The Art of Rhysisms

Rhysisms [Reece Is-ums]: Stupid, no meaning sentances. Created by Rhys Wynne [Reece Win] for his blog, The Art of Rhysisms. [more..]

Runner up in the best tagline catagory of 2004 Bloggies

A Googlewhack for the words "Pocketable Tourniquets", which I created myself.

Support International Webloggers Day! July 9th, 2004
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Member of the New World Whore-der in the Liverpool University Ten Pin Bowling Club.

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Sunday, August 31, 2003

Joke of the Day
An Englishman, Irisman and Welshman are caught behind enemy lines in World War Two. They are having trouble escaping.

Who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler?
"Look!" Shouts the Englishman "There's a wall, we can hide behind that."

The three troops run behind the wall, and hide from the Germans. Where they notice a better place to hide.

"Look!" Shouts the Irishman. "There's a wooden hut. Lets hide inside that."

They all move towards the hut, under heavy gunfire, and hide inside it, where the Welshman (being brilliant), makes a suggestion.

"Look!" Shouts the Welshman. "There's three sacks. Lets hide inside them."

They scramble inside the sacks, just before the Germans breakdown the door of the hut. One of them kicks one of the sacks.

"Woof!" Shouts the Englishman.

"Ah ha!" Says the Germans. "Zere is only dogs in zis bag.". He kicks the bag that the fantastic Welshman is in.

"Meow!" Shout the Welshman.

"Ah ha!" Says the Germans. "Zere is only cats in zis bag.". He kicks the bag that the Irishman is in.

"Potatoes!" Shouts the Irishman.

COMEDY GENIUS! I was in stiches in the pub tonight. Write up tomorrow or whenever I can be arsed. Whichever's later.

Keep the faith


Friday, August 29, 2003

A Thing Of Beauty


I don't care if one's old enough to be my grandmother.

I've Got Two Tickets To Iron Maiden Baby
Well, I haven't. I know it's a longshot, but I've got a spare ticket for Lifehouse at The Manchester Acadamy (6th September), and I'm willing to let go of for about a fiver. Anybody wants it, then E-Mail me, and we'll sort something out.

Keep the faith


Thursday, August 28, 2003

Going for a song
Hello there Bargain Hunters! Curteosy of The Scary One, it appears that the Mighty Colwyn Bay Pier is on E-Bay. Bidding for this monstrosity that I spent most of my GCSE Results day (Weathers had yet to be built then, and The Prince Madoc we got chucked out of) getting drunk there. For prospective buyers, I am going to tell you what else you get for your hundred grand odd, as I've spent many a day there.

The Colwyn Bay Pier in more glorious days. Now those days have Disap-pier-red. Ha Ha! Geddit?!?
  • A "Jiggin' In The Riggin'" Fruit Machine with the 'Collect' And 'Exchange For Feature' buttons knackered (a guarenteed moneyspinner).
  • A bar with local residents (one of which used to be me, before I got my fake ID)
  • A carpet that smells a bit like urine (my fault, due to GCSE Results day)
  • A toilet that smells a bit of vomit (see above)
  • A lovely place to fish.
  • A fantastic place to see the Eirias Park fireworks without standing in mud for three hours.
  • A brilliant place to see the Eirias Park weekly "Meet Warrior from Gladiators Firework Display" (serious), without forking out 20 quid for the priveledge.
  • So now that I've no doubt sold you the idea, you must be asking: "Why am I, a resident of Colwyn Bay, not bidding for the blasting thing?".

    Simple, the buggers wont pay for P+P.

    In The Sheets
    Incidentally, the site has made the front page of the 'North Wales Weekly News'. Needless to say they hate it 'oh it should go to the locals', kind of attitude. Balls to that. The locals are either drugs, tramps or peadof..err..paedoph...err...'Child Lovers'. I say give it to some Russian Businessman! He'll know what to do. And, while he's there, sort out the footy team and pay for my education. Thanks.

    Add your own caption. Come on! You've got the words 'woman', 'thighs' and 'poles' to work with. Shouldn't be too tricky.
    Run Away!
    Since Monday, as work has been busy, I have been watching the World Athletic Championships. It's something that's on TV, that you can drop into and just watch for hours on end. One thing that strikes me is the commentator Peter "That Guy's Got Arms Bigger Than Most People's Legs" Dickenson sounds like he's from the Benny Hill School of Commentating. Although I had not said anything about this, it was confirmed in a column in The Sun, which analysed some of Peter's comments from the Britains Strongest Man competition:-
    "Here comes Brian Bell, hands burning but a couple more tugs and he'll have it over the finishing line."
    "Lee Bowers squats down and referee Brian Edmunds puts his thumbs up."
    Nice to see I'm not the only one with a dirty mind.

    Like A Bat Outta Hell
    Again, thanks to The Sun, North Wales' Police Chief Constable's daughter has been caught doing 69mph on a 50mph stretch of the A55, which I'm less than a mile away. All I can say is this: 69? Hell, I've been in a car that has clocked 107 on the same stretch of the road. Admittedly, it was in the middle of the night. But in a Golf (racing a Vectra in a backwards 2 Fast 2 Furious stylee nonetheless) that was impressive going. 69? I've seen faster Milkfloats.

    Funny Screename That I Just Had To Nick Of The Day
    One of my brother's mates is known as "11 88 88: Half the price of BT 192, but twice the numbers.". Comedy Genius! To see this in the flesh, just add me to your MSN list: (rhys_boy84).

    Saturday Wait, Sunday's Never Come To Late
    Next update probably Sunday, as I'm working tomorrow and Saturday, well I probably won't be arsed. Nevermind, I will have something to write about come Sunday, as Saturday night, the first time since Little Miss Short, I will venture out to The Big House - the first time since making an arse of myself there. Should be fun mind, as my mate said it was going to be 'The Bender to End All Benders', with Futurama recently cancelled, I can probably agree.

    |UPDATE| It appears it didn't sell. Bugger eh?

    Keep The Faith


    Monday, August 25, 2003

    We Stop To Inform You
    Bugger my break. I've summit to say.

    I've found this on Roland site (original Post):-

    You're really growing on me....
    "Permission To Land - The Darkness (I was skeptical at first, but the more I listen to this, the more I realise how much The Darkness fucking rock..."
    I guess that Roland could say: "They're really Growing On Me."

    Boom Boom.

    So Close And Yet So Far
    People who read Max's Blog may know that he went to The Welsh Mountain Zoo (which now has an official site, one where I was not consulted with). However, whilst giving an debatably accurate description (which I read to my brother, who said 'bullshit' many times: but we see it every day) he didn't say anything about the Zoo's most cherished tourist attraction: me. Fuck the Bengal Tigers (not literally), I draw the money. Anyway, I was working in the cafe for most of the day (as one of the senior workers knackered their ankle, and took over whereas the [debatably] more abled body was sent to work in the cafe), and (if he ventured in there), probably would of seen me. If so, I bet I spoke to him without realising. Admittedly, it was probably something along the lines of "Two hot dogs and a chip butty: Four fifty please", but spoken to him nonetheless.

    I suppose it was for the best, as it wasn't meant to be. I mean, if he did indeed speak to me, then my mystique would certainly be lost. Plus my work mates would of spent all Saturday finding this site, and ripping into me on the messageboard and comments. Well, the ones that can use a computer, anyway.

    Still, I am both shocked and indeed appalled that he didn't spend his time scowering the Zoo, nay, the North Wales coast looking for me. I mean, he spent half his Saturday looking at nothing much. (Max, word of advice: When it said 'Nocturnal' on the Zoo sign, read 'We cannot be arsed putting an animal, so we're going to put some trees down, and call it a den'.).

    Still, I bet he was avoiding me. Probably got his face painted.

    Keep the faith


    Sunday, August 24, 2003

    If You've Said, What You Want To Say. You Said Them Yesterday Just Walkaway, Walkaway, Walkaway
    Taking a little bit of a break from blogging at the moment. Probably about half a week to a week, but I'm a bit busy with work at the moment. All I can say was that Doves were amazing. I cannot really describe what it was like (you just had to be there) but it was pretty intimate (about 800 people). The support band (My Morning Jacket) turned out to be really good, and were really appreciative of us all coming out to see them. I suppose that because not many bands appear in Llandudno (besides bands that includes school kids that stumble their way through half a dozen Greenday songs), that those who do we grasp lossely but firmly in the palm of our hands, and squeeze as much enjoyment out of them in the hour long sets they play. Anyway, a cheap intimate Doves gig, what more could you want on a Friday Night?

    So, I'll be off for a few days, I've a busy working week this week - what with it being bank holiday (I'm praying for a snowstorm), and I really have nothing special to talk about. So, instead of talking about stuff which really wouldn't interest you, I'll bow out for a bit.

    Keep the faith


    Friday, August 22, 2003

    I Just Want To Push You Around, well I will, well I will.
    In work, one of the more lavish treats is Popcorn. Popcorn (which also has a humourous anagram: Cop Porn) is what we call 'Loose Stock', so we have to dig it out of the warmer to serve it to the customer. Anyway, this incident happened yesterday.

    See? I am not the only one who eats popcorn with my hands. Apparently that's wrong mind.
    A customer came in and asked for popcorn, and, when served, she knocked it over. Not a lot - about an 8th - and it wasn't worth refilling. She knew that, but what about the spillage?
    "Excuse me. Have you got a bin to put this popcorn in?" she said.
    "No I haven't sorry, there's a bin just outside, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you put it in there as you leave please." I replied.
    "I'm not fooking touching that." She retorted. This kinda shocked me.
    "Beg your pardon?"
    At this point, her lesbian lover (well, probably her friend, but lesbian lover sounds more interesting) came in and demanded to know what was going on.
    "What's going on?" She said.
    "This man is refusing to clean up after me!" The popcorn buyer replied.
    "We'll see about that." She said, and knocked the pile in my general direction.
    Now. Maybe I only got a 'D' in A Level Biology, but surely you eat Popcorn with your hand. And I'm pretty sure as soon as a piece of popcorn hits my counter, it doesn't turn into liquid uranium.

    I'm all for clenliness, I generally don't try and drink anything that can cause me to vomit (alcohol notwithstanding), but there is a limit. I asked for a favour, and got popped kernals shoved back in my face. Rather like that bloke in Not Another Teen Movie, when he gets popcorn thrown at his face.

    And if those two customers are reading this, why not visit the cinema and watch it? While you're there, have a popcorn. Hey, it's on me.

    Look Mum I'm On The Telly!
    Anybody in both the HTV or Granada areas switch on your televisions now (as of 6:06 GMT). There will be a report on a do we had in the cafe this morning, and you can see me! I'm already accepting bookings. Today Granada TV, tomorrow: Broadway!

    We're Gonna Drink Bacardi like, it's your Birthday
    As it's regular reader Cyn's Birthday, and she likes Haikus, I've taken the plunge and written one in all of two mintues.
    Happy Birthday Cyn,
    You think this is a haiku,
    Well. It aint.
    God, I'm glad I'm wearing my corset, as my sides would of split.

    Catch the Sun
    Doves in little over an hour and a quarter. I know you're jealous!

    Keep the faith


    Wednesday, August 20, 2003

    Dammit All To Buggery
    I made a comment that re-reading one of my posts made me sad, but didn't cry. Well, sorry to smash some of that strong Welshman machismo but I cried tonight.

    Not over a girl, oh no, that'd be pathetic, but over something more important: Football.

    Yep, Wales lost a fairly crucial game in the European Championships, losing 1 - 0 to Serbia/Montenegro. Although still top of the group, they will have to go to at Italy and grab a draw to realistically have a chance of qualifying for the next stage automatically. They are well set to go through the playoffs, but we could get anybody (even England). We should of escaped with a draw, which meant that we could of suffered a loss in Milan and still won the group. Now we could be in trouble.

    But still, if you told me that we'd finish 2nd in our qualifying group at the beginning of the campaign, I'd be happy, so I'm not too downhearted. The only thing is that the goal was a blantant foul. You just cannot knee people in the back. With this the obvious reason thatthe former Yugoslavia scored, I believe that it is a bit of a let down, especially if we don't qualify for Portugal. Bugger eh?

    You're Not Singing Anymore
    Plans were unveiled in work today for a match of England/West Germany 1966 proportions. Welsh Mountain Zoo Car Park Staff vs. Welsh Mountain Zoo Cafe Staff. Due to the fact that we (cafe) have 1 smoker, no cripples, and a few that aren't actually that bad (though nobody did believe my 'Reincarnation Of Sir Stanley Matthews' line) at the old footy, I reckon we could give them a kicking.

    Now all we need is somoene to get off their arses and organise the bloody thing.

    Dumbass Customer of The Day
    It's amazing the stupidity of you lot. No, not you personally. But the general public have got a few individuals in their midst who don't really pull their weight. Exibit A:-
    "Err hi. I bought a Maxibon, and it didn't come with a lolly stick, can I have a refund?"
    For those of you unaware of the regulation standards of Nestle's finest hour in terms of Ice Creamery, the standard issued Maxibon can be seen here.

    Useless information #1
    Amazing factoid learnt by me today: The White Stripes version of "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself" is a cover of Dusty Springfield's err.. "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself". I'd love to say now that I learnt that fact from one of my walking musical Encyclopedia (Dave The Cat springs to mind) but my mum suprised me when the new video (with officially the world's ugliest pole dancer in it) came on The Box (that's the telly, not the piss poor 'Music' channel), and she knew all the words. It's amazing how the old suprise you.

    Vindaloo, Nah Nah Nah*
    I may be going for a curry tomorrow, if so then I won't update the blog until Sunday, as Doves is Friday, night out is Saturday, and Sunday is my next day off. God I work too hard.

    Keep the faith


    * Do you know what Vindaloo is in Welsh? Fyndalw. No shit.

    Tuesday, August 19, 2003

    Always Look On The Bright Side of Life
    With the risk of this site degenerating into one of those whiny, complaining blogs you always see, I'm going to talk a little more about Little Miss Short again, as slow business, England trouncing South Africa in the cricket and not being totally satisfied with the post last night. So here goes:-

    Get in there you beauty!
    Last night I was thinking again about her. And talked about her in work. Then I thought "Jeez Rhys, get over it." and slapped myself in the face (well, not really). Then I thought, why am I think about it? I think why I am thinking about it for a long time is that the other times I'd pulled or come close, I had made the first move. Last Saturday, she did. I had just been little more than an innocent bystander fresh from a ?8 win on the Monopoly machine, boldly making my way onto the dancefloor. She came upto me and started dancing, not t'other way around. Why? There is only one reason why: In that darkened room, in her drunken state, she found me in some ways attractive. She couldn't of known about my money situation (ie. financial security of a dustman), so she couldn't be after my money.
    Okay, warped logic that even Vulcans would have stratching their heads saying "Eh?" to. But, by golly, if it makes me feel good, and more confident (and it does), then I be damned if anybody changes that.

    He shoots he scores!
    Couple of football things to talk about, firstly, is this. International Online Soccer is the new Half Life patch, and is pretty nifty. Still in it's beta stages, it sees you taking to the pitch to the classic game of 11 vs. 11. Basically, unlike almost every single football game ever (bar Namco's excellent 'Libero Grande', Nintendo's excellent 'Nintendo World Cup', and Anco's ancient 'Player Manager') you don't play as a team, but (like Namco's excellent 'Libero Grande', and Anco's ancient 'Player Manager') you play as a single player, and have to rely on part on your team-mates, where everybody else is a real, living human being (well, except the Goalies). It works suprisingly well, but there are still a few bugs in it (to shoot you have to tilt your head completely back, very difficult to judge, and quite difficult to control the ball). Anyway, theres no Wales in it, you have to be England instead.

    Sort of linked, I'm winning the Ex-Eirias High School Pupils Fantasy Football League on Yahoo after the first week. I will be champion! So I've decided on doing this. It'll probably be pants, and nobody joining, but nevermind. Should anybody want to join a league, I've set one up. It'll probably be pants, but still To join up, create a team, and join this Private group:-

    Group ID#: 31888
    Group Name: Bloggers Annonymous
    Group Password: blog

    Hubble bubble, Toil and trouble
    Today I was cursed in work today. Not cursed in the 'arse shit wanker' sense, but in the voodoo sense. For what? Not supplying any ice cream to a family of gypsies. Where's a bloody leprachaun when you need one eh?

    Goldfish goes, keep standing on my toes, fun fun fun, in the sun sun sun.
    Three words: About Bloody Time. Craig Charles will probably never recover to pre-Robot Wars levels of credibility, but it'll be nice to see Dave Lister again.

    Keep the faith


    Sunday, August 17, 2003

    What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?
    Simple, they return home and watch The Premiership. Not a clue what I'm talking about, then read on!

    David who?

    Yesterday, I went out in Liverpool. After last Friday, I was a bit apprehensive (which is why I went out in Liverpool, where you're guarenteed to have a good time) as I made a bit of a tit of myself last Friday. Not so here. Well, not unless I really want to.

    We hit a bar outside Liverpool called Yates', no relation to the Wine Lodge. Quite possibly, it was the poshest bar I've seen in a long time. Literally. I've never been out in London, but I imagine it would be like Yates', only more expensive. There was a guy who helped you in the bogs (to wash your hands, before all of you think I've done a George Michael) and loads of stinky sprays. Really posh ones. So covered myself in the most expensive one, and went out smelling like a walking pot pourri.

    You may tut, but that's when the Wynne magic happened.

    I said le hey. Le ha. Le hey. Le henni boonee il a henni bougli bougli la be. (or summit like that)
    You see, my mate was eying up these birds in Yates', but having little luck. However, with my heavily fragranced body, and one perfectly choreographed dance of the Ketchup Song later, these girls were looking at me, and not in a point and laughing way (well, maybe just a little), but they've realised in there presence is a genuinely fun guy. Which, by amazing coincidence, was me.

    One round of photos on disposable cameras later, and we were off, into town, already (for me) more successful than most normal nights. However, it got better.

    We went to RSVP, a club in the hive of activity known as Concert Square. This club has been featured on this blog before, well known for it's large abundance of cheesy music and fit women, none of which I managed to pull. On Saturdays however, it's heavy dance, and still full of fit women. One of which (who shall henceforth be known as Little Miss Short, as she was a bit smaller) took a liking to me.

    The time was about midnight, and, me and my mate were dancing with Little Miss Short's mate (who we shall call Little Miss Tall, as she was taller of the two), whilst Little Miss Short was being noticably harrassed by a bunch of Uncle Fester lookalikes (lightbulb in mouth trick aside) who were old enough to be her father. I didn't notice this, until she, in a desperate attempt to escape Mrs. Adams' baby boy flung her arms around me.

    Little Miss Short was gorgeous, short, slim, blonde hair. We danced together for about an hour-ish, with her dance during Benni Belassi's "Satisfaction" would turn any straight woman to a lesbian. Yes, there was plenty of the 'push me, and then just touch me', but the question remained: Did I get my satisfaction?

    Alas no. About one o clock, Little Miss Short suggested that I'd buy her a drink. A bloody expensive Smirnoff Ice, nonetheless. After the purchase was a quick peck on the cheek, a little light conversation, and then did something that at the time, was worse than never speaking to me at all.

    She buggered off.

    Scarpered, ran away, dissappeared. With my Smirnoff Ice nonetheless. I'm like a guy who has had a heart transplant, and I don't take rejection well, and last night was no different. Unlike the two other times, I did nothing wrong. I mean, I didn't grab hold of their breasts, or the time I requested Dexy's Midnight Runners' "Come on Eileen" to my bird....Eileen. Nope. I was in the clear, in my eyes, so I left soon after with my mate, broken hearted (he tried to get Little Miss Tall), and, after stopping by at a chippy, we stumbled home (with me blubbering away with something like 'I'll never meet another like her') and watched The Premiership.

    Despite Little Miss Short breaking my heart and crippling an already weakened student bank balance, I did have a good night out. Certainly beat last Friday anyway.

    Keep the faith


    |Update|: God, I've just reread this post and (with REM's "Everybody Hurts playing in the background) it's made me depressed. Not crying depressed, but just a bit sad. Show some sympathy dammit!

    Friday, August 15, 2003

    Away for the weekend
    And so I didn't go out. Working late, lack of friends doing the same and the scary hallucination that I may have been banned for last weeks events meant I didn't go out. Instead, I'm heading off to Liverpool tomorrow to stay with a couple of my friends, possibly go out, and search for the rarest item on the planet at the moment: The Darkness tickets. Whether I shackle up with some scouse bird I don't know, what I do know is that my impending return on Sunday night will yeild a full blow by blow account of my 24 hours of being a student again.

    Keep the faith


    Wednesday, August 13, 2003

    I really did have an interesting story, honest, about something that happened. However, instead, I'd thought I'd show some holiday snaps. Heavily compressed, as I'm running out of space:-

    Aled (center) puts on his "I'm enjoying holiday!" face. Check out my sun tanned legs!

    Newsflash: I wasn't sick due to alcohol on Friday, instead it was due to heavily out of date war-time milk. 1949? Get away!

    Customary Brixham Mum pose with children. my fly undone?

    Brixham harbour. Apparently the furthest red + white striped boat to the left of the picture is famous for some reason. When I know, I'll get back to you.

    Me, sheltering my Pasty + Chips from the bleeding seagulls. Also, whence finished, I went into the Amusement Arcade just to the left of me and won about ?7 on the Monopoly Fruit Machine. Result!

    And finally a sunset picture from my caravan site, that pisses over Roland's sunset pictures from such a great height, that if you were to go to said height, you'd die of lack of oxygen.*

    Right, there we have it. No update tomorrow. Tomorrow is however results day for Richard, where he recieves his AS Results. Whilst he won't be celebrating yet (he's off to V. Bastard.) some of his year, the year above him and the year below him are going out to Llandudno. As we know a good proportion of both years, our lot are also going out, just to gatecrash a few parties. So I probably will be drinking. Sorry, I'm spineless.

    Keep the faith


    * Oh, I didn't take any of the pictures. My mum took most of them. So don't go prasing me. Actually, scratch that, praise me!

    Monday, August 11, 2003

    Bit bitty really
    About 3 or 4 little posts, strung together for easy digestion.

    Doves? Fairly Big Band? In Llandudno? Get away!
    There Goes The Fear
    Apparently, Doves (is it 'Doves' or 'The Doves'?) are playing in Llandudno in about a week and a bit. Hands up who saw that coming? Seriously, Llandudno has about much pulling power as getting big bands as my shed. Coldplay next? Oh here's hoping!

    Through The Keyhole
    As a student, it is my god given duty to watch as much daytime television. Thankfully, not the 'Woe is Me' Kilroy (I'm not usually awake enough to watch it). I've already sung the praises of programs in the midday slot, Bargain Hunt especially. Another mainstay, is 'Through The Keyhole', presented by Sir David Frost and Lloyd 'I'm a Posh Yank' Grosman. Basically, it's ego rubbing for minor celebrities, where you invite them round to your house and then a panel of even minorer celebrities guess who's house it is. Whenever they get a clue right, the audience clap like a hyperactive seal. Example (this was today):-
    Long Haired Bloke, know the face: "All that football memorabilia, I'm's a man?"
    That was when there was a 50/50 shot. They went into hysterics not seen since Beatlemania whenever Long Haired Bloke got the correct guy.

    And you wonder why Bargain Hunt is so kick arse.

    Your mother was an 'ampstere, and your father smelt of eldaberry!
    And here's the customary quiz, just to pad it out a bit more:-

    French Guard I'm French! Why do think I have this outrageous
    accent, you silly king-a?!

    What Monty Python Character are you?
    brought to you by Quizilla

    Before anybody says anything about myself hating the English: I'm technically Welsh, therefore I can (although I don't, well. Except in the international football stakes). No leave before I taunt you ze second time!

    Keep the faith


    Sunday, August 10, 2003

    El Championales!

    New Manchester United Keeper Tim Howard: He didn't play half bad. For an Yankenite

    Yes. It means nothing. Yes. It's a poor guide to form. But, yes, we are the Community/Charity/We need some goddamn clarity Shield Champions, after beating Arsenal 4-3 on Penalties. All I can say, and I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Arsenal are cheating buggers. Once again, Fanny Jeffers had a dirty game, and there was cheating throughout from the London boys. Never mind eh, as another piece, no matter how worthless it is, of silverware is heading up the M6 back to the mighty Old Trafford.

    As much as I'd love to gloat about a gloryfied friendly victory over the dirty Arsenal, can I just say how great it is that the football season is almost on us again? I'm not really a summer person, not least because I have to work during the summer, and am well and truly a paid and priveledged student over the winter. But I love football, and whilst the lower divisions and Scotland kicked off yesterday, Manchester United kick off their Premiership defence next Saturday. I can hardly wait.

    See, if I get my water bottle, and shake it really hard, this is what happens!
    The Magic Century
    The UK broke the 100F mark earlier today, and Heathrow Airport was the lucky place. A lot of people have been complaining about the weather because, well, we're Blighty, that's because that's what we're like. Now usually, I'd join the said complainers, except for three reasons made me not complain:-
  • It's been bloody freezing oop North.
  • I'm on me hols.
  • I put a tenner at Billy Hills on us knocking the 100F mark this week.
  • So, finally, the weather is pulling it's weight. Result!

    I should be back to work on Tuesday (I asked if I could work mid-week, and have the weekend off as I'm off to Liverpool, I'm such a shewed businessman, aren't I?). It better not be bloody hot then.

    Keep the faith


    I'm not very proud of myself at the moment. For me, this is big. It's like the Queen getting a nipple pierced in shockingness. Yes, now I've been eating humble pie like it pie. Why is this? Well, the events are still a bit of a blur. Nevertheless, I'm sure what happened.

    I'd been drinking steadily since about 5pm, and had very little to eat: a deadly combination. After a fairly successful hour or so in Broadway (didn't pull, but spoke to loads of people), I got up, felt a bit dizzy, and there and then, on the dancefloor, churned up my stomach. I tried to keep it in, and most of the liquid stuff went all over my shirt and jeans. Figuring the worst (ie. the bouncers seeing me), I legged it. Didn't tell anybody. I just wanted to go home.

    I went to hop into one of the taxis, when the driver stopped me. "Yer covered in spew!" he said. I tried my best to hide it, but my smell and dripping wet clothing all made sure that I was walking tonight.

    It was then however that the steaming drunkeness began pulling it's weight. One of the benefits of living by the coast is that on your within spitting distance of the sea. However, there's a small paddling pool on the front. Fearing that if I wandered into the sea to clean I might end up in the obituaries, I made a concious effort to clean myself in the paddling pool.

    Actually, no I didn't, I sort of stumbled into the paddling pool. Picking myself out of the pool, covered in sea salt and puke, I actually manage to flag down a taxi. Hopping into it, and got home. I then threw up again all over my bed, and cried myself to sleep.

    Yep. I hated the feeling. I'd ruined my night out. So now, let it be said, I'm making a concienous effort to give up the booze. Maybe not totally, but never, ever going to be as bad as that again. No way. I'm the sort of person that doesn't need drink. I'm bright, bubbily and, despite me protesting against it, interesting. I don't need drink to be sociable. Everytime I've pulled anywhere, it's always been when I've been relatively sober. Last night was anything but. So, give up beer. For the most part, anyway. It shouldn't be too difficult. The last part of last year I was relatively sober anyway, due to a large proportion of my mates at university all being tee-total or near enough. At the beginning of the year, I thought that a tee-total student was like goldust. Besides, if the yanks our age can do it, then by god, so can I. Right? RIGHT?!?

    Bend it Like Beckham
    However, there have been a few things that have made me happy.

    Gary 'The Legend' Lineker. Just watch yer crisps around him.
    First and foremost is that the legendary Saturday night telly, Match of the Day, is coming back. Those of you who didn't know: ITV bought the rights for the Premiership, creating their own program, called, yep, The Premiership. A distinct lack of action, ad breaks and the overpresence of Ron Atkinson generally made it a bit shit, and made men all around the country yearn for Gary Lineker, Alan Hansen and Lawro for Match of the Day. Now that the Beeb have the rights for the Premiership, it will make watching that so much easier.

    I've also been playing with the new Messenger today, and I quite like it. Takes a bit of getting used to, but I so want to use the new features, as all my mates are back in retarded Messenger 5.1. Anybody wanting to travel with me to this brave new world, and hav a game of solitaire or owt like that message me on rhys_boy84@hotmail[dot]com, as it would be nice to kick someone's arse at something, as I'm god on three things: Dancing Stage, Daytona and Draughts, anything else I'm fair to middling. Ta m'dears.

    Keep the faith


    Thursday, August 07, 2003

    Back for good.
    Hello! I'm back from my travells from sunny sunny Devon. Due to the spectacular dying on it's arse of "Postcards from Haven" coupled with that I haven't got free WAP minutes (instead only got a "Temporary Free Minute Gesture" or some crap from O2), I left it half way through, instead transferring my thoughts onto classic pen + paper. Unfortunately, due to my god awful handwriting, most of these concious thoughts I cannot reread. Those which I can decipher are mostly crap. However, I've digested these comments, drunk a lot, and spewed them all back up for your reading goodness.

    Sheep Shagging
    Fair play to the sods. Those Plymouthians who last year spent all holiday reminded me that myself and my fellow countrymen have extra-marital relations with sheep were back again this year. Fortunately on a different caravan site to yours truly, but I saw them a couple of days in Teignmouth.

    Now, Teignmouth has two famous things going for it in the last week:-

    1. Top quality rockers Muse come from Teignmouth
    2. It hit the news for this.

    Yep, during the hottest weeks of the year some sewage spilled out onto the front of Teignmouth, which could be nasty. As I generally keep away from the sea as much as possible (I'm scared of jellyfish), I was in no danger. However, all of the rather worringly extensive Plymouth family were in the water, even when the red flag (which means don't go in, in case you cannot work it out) was flying.

    Whilst not wishing any sort of illness on said family. It sorta proves what sort of intelligent being swims in a heavily polluted sea.

    That's it! Left, left, right, down, up...bugger. Where me trousers?
    Caught with my pants down

    As I wouldn't be seen dead in the sea (because it would give my stomach a Kebab-esque infection), I headed over to the other jaunt of the seaside, the pier. More specifically: the amusement arcade. Regular readers (or those who have had the pleasure to witness this event) will know that I hold the record for the heaviest known human being to actually be any good at Dancing Stage. I can pretty much hold my own at level 5 songs: which means that I'm not like a teeny girl who does it to S Club, but not one of those people who play it religiously just do it to get laid*. I selected 'End of the Century', a relatively easy 4 star song. I was halfway through when something came loose. Yes, the piss weak belt used to hold up my shorts had somehow, in the midst of the dancing, stretching and jumping to the half step repeaters (ask one of those afformentioned players), buckled under the pressure. Luckily, to save face, I made a desperate grab to my crotch to combat the effects of gravity.

    Unfortunately for me, and indeed nearly all the onlookers, I didn't make it, and I was wearing the most unflattering pair of boxers as well.

    The Mini-Goth Revolution
    Goths. Generally I like them. A couple of my friends are goths, and I know a few bloggers who are also. However, I don't like those ones who are just goths for the hell of it. Picture the scene (it's important, so it's going indented):-
    Devon Valley Holiday Village, somewhere outside Devon. In the cabaret suite, some bloke is wailing away to a little Tom Jones ditty, but that's not where the action is, oh no. In the amusement arcade, or as they call it, "The Games Zone", everybody's favourite Welshman and his younger brother has been approached by a goth. They look each other in the eye. Well, they would, except the goth is tiny, and about 6.

    Me: [doing the best Britney Spears impression] I love rock 'n' roll. Doesn't really matter if your three feet tall.
    Minigoth: Shut up. Or I'll beat you up.
    Brother: [ever the diplomat. Yeah right.] Hold on Rhys. [looks at the goth's hoody] You like Korn?
    Minigoth: Favourite band ever.
    Brother: What do you think of 'Life Is Peachy?'.
    Minigoth: errrr...

    He then started that quivering of the bottom lip little boys do to try and stop crying. Despite being awfully cruel. It was really funny.

    So I'm a bully, sue me.

    Matt Bellamy's Mother
    Well. I think it was her. If so, she runs a new age shop in the back streets of Teignmouth with all sorts of Muse posters on the wall (seriously, a lot. Including pictures of her with the band). Surely someone approaching pensionable age would not be fans of emo-goth-rock. Can they? (my mum, whilst not approaching pensionable age - just clearing that up so I get my pants washed - has admitted a liking for the White Stripes).

    Cosmopolitan and Japanese Tourists
    Both these stories aren't as interesting as they were when I posted yesterday. Basically: Cosmo was that I bought it without realising it was a girlie mag, and actually liking it more than certain blokes magazines (Maxim, I'm looking in your general direction), although not a patch on FHM. Japanese Tourists: They were suitably impressed with my skills on Dancing Stage. Before the pant falling incident.

    So the final question still remains: Did I pull? Did I thump. It's probably a good thing as if I did, I'd probably get arrested and get banged up with Gary Glitter. Nevertheless I still had a really good time. The amount of middle aged women came upto me with their dearest little kids saying 'You'd make a great father' did put a smile on my face. Unless they were trying to chat me up, in which case I completely missed it.

    Plus, I've been sober for a week. Next time I get mullered I'll be totally wrecked on a fiver. Lovely!

    Keep the faith


    * To be honest, I say 'wierdos' because I'm kinda jealous.

    Wednesday, August 06, 2003

    Home for summer
    Tomorrow signals the end of my holiday. To hear stories of my time away (including such gems as my Cosmopolitan purchase, being caught with my pants down and meeting Matt Bellamy's mother, plus the 'Mini-goth' phenomenon, endearing myself to the Japanese and answering the $64000 question: did I better myself in the pulling department than the time 4 years ago in Weymouth, where I kissed a bird from Birmingham, who had no redeeming features except a huge pair of breasts for a 15 year old), tune in tomorrow for these half remotely interesting stories. Or maybe the day after. Hell I don't care.

    Keep the faith.


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