A problem Jared…

Please note: Whilst Alex Pettyfer is my passion, I do not close my eyes to all other hot men (of which there are many). Enter Jared Leto, who manages to be fit despite being the same age as my Mum.

Jared Leto is widely acknowledged as a rather handsome chap (oh, that man is hotter than the centre of the bleeding sun), and thanks to the popularity of 30 Seconds To Mars and his acting in several films, there is enough mancandy coming from his direction to keep even the most obsessive fangirl happy. Not that I would know…


He gives eyeliner sex appeal.

Even my brother agrees that Mr. Leto’s piercing blue eyes and dark hair falling over his face is buff. And he’s straight. That’s just how hot Jared is. Just look at him. Those eyes are like pools of copper sulphate.


Have you got a map? ‘Cause I’m lost in your eyes.

Sadly, this has not lasted. For some bizarre reason, Jared is fighting his good looks and has decided to do this to himself.


Bury me, bury me!

A blonde Mohawk… and huge sunglasses hiding his eyes… What?! Listen Leto, I am Regrettable Mullet. I know about tragic hair. I am thoroughly disappointed.

30 Seconds To Mars were interviewed in a recent issue of Kerrang! magazine. The resulting photoshoot looked like the Hairy Bikers had just run into Jedward’s long-lost triplet.


Jared had the same dreadful look at the Dior show in Paris.


Even Jessica Alba’s concerned. I bet she’s saying: “Hi, I’m Jess. You know, I’m going out with this really hot guy. He’ll be here any minute now... Oh my God, Jared! Is that you? What have you done to yourself?”

I am seriously considering removing my shrine to Jared due to this. I can only hope that he sees the error of his ways soon, ditches the bleached-blonde hair, and reverts to the buff ting he used to be.


And Jared, you couldn’t get Gerard Way to do the same, whilst you’re at it?

What I think of football.

Football Mania has swept throughout the country in a plague better reported than swine flu (and just about as deadly as that turned out to be). As one of the few unafflicted souls, I cannot see what is so incredible about several men in shorts roaming around a field for 90 minutes. The creators of football were forced to introduce a break halfway through every game to prevent people like myself dying from boredom whilst watching it. Because, the sad truth is, not much happens.

However, drawing on my previous World Cup experiences, it is possibly worse when something does happen. If England scores a goal, I find copious numbers of sweaty men thrusting themselves onto one another, and I am always the ill-fated soul at the centre of the bundle. I can only presume that I am being punished for some grotesque crime in a former life. What I do not understand is why a single goal causes so many people to completely abandon any attempt at self-restraint. You manage it at weddings; you’re happy then, but no-one rugby-tackles the priest or leaps onto the bride’s back in excitement. (My Mad Uncle Jack is an exception).

The players are just as bad, having violent group hugs whenever the ball hits the net. In fact, when Uruguay unexpectedly scored against Italy, they took things a step further.


Bromance is a beautiful thing… but this really is taking it too far.

It’s even more dreadful when the other team scores. I’m forced to brace myself for a bout of angry people shouting things like: “What?!”, “Oh, that’s right, just let them walk right in!” and “WHERE WAS OUR DEFENCE?” (Interestingly enough, I reckon the Trojans were shouting similar things when the Greeks came out of that horse.)

England’s had a pretty unpromising start, and seeing as it’s been a staggering 44 years (my MUM is nearly that old) since England last won the World Cup, it’s highly unlikely that the event will be repeated this year, or indeed, ever. In fact, I believe that it’s far more probable that Alex Pettyfer and I will start dating. Hopefully, my torment will be over soon, and England won’t last long in the World Cup.

But, if we do do well… I’m giving Alex a ring.

What I thought of Eurovision.

I set aside over 3 hours of my life to watch Eurovision 2010, though I do view the whole thing as an expensive waste of time. I have pondered before why we don’t just scrap Eurovision and make the contestants have a massive fight instead. Then I remembered we’d already done that in 1914. And 1939.

My favourite came quite early on in the form of Cyprus’ ‘Life Looks Better in Spring’. Despite having a guitar composed of 50% duct tape, singer *Jon Lilygreen was rather sweet, and the song was alright too. Disappointingly, Jon’s torso was not very impressive when he decided to bare it, complete with the slogan: ‘I <3 MUM’, but mine’s not much to look at either, so I forgave him.

Belgium’s ‘Me and My Guitar’ was a sweet performance that did very well in the competition. My only criticism is that *Tom Dice looks about 9. It’s not his fault, I know, but it makes me feel like a paedophile, as I couldn’t for the life of me stop staring at his tight trousers. (They really were tight. Am I the only one who noticed this?)


Tom Dice performing. Check those tight trousers out.

France had a very upbeat number, but about halfway through the song it became apparent that the choreographer had only come up with half a routine, and told them to fill up the rest by what is commonly referred to as ‘shakin’ their booties’. I don’t mind a few *thrusting Frenchmen, but it was a little excessive.

This year’s competition was full of its customary weirdness: women with wings, a fiddler on a giant record player, and a robot doing odd things with a rotating blade to name but a few, but for me, the most unfathomable of the lot was Armenia. The girl was singing about apricot stones. Is that a euphemism or something? Then there was the whole question of the 80-something year-old on a wind instrument. And at the end, for no apparent reason, a tree sprang up from the stage. I swear that was like a dream I once had, only the girl wasn’t singing…

There were a lot of underwhelming ballads, though I must say I did appreciate Israel’s. Admittedly that was only because of *Haral Skaat, the hot guy singing it. However, considering that Israel is located in West Asia, I question the decision to enter it into EUROvision.

Then the results rolled in. I knew the UK wasn’t going to do well, but coming last place really was an achievement. I think our defeat summed up our efforts quite well – hopeful but rubbish. At least it showed Josh that, whilst his song might sound good to him, it doesn’t sound good to anyone else in the whole of Europe.

Of course, it was Germany who finished in first place, so we were thrashed into the ground by a girl who can’t seem to stand upright on stage whilst flailing those skinny arms around, singing about ‘your lahv, lahv, lahv’.


Lena Meyer-Landrut, who rather got on my nerves.

She was incredibly annoying when they interviewed her, with her: “This is so absolutely awesome and I feel like…. this is not real!” and: “I feel so… I don’t know, it’s kind of… FREAKING OUT!”. I sighed in exasperation, but my mum just said, “Oh, she can’t help it; she’s European.” I must say, though, that my favourite consequence of Germany winning is the somewhat bitter Facebook group called: ‘Yes, Germany, you may have won Eurovision, but we all know who won World War 2’.

So after this year’s humiliating defeat, I hope that the UK will start to question why we even bother to enter. We might as well shove Cliff Richards on stage and see the end of it. Or, better still, get a big British band to perform – it worked with Turkey’s MaNga this year. (And yes, I did notice that their lead singer and guitarist were hot.)


MaNga's electric guitarist Yagmur Sarigul. Oh, he can pluck my G-String any day of the week.

Franz Ferdinand would be good, or better still, Muse. I know that I for one would be melting into a puddle on my sofa in front of *Mr. Bellamy. I would love to see Eurovision meet ‘Supermassive Black Hole’ – they could get some baseball players in and everything! (And bring *R-Patz along whilst they’re at it.) If we can’t win Eurovision with Muse and vampires, we can’t win it with anything.

(*I am very sorry that I just ogled all the men during Eurovision, (and plan to do so in future), but it was far more savoury than actually listening to what they were singing.)

Welcome to the Blog.

Welcome to The Life and Trials of a Teenage Cynic. My name is Regrettable Mullet (not really; my parents aren’t actually that cruel, though they did once make me clean the entire bathroom with nothing but a carrot and a lump of coal). This is my first blog. To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s really my thing. I’m more into muttering sarcastic comments under my breath, rolling my eyes at people and taking part in amateur dramatics.

From what I know, a blog is like a diary that everyone can see. I did once keep a diary, but it wasn’t really as exciting as I’d thought it might be. There were no massive fires or plagues or anything. However, some of my entries were particularly insightful.


I was very self-aware, and expressed my emotions with feeling and astuteness.

I also described important events in my life, and how my behaviour towards other people developed.


I doubt that this blog will be as sensitive as my innocent childhood diaries, but I hope that it will go some way to describing the life and trials of the teenage cynic I have now become.