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
Supporting Every search is a direct hit.
Member of the New World Whore-der in the Liverpool University Ten Pin Bowling Club.

About The Author


mailto.gif E-mail me!
Online Status Indicator rhys_boy84
Online Status Indicator rhyswynne


IRC Chatroom
#liv10pin room on quakenet!

Support me!


Amazon Crap:

Top of The Blogs

Blogroll Me!

If you would like to link to me, you can use this button:-

The Art of Rhys-isms

Recent Posts


Random Stuff



powered by Bloglet
Review my site:
Review My Site

RSS Feed:
This gif is freely copyable. Just right click, save
Powered by
RSSify at WCC


« # Blogging Brits ? »
The Welsh Bloggers Directory.



Gone, but not forgotten...

A Teenager Blogs
Imperial Doughnut
Not The Devil
Whatever I Say

If you would like to link to me, you can use this button:-

The Art of Rhys-isms


Designed on a computer with IE5.5, with resolution 1024x768 16 Bit colour. But it should degenerate okay. If you're lucky. With the wind behind you.
Thursday, October 30, 2003

Everybody Hurts, Sometimes
And my time is today. Let me explain.

Yesterday I achieved what I set out to achieve from day 1 in bowling: get a century. It occurred on my first game, which I scored 102, result! That, added to my rather excellent 94 handicap, meant on my first game, I scored 196. This score pisses over my 68.00 average I've been bowling. Admitedly, my next two games of 50-odd and 75 sort of rained on my parade, but I broke 100, and that's what counts (plus I was handicapped in the last two games, due to me catching the club secretary twice in a minute with the old schoolboy error trick of extending your hand out to shake it, before retracting it and laughing in their face).

Doo doo doo. C'mon lets do the conga.

To celebrate, the club convinced me to go on their Athletics Union Disco night, which was held in Edwards in Liverpool. To be honest, I had a great night. I was strawpedoing with the best of them (losing, but still strawpedoing with the best of them). Also, being an Athletics Union, there are a lot of fit women around (in both senses of the word), so last night was very easy on the eye. We had a spot by the stairs, and was chanting 'Hello Hello!' whenever someone can I put would, came walking down the stairs. Yes, sexist and quite derogatory. But if you don't like us chanting 'Get your tits out for the lads', you wouldn't wear a dress that nigh on exposes them anyway.

The music was akin to the stuff they play at weddings or holiday camps. La Macarena, Saturday Night, The Music Man and more all made their appearance. As a regular visitor to Butlins Torquay, I have an in-depth knowledge to all of these dances, and was very popular when they came on. So much so, Conga.

Leading a conga gave me so much pride, as you officially say to the world by doing so "I am so much of a man, not only am I not embarrassed by the stupidest dance in the world, I'm so comfortable with my sexuality that I'm prepare to forego the chance of holding some woman's arse for two and a half minutes.". I took my conga everywhere. Upstairs. Downstairs. Toilet. Outside. Everywhere. You name a place within a two minute conga dance of Edwards in Liverpool, then I probably took my conga there.

Mr Miyagi, can I come down now?
The only bad thing about the night was during "Kung Foo Fighting". Our oggling spot at the bottom of the stairs was right next to the Karate Club's designated area. When Kung Foo Fighting came on, they thought they were Daniel-San and began crane kicking mid-air. Unfortunately, one kick went awary and landed right onto my bowling hand fingers. Showing my masculine side, I screamed like a girl. I looked down at my attacker: a short, blonde haired girl. She apologised, but it was did little to heal the emotional would that I've been beaten up by a girl.

So, that's why I'm hurt. Along with my groin throbbing (no, not that way) and my right thigh being very uncomfortable - so much so that I more collapse down stairs than walk down them - altogether means that my 102 came at a very, very big price.

Keep the faith


Wednesday, October 29, 2003

It's Just, A Little Crush. Like I faint, Everytime We Touch
Hello. My name is Rhys Wynne, and I have a problem. I have a crush on Cavegirl.

Hubba hubba!
Since my quite scary emphatuation of Avril Lavigne whereby I'd go into a lustful trance whenever she was on the telly, I thought I was over my lusting of famous people, ready to build meaningful relationships, but then Cavegirl came into my life.

For those of you who don't know, Cavegirl is a program on CBBC which features men and women wearing tribal gear and doing random stuff. It's very similar to the excellent Maid Marian and Her Merry Men TV show from years ago (King Richard from Marian is the Tribal Leader in cavegirl. Therefore, It's not as funny as the Flintstones, but Cavegirl dumps all over Betty Rubble from a great height.

Anyway, Cavegirl is blonde, and has very hamster like qualities. Not that I'd want to kiss a hamster, no. But you know how you get a hamster, and you go "AAAWWWWW it's soooo cute!!"? Like that, but only for a person. She is the personification of hamsters everywhere, and I like it.

Aaaawwwww it's soooo cute!!
Speaking of hamsters, isn't this gorgeous?

Aww bless.....

Who says I have no sensitive side?

You throw like a girl!
Interesting site of the day: The Gender Genie. In it you type out something, and it can tell whether you are a boy or a girl. Those of you who think I look good in mascara will have to wait, as thankfully my writing style is as masculine as Mascline for Men. However, when including a passage from Cyn's Blog (which had the words 'Boobs', 'miniskirt' and 'orgasm'), she was said to be male.

Well, it is what we think about?

Keep the faith


Tuesday, October 28, 2003

It's Been A Bad Day, Please Don't Take A Picture
Today you will experience a rarity on this blog: cranky Rhys. I'm a happy happy kinda guy, but today I'm struggling. I had a fairly good last night down the pub (even if the people I was with took an eternity to arrive), but today I've been feeling a bit, well, meh.

Sum1 cum up wth cption plz?
I was woken at about 8am by my mobile going into hyperactivity. I recieved a text message that saying "Due to a billing error you've been undercharged for a service. This has been rectified". Excuse me? But say I undercharge someone for a sausage and chips, I accept the mistake, and move on. I don't see employees of Maccy D's running around collecting money from their mistakes from undercharged McFlurries. Why should this be any different?

It was only 50p, and I'm sure I'll lose more than that this week in the bandits, but it's the principle of it. I'm not sure companies are allowed to do that, but my knowledge on Business Law is lower than Mini-Me stealing a baby's pacifier. Anybody know different?

Couple that with the fact that I've got three assignments to do in two weeks, and, as you can imagine, I'm miffed.

|Update| It's amazing how much better the world is after a chip butty :)

Keep the faith


Sunday, October 26, 2003

The Clocks Go Back, Railway Track, Something Blocks The Line Again
Today, thanking Ann Charlotte for reminding me, the clocks went back at some godawful time in the morning (2am, methinks), the supposed short term advantage is we get an extra hour sleep - although in practice I usually get up an hour earlier.

Clocks go back and I cannot save. Tides I try to swim against.
What I want to talk about is the BEGINNING of British Summer Time - where the clocks go forward an hour - in Springtime. "Oh no!", I hear the more observant cry, "You get an hour less sleep!". Yes, but there is one known advantage, which one of my mates exploited this springtime.

Myself and this mate (who shall henceforth be known as Scott, not his name for the fact that I don't want to stroke his ego any further) went out to Time Tunnel on Saturday Night. We had a few to drink, and we hit the dancefloor to pull.

It was about midnight this time, and I found and danced with one of my female friends (who shall henceforth be known as Stephanie, not her name) for a bit. Sure, Steph is attractive, but we shared a brother/sister friendship for most the time we've known each other. She bent me over (not that way, to speak to me) to ask me someething:-

"That Scott is really attractive, I'd like to get to know him a little better."

Not being a sadistic one to deny the course of true love, I ushered Scott to one side, and asked him what he thought of Stephanie. He said he found her really attractive. I mentioned that she felt the same. Within about ten minutes, they were dancing and doing other things in each other's arms, leaving me as the old third wheel (Readers: this would be a nice part to show some sympathy).

In the short time they realised their true feelings for one another, things blossomed, leaving me to drink onmy own. As I lived in the same halls (not the same building mind) as Scott and Stephanie at the time, they were considerate enough to call me over to ask me if they wanted to share a taxi home. I accepted, and went back to Greenbank Halls, where Steph went to Scott's room at around 1:45am.

Couple of things I should mention at this point: Scott has a really fancy alarm clock that is radio controlled. Basically, it's similar to the clock on Windows XP in that it recieves signals (in Scott's case, via radio) telling it to update the time if and when need be (for example if it's running slow, or that there's an hour change). These updates eminate from Grenwich and it happens every hour.

The scond thing is that the clocks went forward by one hour at 2am.

A few days later Stephanie caught up with me, and I asked her how the night went on Saturday. To which, the usually dignified and well spoken woman replied:-

"That Scott is a great shag. It started at two, and he lasted fult pelt until half three! I enjoyed myself so much that I didn't feel like an hour and a half long!"

Despite the graphic description implanted in my (and indeed yours now) mind, I told Scott about his skills. He too didn't realise that his dynamo-esque lovemaking skills was largely due to the hour change. He probably did, but when was the last time a man didn't boast about his skills in that field?

Sure enough, Steph and Scott are still together, but Steph (understandably) hasn't been as happy with Scott since that first night.

Keep the faith


Saturday, October 25, 2003

DNA - The National Dyslexic's Accosiation
Last night I spoke about that nasty nasty e-mail with my brother. He reminded me of a similar story which occured last year in university (well, similar in the fact that there's bad grammar on both parts).

Early April 2003. The football season's coming to close, Iraq was kicking off and my brother - as a birthday treat - visits me to watch Placebo in Liverpool. It would be the second time he's visited me in the old F'Block, the first being to see Feeder in February. As such, he knows the people on my old corridor fairly well, and has struck a bond with most of them. One such individual is Penfold.

Penfold, formally Alex Dawes, lived across the corridor from me. He's called Penfold due to the striking resembelence to the character of the same name from Dangermouse. From this mention on this blog, he will go down as the most famous residence from Royal Tunbridge Wells. Anyway, 'Dynamo Dawesy', despite being one of the nicest, humble and funniest people I know, has three major flaws with himself:-

  • He's a dirty Arsenal fan
  • His feet smell real bad
  • His grammar is awful, and makes mine look like Charles Dickens'.
  • The last point is Penny's achilles' heel, and caused him massive problems in the first year. If he was an Engineer, Mathemetician or Scientist, he'd be okay - grammar is not needed in this. However, he studies Ancient History + Archeology, which has more essays in a week than I write in a year. With very strong essays on the Fall of Rome and whatnot being seriously downgraded because the entire essay was practically three one-thousand-word-sentances long, the Ancient History department began wondering what to do.

    They came up with an answer, and, on that day he was ordered to take a dyslexia test.

    I remember speaking to him in the morning. He was nervous, and staring in his cornflakes akin to most hungover people. He didn't want to fail it. We (being me and the boys) reassured him that - even if he was dyslexic - he was doing brilliantly to get this far in life, overcoming odds in such a way that this problem has only just been spotted, in his nineteenth year on this earth. We parted ways, myself off to pick up Richard from Liverpool Lime Street, and Poor Penfold to sit one of his most important tests of his life.

    We saw each other again at about 6pm that evening, when me and Richard gatecrashed his room to watch The Simpsons, after plesentaries were exchanged, I had to ask him:-

    "So, how did your test go?"
    "Well, there was good news and bad news. The good news is that I'm not dyslexic."
    "Excellent, and the bad news."
    "I'm just an idiot."
    Quote of the day!
    The internet is great at lying. I mean, I often type 'LOL' to people, and I rarely am actually laughing. If so, it's not actually out loud. To be honest, I think my mates realise this, as I often type 'LMAO' and I rarely see my arse being surgically removed. I digress. This comment on Ryan Mcgee's blog had me in stitches (although, not technically actually in stitches). The subject - suprise suprise - is about the most recent Smackdown! event, in which there was some controversy in the last match:-

    If I remember correctly - he pinned Brock, after a chain shot to the head . . . which ironically enough was the exact same way I got my wife to marry me. "

    - Rob, October 24 2003

    Program Of The Day!
    Curteosy from a post from Britt's blog is Evil Lyrics, a program that downloads lyrics from the internet so you can sing along to all your favourite songs. It's pretty updated (The Darkness), precise (SOAD "Chop Suey") and thorough (it has Matt Hardy's Theme Song lyrics). Anyway, it allows me to sing along to my favourite songs, without looking like - too much - of a tit.

    And a little Update!

    "YOUR GAY!


    - Reply to my reply to the nasty nasty e-mail.

    I'm not a scorer on arguements, but chalk one up for the Rhys-meister.

    Keep the faith


    I Am So Great, I Am So Great, Everybody Loves Me, I Am So Great
    Well, not quite. Today I got my first piece of hate mail for this blog. I'm pretty sure as well it's a first in the history of blogs getting hate mail. Sure, blogs get hate mail all the time, but usually do to controversial and risqué content. However, mine is for another reason:-

    "Go back to school, for fuck's sake. It's "could have" and "would have", not "could of".

    Saying "could of" and "would of" is what the people with IQs of 30 and below do. It makes your words sound worthless, because someone so mind-blowingly thick couldn't possibly have anything sensible to say.

    "Could have".

    Remember this wisdom. It will serve you well next time you expect someone to take you seriously. "

    - Email sent to me by some guy on 24 October 2003

    Dear Infadel Bush. I like you, yet your grammatical skills are rubbish. Therefore, I must kill you!
    Instead of some of my more controversial content (ie. the many reasons why Arsenal are rubbish), risqué (ie. Phil McCrackin - who receieved another mention in one of my lectures. Could I keep a straight face? Damn right I couldn't) or anything like that. He decided to bash me (not that way) by my lack of grammatical skills.

    I may joke about this now, but for the time I got my e-mail I wa petrified. After all the trouble in the world about people being poor role models for the kiddies, and - with the frequent mention of heavy drinking sessions glamourising it - I'd thought I'd be one of them. I'm suprised that it's my lackluster attitude towards the Queen's that will destroy Little Jimmy's chance of making something of his life.

    At the risk of bringing Miss Bigg - my GCSE English Teacher - to tears, I really couldn't care less about my grammar (and, to be honest, Miss Bigg was more worried about my handwriting), as all of you read this site, and love it, don't you?

    Anyway, I did what any individual with pent up agression from a near endless stream of Nigerian Scam E-mails: I unleashed on the poor bastard. My response is the following:-

    "Dear XXXX,

    Firstly, I am presuming you're talking about my weblog, as you were in such a rush to point out my really quite minor grammatical error that you didn't state which one of my many sites you visited. Nevertheless, I hope to answer all your questions.

    > Go back to school, for fuck's sake. It's "could
    > have" and "would have", not
    > "could of".

    Go back to school? Christ, I'm approaching twenty, and half way though university. I can assure you that, yes, whilst my grammar may not be perfect, I seem to lead a varied, intelligent and sociable life without it. Thankfully Microsoft Word sorts out my grammatical errors, so I can worry about the more important things in life. Maybe you should do.

    > Saying "could of" and "would of" is what the people
    > with IQs of 30 and below
    > do. It makes your words sound worthless, because
    > someone so mind-blowingly
    > thick couldn't possibly have anything sensible to
    > say.

    I can assure you my IQ is higher than 30 and I'm not thick. Maybe I don't have anything sensible to say, or some things I write are worthless. However, lots of people enjoy the site, and find me witty, informative and entertaining. Half of them would freely admit they don't know the difference between a semi colon and a semi conductor, you calling them thick as well? Most of my readers either have or are gaining a degree from higher education of some form. I never ask them to read the site, they choose to because they like it. They can't ALL be wrong, can they?

    > Remember this wisdom. It will serve you well next
    > time you expect someone to
    > take you seriously.

    I never want to be taken seriously! Far too many people (including yourself) take themselves far too seriously. I do stupid things, I take the piss out of myself, I'll freely admit that a girl could beat me in a fight, and a ten year old can drink me under the tabley. And guess what? People love and appreciate my honesty. Why? Because it's a likeable trait. I don't enjoy the company of people who take themselves too seriously: they're boring, egotistical and far too explosive.

    That being said, thank you for your e-mail. If you're not content with me answering your queries please visit my site and ask one of my many readers, or better yet come to Liverpool, whereby some of my many acquaintances (both through blogging and real life) will gladly tear you a new proverbial arsehole. Rhys

    My response. 25th October 2003

    Not only did I manage a strongly worded (well, by my standards) well thought out (again, by my standards) e-mail, I also managed to get the word arse in at the end. Result!

    One problem with being a relatively down to earth easy going kinda guy is that my hate mail writing skills are shite. Of course, I would of blame my easy-like-sunday-morning attitude to life, but instead, the real reason is that me grammar is shot. Nice to know that, isn't it?

    Keep the faith


    Thursday, October 23, 2003

    Bowlin' Aint Easy
    As The Godfather once said (that's ex WWE wrestler, not the excellent Mario Puzo book): "Pimpin' Aint Easy". The same theory I believe can be applied to bowling, as it aint easy.

    Roll up a fatty, for pimp daddy. Light that mutha up and say "BOWLIN' AINT EASAY!"
    My third week at bowling, and the ultimatum was 'Get over 100, or you'll buy us all a drink'. Balls, I was under pressure, and I needed some relief.

    That relief came in the form of alcohol.

    Sure, I didn't break 100 (ninety-summitorother was my highest), but over the course of nearly 10 hours (before, during and after bowling and watching Manchester United sending a clear as day 'we know how to win in Europe, you stupid cockney bastards' message to the Arsenal) proceeded to get quite steamingly drunk. Hell, I'm a student, it's part of the job description.

    Yes, I was happy after the mighty Man U beat Rangers, I won 20 quid on a fruit machine, and my kebab was gorgeous. So, when bowling gets me down, I'll just reach for the amber nectar.

    Da Roof, Da Roof, Da Roof is on Fire
    Getting drunk is all well and good, but alcohol subscribes heavily to the 'Pleasure Pain Theory'. Usually I sleep through my hangovers, but today was different.

    Phil Neville eh? Who would of thunked it?
    The time I woke? 6am. The reason? The bloody fire alarm went off.

    For those of you unaware, the fire alarm is loud. Real loud. Imagine an air raid siren blared through a megaphone, and you've pretty much got the jist. I suppose it's to aid weak throwers that if sounded long enough, it would shatter all the glass windows, allowing them to escape. So instead of being curled up in bed, sleeping off the 8 or so pints of Carling until 1pm, whereby I would answer the call of Database Systems lecture, I was wide awake, hungover and more pissed off than the time Hitler discovered he had only one testicle.

    Couple that, but due to lack of milk, I went without breakfast.

    Is Ms. O'Problem there? First name Bee?
    Liverpool University is a top uni. Not the best of the best, but up there, dueling it out. The individuals who cram the lecture theatres, libraries and pubs on a regular basis are some of the most brightest, mature and gifted people on this planet (a group I'm happy to say I'm in). We are all charming, and have a sharp, intelligent wit.

    Then why the hell did we find the lecturer mentioning one of the students' name - Phil McCrackin - so bloody funny?

    Heh heh.

    Keep the faith


    Tuesday, October 21, 2003

    Last night was good, but nothing to write home (or indeed, in my case, on my blog) about.

    Daniel Buh-DING-feeld? (okay, Bo Seleca! jokes don't transfer well to writing)
    Nasty. Nasty Boy.
    When I die, I'd like to go to Heaven and St. Pete would look at me and say "Hmmm...Rhys, despite not going to church, breaking two of the ten commandments (Keep Sabbath Holy and Thou Shalt Not Use My Name In Vain - but who hasn't broken them?), you have had no major crimes. So, in yer pop!". I've not been perfect, but I haven't been awful. However, last night was a black mark against my pretty good record.

    I hate to confess, but I spiked Graham's drink.

    For those of you who don't share a personal life with me, Graham is a very good friend of mine who is in his early mid 20's. He is completely tee total, and is a fitness fanatic so bad that he makes me look like a slob (which, I suppose, I generally kind of am). He also looks a bit like Daniel Bedingfield. So imagine a shorter Daniel Bedingfield, and you're pretty much got the jist of him.

    Anyway, I wasn't out with that lot, shunning them like the true friend I am for my new Ten Pen Bowling lot. Anyway, I was at the bar and Graham asked me to buy his poison of choice - Diet Coke. He gave me his money. I was drunk, bored, and wanting a bit of fun. So I bought him a drink that his tee total body wasn't used to:-

    I bought him Regular Coke, and Graham, I'm sorry.

    Kiss this!
    If ya gotta twenny dolla bill put ya hands up!

    Despite giving mates near fatal sugar rushes, I also desperately tried to break the duck I've suffered for three months, and try to pull. One bird looked at me, and danced around me for a while. She was a very attractive brunette, and was bumping and grinding with me. Only small fault was that she actually reeked of fags. Seriously.

    You couldn't tell it normally, but if she opened her mouth, you were in trouble. Ever seen that bit in The Little Rascals where one of their marbles falls into a car exhaust, and in the attempt of getting it, the car starts, shooting black smoke all over the face of the Rascal? Imagine that sort of smell, and your half way there.

    She did offer to snog me, but I'd imagine I'd get less soot and tar in my lungs by giving a chimney a blowjob.

    Keep the faith


    Monday, October 20, 2003

    Footballs Greatest Injuries
    Watched bits of the Spurs vs. Leicster game yesterday, and had quite possibly one of the worst looking injuries in football, with Freddy Kanoute being injured. All I can say is EEWWW! Not as bad as some I've seen (David Buust, Luc Nilis, Phil Babb or Henrik Larsonn - although that last one I only saw on a Rangers fan wall), but still nasty.

    Ooh me goldenballs.
    Anyway, I'm not going to link to the picture of it (look in the Sport section of The Sun to see it), so instead, here's quite a comedy picture of Vinny Jones and Gazza. Lovely!

    What a wonderful Phrase
    Kind of linked to this, and that I still get giggles (despite the world saying that it's a rubbish joke) at the "Murder On Zidane's Floor" joke on Roland's site (the best thing he's ever written since 97), here's another football related joke (but you don't need any football knowledge to get it), which I told to new blogging buddy Expecting To Fly on his blog this morning:-

    "Chilean Clarence Acuna has left Newcastle football club saying that the decision for the move was that his Mum - who moved to Tyneside with his son - doesn't like the area:

    Bobby Robson, Newcastle manager released a statement saying "Newcastle are suprised by the move, but we don't worry. As they say: Acuna Ma. Ta-ta'"

    Comedy genius!

    Get Back on The Bus, Yer Not Coming In!
    One of the nicest things of being probably one of the worst ten pin bowlers the world has ever seen, but still member of a club is the perks. One such perk occurred a few days ago when I found out that I'm technically (because I'm in the Ten Pin Bowling Club) a Very Important Person of Liverpool University. Whilst other similar honours are just titles bestowed upon people that need (or in my case, don't need) an ego boost, mine does have benefits.

    Numero Uno Benefito is quite simply that I can walk into Double Vision (and indeed Time Tunnel, it's similar Saturday night equivalent) at any time. I've got a card which says that I'm a VIP, and not only can I skip the a queue so long that it's length is only rivalled by the length of my penis (okay, only joking), but I can also get in without paying a penny.

    Back off Lloyd-Webber, I'm in first!
    Normal students would jump at this chance to enter a club for nowt without queuing, and walk straight in and make a beeline for the bar. However, I am not a normal student. Tonight I will completely abuse my card if I get bored. As I will leave Double Vision, run around the front, and go in again. Sure, it's pathetic, but it's free, and could be quite good fun, especially when the LU massives are all standing outside with their boob tubes, freezing their bollocks off, with they only heat they're generating is with rage seeing me enter Double Vision avoiding a 40 minute wait in near freezing conditions.

    Plus I get to miss the beggar who always hangs around the uni, telling us about how the 'NHS fuck me over'. Jeez, do you think we're made of money?

    And we are the ones that want to choose. Always want to play. But you never want to lose. Aerials, in the sky.
    Today I finally bought an aerial for my black + white telly, which meant I can use the one on the roof of my house, rather than the one attatched to my telly. Not only is the picture so much more clearer, but I also get tons of extra channels. So far I've found CNN, Eurosport and a German channel. So, I've spent my day watching the Rugby, a piece on Anna Kournikova, the world news, Brainteaser on 5, Countdown and finally some program with the absolutely gorgeous Fearne Cotton, all crystal clear and in + white. Nevermind.

    On discussion with a friend about my new found global television network broadcasted onto my 5 incher (that's the telly), he said that 'The German one produces the finest blue movies money can buy'.

    Things are, quite literally, looking up.

    Keep the faith


    Saturday, October 18, 2003

    On t'Razz
    Thursday Night I went to, what is commonly called in Liverpool, The Razz. Arguably the most Student place in the entire of Liverpool. I can see why, it's more dirty than Christina Aguilera Mudwrestling. Seriously, if it wasn't so cheap, I'd complain that the carpet made squelching noises, the toilet surrounded with Smirnoff Ice bottles with Smirnoff Ice/Urea Filtrate in them (for people who shoot wide of the mark), and that half of the club is outside. However, it's cheaper than a Technical Knockout, so I wasn't complaining.

    I had a good night. Not really a stunning night, but beat the last time I made a tit of myself last day last term, even if my white trainers + crap filled club = black trainers.

    It's kind of weird. About 80% of all students swear by that place, think it's the Mecca of the Student world, and they pilgrim out to it wearing their white shirts, boob tubes and FM Boots - arguably because it's so easy to pull in there. However, I don't, it's a shit hole, and prefer somewhere with a little bit of class. Give me Now With Toilet Attendant Walkabout any day of the week. Televisions in the bogs? Now that's classy.

    Odd Man Out
    Tomorrow, David Blaine says 'bugger off' to his perspex box, and steps out to the outside world. As one of my mates said "It's not as if I don't find it impressive. It's just that I don't care.". Anyway, in honour of this 'momentual' achievement by everybody's favourite freaky Yankenite. Here is Blaine, photoshopped by yours truly, doing what every single person does after abusing their bodies on a Saturday night (admittedly, we do it by copious amounts of alcohol, not by starving ourselves and suspending ourselves over a capital city, so that everybody can see us wee):-

    Where's me bastard Chilli Sauce?

    For those of you out there who's saying "Rhys! That's brilliant. Here's a website called where people on there will love it!", well it was on B3ta for a bit. And it was fairly well recieved. However, I cannot be arsed searching for the link.

    I'll Open Your Eyes and Make You See, I'm the King of The World
    Those people who work for the The Guardian woke up a few days ago and thought "Oooh! We had this blogging competition last year, which Alistair "I'm nice but I support Arsenal" Coleman of Scaryduck won with ease, so why don't we have another one, and have five winners! That'd be soooo cool". And lo and behond, before elevenses, the The Guardian Best British Blog Awards 2003. Last years event provided controversy from more established bloggers who thought this was a smack in their face, and this year is looking similar. However, you'll be pleased to know that my ego and my wallet (500 notes for a winner of a catagory) have caused me to enter two catagories: best design and best written. I'm keeping my fingers, toes and eyes crossed that I'll do okay in it.

    Anyway, that explains the new picture on the "It's Me!" board, as:-

  • People would get confused if they visited this site and thought I looked like a Dexter Labatory bobblehead
  • The picture - as three very attractive women thought - shows me (as they said) 'In a sexy side we never knew you had'.
  • So, jobs a goodun.

    |Update|: Couple of things.

    Me throat's Knacked. Can I get a Remedy?
    Last night I spoke to Lauren of Uptonia fame, and she has kindly posted her whole conversation on her blog. For those of you who think this page is spontaneous and therefore brilliant I urge to read it, as (anybody who I've had a converstaion with via messenger will testify) it sorta proves that I cannot be spontina, err spontinaeu, err funny on the fly.

    Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Our Road Tax Dodging Friend
    Who ever came up with that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Road Tax advert deserves a medal. It's brilliant. It's so good that I'm tempted to buy road tax....and I don't even have a car!

    Keep the faith


    Thursday, October 16, 2003

    It's Cole, It's Cole. Andy Andy Cole. He gets the ball and scores a goal*, Andy Andy Cole
    As I have a web presence the size of Denmark, I recieve a number of spam e-mails. Hey, it happens to the best of us. This morning I got hit with the Nigerian scam e-mail three times. Within ten seconds of opening, I usually spot them, and designate them to the recycle bin. However, this time, I didn't even bother opening it:-

    Amazing, European Cup Winner, England Striker, Golden Boot Winner, AND head of a Multi million South African Oil consortium. Makes me feel really humble.

    Yep, sandwiched inbetween the latest The Weblog Review newsletter and an email from my mum telling me her oven door has fallen off (Mum: Welcome to my world. I'd go nowhere near the bloody thing) was an e-mail from ex-England and Manchester United Striker Andy Cole, asking me to give him his bank details so he can transfer his vast fortune into my account. How bloody nice of him.

    Oh look, Rhys just got another strike.
    Bowling For Liverpool #2
    Yesterday we played League Bowling at the mighty Ten Pin Bowling Club. It's very confusing without actually having two lanes in front of you, and - taking a safe bet that none of you are reading this in a bowling alley - I'm not going to explain it. In my three games, I started off with a dismal 52, followed by a better but still dismal 53, and an (as I described it) "OH MY GOD, WHERE THE ARSING HELL DID THAT COME FROM?!?" 95. Our team, thanks to me, did shite, but I don't care.

    Anyway, in my first game, I got my first ever strike. Promising fireworks, cheerleaders, and a brass band playing to the club when I achieved the monumental feat, I cannot help but feel a little guilty where my strike celebration consisted of flashing the V1 symbols, followed by running around, twirling my denim jacket in a Thierry "I'm a French bastard who plays for the Pissing Arsenal" Henry stylee, and screaming "I gotta strike! I gotta strike!" at the top of my voice.

    Unsuprisingly - and some say fortunately - I haven't got another strike since.

    Keep the faith


    Wednesday, October 15, 2003

    It's Like Rain. On your wedding day.
    Unlike Alanis Morisette, irony has been good to me. Here is why.

    Today, I lost my mobile. Panicking, I did my usual half arsed search of my room to no avail. Dejected, I went to bed, craving for my Nokia 3510i with free WAP. However, due to a sense of emptiness, coupled with that I'm living in student digs, and there's a constant stream of drunks banging doors like cymbals, it's been a bugger trying to get some sleep.

    So i got thinking, and came up with a brilliant idea for a computer game based on my current predicament. I got up, reached for a wad of paper to write this sure-fire Halo beater down, turned on the light, and would you Adam and Eve it my mobile was lying at the bottom of me bed.

    Still got Olympic drunken door slamming going on mind.

    Keep the faith


    Tuesday, October 14, 2003

    Unfortunately, pictures won't ever go up, ever. This is due to me using a crappy one use camera, and too much light landed on the film.

    Note To Self: Get a Digital Camera.

    Also, speaking of over exposing. I walked down Liverpool High Street flying at half mast. Oh how everybody laughed. Except me.

    Keep the faith


    Sunday, October 12, 2003

    Passport To Pain
    Warning: This post is all about WWE wrestling. If you're not a fan, most of this post will be like the ball after David Beckham's penalty if you we're the crossbar ie. well over your head. You may enjoy it, just because you worship the ground I walk on. But as a WWE fan, you will enjoy it like I do a Toffee Crisp McFlurry.

    Today I went to watch probably the stupidest name event by WWE ever (well, until they do a 'We want to have Sex with the A-Train' named event, which will come around mid 2006): Passport to Pain. This meant I could cross of the list of one of my life's ambitions, and it didn't dissappoint. Rather than do a post that would be similar to your average 10 year old girl standing front row to a Justin Timberlake concert, (which would be 'OH MY GOD THAT WAS SO COOL!' repeated x number of times) I'll do one that will be critical, and give fairly accurate descriptions (or the bits I thought were cool).

    A-Train vs. Chris Benoit
    Out of everybody, Chris Benoit was probably one of the few I really wanted to see. I doubt I've ever seen a bad match with the guy. As it was the first match, the crowd were well up for it, and Benoit got the win via Crippler Crossface. Good match to start on, as Benoit's technical ability is second to none.

    Tajiri and Nunzio vs. Ultimo Dragon and Rey Mysterio
    There seemed to be a lot of Rey Mysterio fans in attendance (not like I'm suprised, he's great). Match won with a West Coast Pop on Nunzio. High flying matchup which saw me shoot half my 27 exposures in it. Rey hit a double 619 (or, as I rather humourously called it, a 1238. Boom boom), and Tajiri fell off the apron, which was pretty funny.

    Billy Kidman and Funaki vs. The World's Greatest Tag Team
    Toilet break for me, so I missed the middle half of the match. Not a spectacular match in my book (Shelton Benjamin of The World's Most Originally Named Tag Team is recovering from an injury, so I can forgive them. Hell, I was still loving it, but it wasn't memorable), and the finish was a bit unexpected. Charlie Haas kinda just sat on Funaki, in a move akin to some seen in porno's.

    Rhyno vs. Jamie Noble
    Oh dear. Rhyno (a bad guy) was cheered a hell of a lot. To be honest, I can see why. I'd love to beat up someone who brags about sleeping with Torrie Wilson. Seriously, he was loved. Massive ovation for him (even after he got on the microphone and told us all to 'Go To Hell'.) Still, a pretty good match, with both Jamie Noble and Nidia (Jamie Noble manager/girlfirend) hitting Gore's on Rhyno. Rhyno got back up and nailed Jamie for the win with The Gore.

    Los Guerreros vs. The Basham Brothers
    Probably (besides the main event) the match of the night. Eddie Guerrero is loved by everyone (he had to direct chants to Chavo Guerrero). When one of the Bashams came close to pinning Eddie, but came a fraction short. At this point, he taunted Chavo by pointing to his waist and made a 'this close' sign with his fingers. To which, Chavo replied by pointing to his crotch, and repeating the 'this close' sign.

    Guerreros win when Eddie hits a simultaneous arm drag/head scissor on both the Bashams, then lands a frog splash. This brought out The Big Show, who chokeslammed Eddie.

    Matt Hardy vs. The Big Show
    Hmm. Last time I remembered, Matt Hardy (Version 1) was a bad guy. By putting him against a baddie like Big Show, we all loved him. Anyway, like John Cena, he'll probably get turned back to a goodie soon, as he's brilliant. Anyway, Big Show won by DQ after Eddie and Chavo interfered to revenge from earlier. This brought Rey Mysterio, Chris Benoit, Rhyno and A-Train to start an impromptu brawl, which left Matt, Eddie, Chavo, Benoit and Mysterio in the ring. Eddie went on to thank the fans, and the good guys of the tour left together.

    Bikini Contest
    Nidia, Sable, Dawn Marie and Torrie Wilson came out one by one and strutted their stuff. Nidia appeared to be the joke, with a dance that couldn't turn on a 15 year old in a viagra induced coma. Torrie won, which prompted a Sable attack. Dawn, Torrie and Nidia fought off Sable, and those three proceeded to give the ring announcer a wedgie, a spanking and a whipping, all the time with Dawn Marie sitting on the ring announcer's face. What a tough job, eh? Anyway, shot about 10 shots of this, for obvious reasons. Another screw up in this 'match', as Torrie's Playboy boob popped out, although from my vantage point, it was unclear. But there was a 10 second hoo haa around Torrie.

    John Cena and Brock Lesnar vs. Undertaker and Kurt Angle
    First of all - Cena is a legend. For those of you unaware of him, his gimmick (a stretch of his actual real life persona) is that he's a hip hopper, who can rap open mike. So he came out and did a rap. I cannot remember most of it, but a couple of the lines went like this:-

    "I know that you Manchester people have no brains,
    that's why David Beckham buggered off to Spain.
    I watched the match yesterday, and saw him screw that shot,
    He was protestesting at the country he has got.
    I hate your cigarettes, and your food makes me sick,
    So act like the fags you are, and suck my spotted dick.

    Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Not only is he a great wrestler, brilliant gimmick, and hell of a guy (so I've heard), he also probably the first hip hopper to use both the most un-hiphop swear words 'bugger' and 'wankers' in rap. He must of read this site.

    Anyway, Undertaker (quite suprisingly for me) pinned Brock after a Last Ride. Everybody was on Brock's back, chanting 'You Tapped Out' almost the whole way through the match.

    Kurt Angle locked the ankle lock on the prone Brock Lesnar, causing him to tap. He then got on the microphone, and thanked us all for coming. He then told The Undertaker he loved him, and he sprinted out of the ring. Undertaker got on the microphone, and said 'Kurt, I love you too, and it's a long flight, and a short plane, sure enough: your ass will be mine.'. Some guy shouted out "Maybe Kurt really does suck!", which Taker heard, and was laughing about it. Kurt came back out, and mooned Taker, and that was it.

    All in all (Kurt's mooning aside), it was a great show. Should you ever get the opportunity to go, I wholehartedly reccommend it. Pictures to follow (when I get them developed).

    Other Random Stuff from the Event
    The awful thing was that I almost didn't go. I had lost my credit card in Liverpool City Centre, and you needed proof of the purchase (ie the card or a reciept with the card number on it) to go, and I had neither. Luckily, I managed to get hold of my card number (it was written on my TV Licence, and I got the bank to stamp a reciept of the purchase), and everything was hunky dory.

    For some wierd reason, my usually quiet Japanese neighbours decided to have an all nighter last night, so I didn't get much sleep last night. Fell asleep at around 6am in the middle of the Grand Prix (which could send a glass eye to sleep).

    Loads of people on the train looked like they were going, so I was more than happy to flash my 4 year old 'D-Generation X' t-shirt around, a shirt that I usually either keep hidden, wear as a makeshift pyjama top, or wear if I'm really REALLY desperate.

    I managed to touch The Undertaker's hand (he came and celebrated at the end by going around Blairesque and shaking everyone's hand), which means that my right hand will probably not be washed for weeks. He's bloody tall as well, I'm 6'2" and I dwarfed many of the people around me who were kiddies. He's 6'10" and he dwarfs me.

    And the beer's expensive. At the Ten Pin Bowling Club's local pub/sponsors (the Flute), a bottle of Carlsberg is £1. At the MEN, it was £4 a bottle. I wouldn't mind, but I only drink it because it is £1 a bottle.

    But problems aside, it was a great event. Which means for the next week I'll probably talk loads about wrestling. Sorry.

    Keep the Faith


    Friday, October 10, 2003

    Dare To Dream
    Like any other non-boring person, I have ambitions, dreams, goals in my life that I would like to achieve. They can change from time to time, but three that are always the same are the following:-

    The legend that is Crispin Noir Chris Benoit
  • I'd love to write a book
  • I'd love to own a bar of some sort (even a private one)
  • I'd love to go to a WWE event.
  • Last night, after getting my mother's blessing, I'm 99% sure that one of those came true. Sunday afternoon, I'm off to watch the WWE's "Passport to Pain" event in Manchester.

    To understand quite what this means to me is like knowing a large portion about me. Since going to watch Summerslam 92 around at a mates house where British Bulldog defeated Bret 'The Hitman' Hart in Wembley Stadium, I've been a pretty much obsessive fan. Sure, I've had the usual "they don't hit each other", "what's the appeal of 20 stone men in swimming trunks?", and "why does Albert insist on wearing leather trunks when he's hairy and weighs over 300?" - so much so that I've got my responses down to a fine art - but I don't care, because I think it's great.

    Anyway, Sunday should (I'm getting a bit paranoid and thinking my Debit Card won't pay for my £35 ticket)/will be my first ever WWE event proper. I say proper as there was a half decent WWF ripoff a few years ago in Butlins featuring guys such as "Ice Cold Ian Austin", "Humankind", "Crispin Noir" (say it fast out loud and you'll know who he's based on) and "The Giant Event" (even though supposed to be a rip-off of the Big Show, a legitimate 7'2" er, there's a picture of me in a photo album standing next to The Giant Event and I must be at least the same height as him).

    Who am I looking forward to seeing most? Probaby Chris Benoit, Matt Hardy, Rey Mysterio, Brock Lesnar, Kurt Angle or John Cena. But quite frankly, even if they drag poor old Gillberg out of retirement, put him in a match with any one of the Mean Street Posse, and finish it in under a minute, I'd probably still be happy.

    As I have no camera, I'd probably get a disposable one and take a few pictures. If I can get my scanner to work as well, then I'll bung my view from Block 215, Row P, Seat 1 (quite far back, but pretty much central) on here.

    Keep the faith


    Thursday, October 09, 2003

    Bowling For Liverpool
    As part of a "Lets Make Rhys Wynne be more social" drive, I decided to go to an open session for the Ten Pin Bowling club. Admittedly, I didn't check out the Ultimate Frisbee club, because quite frankly, it's a poofy sport. So I went to Ten Pin Bowling because:-

    Sorry Barney, cannot go anywhere. Me engine's on the blink again.
  • It was cheap.
  • There could be lots of drinking involved.
  • I consider myself the Fred Flintstone of the year 2003.
  • Dwell on that last point, if you will. The similarities are endless. Both have a crippling weight problem, yet are attractive (don't believe me? Well, how else could Fred pull a hottie like Wilma?). The only difference I can see is that he can bowl, and really can't.

    Yes, I was abysmal. Whilst I bowled a fairly respectable 72 in the first game. My opponants bowled over 100 each. After that, it just went downhill with a 60 and a 51 in my next two games. Bugger.

    Nevertheless I had a good time, so I'm going on the social tonight, and watching the Turkey vs. England in a bar in Liverpool with them (although I've taken the role of the 'Comedy Welshmen'). Should be good.

    Also, to all those freshers who visited Liverpool Uni yesterday and (may?) have picked up a booklet for the Electrical Engineering Department, look on page 23. You'll see me! Top mainstream media penetration by general bullshitting!

    Keep the faith


    Tuesday, October 07, 2003

    My Night Out
    Puzzled you? Or didn't care. Here's my night out in explained form.

    I Had Double Vision, But I Wasn't Drunk
    Simple one, Double Vision was the name of the night I went to. Last night (which was also bloody freezing) was the first Double Vision of the term for me. Anyway, despite drinking a considerable amount of alcohol (3 Carlings, 1 Carlsberg, 2 Budweiser's, 2 Stella Artois and a double vodka/redbull for those of you keeping score), I was as sober as a judge. Plain and simple. To be honest, I'm falling out of favour of Double Vision, as it's becoming a bit expensive and a bit hostile (I saw two fights last night). Although, those words will probably last until 9pm, next Monday, when a mate gets onto me on the blower and asks me "Y'cummin out on t'razz?". Then just try and stop me.

    Ladies, don't worry, there's plenty of my sausage to go around.
    I Swapped Saliva With A Bird, But Didn't Pull
    A tough one. Outside the exit of Double Vision, there was a burger van. In an foolhardy attempt to keep warm on the way in, I popped into the local Maccy D's and had a cold (but oh so gorgeous) Toffee Crisp McFlurry - if there is a finer food, I don't want to know it. As I left Double Vision, I bought a hot dog with ketchup and - a fact that'll please my mum, who campaigns me to eat 5 fruit and veg a day - fried onions. A bird was walking close up to me, eyeing up this meaty feast that was currently in my hands, and licking her lips intently. She tried resisting the urge of my several inch long meat product, but she couldn't.

    "Can I have a bite of your sausage?"
    Not being one to deprive a fair maiden from getting her lips around my sausage, I duely obliged. Only problem was that she was an utter pig. Seriously. She slobbered all over it. Most posh people would throw the remainance away, but not yours truly. I ate the now slobbered hot dog.

    I believe in a thing called The Darkness...
    I did actually get quite close to pulling a bird last night.The main one was during the Indie part of the section (where they play commercial Indie: Feeder, Dandy Warhols, Darkness. That sort). Don't know her name, but I was singing along to "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" by the Darkness, and she just appeared beside me, and was bumping and grinding in a way that only a woman of her girth can. Sure, she was morbidly obese, but I'm really not in a position to complain. When leaving me, she left me with words that, if written, I would of put on my wall:-
    "You could so easily front a Darkness Tribute Band"
    Sure, she was drunk, but by god, Justin Hawkins has better be watching!

    I Got A Taxi With Some Bird, But Didn't Get Laid
    After the sausage incident, a bird (who's name I know, but will not mention. Okay, she's named after a well known Sunflower Spread that lowers Cholesterol and sponsors the London Marathon) asked me where I was going. Sure enough, we were sort of going in the same direction. We got on alright for a bit - she was smart (a medic), attractive and had a sense of humour - but I had to spoil it. When she said her name, I made a couple of jokes. Both centered around the words 'spread' and 'buttered'.

    I Slapped an Arse, But Wasn't Happy
    No. Please don't let me talk about this. Please?

    Alright, I slapped a guy's arse. Happy?

    Well, he did look like a girl. Albeit a very flat chested, deep voiced, bearded girl. But how could I tell that from behind?

    Keep the faith


    Riddle Of The Week

    My Night Out
    I had double vision, but wasn't drunk
    I swapped Saliva with a bird, but didn't pull
    I got a taxi with a bird home, but didn't get laid
    I slapped an arse, but wasn't happy
    Any attempts to solve the riddle can be written in the comments. Answer to the above riddle will be given tomorrow.

    Quote of the Week
    From Chaos
    "Anyway. I submitted to my hallway today, and painted the elongated fucker."
    Not much no, but it made me almost wet myself.

    Joke of the Week

    Q: What have Glenn Hoddle and the Titanic got in common?
    A: They both regret leaving Southampton!

    Boom boom.

    Happy happy joy joy News of the Week
    Breaky is back! Admittedly she's been back for ages, but I've only just noticed. Sorry!

    Misconception of the Week
    According to FHM this month, it reads that geeky guys are generally more well endowed than most other types of guys. Since that publication has been released, many female accquatances have been asking me to I mean prove to them that this is the case. Therefore, the greatest misconseption of the week is that I have a big penis. Now leave me be!

    Keep the faith


    Friday, October 03, 2003

    Livin' In A Box
    Warning: This post has a major tangent in it, so for those in the audience who are a little slow may not appreciate it. Either way, this post, like too few things on my anatomy, is very long:-

    Last night, amongst other things, was comedy club. Me and a few of my choicest mates decided to go, as we've all got our fingers firmly on the pulse of all that is hip, hop and indeed happening in the city of Liverpool.

    We arrived and got pretty good seats and proceeded to get very drunk. When the compere came on, we were shouting and doing 6 man Mexican Waves, basically anything to throw the compere off his routine. He was good mind, and took it all in his stride.

    And then the first act came on.

    She, and this is me trying not to be harsh, went down like a lead baloon. I think the reason was that she was talking about things that maybe as 18-23 year olds, didn't quite understand. Sure enough, the joke that started "My boyfriend only gave me 5 orgasms last night" didn't really sit too well with me, a nineteen year old virgin.

    The crowd were getting restless, and began slow clapping. My mate shouted 'fuck off' in his broad Yorkshire accent, and she was sweating buckets.

    All this time, I sat there quiet. I think it was out of guilt, or the fact that I too had been there (tangent):-

    Bottom Bearing Javis Cocker: Like myself, belonged in the mid 90's
    Mid nineties, like most of the Britpop era, I felt like I was king of the world. I was 12 at the time, and had just left my primary school on a wave of sudden popularity, I had been looked at with the highest regard in Eirias High School, and - best of all - a little 'comedy' routine that I had put together was going well amongst my friends. Time to test it out, on the road.

    And what better place to start than Butlins.

    I thought I was the bastard child of Tommy Cooper and Eric Morcambe. In Butlins, as part of the entertainment, they have a "Junior Talent Night", where pushy mums get their three year olds to dance in front of everybody. My comedy routine was to be a contestant in that "Junior Talent Night".

    Sure enough, it started okay. Not raucus laughter mind, but not sympathetic laughter. The Colwyn Bay Kid had the moves, and was doing alright. Maybe I've found my true calling.

    Then I made the biggest mistake in my short comedy career.

    You see, Butlins is a notoriously family friendly, that even one smutty reference would result in immediate castration. My mates, who were all waiting for their hormones to kick in, loved the little crude jokes (nothing major, just the occasional "Bottom Burp" worked a treat). I stood, and said an alledged 'joke' that ended with the line "And Silly Billy had is Willy Cut off.". Like Roland said in a recent post "If it's wrong to laugh at your own jokes, then I don't want to be right.". I wasn't right, I was in fits of laughter, either because that joke was genuinely funny, or (more likely), I had said "Willy" in front of about 300 people.

    It was fair to say that the on site entertainers were shocked, Gary from Bolton with his three sons was shocked, and my Dad was going ballistic.

    My microphone was immediately cut, and was taken immediately off stage to the sound of a thousand children asking their fathers for the Stanley Knife, where I was given a strict telling off somewhere along the lines of "Think of all the children out there, what if all the Billies in the audience cut they're willies off?"

    Come to think of it, one did, and married Chris Evans. But I digress.

    Anyway, that's my brush with fame. I've been to Butlins thousands of times since, and heard approxamitely 11 times the "Old Macdonald sitting on a bench, picking his balls with a monkey wrench" nursery rhyme sung, without it being pulled. No justice in this world, is there?

    Blaine? Pfft. Nothing to what poor Team Haywood had to endure.
    Right, back from my tangent. After the girl left the stage, the compere came back on and said "Who told her to f' off?".

    Remembering the incident talked about above, I immediately showed my true colours and grassed my mate.

    Haywood (my heckling in a Yorkshire Accent mate), didn't seem to deny it (hey, he did us all a favour) and came up on stage to explain his actions. These fell on deaf ears, and a punishment was decided. As we were talking about David Blaine earlier, the compere thought it was fitting to lock him in a room with his half pint for a few minutes. He was carted off backstage, to the cheers of the crowd. Namely me.

    We didn't think anything of it, probably taken around the back, and given a talking to, before being released to the outside world. That was, until I got a phone call.

    "Y'alright mate?"
    "They're a bunch of bastards! Rhys, you gotta help me."
    "They've locked me in this room backstage, and it smells."
    "Uhhh...sit tight son. You'll be fine"
    "I guess, do it for Team Haywood
    (he refers to himself as 'Team Haywood'. Don't know why). How was my performance."
    "To be honest, you got more laughs than that bird."
    "Weren't hard was it?"
    Sure enough, he was released. But it was a sorry state of a man. Beaten. Dejected.

    Moral of the Story: Never heckle a comedian. They're dangerous folks.

    Keep the faith


    Speak Up Son!
    The tag board has been replaced. However, it is as naked as a nudist candle lighting ceremony. So, fill it up with crap. Please?

    Where on earth is Carmen Sandiago Katie Royce?
    I've been doing a little snooping to the wherabouts of Katie (of Whatever I Say. What? I'm bored), and according to comments left on her excellent template site, she worked for a bit making templates for, a moblogging service. That was just under a month ago, but still.

    Later Today: My mates David Blaine impression, nearly waking up in intensive care, and my latest pulling exploits (or lack thereof). Whilst at the same time pondering the thought that maybe trying to find where Katie is makes me a freaky deaky web stalker

    Keep the faith


    Thursday, October 02, 2003

    Chin up Tim. If the worse comes to the worse, blame Phil Neville
    The End of The World
    Last night, lets be honest, was a disaster. No, not because I entered the hallowed 20,000 turf of bloggers, oh no. The disaster is that Manchester United suffered a loss at the hands of Stuttgart in the champions league, normally, for less established teams, this could be the beginning of the end. But for the glorious Red Devils. This is a glitch to our Champions League hopes, nothing more.

    Of course, I was pissed, so I was thinking that my world has come down around me.

    After the match, I played a round of pool with a few of my mates. Our team ending up winning 4-2 overall, with me getting 3 of the winning blacks. When potted them, I shouted at the top of my voice either one of these three lines:-

    "He's got the moves!"
    "The Colwyn Bay Kid does it again!"
    "They'll be dancing on the streets of Merthyr Tydfill tonight!"
    The last one being my personal favourite. Also, if you're ever in The Brookhouse in Liverpool, go on the Winning Lines quiz machine, as I occupy 5th in the table. He's got the moves!

    It's Not My Kinda Scene
    Last night I was persuaded to go out. Unfortunately, not by my mates, but by a bunch of first years I befriended on the bus into town. Like most first years, they're akin to Bambi, struggling, yet eager to find their footing in this strange city. I became, for one night only (as some said they had previously read the site before, which was cool), their undisputed spiritual leader for partying.

    He's got the moves!

    Anyway, it was my first visit to FNUK, and I can probably say my last. No disrespect to the first years reading this, but I felt so out of place. I mean, I'm not into the hip-hop scene at all. Everybody there was. I spent about 15 minutes staring at a section of the dancefloor, like you know that bit in Pink's "Get The Party Started" video where they segregate an area for breakdancers, with Pink going around trying to get everybody to dance? It was like that, and sure enough about 99% of the people asked strutted their stuff. All were far more graceful than I could ever be.

    The 1% was me.

    Yep, this girl said if I wanted to dance. Fearing that it wasn't a chance to pull, instead a chance to break my neck (or do a dance akin to David Brent) I declined.

    After about an hour, I decided that this night wasn't going anywhere, so I made my excuses to my new found Fresher Buddies (I think the excuse I gave was 'The Missus wants some sweet sweet loving'. Which, despite my nose increasing in length faster than Pinocchio's, the drunken freshers fell for it hook, line and sinker.), and buggered off.

    And It's Hi, Ho, Silver Lining
    Not everything about yesterday was piss poor. I bought myself a t-shirt, which reads across it "It's not the winning that counts. It's the arsing about" for about a fiver. Just the fact that is has the word "arsing" on it makes, it cool. The other thing relates to some of the ladies of the night that congregate outside my halls, and a conversation I had:-

    "You got a ciggie?"
    "Okay. Want business?"
    What's important about it? Well, now I hold the record for the most words spoken to a night lady by a British male in the world, ever.

    Keep the faith


    Wednesday, October 01, 2003

    20000 Leagues Under The Sea - Err...hits to the Rhysmeister
    If you get the elusive 20,000th hit (look on the counter on the right column), comment to this post. Ta.

    Keep the faith


    Blogger User Proud user of W.bloggar Developed with Paint Shop Pro Created on Notepad Powered By Blogrolling Add email subscriptions to your blog with Bloglet. Blogstreet
    Blogarama The Ageless Project Blobhop - Rate Me! Add email subscriptions to your blog with Bloglet.

    This site is (C) Rhys Wynne 2002. All copyrights are registered trademarks of their respective owners. I cannot be responsible for any of my software not working on anybody else's computer, and any actions carried out by third parties as a result of anything read on this site. Everything written on this blog is true. However, all these events are recalled from memory, and some of the events may have been altered by my mind or alcohol. So some experiences (usually the ones involving drink) are exaggerated.

    Understand that the interactive features (guestmap, comments, tagboard) are a priveledge, not a right. By commenting, you are hereby allowing the author or any individual to use that comment, even if it is against yourself, and may result in deletion or an IP ban. Also, continual abuse of the interactive features will result in the said feature being withdrawn.