For I Shall Return, For You, On Christmas Day
Like nuns, Christmas comes but once a year. I usually look foreward to the festive time of year with gutso and joy, and - whilst still present this year - I have to face one fact. Jesus Christ Almighty I am most definitely getting old.
For all those who say 'Oooh. Rhys. Brilliant at Christmas Shopping'. BEHOLD!
"Rhys buys some brilliant gifts."Obviously forgetting the atrocious "Abba-Mania" CD I got for her a few years back. In any rate, Christmas is apparently a good time when you know Rhys A. Wynne and he buys you a present, which is quite a handy trait.
So, what has this apparent knack got to do with the rather depressing thing about me entering my twilight years. Well, my mum took me to one side and said "Rhys, I have lost touch with what your brothers want, and your gifts are brilliant for Rick and Aled. Do you mind buying more presents for him - and I'll pay you for them.". Balls.
You see, I can manage one stunning present each year for family, but filling both my brother's stockings could be quite a challenge. Nevertheless, it's a sure sign of getting old. Why? As my mate Jace used to say, it's the Three Santa Rules to show your age:-
- You believe in Santa Claus
- You don't believe in Santa Claus
- You are Santa Claus
So, in what do I get in return from the premature Christmas-baton-passing between myself and my mother? Nothing really, just the warm glow that I am bloody fantastic at Christmas shopping and maybe a couple of quid for my troubles. And do you know what? At the end of the day, I couldn't be happier.
Yes, despite playing a very convincing Scrooge in Pen-Y-Bryn's Christmas Production of Scrooge, I love Christmas...
Keep the faith
Out On The Razz
Guess who, after nearly three weeks of vowing never to go to the Blue Angel/Razz, guess who ended up there again? I really shouldn't of, as I had an exam the next day, but I am far too easily persuaded to go on these jaunts.
Blue Angel: Not only does it sound dodgy, but it also looks dodgy. And it smelt a bit. Also, I cannot remember that lampost being there.
- You have to fork out ?2 to get in
- Once inside, every single drink (bar tapwater, which is free anyway) is ?1
- It has a couple of video game machines (including Virtua Striker)
- There is a wierd machine in the blokes bogs.
Suprisingly, it wasn't a johnny machine. It contained three goods: a 'Sexual Attraction Pack' (which I would never, EVER need. Honest), an inflatable sheep (which I can see coming my way on my 20th should we end up in the Varsity March 4th) and a dispenser dispensing.....no. Cannot say it. They were selling "D Word" in the blokes bogs.
Listen, I don't fancy saying it, and I don't like to be held responsible when Little Jimmy - when visiting this site - asks his mum what a dildo is.
After sloshing more lagers down my gullet, hammering everybody on Virtua Striker and talking them through it, and trying to blag some free alcohol, we buggered off to the Flute.
At this point, I stopped drinking, and started gambling, as I won jackpot on the fruit machine in the Flute. ?25 almost paid for my night.
We stumbled to The Razz after that, and after much dancing and shit like that we buggered off home.
Sorry for the vague description because, like when light cloud covers the sun in a Autumns day, it's gone a bit hazy. Sure I did alright.
Anyway, I woke up the following morning with white fluidy substance surrounding my mouth (which I later worked out to be Mayonaisse...honest), short stabbing pain in my kidney, and realising I have a Digital Electronics in half an hour's time.
Keep the faith
Here Comes The Pain
Like any of you care, but I feel like I've been away from this blog for ages. So this is my triumphant return. I'd love to give a good story from my absence: girlfriend, won the lottery, drunk loads. Hell, I'd love to say that my net's been cut off, so that I can verbally kick off on BT or Freeserve. The truth, like so many things in my life, is that I really haven't been arsed.
Actually, scratch the first two excuses. The truth is that since last Friday, every concievable free minute has been occupied by this gaming masterpiece.
Hell, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you could take a crap, slap a WWE Licence on it, and I'd still buy it. Thankfully, HCTP isn't crap, it's good. Very very good.
One of the wrestling industries' leading writers (and, in my humble opinion, the best) - Paul Heyman - was quoted in saying that 'Wrestling is like an art form. I don't try and make everybody understand it, I just try and satisfy those who do'. Smackdown 5 achieves this quite well. Gone are the simple grapples, level competitors and makeshift storylines. In it's place? Greater choice of grapples (although slightly more complicated, but still straightforward), character strength and weaknesses (the lighter competitors, for example, cannot suplex the larger ones) and storylines that do make it quite compelling at times.
Matt Fact: Matt Scored 1330 on his SAT's
All in all - no pun intended - but this game is a stunner. Of course, I am horribly biased due to a deep emphatuation with the WWE. Nevertheless, I reccommend even non fans going out and renting it for the weekend. After initial confusion, you will not be dissappointed.
Right, well I don't know when I'll update this next. The amount of work I've got to do over the next two weeks is incredible, and - unless anybody's got a Borland C++ program that can fit a line of best fit to any graph known to man - I'm probably going to be very busy. I could update beforehand (infact, truth be told I probably will), but don't go in a huff if you don't hear from me before next week sometime.
Keep the faith
Inbetween helping my mates win some random pub quiz, I watched loads of telly tonight (which is quite a rarity for me) and played tons of Smackdown: Here Comes The Pain (review of which will be coming soon). Focussing on the telly bit, inbetween Antiques Roadshow and Top Gear was a program that only my Dad finds even remotely funny: You've Been Framed.
For all you Yankenites out there, it's Britian's longest running clip show, and - unlike the seemingly endless stream of "When Porno's Go Wrong" that's on Channel 5 - is fit for family viewing.
It's also probably the worst programme that has ever been made.
Britains Favourite TV Presenter: Jeremy Beadle
Firstly, Western civilisation prides itself on being politically correct - which I don't like - and loving children and animals - which I do. Kinda. In any rate, this program is incessantly cruel because we laugh at kids crying, dogs running around with the fear of god in them, and hamsters busting a nut running on wheels. Sure, we get the odd clip of a 20ft African Pyton biting a once proud man in the knackers, but that's to keep people from complaining. The people who shoot these videos, by god, they're the worst. Instead of helping remove the venom-tipped fangs firmly lodged in some bloke named Gary's nutsack, they laugh like nothing's happened. Okay, whilst some may see my hypocritical nature (due to my love of Jackass and Dirty Sanchez), there is a difference. If consenting adults/people just dumb want to hurt themselves for money, then so be it. As for laughing at "Oooh look, Billy's fallen off the swing and broken his neck, oh ho ho ho ho!*", not me - thanks.
Push Me, then just touch me, till I can get my, Satisfaction....**
But the worse thing? The audience clips shown seem to love it. All sorts, kids, pensioners and middling types all sit in the "Live" audience, and are fed these "home vieo howlers" for hours on end. The disturbing thing? They love it. As someone who has read Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History Of Time" and understood most of it, I consider myself to be a very logical, and smart person. However, I cannot comprehend how these people can sit through debatably funny clips and laugh like they've seen a Morecambe + Wise reunion gig.
Right well, that's my half arsed rant over and done with, so I'm off, and I'll leave you with this thought: why are we the only planet to enter Mr. Universe?
Keep the faith
* Okay, it never happens, but you get the drift....
** If you have no idea what's going on here, don't bother writing in, as I cannot be arsed explaining it....
It Works. It Really Really Works
Yankenites: there is a telly program in the UK called Top Gear. Until the glorious day that they collectively show beyond series 7 of The Simpsons; Match of the Day returns to the Beeb and they show a new series of Red Dwarf, Top Gear will remain the greatest the greatest thing on terrestrial TV. It's about cars, unbelievably sexist towards blokes, and gets away with it.
In any rate, it discussed a quite peculiar fact. If any of you have remote locking, you can test this. Basically, you go to just outside the range of reaching it, put the remote locker against your head, and press the button. Sure enough, for some inexplicable reason, it works.
I tried this out last week, and - with me jumping around with incredible joy in a car park in Liverpool - it works. So, as Neil Buchanan said after creating an Art Attack: "Try It Yourself". It caused me so much joy, and I'm sure it will cause you some too (car with remote locking required).More Of The Day 2 - Conversation/Complement of the Day
Okay, this technically happened yesterday, but it's still cool, for the reference early on:-
Rhys' Mate says: is that pic graphically enhanced?
In case your totally blind, here is the picture
Rhysie Boy says:which one?
Rhys' Mate says: on your blog
Rhysie Boy says: yeah...which one
Rhys' Mate says: top right
Rhys' Mate says: you
Rhysie Boy says: nope, why?
Rhys' Mate says: well, er... you look cool and sort of more handsome (in a completely non gay way) in the pic
Rhys' Mate says: must be my monitor
Rhys' Mate says: never repect that
Rhys' Mate says: repeat*
Rhysie Boy says: balls to that, it's going on me blog
Rhys' Mate says: ill deny it
Rhysie Boy says: I'll take a screenshot
Rhys' Mate says: anyone can fake an msn convesation window
Rhysie Boy says: well then I'll take a screenshot with me webcam
Rhys' Mate says: ill cry
Rhysie Boy says: Rhys' Mate: You have commented on my appearance in a complementary way. It may never happen again. At least let me milk it, please?
Rhys' Mate says: fine
Rhysie Boy says: I'll XXX out yer name
Rhys' Mate says: k
Rhys' Mate says: i can take it
- Conversation 25th October 2003
Anyway my (totally not gay) friend said I wouldn't put it on my blog. Hah hah, look who's wrong.
Keep the faith
|EDIT| This post was written about 3 weeks ago, and only just been arsed to post it, so a couple of the words (ie. yesterday) don't apply. Except for the bit about Top Gear. That I just added on now.
Everything That Has A Beginning, Has An End Last night I went to watch 'Matrix: Revolutions'. Can I firstly say
that, whilst I'm happy at the ending, I'm not entirely satisfied.
Nevertheless, onto the cool bits:-
Last point aside (which - for the benefit of the retards - didn't really
happen), I hope I've put some things to look out for, without revealing
too much of the plot. Although 99% of Western Civilisation would
probably buy a turd that has a Matrix licence attatched to it, it is a
good film....if you've seen the other two. But, then again, who hasn't? Also, should you see the film within the next few days, I reccommend speaking loudly about plot lines in public places. I haven't seen so many people cover their ears since Aqua split up. Fighting Fit Oh, alright, only kidding. I was nervous, as visits to the doctor are
generally bad for me, as I usually leave with either a bottle of
penicilin or a sling. Yesterday, I was fine. No, seriosly, I was fine. I'm kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable (except I cannot survive
bullets. Well, maybe I can, but I daren't risk it), there is nothing
wrong with me. Blood pressure is normal, BMI (my falling point) is okay,
urine is brilliant... Yes, before all you twelve year olds get excited, I had to take a
urine sample. Who would of thought it was so hard to piss into a bottle in public.
I mean, I haven't done it since I was three. Incidentally, I've pissed into a box in
public recently. Well, if the box is considered a phone box. Yeah, did
that last Saturday at 2am. Whilst holding a kebab as well. Oh, what a multitasking son of a gun I am. Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. Keep the faith Rhys
For those of you who think "Woah! Rhys' blog is ending" from my rather cryptic title will be relieved to know that it actually isn't. I'll explain the title (unless you've had your head out from under a rock, at which point you'll probably know):-
Meh, seen it all before.
"You did it...."
All together: lets throw up in unison.
"No. We did it...."
I had my medical yesterday, and was shitting myself. Luckily, the doctor gave me constipation tablets.
Whilst many individuals may not understand this link, I'm sure Max has had many of these sorts of games (such as myself). What am I talking about? The definitive Playground Football rules!
Last night I went to watch 'Matrix: Revolutions'. Can I firstly say that, whilst I'm happy at the ending, I'm not entirely satisfied. Nevertheless, onto the cool bits:-
Last point aside (which - for the benefit of the retards - didn't really happen), I hope I've put some things to look out for, without revealing too much of the plot. Although 99% of Western Civilisation would probably buy a turd that has a Matrix licence attatched to it, it is a good film....if you've seen the other two.
But, then again, who hasn't?
Also, should you see the film within the next few days, I reccommend speaking loudly about plot lines in public places. I haven't seen so many people cover their ears since Aqua split up.
Oh, alright, only kidding. I was nervous, as visits to the doctor are generally bad for me, as I usually leave with either a bottle of penicilin or a sling. Yesterday, I was fine.
No, seriosly, I was fine.
I'm kinda like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable (except I cannot survive bullets. Well, maybe I can, but I daren't risk it), there is nothing wrong with me. Blood pressure is normal, BMI (my falling point) is okay, urine is brilliant...
Yes, before all you twelve year olds get excited, I had to take a urine sample. Who would of thought it was so hard to piss into a bottle in public. I mean, I haven't done it since I was three.
Incidentally, I've pissed into a box in public recently. Well, if the box is considered a phone box. Yeah, did that last Saturday at 2am. Whilst holding a kebab as well.
Oh, what a multitasking son of a gun I am.
Whereas senior sides tend to choose - according to circumstance - from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation.
Keep the faith
Boom, Shake, Shake, Shake da Room
Pardon my French, but I bloody hate Fireworks/Bonfire/Guy Fawkes Night. Before any aspiring pyromaniacs write in to complain about my little shown love for the explosions every night, allow me to explain:-
Look at it! It's evil!
There are tons of 'put on' fireworks displays (the ones at Liverpool Sefton Park being specifically impressive in my mind), where, not only fireworks, you get food cabins and makeshift fun fairs, all designed to charge extortionate prices to further aid enjoyment of the night. However, the biggest problem is leaving the bastard things. Bonfire Night is in November, which - until global warming kicks in - is generally considered to be wet, windy and generally miserable. Couple that with the fact that a lot of display fireworks are held in big fields, and that my wardrobe consists of mainly white trainers, and you will understand that every single November 6th, 7th and in extreme cases 8th, I spend most the day applying "White-shine" to me shoes. 2. 'Tis Just Like T'War
Of course, that is if you bother to go to these organised events. People who subscribe to my general 'Cannot Be Arsed' theorem will go to the side street, put down £100, and buy the biggest large exploding object seen since the The Hindenburg.
Rhys? You been lighting your farts again?
Now, I don't mind that, what I do mind is that (well, in Liverpool at least) someone has changed the name of the event from Bonfire Night to Bonfire Fortnight. For seemingly a week, every night my room has experienced explosions and bangs not seen since the Falklands War.3. Getting Your Facts Right
The most wierd thing is that one of the traditions - Guy Fawkes being burnt on the bonfire - isn't actually historically correct. Guy Fawkes was hung, drawn and quartered (well, he was supposed to be, but he apparently jumped as the platform was pulled under him from hanging, and he immediately broke his neck).
Still, the nicest thing about the night is treacle toffee.
Pictures! Pictures! Pictures!
Matt has kindly tagged my tagboard with a website that features pictures from WWE: Passport To Pain. If you want to see what it was like, visit his site, and read my destinctly average post again.
Lets get Physical
In little under an hour, I will have my medical. Anybody willing to bet what diliberating illness I find out?
Keep the faith
Thursday Night was quiz night down at the Blind Tiger. I had woken with a hangover, and my voice had more croaking than the famous Gambodian Toad Massacre of '63. My gutso singing of the Fatman Scoop song that - despite going against every indie rock bone in my body - is fantastic has taken it's toll. It's quite obvious: I'm not a overweight, hairy black man. I'm an overweight, hairy white man. At this point during the quiz, my voice had cleared to almost perfect levels. Sure, it was a bit higher than normal, but no biggie.
Secondly, I won an award. The Official Minnie Willie Skinnie award. This award was largely due for my 102 in the bowling. The prize? A free shot of Baileys and Samuca, on the condition I wore a pink T-shirt. Hell, it's a free shot, so I'm not complaining.
I took her for a beer, to talk about old times. Just to find the beer, dear, was now a sweet white wine*
During the main quiz, I sat there enjoying my bottle of dry white wine, wearing a pink t-shirt, and speaking with a slightly higher than usual voice, when a realisation struck me.
And I'm not even going to insult your intelliegnce to write down what I screamed out exactly 0.03 seconds after the realisation struck me.
The Body Beautiful
A few weeks ago, a handful of my 'Lets take advantage of the female freshers' mates caught freshers flu bad. Real bad. They were in bed for days on end, pretty much missing the entire freshers week due to ill health. This bothered me, as my natural charisma, stunning looks and inseccent charm with the ladies meant that it could of very easily been yours truly in that situation, and that I'm not registered with a doctor.
Five weeks on from that realisation, I went to rectify that.
After bullshitting my way through a couple of forms, I was informed that I need to take a medical.
The secretary told me it was just nothing to worry about, but I've got two reservations firstly is all those commercials on TV for Health Insurance. You know the ones:-
"I thought I was in a clean bill of health. However, I went in for a checkup and they found out I had leprosy!"Okay, maybe not that extreme, but I hate going into doctors when I'm well, because they'd probably find something. Bad scalp, ezcema, tapeworm, loss of appitite. Something that they can pick up on.
The second thing is that they called it a 'medical'. A medical sounds like an exam. A medical kept Ruud Van Nistlerooy from playing for Manchester United for 17 months. Ruud Van Nistlerooy is a tee-total, super fit, top draw football player. I am a computer programmer who hasn't been in a gym for 4 months, has been in a kebab shop in the last 24 hours pisshead. If Ruud Van Nistlerooy (admittedly, with a broken leg) failed a medical, then by God there's no hope for me.
And my leg is still bothering me. Okay, I can walk, run and do my impression of Rocky, but it's still a pain in the...well...leg.
Keep the faith
* If anybody can name the song that that line comes from, ultimate props will be given.
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 that...how can I put this....you 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?
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
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.
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?
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
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?
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
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.
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
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.
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?"Quote of the day!
"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."
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!
- 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",
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!
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:-
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
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
Roll up a fatty, for pimp daddy. Light that mutha up and say "BOWLIN' AINT EASAY!"
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?
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?
Keep the faith
Meh 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.
Last night was good, but nothing to write home (or indeed, in my case, on my blog) about.
Nasty. Nasty Boy.
Daniel Buh-DING-feeld? (okay, Bo Seleca! jokes don't transfer well to writing)
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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:Comedy genius!
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'"
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!
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 glorious...black + 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