This is how October started with a bang. A good hard one.
It was a Saturday, and it was shite. I was in towns, I was late. I was panicking slightly about being late. It was kinda cold, unpleasantly so. I had just brought a mobile top up voucher from Tesco (it took a lot of guts to admit that, guys), and, naturally, it decided it didn't want to work for me. So I didn't have a phone with which to text one of my friends to see if they were meeting anywhere for this gig, this thing I was late for, so I didn't have to go on my own.
Alas, I went on my own.
This fuck up on Tesco's part made me later, and more anxious. And it started to rain (it might not have started to rain, then again I might be hyperbolising some of this).
Little did I know it, but this gig would change my life.
As a result of that gig I went back to Cadbury's inspired. I immediately wrote the entire script, soundtrack and technical notes for my drama groups production (if by 'I' I mean me and Raj with input from the whole group, and by 'soundtrack' I mean the one we have yet to decide on). I know for a fact, even as we have yet to fully block or rehearse our scenes (or even title it), that it will be more groundbreaking than Waiting for Godot, more memorable than Hamlet.
I also researched, planned, trialed and created a mixed-media-video-sound-botanical high-concept installation masterpiece for my Art class, accompanied by an eight thousand word illustrated essay exploring my chosen subject matter through the work of other artists (none of this has happened yet, except the researching bit).
As for my English class, I've written a four thousand and fifty three page novel, of which my English tutor Mr Green has said is "more adventurous than than Homer's Iliad or Odyssey" and "more complex and linguistically challenging than Finnegan's Wake" (both of those quotes may have been paraphrased, and said paraphrases paraphrased, repeatedly, to the point of each letter being replaced or reordered) (and by 'written a novel' I mean looked at Waiting for Godot).
Perhaps most satisfying; my social status has sky rocketed and my private life hella more interesting. Having nearly impregnated twenty of the girls at my college, I eventually settled down with one, and we're now happily married with two kids. We hit it off proper at a party we went to for a friends eighteenth. At Go Kidz Go (The bit about the party's true, it was the best thing).
I couldn't be happier right now (I'm sure I could be if I tried), and it's all thanks to that gig I went to.
I got there, a pub called The Flapper, right next to one of Birmingham's canals, just in time, picking my way through the crowd of literally some people, to see the band finish one of their songs that I can't remember and fuck up a cover of 'Reptilia'. They actually stopped half way through so they could sheepishly ask the crowd if they could start again. The set picked up though, they delivered an awesome song called 'Vultures' and a pretty cool alt-rocky version of 'Stand By Me'. More people came. The room got sweaty. They left with a whole five pounds more than the headline act. I left enlightened.
So it was pretty all right, all in all. They've got another gig at Birmingham's O2 Academy tomorrow, which I'll be going to. Buzzin'.
The band, by the way, are made up of friends from my college. They're called Scarlet Creek. They're pretty good, lots of potential, I reckon.
They've just released their latest album 'I'm With You' to critical acclaim, and have pledged to perform their now infamous twenty-four hour song, in its entirety, live at their gig tomorrow. They've just announced a world tour throughout next year, and collaborating and playing with the likes of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Lightning Bolt, Neon Indian, Kesha and McFly, it's gonna be a busy as fuck year.
You should check them out here.
Good night.
-
"Vultures circling my head
Vultures circling the dead
something something
Rob's dad's a paedo" - 'Vultures', Scarlet Creek, Nevermind(1991)
Friday, 11 November 2011
Friday, 14 October 2011
September
So my dad had a birthday in September. That was all fine and dandy. I brought him a Hugh Laurie book and my brother brought him The Ramones (the actual band, not the album. We keep them in the basement and feed them cookies occasionally). And then he went and broke his arm playing badminton a few days later. Tsk.
So my dad's arm has been in a cast for most of September. Thus, I've started doing some housework, a concept that until recently was alien to me. It's actually quite liberating getting it done initially (as long as you don't inhale the fumes of the all-purpose anti-germ spray, apparently it also works as anti-lung spray), but the novelty almost immediately wears off.
I've also been busy going back to college with all my fwiends, all towering over the gleaming, hot-off-the-factory-floor and freshly polished brand new AS students. They're, erm, they're an interesting bunch. They're excited, and fairly excitable, about being in college and not school and they're moving on in life and ready to build a career and be famous and meet new people and smoke weed and go to college parties and like, totally do loadsa' girrrrls and it's gonna be totally awesome and we're gonna meet all sort'sa new people and then we'll go on to university and it'll be the same but better like OMG!!!11
But then they realise that actually, you do still do work, and you do get tired. As in: on a comedown from a high as high as Mount. Everest. But they're still totally excited about being in college, man, and all these parties are definitely gonna happen!!1 So they mope around zombie-like, frequently show public displays of almost entirely platonic affection and collapse onto the comfy chairs (The Squish: a large area full of comfy chairs in-between the canteen and the north block, in the absence of common rooms) complaining about having to move.
So pretty much what we did.
What we're doing now? Growing beards, apparently. My friend Michael's started combing his.
What am I doing now? I've got a new English teacher. He's called Mr Green. He wears his hair in a long, dark grey pony tail. He has a goatee to rival Lucifer's. He drives a Harley Davidson. His classes introduced me to 'Waiting for Godot'. That's pretty much all you need in a person isn't it?
My drama classes are currently consisting of me beating my group of six (me plus five) into line while I yell how to make a theatre production at them. Or not, but I am working in a group of five plus me to make our very own theatre production. We've come up with a neat little story: a guy sells his sole so he can be immortal, but after a while it all goes to shit. We've called him Doctor Fau - wait.
Oh, and we also invented a game about penguins which is literally the most fun you can have without playing the game about penguins while taking your clothes off.
I'm supposed to be doing my UCAS stuff for universities. But I'm writing this. Maybe this could help? Stick in the back of the application or reference?
Oh, and I bloody dropped photography. In hindsight, it was a bit crap, really. I learnt the basics of camera usage, but then the rest was photoshopping and artist research. A more apt title would have been photo-editing.
And that folks, was my first month in college as an A2 student. My AS brother seemed to enjoy it too, he might even have written about it in detail in his won blog.
I've just started typing things wrong.
I should go to bed.
Good evening.
So my dad's arm has been in a cast for most of September. Thus, I've started doing some housework, a concept that until recently was alien to me. It's actually quite liberating getting it done initially (as long as you don't inhale the fumes of the all-purpose anti-germ spray, apparently it also works as anti-lung spray), but the novelty almost immediately wears off.
I've also been busy going back to college with all my fwiends, all towering over the gleaming, hot-off-the-factory-floor and freshly polished brand new AS students. They're, erm, they're an interesting bunch. They're excited, and fairly excitable, about being in college and not school and they're moving on in life and ready to build a career and be famous and meet new people and smoke weed and go to college parties and like, totally do loadsa' girrrrls and it's gonna be totally awesome and we're gonna meet all sort'sa new people and then we'll go on to university and it'll be the same but better like OMG!!!11
But then they realise that actually, you do still do work, and you do get tired. As in: on a comedown from a high as high as Mount. Everest. But they're still totally excited about being in college, man, and all these parties are definitely gonna happen!!1 So they mope around zombie-like, frequently show public displays of almost entirely platonic affection and collapse onto the comfy chairs (The Squish: a large area full of comfy chairs in-between the canteen and the north block, in the absence of common rooms) complaining about having to move.
So pretty much what we did.
What we're doing now? Growing beards, apparently. My friend Michael's started combing his.
What am I doing now? I've got a new English teacher. He's called Mr Green. He wears his hair in a long, dark grey pony tail. He has a goatee to rival Lucifer's. He drives a Harley Davidson. His classes introduced me to 'Waiting for Godot'. That's pretty much all you need in a person isn't it?
My drama classes are currently consisting of me beating my group of six (me plus five) into line while I yell how to make a theatre production at them. Or not, but I am working in a group of five plus me to make our very own theatre production. We've come up with a neat little story: a guy sells his sole so he can be immortal, but after a while it all goes to shit. We've called him Doctor Fau - wait.
Oh, and we also invented a game about penguins which is literally the most fun you can have without playing the game about penguins while taking your clothes off.
I'm supposed to be doing my UCAS stuff for universities. But I'm writing this. Maybe this could help? Stick in the back of the application or reference?
Oh, and I bloody dropped photography. In hindsight, it was a bit crap, really. I learnt the basics of camera usage, but then the rest was photoshopping and artist research. A more apt title would have been photo-editing.
And that folks, was my first month in college as an A2 student. My AS brother seemed to enjoy it too, he might even have written about it in detail in his won blog.
I've just started typing things wrong.
I should go to bed.
Good evening.
Monday, 5 September 2011
August
Aaaand bam. Summers over. Back to school. Bugger off. Go on. Be miserable. I get to go to college again. And this time I'm dragging my brother with me. And he's having to go through stuff like enrolment and inductions. So ha!
Anyway, casting my mind back to the month just past...
Cue the wavy memory thing with the glittery music. You know what I'm on about? Yeah, that...
"Ah, home. After a decent holiday and a buttnumbing trip, I could really use a-"
"You're going to your mum's."
"But I've-"
"Pack yer bags. Again." [Boots kids out of front door straight into mothers ford focus.]
Well not quite, but nearly.
Once again, we visited our mum in Somerset, in her cottage on an old farm, which she lovingly refers to as The Funny Farm.
She seems to like naming things, our mum. Her and John's cottage is now entitled 'Rawshack 42'. I'm sure there is a reason.
The title might have something to do with the cottages somewhat shackish nature. Less of a shack, mind; more like a dump for John's old art projects, which have now been cleared out and dumped into the 'Shed', which is as big as the cottage is. And what I mean by 'old art projects' I mean tables covered with strange, strange objects which in turn were covered in cobwebs and dust. A shame that they've been moved, really, I feel I missed out on a rather good photo opportunity.
But it's good because now, apart from floor, there's a dining table - the one from our old house! - with chairs and candles and everything. That, with the bare stone walls and the high wooden roof with the exposed beams... we were seriously considering putting up tapestries.
And speaking of floors; the floor boards in my mum's cottage - sorry, Rawshack 42 - used to be shelves where cheese was kept after it had been made. They're wider than your average floorboard and you can even see the faint circles where the cheese sat. People used to make motherfucking cheese on the floor of my mothers cottage! Well... it wasn't really a floor back then, whenever 'then' was, but still! Oh, and these 'floorboards' are exposed, I didn't vandalise my mum's carpet or anything.
Now I know you're all just itching, itching your face off, to know what kind of cheese used to be made upon what are now the floorboards of its humbleness, Rawshack 42. Well, itch no longer, because it was goddamn mother fucking cheddar.
Yeah!
Speaking of cheddar, we went to visit the Cheddar Gorge nearby, which is totally where all cheddar comes from. We went into a cheese cave where everything was made of cheddar, except for the skeleton, which just so happened to be the oldest intact skeleton in Britain. What a bugger. I imagine it's bad enough being the last of your family. Poor sod probably just tripped and fell and happened to be conveniently conserved in cheese. Ah well.
The rest of the place was beautiful.
There were great halls of cheese, some stretching off into other halls that you couldn't get to because they're just too high, leading off into strange places.
There was stone-age graffiti; the shape of a mammal carved into the cheese, evidence of ancient life, ancient human life. Might have been the bloke to whom the skeleton belonged to, you never know.
Then there were stalagmites and stalactites, growing a few millimetres per thousands of years, reaching to touch each other. My mum had visited this gorge when she was younger, apparently one of the stalagmites was mere centimetres away from one of the stalactites. And we came only to find said stalagmite/tite/the-one-that-goes-down-from-the-top had been cut off, needlessly vandalised by vandals who never amounted to anything because no-one remembers they're names, the pathetic sods (unless they were foreign and that's how you pronounced one of them). This did happen in the seventies mind, so they've probably grown out of cutting things. One can hope.
After that, we visited the cheese museum, which was mind blowing, because everything there was made out of cheese too.
Well it wasn't, but everything in the above paragraphs is true if you stop imagining cheese and start imagining rock of brilliant golden beige that seems to gush out of every high opening like water from Niagara Falls, still and rock solid as if frozen.
I think my mum did have pictures, but I don't know where they've gone.
Another thing we did was go swimming, after buying shorts and goggles from 'Clarkes Village' and getting changed at the pools 'Changing Village'.
My mum didn't name either of those:
Clarkes Village is like a shopping centre, but it's where all the companies sell products that are deemed not to have a viable market, so they send them there, because it's Somerset and Somerset is full of mad people, so it's fine. Apparently people from all over the country flock here just for the few rare products you can get. I don't know what rare products. Glow in the dark... oh I don't ruddy know. Glow-in-the-dark plimsolls? It's fucking Clarkes.
The Changing Village of Wells' Leisure Pool is not a village going through constant technological and economical advances, neither is it half as dangerous or strange as it sounds. It's just a bunch of unisex changing cubicles, set into a labyrinth beside the pool. It's not even all that unisex; there are still separate toilets.
The pool itself is awesome. It describes itself as a leisure pool, and as such it doesn't have a serious deep end, more of a slight incline, which leads to a kids section (read: paddling pool) at one end. On the other end, there's a couple of jacuzzi areas, which are awesome, and, get this, a goddamn current, which picks you up gently, carries you out of the main pool section, into a sort of pool corridor (I guess that would be a river, really) that curves round and deposits you back into the pool, right next to where the current is, so you can unwittingly step into it and have the most fucking fun you've ever had in your life. Then they switch it off at four so all the kids'll get out and piss off and let the adults have some nice relaxing leisure time.
The pool is awesome.
What isn't awesome is how my ear canals somehow mistake pool water for the ear equivalent of fucking SARS and goes into quarantine, shutting down all systems by clogging them with earwax, all systems including not-being-deaf. Luckily, my mum's a teacher for the deaf, so I think I'm sorted in that department.
Oh yeah, my dad had a birthday the other day. I brought him a book by Stephen Fry and a book by Hugh Laurie. Happy birthday dad!
Thursday, 4 August 2011
July
Second of the months of Monsoon Season, and the last time I remember rain happening was today, and I was asleep through all of it, and it's turned warm again, and this is August so it really shouldn't be in this blog post anyway.
And have I really started most of these recent blogs by talking about the weather? You must be so far on the edge of your seats you've accidentally mastered the power of levitation.
But seriously, because this is relevant, how do you spend any length of time in Wales without getting rained on? Because that's about as likely as what I just described in the paragraph above. But it happened. Yeah, okay, I only went to Wales for four days, it probably rained on the fifth (or would have done if I'd stayed that long), but then you've got scenarios which are unheard of. Scenarios which are often relegated to the realms of facetiousness and sarcasm, or sheer myth and legend. Scenarios such as snow in Hell, polite company in Birmingham. Or someone coming home from a holiday in Wales with sunburn. Which also happened.
You wouldn't believe it unless you were there, and I was, so there. It was a trip organised by the English department of my college; a bunch of English students and a couple of tutors would go stay in the Aberystwyth University accommodation for several days, where we'd have lectures, days out exploring the beach and a castle, get drunk, and be inspired enough to write some mind blowing poetry which will be put into an anthology later on.
It was sunny there, constantly, so I bought some shades, some beers, we hung out on a beach, we built the Best and Most Epicest and Bitchingest Sand Castle Evar (seriously, it had a bridge, a gate house, a flag, a frigging fire on it and a moat with a crab in), we played drinking games, I passed out on my bed in my box of an apartment with my ipod on, we went to a castle place, we had a poetry slam, we played non-drinking games with the tutors (whilst drinking), it didn't rain once, we caught a goddamn taxi... everything went better than expected. Except for those hills. The uni and its accommodation was planted neatly atop a whopping great hill, which naturally, being English, people complained about.
I did also write a couple of poems, and snap some pictures, and I did plan on writing a poem intoxicated, but I'd left my notebook in the kitchen/common room that night and could only write on the back of a letter about the schedule and info for the trip, and it was rubbish anyway.
But that was just Wales.
When I got back home, term had ended and the summer holidays proper loomed, and what better way to start it than with an epic Saturday up town? An epic Saturday up town with a Zombie March, that's what. And also the chance to see a band a bunch of guys I know at college formed, who were gonna play a sort of free outside venue.
Instead I get whisked away up to Northhumberland. Ah well. We stayed at a nice cottage there, where the furniture and TV didn't look like they were from the 1970s, the weather was often nice and me and my brothers didn't spend all the time sleeping, so it could have been worse. We walked along beaches, we saw castles, we ate at The Official Hairy Bikers Best Fish n' Chip Shop in the Country (good god it was better than Jim Morrison), so it could have been worse, i.e. not worth it.
And we met up with our cousins in Edinburgh. It really is the sugar on the shortbread, the cake in the oatcake, irn in the bru. That whole sentence was awful, but you get the idea. You should really visit Edinburgh some time, or, indeed, go again, it's a wonderful place.
We round the trip off with a stop at my auntie and uncles flat, and end up coming home with a shopping bag full of CDs. So yeah, definatly worth it. I'm on Led Zeppelin's Presence right now.
Right, now if you'll excuse me, I've got an episode of Torchwood to watch.
And have I really started most of these recent blogs by talking about the weather? You must be so far on the edge of your seats you've accidentally mastered the power of levitation.
But seriously, because this is relevant, how do you spend any length of time in Wales without getting rained on? Because that's about as likely as what I just described in the paragraph above. But it happened. Yeah, okay, I only went to Wales for four days, it probably rained on the fifth (or would have done if I'd stayed that long), but then you've got scenarios which are unheard of. Scenarios which are often relegated to the realms of facetiousness and sarcasm, or sheer myth and legend. Scenarios such as snow in Hell, polite company in Birmingham. Or someone coming home from a holiday in Wales with sunburn. Which also happened.
You wouldn't believe it unless you were there, and I was, so there. It was a trip organised by the English department of my college; a bunch of English students and a couple of tutors would go stay in the Aberystwyth University accommodation for several days, where we'd have lectures, days out exploring the beach and a castle, get drunk, and be inspired enough to write some mind blowing poetry which will be put into an anthology later on.
It was sunny there, constantly, so I bought some shades, some beers, we hung out on a beach, we built the Best and Most Epicest and Bitchingest Sand Castle Evar (seriously, it had a bridge, a gate house, a flag, a frigging fire on it and a moat with a crab in), we played drinking games, I passed out on my bed in my box of an apartment with my ipod on, we went to a castle place, we had a poetry slam, we played non-drinking games with the tutors (whilst drinking), it didn't rain once, we caught a goddamn taxi... everything went better than expected. Except for those hills. The uni and its accommodation was planted neatly atop a whopping great hill, which naturally, being English, people complained about.
I did also write a couple of poems, and snap some pictures, and I did plan on writing a poem intoxicated, but I'd left my notebook in the kitchen/common room that night and could only write on the back of a letter about the schedule and info for the trip, and it was rubbish anyway.
But that was just Wales.
When I got back home, term had ended and the summer holidays proper loomed, and what better way to start it than with an epic Saturday up town? An epic Saturday up town with a Zombie March, that's what. And also the chance to see a band a bunch of guys I know at college formed, who were gonna play a sort of free outside venue.
Instead I get whisked away up to Northhumberland. Ah well. We stayed at a nice cottage there, where the furniture and TV didn't look like they were from the 1970s, the weather was often nice and me and my brothers didn't spend all the time sleeping, so it could have been worse. We walked along beaches, we saw castles, we ate at The Official Hairy Bikers Best Fish n' Chip Shop in the Country (good god it was better than Jim Morrison), so it could have been worse, i.e. not worth it.
And we met up with our cousins in Edinburgh. It really is the sugar on the shortbread, the cake in the oatcake, irn in the bru. That whole sentence was awful, but you get the idea. You should really visit Edinburgh some time, or, indeed, go again, it's a wonderful place.
We round the trip off with a stop at my auntie and uncles flat, and end up coming home with a shopping bag full of CDs. So yeah, definatly worth it. I'm on Led Zeppelin's Presence right now.
Right, now if you'll excuse me, I've got an episode of Torchwood to watch.
Friday, 1 July 2011
June
Ah, June. Well, what can I say? It's gonna be tough parting with you, it really is. You've been really great to me, as a month. No, really, you have. You absolutely have.
I mean, let's see...
Almost right away, off the bat, right when I cared, you gave me the answer, finally, of who River Song was. It was... well, not that game changing or consequential. The Doctor's already [SPOILERS n' stuff] been shot, we've already seen the child regenerate and we know Amy and Rory are her parents, and now we just know that she survived the whole ordeal the Doctor's going through now. Huh.
And the episode managed to be a bit mad while most of it happened in the first fifteen minutes or so. But anyway, June, you took it away before it could get any more insane and convoluted, and start to piss us off a bit like Russel T Davis did. (The only way it could be more insane is if the next episode was called 'Let's Kill Hitler'. Oh.)
Then you took me through that English exam, and made it so that it was the last exam that I had, and I thought this to be good. Also, you eventually cleared by cold up. That cold was a bugger.
Then it was off to a Chinese place, possibly called Ming Moon (but possibly not), which was £8 for an ALL DAY ALL YOU CAN FUCKING STUFF DOWN YOUR GULLET BUFFET OF PURE CHINESE AND THEN ICE CREAM AND SWEET BITS AND CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN FOR DESERT of which my friend had at least for four portions of main course. I had only two.
And following that it was back off to college. And then you had to fuck it up, didn't you June? You really tried to fuck my shit right up there, didn't you, by giving me a timetable full of three hour lessons. Three. Hour. Lessons. Oh, so I'm in A2, upper sixth now, so that's all well and good. Three. Hour. Fucking. Lessons.
But, y'know what June? It's cool. One of my art sessions was dedicated to an artist who does some cool landscape stuff. By going right up to the landscape and slapping that paint right on to the side of his motherfucking van. It's art, Bear Grills style (I'm running out of light for the hills, better drink my own piss. Good God I hope he never reads this). And my photography sessions introduced me to Pete Ashton. I think Pete Ashton is a pretty cool guy; he shoots pictrues through viewfinders of cameras and doesn't afraid of anything (Oh look! Two meme culture references in one paragraph! I am on it). Also, he got the entire class using Tumblr and Flickr. So I use those now.
And d'you know why else it's cool? Cos I got to see mah fwiends again. So yeah, tryin' ta' fuck up mah' month, June, cos' it failed. Even when it rained, there were some days where it was hot as fuck, so there.
But, June, what's really sweet about you is that you still felt the need to make up for it again by giving me a really awesome past week.
On Saturday, I went up to town to visit some friends, all innocent like, when suddenly Tomska and Bing turn up for a YouTube gathering in Birmingham. Y'know, like the ones they never have in Birmingham. Cos' it would be shit. Cept' this one wasn't, cos' me and my brother went and chatted with Bing, then I went and sat with him in a big, posh, grown ups pub that was too hot, where we discussed why in my old blog post about youtube going a bit wank I was totally right, and how offensive Lady Gaga is to, well, most things. (But I still kinda like Paparazzi. But it's that her music keeps getting worse and worse, and she's rehashing her old and tried ideas, and it's all getting more and more hyped by media and critics, as if she's someone who stands out amongst artists for being anything other than a MASSIVE BEG.)
And then I pulled my brother up from his mates hanging spot at the canals, and we hall had a chat with Tom and Jamie about being too young for things, and how freaky it is that your dick is as old as you are (my dick is 17 years old. That's older than... than Slipknot. Or the 21st Century. Or your cat. By the time it's 20 I'll be wandering how it still works) and we basically had a jolly old time.
And the following day was insanely hot and so I sat in my garden under a parasol, drinking a glass of Pimms, reading Things the Grandchildren Should Know by Mark Oliver Everett, or Mr E off that band Eels, and it's a book literally everyone should read, even if you think by 'eels' I mean slippery creatures that live in the sea going all Pikachu on their preys asses.
On Monday I met up with some more friends, which I definitley have and are completely real and not imaginary or anything, on Tuesday I did some stuff looking at the daunting, looming shadow of the great castle in the distance just on top of the hill, aiming all it's arrows and catapults squarely at us, as we charge right at it armed only with bits of reading matter and knowledge of things we've been told not to worry about (and some dead poultry), that is the prospect of going to University. After which, I went to an epic house party.
And, apart from the Wednesday whereby I did some more looking-at-uni stuph, it's been pretty chillaxed since then.
So thanks June. It's been good, no, great. It really has. And I'm not just saying that. All those other months, this is what they've been building up to. Aw, look, you're blushing.
I can only anticipate to see what July has install for me, just around the corner; a trip to Wales, a trip to Island... s'all gurd.
I mean, let's see...
Almost right away, off the bat, right when I cared, you gave me the answer, finally, of who River Song was. It was... well, not that game changing or consequential. The Doctor's already [SPOILERS n' stuff] been shot, we've already seen the child regenerate and we know Amy and Rory are her parents, and now we just know that she survived the whole ordeal the Doctor's going through now. Huh.
And the episode managed to be a bit mad while most of it happened in the first fifteen minutes or so. But anyway, June, you took it away before it could get any more insane and convoluted, and start to piss us off a bit like Russel T Davis did. (The only way it could be more insane is if the next episode was called 'Let's Kill Hitler'. Oh.)
Then you took me through that English exam, and made it so that it was the last exam that I had, and I thought this to be good. Also, you eventually cleared by cold up. That cold was a bugger.
Then it was off to a Chinese place, possibly called Ming Moon (but possibly not), which was £8 for an ALL DAY ALL YOU CAN FUCKING STUFF DOWN YOUR GULLET BUFFET OF PURE CHINESE AND THEN ICE CREAM AND SWEET BITS AND CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN FOR DESERT of which my friend had at least for four portions of main course. I had only two.
And following that it was back off to college. And then you had to fuck it up, didn't you June? You really tried to fuck my shit right up there, didn't you, by giving me a timetable full of three hour lessons. Three. Hour. Lessons. Oh, so I'm in A2, upper sixth now, so that's all well and good. Three. Hour. Fucking. Lessons.
But, y'know what June? It's cool. One of my art sessions was dedicated to an artist who does some cool landscape stuff. By going right up to the landscape and slapping that paint right on to the side of his motherfucking van. It's art, Bear Grills style (I'm running out of light for the hills, better drink my own piss. Good God I hope he never reads this). And my photography sessions introduced me to Pete Ashton. I think Pete Ashton is a pretty cool guy; he shoots pictrues through viewfinders of cameras and doesn't afraid of anything (Oh look! Two meme culture references in one paragraph! I am on it). Also, he got the entire class using Tumblr and Flickr. So I use those now.
And d'you know why else it's cool? Cos I got to see mah fwiends again. So yeah, tryin' ta' fuck up mah' month, June, cos' it failed. Even when it rained, there were some days where it was hot as fuck, so there.
But, June, what's really sweet about you is that you still felt the need to make up for it again by giving me a really awesome past week.
On Saturday, I went up to town to visit some friends, all innocent like, when suddenly Tomska and Bing turn up for a YouTube gathering in Birmingham. Y'know, like the ones they never have in Birmingham. Cos' it would be shit. Cept' this one wasn't, cos' me and my brother went and chatted with Bing, then I went and sat with him in a big, posh, grown ups pub that was too hot, where we discussed why in my old blog post about youtube going a bit wank I was totally right, and how offensive Lady Gaga is to, well, most things. (But I still kinda like Paparazzi. But it's that her music keeps getting worse and worse, and she's rehashing her old and tried ideas, and it's all getting more and more hyped by media and critics, as if she's someone who stands out amongst artists for being anything other than a MASSIVE BEG.)
And then I pulled my brother up from his mates hanging spot at the canals, and we hall had a chat with Tom and Jamie about being too young for things, and how freaky it is that your dick is as old as you are (my dick is 17 years old. That's older than... than Slipknot. Or the 21st Century. Or your cat. By the time it's 20 I'll be wandering how it still works) and we basically had a jolly old time.
And the following day was insanely hot and so I sat in my garden under a parasol, drinking a glass of Pimms, reading Things the Grandchildren Should Know by Mark Oliver Everett, or Mr E off that band Eels, and it's a book literally everyone should read, even if you think by 'eels' I mean slippery creatures that live in the sea going all Pikachu on their preys asses.
On Monday I met up with some more friends, which I definitley have and are completely real and not imaginary or anything, on Tuesday I did some stuff looking at the daunting, looming shadow of the great castle in the distance just on top of the hill, aiming all it's arrows and catapults squarely at us, as we charge right at it armed only with bits of reading matter and knowledge of things we've been told not to worry about (and some dead poultry), that is the prospect of going to University. After which, I went to an epic house party.
And, apart from the Wednesday whereby I did some more looking-at-uni stuph, it's been pretty chillaxed since then.
So thanks June. It's been good, no, great. It really has. And I'm not just saying that. All those other months, this is what they've been building up to. Aw, look, you're blushing.
I can only anticipate to see what July has install for me, just around the corner; a trip to Wales, a trip to Island... s'all gurd.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
May
Oh.
Sorry. Didn't you hear? The world's ended. Rapture happened. The universe 404'd.
Happened a little while ago actually. If you haven't already been taken up to a higher plane of existence then, well, I hope you've got suncream handy is all I can advise. Clearly I haven't. Gone to Heaven that is, obviously I've been stockpiling on suncream for a while now. I mean, I could, of coarse, be typing this from Heaven, but if thatweruhf; were the case then why would I want to communicate with mere mortals like you? And you, of coarse, could in fact be reading this from Heaven, in which case why? I had assumed that Heaven would have transcended from such things as the blogoshpere, then again that's only assuming.
So naturally, what with this Rapture thing happening, Gay Pride went ahead as planned last weekend. It was... loud. Didn't really do much to dispel the stereotype that gay people listen to euro-trance and electro-pop, whereby the only thing to differentiate between such genres is the tempo (referred to as 'bpm' to ward off intelligent folk) of the sheer repetitive thuds that pass for a beat, as that was all that was coming out of the various white tents that had been set up behind Birmingham city centre. Apart from the odd stage where local indie bands and 'singer songwriters' (see, the only thing more impressive than lgfyttftheir music is the fact that they wrote it) would desperately try to be heard by turning the amps for their electric acoustic guitars up to 11 and bashing their drum kits as hard as they could. Individual people who might have wanted to talk to each other? No chance. fjiewoa Hence why everyone simply got pissed off their balls, danced like it was the early nineties and made out with each other, regardless of gender or sexuality. And those who weren't dancing or making out with people, where either throwing up or looking after their mates who were throwing up. Just in case you're starting to think I might be cool and hip to be able to make out with random people at events like these, I was the latter. Did meet some new people thoughweif;ohj. So that was nice.
And that was Gay Pride, pretty much. Thing is though, I would consider the whole thing fairly homophobic. Read that again if you need to, it's not a typo. If people really wanted to defend or display their homosexuality, they could just do it by going out, not hiding it, acting like any other couple and just not giving a shit what anybody thinks cos' it's none of their business and if they don't like it they can fuck themselves. Just like any heterosexual couple. What Gay Pride seems to do is to put homosexuals in a niche that shouldn't exist and only does so because it's a remnant of an old fashioned, and quite probably much fwuiey more religious and right winged society which in this day and age should be dead and buried, and what that does is make the homophobic minority feel like they actually have something to rally against. Having a Gay Pride event is akin to having a Disabled Person's Pride event where these people are being put into a class where the non-disabled heterosexual of western society can feel like they are somehow above them, and it's okay to think this way because society says it is, when in fact they should be treated no different from anyone else because to do so is stupid and ignorant and low and on the same level as racism. Surely singling out homosexual couples as different from everyone else, in whatever manner, whilst also providing cannon fodder for homophobes and potential protesters, is homophobic?
Except, to look at these Gay Pride events like that is kind of missing the point.
Gay Pride is just an excuse for a party. One great big massive street-wide party, full of noise and music (noise) and booze and day glow clothing (awesome skirts and necklaces you could buy) and gay guys with matching haircuts marching around shirtless and gay girls making out with anything female and straight guys trying to make out with anything that moves. Some smart alec even put fairground rides up, the kind that are covered in Christmas lights and cost a ridiculous amount if money and a limb to ride on. And any promoting of 'gay' as differenthvuieal from anything else is just the general style and attitude of it all. If society's going to drop all same sex couples into a niche where they're judged then why the hell not hit back with a giant fist with the words 'AND PROUD' scrawled across the back of it? It's their right, and who the hell would turn down a massive party?
-
Meanwhile, when I'm not in gay pride events and pretending to have a social life, I'm at home, on study leave, doing what could only be described as 'studying' in the loosest possible sense.
I've already done what was my General Studies exam, which is exactly what it says on the tin and since you don't know what might come up as a topic in the exam, requires exactly nil amount of studying, unless you want to try and study every topic in the known universe (won't be much left of it by October, unless you're in Heaven, but we've had this discussion), in which case you'd better start early.
What is my final exam, cos' I'm a smug bastard who chose mostly practical topics, is for English Literature and Language,w;eiofh which isn't two topics rolled into one but rather the best of both, that is if you really like writing stories and stuff, and varying degrees of analysis of spoken language features and other peoples writing (Angela Carter, is who I've been studying. She takes elements of fairy tales and works them into stories about girls who shag werewolves, girls who are werewolves, girls who get created, loved, killed and fucked by some guy within two pages, basically what you can find a lot of on 4chan. Except really, bloody good, uniquely and brilliantly written).
And that's on Monday. Which is a mixed blessing since I don't have any other exams to look forward to but I'd better kick my arse into studying gear. Or not. Might wing it.
Also, I've got a cold. And yes, I'm sneeswfhuiewazing. I can barely see what I'm typing for layers upon layers of snot upon my screen and the mountain of tissues that used to be my bedroom, which is also obscuring the backspace key.
Yes, I'm exaggerating. I'm a male, what do you expect?
Atiwefiu;hychoo.
Sorry. Didn't you hear? The world's ended. Rapture happened. The universe 404'd.
Happened a little while ago actually. If you haven't already been taken up to a higher plane of existence then, well, I hope you've got suncream handy is all I can advise. Clearly I haven't. Gone to Heaven that is, obviously I've been stockpiling on suncream for a while now. I mean, I could, of coarse, be typing this from Heaven, but if thatweruhf; were the case then why would I want to communicate with mere mortals like you? And you, of coarse, could in fact be reading this from Heaven, in which case why? I had assumed that Heaven would have transcended from such things as the blogoshpere, then again that's only assuming.
So naturally, what with this Rapture thing happening, Gay Pride went ahead as planned last weekend. It was... loud. Didn't really do much to dispel the stereotype that gay people listen to euro-trance and electro-pop, whereby the only thing to differentiate between such genres is the tempo (referred to as 'bpm' to ward off intelligent folk) of the sheer repetitive thuds that pass for a beat, as that was all that was coming out of the various white tents that had been set up behind Birmingham city centre. Apart from the odd stage where local indie bands and 'singer songwriters' (see, the only thing more impressive than lgfyttftheir music is the fact that they wrote it) would desperately try to be heard by turning the amps for their electric acoustic guitars up to 11 and bashing their drum kits as hard as they could. Individual people who might have wanted to talk to each other? No chance. fjiewoa Hence why everyone simply got pissed off their balls, danced like it was the early nineties and made out with each other, regardless of gender or sexuality. And those who weren't dancing or making out with people, where either throwing up or looking after their mates who were throwing up. Just in case you're starting to think I might be cool and hip to be able to make out with random people at events like these, I was the latter. Did meet some new people thoughweif;ohj. So that was nice.
And that was Gay Pride, pretty much. Thing is though, I would consider the whole thing fairly homophobic. Read that again if you need to, it's not a typo. If people really wanted to defend or display their homosexuality, they could just do it by going out, not hiding it, acting like any other couple and just not giving a shit what anybody thinks cos' it's none of their business and if they don't like it they can fuck themselves. Just like any heterosexual couple. What Gay Pride seems to do is to put homosexuals in a niche that shouldn't exist and only does so because it's a remnant of an old fashioned, and quite probably much fwuiey more religious and right winged society which in this day and age should be dead and buried, and what that does is make the homophobic minority feel like they actually have something to rally against. Having a Gay Pride event is akin to having a Disabled Person's Pride event where these people are being put into a class where the non-disabled heterosexual of western society can feel like they are somehow above them, and it's okay to think this way because society says it is, when in fact they should be treated no different from anyone else because to do so is stupid and ignorant and low and on the same level as racism. Surely singling out homosexual couples as different from everyone else, in whatever manner, whilst also providing cannon fodder for homophobes and potential protesters, is homophobic?
Except, to look at these Gay Pride events like that is kind of missing the point.
Gay Pride is just an excuse for a party. One great big massive street-wide party, full of noise and music (noise) and booze and day glow clothing (awesome skirts and necklaces you could buy) and gay guys with matching haircuts marching around shirtless and gay girls making out with anything female and straight guys trying to make out with anything that moves. Some smart alec even put fairground rides up, the kind that are covered in Christmas lights and cost a ridiculous amount if money and a limb to ride on. And any promoting of 'gay' as differenthvuieal from anything else is just the general style and attitude of it all. If society's going to drop all same sex couples into a niche where they're judged then why the hell not hit back with a giant fist with the words 'AND PROUD' scrawled across the back of it? It's their right, and who the hell would turn down a massive party?
-
Meanwhile, when I'm not in gay pride events and pretending to have a social life, I'm at home, on study leave, doing what could only be described as 'studying' in the loosest possible sense.
I've already done what was my General Studies exam, which is exactly what it says on the tin and since you don't know what might come up as a topic in the exam, requires exactly nil amount of studying, unless you want to try and study every topic in the known universe (won't be much left of it by October, unless you're in Heaven, but we've had this discussion), in which case you'd better start early.
What is my final exam, cos' I'm a smug bastard who chose mostly practical topics, is for English Literature and Language,w;eiofh which isn't two topics rolled into one but rather the best of both, that is if you really like writing stories and stuff, and varying degrees of analysis of spoken language features and other peoples writing (Angela Carter, is who I've been studying. She takes elements of fairy tales and works them into stories about girls who shag werewolves, girls who are werewolves, girls who get created, loved, killed and fucked by some guy within two pages, basically what you can find a lot of on 4chan. Except really, bloody good, uniquely and brilliantly written).
And that's on Monday. Which is a mixed blessing since I don't have any other exams to look forward to but I'd better kick my arse into studying gear. Or not. Might wing it.
Also, I've got a cold. And yes, I'm sneeswfhuiewazing. I can barely see what I'm typing for layers upon layers of snot upon my screen and the mountain of tissues that used to be my bedroom, which is also obscuring the backspace key.
Yes, I'm exaggerating. I'm a male, what do you expect?
Atiwefiu;hychoo.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Rapture's Delight
Strike a crucifix pose. That's it, arms wide. Look nice and dramatic.
Erm... bit late innit? Ah well.
Erm... bit late innit? Ah well.
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