you ask? We will pick two words at random and splice them together, that’s how. And so, for you, equivabomination! Job’s a good ‘un, non? Ever onwards….

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    Because it’s Easter, I think it’s about time we talked about religion. Me? I’m a respectheist. I respect ALL the major deities and some pretty minor ones too. The reason for my magnanimity is because I worship at the shrine of Sheryl Crow. Thanks to my committed Crow-mania, the It’s Nice That redesign has been very inspirational for me, because our Lady of Sheryl has wise words: “A change (change) would do you good.” She has little aphorisms like this for any occasion (All I want to do is have some fun” is another good one) but I’m not here to evangelise – each to their own. Let’s do this…

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