Bells Will Be Ringing
Congratulations to Graham and Fay from last year, who are finally doing the decent thing and tying the knot. I went to their engagement party awhile back, but didn't expect it to be this soon. Now, unless two of my mates or - shudder to think - myself pull their fingers out, and have a Britney Stylee quick marriage, it'll be the first marriage I'll ever attend. I feel so old!
Everyday I feel more and more like George Clooney. Wednesday especially, here's why:-
See? I am like George Clooney!
Anyway, due to new legislation (apparently), a card ID is needed, and is scanned into a computer, to allow future reference. As a guest, I submitted my Portman Group card, which was accepted, and scanned.....
....or, it tried to. Halfway through the scanning, the computer fizzled off.
Not sure what else happened, but a small commotion surrounded the computer. Many phonecalls were made and open swearing was heard. Being a bit of a nerd, I offered to help (though that help was retracted when they said I wouldn't get free chips/drink/food). Alas, 15 minutes later, the computers weren't restored. Slowly (and this is probably a coincidence, but for this post, I'm pretending it's not) people left the casino. Fifteen minutes later, the computer rebooted and the password (which I heard. I'm not going to say it, but it's very insecure for a casino in my opinion. Lets put it this way, my blog password is more secure). My details were entered, and we were free to enter the casino.
So, like George Clooney, I brought down a casino. I however did it on my own, not with 10 other people. Unlike George Clooney, I didn't leave with $33 Million.
I did leave with £15 more than I walked in with. Result.
I'm a laydee!!
After my serious protests in my last post falling on deaf ears, I will be spending pretty much most of tomorrow dressed as a woman. After a shopping trip which - 10 minutes in - was 15 minutes too long (why do women like shopping? Sure, it was alright, but shopping in general detracts from my beer fund), I was kitted out in all sorts of female attire. After locking all the doors, switching off all the lights, and making sure nobody was watching, I tried on my skirt, bra and wig.
And guess what? I like it!
No, before my mum gets worried that her eldest is turning fruity, not in a way that can get you beaten up in some areas of Liverpool. I like what stared back at me in the mirror. Not in a "Make out with the mirror" kind of way, not in a "guess what? I make such a top girl, I'm gonna phone Diamond for car insurance.", more in a "I'm gonna top my AU Disco Pirate attire".
For all of you who want to see me look like an idiot, or have a deep fetish for transvestite schoolgirls, there will probably be pictures.
So, in true blogger stylee: "Bollocks to this, I'm off to Hull".
Keep the faith
Fire In The Hole!
I've done myself a nasty, seriously. I was on the lash last night, and a mate of mine got me in a headlock, and I tried to counter with a backdrop (a wrestling move that involves locking you hands around their waist, and picking them up, falling backwards and dropping them). However, I had drunk a shit load of beer, and I had enough trouble supporting my own weight, let alone anybody else's. My knees gave way and we both uncerimoniously fell, giving myself a bruised tailbone. Luckily, no bouncer's saw us, but worse was to come.
10 o'clock Sunday morning, it wasn't pretty, and the quiet sunday morning was disturbed with my un-blokey screaming. Felt like trying to fit an elephant through the eye of a needle.
Thank fuck I don't have to go through childbirth.
But enough of intricate details of my bowels, onto the main talking point.
Man! I Feel Like A Woman...
So, onto the part I joked about yesterday. I need your help. This weekend, I'll be bowling for Liverpool in...errr..Hull. I'm entering as 1/3 of a trio for the famous "Hull Trios".
It may work for her, but it won't for me!
A phone call changed that, where I was informed that instead of schoolboys and schoolgirls, we're just going as schoolgirls.
Yes, bra, skirt, lippy, the whole nine yards.
I've never worn a skirt, I've never worn anything more than aftershave, I've only waxed my legs (once, and that was a dare), plus I'm not very womanly. I don't think I can bullshit it even for one night. I have a real feeling that one of the following events will happen.
Me ending up looking like a very bad transvestite, or get hit on by wankered/desperate men.
So, I urge you all to reply to this post saying something like "Rhys doesn't look good in a skirt!". I'm on a mission for the good of the world - so therefore I'm a missionary. And, lets be honest, I've always been good in the missionary position.
Keep the faith.
Fuck, Shit, Arse, Bollocks
|Update| This entry was written at approximately 3am this morning, when I was hammered. Therefore, I can apologise for my usual abysmal grammar and the language. Which, not only included awful spelling, but liberal use of the f'word not seen since the time Radio 1 played uncut Eminem at 3 in the afternoon.
And the fact that Liverpool DIDN'T diserve the win (don't worry, I hold my hands up to say that neither did we), it was due to the fact that Gary Neville acted a twat (as normal) and gave away a stupid pnealty. Either way, it should of been 0-0 (or maybe 1-1, Giggsy should of scored).
Incidentally, the pub I did watch the match in (Blakes in Liverpool) has a pinball machine, and I must of spent about 20 minutes on one game, missing all of half time and the streaker at the beginning of the second half*, arses!
I Came Across A Fallen Tree. I Felt The Branches Have Been Looking At Me
Keane last night were amazing. No two ways about it, they are the hottest band in the UK today. Last night they played in The Guild and blitzed the place.
But before I stick my lips firmly up Tom Chapman and co's arse, here's what the support were like.
First came on Steven Summitorother. Seriously, he just "came on". I personally thought he was a roadie or a sound check guy, he was dressed in an t-shirt and jeans, and just came on, did 5 fairly good songs, and buggered off. Nevertheless, he was pretty good.
After that was Bell X1, and immediately I wasn't sold on them. Sure, they were alright, but the band work wasn't evenly distributed (one of the band members played guitar, bass, guitar, banjo and harmonica whilst another one didn't seem to do much). It's such a small fact, but it bothered the hell outta me. However, they started with a weak song (in my opinion) and cresended into fantastic songs (again, in my opinion). The bet being a song called "Eve, the Apple in My Eye", which moved me almost to tears, it was great. They finished on a song which sounded (again, again, in my opinion) like the White Stripes - "Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine". Overall, I was actually pretty impressed.
One last tender lie, then I am outta this place.
A special notice must be given to the crowd (yes, I'm bnding over backwards and kissing my own arse here), but Keane seemed genuinely moved by the adulation we gave them. They even pointed out that the fact that we chanted "Keane" in Liverpool was a rarity**.
So, overall, the night was tops. Keane are one of, if not, the top UK band at the moment. They're like Coldplay, but more upbeat. And like The Darkness, but not twats, and more mellow. They're like Radiohead, but when they were good.
Overall, I enjoyed it. I wasn't the only blogger there, as Oz from Worththefight.net was there, plus regular indie guy Max was in the gig in Leeds tonight. Overall, top band, top gig, top night (I'll get onto this).
If He Dies. He Dies.
A mate of mine bought Rocky for the Gamecube yesterday, and cried, prayed and begged for me to come around and give me a playtest. Overall, it's does justice to the films and follows the story pretty well, (with the exception of a missing "Thunderlips"). After almost two days of continuous play, were stuck on Tommy Simms, a guy in Rocky V (although, from my reccollection, Rocky didn't fight him, Tommy Gunn - who Rocky trained - did. But, the game's full of errors - since when did Ivan Drago have a American Trainer?!?!?) who is as hard as fucking nails. Sure we'll beat him eventually, and when we do, I'll let you know.
One thing to mention is that the game is improved tenfold by adding atmosphere with your own quotes. Special ones include "ADRIAN! I DIT IT!", "If he dies, he dies", "Pity the foo'" and about a hundred other ones.
My next entry will be an important one, as it'll be a petitiony type one. God, haven't I got you excited?
Keep the faith
* I know that pretty much all streakers are people who really shouldn't take their clothes off, but there's something about seeing pre-watershed norks that's nice.
** This is due to Roy Keane, a Manchester United legend who isn't looked too highly in Liverpool.
Catch The Sun - The Atari's: "Boys Of Summer"
"You got your sunglasses on, and you're smiling at everyone..."
I think the quote above is very apt for me today. I've been in a really good mood all day (and that is with a monster hangover). I think it's because of the weather, and the plethora of women wearing very little that the sunshine brings.
- The Atari's: "Boys Of Summer"
Hey, I'm a red blooded male.
Ooh, it's just like Baywatch...
Anyway I've been walking about wearing shades for most of the time, as it's been, quite frankly, gorgeous. Visited a few beer gardens as well, and just generally been very relaxed with my work.
Ah yes, work. Back to university lectures and the like. Well, there hasn't been any lectures, and I've been tying up some loose ends with my coursework (the video I've produced on Liverpool is amazing in my opinion, if at times the dialogue grinds - curse my poor grammar). So, providing no more than 5 assignments are asked for in the next two weeks, I'm coping.
I have already passed one module so far this year: MATLAB. I'm not a big fan of MATLAB (it's slow, more than anything else), and - even with an A Level background in Maths - I still found the Maths part difficult. Anyway, I got 47%, but that's with one Assignment still to be handed in (worth 40%), so I'm hoping for the best. Either way, my mum will be pleased.
Everybody's Changing, but I don't feel the same.
Finally, tonight I'm going to see Keane in the Guild. The gig was moved from Sunday due to One Big Weekend (which they are performing on). I have been a Keane fan since "This Is The Last Time" was played on the radio in work one day, and I loved it immediately. From what I've heard, they haven't done a bad song. Plus a very special pulling occurred during "Somewhere Only We Know" a few weeks back (the most romantic moment of my life so far).
Sorry this isn't a patch on Tuesday's entry (which has been the funniest I've done in awhile), but I'm just generally in a happy mood, and whilst that's ace, it doesn't make for interesting blogging (hell, one of the reasons Max stopped was because he was no longer a miserable bastard). The only reason I'm actually blogging this? To make you feel jealous.
Keep the faith
Earlier today, I was in the zoo. It was quiet, so I had my lunch with one of my workmates fairly early (around 1pm) and whilst he sat down with a burger that has been come to known as "The Angina" (three burgers, three slices of cheese, three rashers of bacon, mayonnaise and tomato ketchup, all on white bread) I had half a dozen chicken nuggets and chips. The nuggets are similar to the McDonald's ones, in that there isn't much meat in them and battered. But they're still gorgeous. Alas a mate of mine didn't agree with me:-
Bet he can't wait for Christmas
"No they're not. Been snacking on them all day, they're gorgeous."
"Jeez, Rhys. You've eaten so many, you'll turn into a chicken."
"No I wont......BWOGAAAHH!!" Okay, it's tricky to write it, but BWOGAAAAH!!! is actually the sound a chicken makes. Usually if you catch it's balls in a vice. "What was that Rhys?"
"That meant to be a fucking clucking chicken?"
"Rhys." My mate said, laughing. "That's pretty good! Let's go to the children farm."
The Children's Farm (for those who haven't already been to the zoo, so Max, you should know this already) is especially designed for - suprise suprise - children, as it's full of fluffy animals. Rabbits, goats, hamsters. That sort of animal. My mate, who could of been fooled if he didn't see my lips making the BWOGAAAH sound, wanted to see if I could communicate with chickens.
We arrived at the Children's Farm, already 25 minutes into our 20 minutes lunch break, and we saw a proud black cock standing in the middle of the children's farm. It was terrorising little children, the naughty cock. With all my lungs I took a deep breath and screamed.
No, the proud black cock just stood there, but the Turkey just in front of me replied. I did it again to make sure."BWOGAAAH!!!"
"GOBBLEGOBBLEGOBBLE!!" Yes! I have founally found my calling (no pun intended) in life. I am the Turkey Whisperer! God knows what career I can do bar sideshow freak/vet, but we showed our little party trick to everybody. Workmates, tourists, and zoo staff. Each of them exploded in delight when I seemingly talked to the Turkey. For one day, I was a tourist attraction.
And, in my opinion, that deserves a pay rise. Please?
And I know, I'll Return To You
Tomorrow I make my triumphant return to Liverpool, to do some work. Whilst my Easter has been quiet and fun, I'm looking forward to going back to university and getting some proper work done. I've mentioned to a few people that I may consider staying in Liverpool over the summer, getting some work there. Whilst the zoo has been good (and, hopefully, they'll keep me should my job hunting in Liverpool not come to fruition), I fancy a change. Something a little more constant, rather than busy one day, dead the next. I'd like some computer based work, as, lets be honest, I'm fucking brilliant at it.
Just read over at Ryan Perry's site that he's launching a new search engine: Icerocket.com. It's actually pretty good in that it has no sponsored links, only meta data, and also features an Image Search and a Site of The Day. After a few days of using it I like it, so I'm plugging it here. Visit it, or don't. It's entirely upto you, but (at the moment, and in my opinion) Icerocket.com is pretty much the tits.
Keep the faith.
|Update| This entry was originally posted on 16th April 2004, but I screwed up and lost it. Actually no, I wipe my hands clean of this. Blogger screwed up and lost it. My fault? My arse. Anyway, here it is. It involves road signs.
Right, onto the bashing. As much as I love my mum, she has a habit of - like every other one on the planet - being a mother. Sure, when pants need cleaning, that's cool. When with mates, that's not.
Theory Test Question #1: What type of building is nearby?
We were traveling into Bangor when we were cut off by a roadworks van. The radio, due to the poor reception, was crackling out. After questioning the truck's driving skills, my mum mentioned something:-
"If you were 3 again, you'd love that truck, you were obsessed with roadsigns and traffic lights as a kid."
I sort of suspected I was, vague memories of me drawing stop signs and others on the back of Cornflake cardboard packets will always be present. However, I didn't know how bad it was. Apparently one of the first two words learnt were "Give Way" (two words on a British road sign, for all you international readers), I chanted "Giggas!" repeatedly whenever I saw traffic lights, I had a copy of the highway code for my 4th birthday. I probably could of passed my theory at the age of 5.
So, why am I mentioning this? Well, there's a theory that the more you drink, the more childlike you get, and the more like the inner child you become. One night out last term I drank a shite load (it was St. Patrick's Day, so I can be forgiven).
Can you see where this is heading?
That's it! That's the one I stole!
Yes, like Puggssey from Addams Family, I stole a road sign. A road works one as well: common as muck on the British roads, but you must own one.
Sure, it seemed ace: "I owned a road sign!" at the time, but by god, what was I going to do with it?
A plan was hatched: get rid of it, as fast as you can. Midnight the next night came, and I lugged the metallic object 100 yards out of my house and into the sanctuary of public roads. Despite two major hicupps of clipping a metal railing and the word "fuck!" shouted very loud thereafter, I arrived unscathed at my destination - a bus shelter outside my halls - and announced to anybody who'd listen that "I stole a road sign, and got away with it!"
And I did (60 days after the perfect crime, I must be in the clear). I retired to bed. The next morning I checked outside, and the sign was gone.
Keep the faith.
I'll see if I can find it again (it was quite funny, and involved road signs), but all signs are bleaker than Carlisle United chances of Third Division survival.Any Excuse for a piss up
I did promote this: International Webloggers Day. Although I'm not sure just how big or small it's going to be, I know I'll be celebrating it with a drinking contest.
Keep the faith.
Death. Taxes. Junk E-Mail. These are three depressing facts of life that we all have to go through. However, one piece of junk e-mail I regularly look forward to is the one from Astrocentre. Despite it being freaky that they managed to get not only my e-mail address but the time of my birth (hell, I'm not sure about it myself) from spyware, I do spend 3 minutes reading my stars. I don't buy into it, but it gives good (if a little obvious) advice - for example, be nice, eat well, save money etc.
So, it was a little than more relief that I read this yesterday:-
"Things have been so crazy in your workplace lately, Rhys, that you have resigned yourself to working in a lunatic asylum. Well, today you could be pleasantly surprised as coworkers handle themselves with more decorum and clients are more receptive to the services you have to offer. You should be able to complete your work in a timely fashion today, leaving time at the end of the day for a little fun! "
- My Horoscope, Easter Monday 2004
Yesterday was quite possibly the busiest day of the year in the Zoo, with tons upon tons of people decending to small town Colwyn Bay to see a variety of animals. Whilst 90% were fine and dandy, a small percentage (which, you mathemeticians should work out to be 10%) were rude and demanded silver service. We're a self service cafe, not the fucking Ritz. Below are some 'complaints' from the customers:-
"I haven't recieved my food, and I've been waiting for 5 minutes. I want my money back."There's more of these and they're all as completely arrogent as each other. Why do some people insist on special treatment? Dunno whether it's class, but people come to the zoo and expect to be treated like royalty. Queue skipping, demanding waiters, not paying for things if they "didn't meet my high standards". It drove me nuts, and I wasn't the only one. Towards the end of the day, all the staff were getting to be at each others throats, and we all get on well.
"Why have you no wine list?"
"Why do we have to queue for my food?"
"Why don't you serve panfried vegetables?"
"Why don't you serve iced tea."
It wasn't everybody. There were intelligent people who were determined to have a good day, and they were polite, understanding and friendly. One let me hold his 3 month old daughter, which brought a huge smile to my face (okay, it was in the sweet shop, and he couldn't get his wallet out, so he had to either let me hold her or drop her on the floor. I was the lesser of two evils). I told him "Seeing this beautiful baby has made today bearable."
"Really?" Said the beaming mid thirties father, "Your day been really bad?"
"Yeah. Haven't you been in the café?"
"No, we came in with sandwiches from home."
So, moral of the story: want a good day out in the zoo? Bring a picnic.
Keep the faith
The Dangers Of Blogging
Happy Easter Everybody! I was today speaking with a friend of mine (she knows who she is) who wanted to start blogging, but didn't want the world and their wives to see. Primarily because she'd be open, but more importantly, because she didn't want to offend anybody. I'm similar, and hope I don't offend anybody with my writings. However, re-reading my last post and thinking about when (if?) I get a serious relationship, and the inevitable discovery of this very site. I can see a "Rhys? You think I'm bland?" comment, and lots of fists and other random cutlery thrown at such a degree not seen since the ECW went bust.
Oh well, I'll jump that hurdle when I get to it.
Turkey. Y'know, I often enjoy stuffing a bird, but that's another story.
Last night, as previously mentioned, I went to The Ship Pub + Carvery to celebrate both my mum and brother's birthday (they were in a week of each other...well, not literally, but you get my jist). For those of you who are unaware (Randi?), a Carvery is an eatery that specialise in meats cut (or carved) from the bone. So, instead of wafer thin burgers from McDonalds, you get lovely cuts of expensive meat, and it is all very posh.
Probably it's an English thing.
Anyway, The Ship has an offer where for little over a fiver (and cheaper than the Zoo) you can have any number of the meats on offer (last night: beef, turkey and gammon), and all the vegetables you can eat. I hadn't eaten that day, and I am a student, having a free meal.
Can you see where this is heading?
I seemed to revert back to my hormonal gorging days of 1997, whereby I could finish a packet of Pringles in a day, and had a breakfast consisting of Frosties, coke and a Dairy Milk. Bruce Banner was the Incridible Hulk, I was the Incredibly Greedy Fuck. IGF (to save me typing that out again) was on a mission to put the Ship out of business, one Yorkshire Pudding at a time. In the end, I had a slice of all three meats, a yorkshire pud, carrots, gravy and 19 (yes nineteen) roast potatoes. Washed down with two Carlings and a starter of buffalo wings meant that the night was spent in indigestion city.
Anyway, enough of my bowel movements. The rest of Easter have been spent working. Slowly working off my £600 student debt (worked off around £200 of it at the moment, which is pretty good, though I'm going back to Liverpool in little over a week, so my hard work will be down the crapper) serving the greatful and not so greatful general public who visit the Zoo. Seriously, when I'm not a member of it, the general public are stupid, impolite sods. Still, after bending over backwards to people who need Tomato Ketchup/Napkins/Iced Tea/Refunds/Shooting, I got given a £10 bonus as - our boss said - "You've all dealt with a lot of bastards today...".
Couldn't of said it better myself.
Quality entries will return when all steam has been vented.
Keep the faith
"Hey Rhys. Listen, got speaking to a girl in work today. She's looking for a bit of male company to see Scooby Doo 2 on Saturday, and I thought of you. Think of this as blind date? Mail me back....
- Mate. E-Mail. Today
Now, I had to turn it down. According to reports, it's supposed to be shite. Plus I'm going out to an all you can eat carvery (oh, they will be sorry) to celebrate my brother's 18th. Anyway, it's nice that he thought of me.
Oooh, we're gonna have a lorra lorra laffs!
Being boring. Or, more accurately, having nothing to say, has been a longstanding fear of mine. I generally try to avoid one-on-one conversations with people I only sort of know, pretending to get a text message or a phone call. Even with my mates, I occasionally repeat stories, only when my mates saying "Dude, you've told me this before.", which kills the conversation dead.
MSN? Forget it. I'm even worse than when in real life. I think that everybody just sits there waiting for a message, so I generally try and have a very fast conversation, which is bland and usually boring.
So, generally. Stories? Yes. Award Nominated Blogs? Yes. Actually on the fly funny? Balls to that.
Those who know me well will know that it's almost criminal how I haven't gotten anywhere near a lay in 20 years on the planet (their words, not mine), and that they cannot understand that. I hope that I have put the record straight now. It's not that I have no confidence, it's just how I am.
I like being a little boring. It's good fun. It's not "going out and not having a good time" boring, just "126 flavours of ice cream and I choose Vanilla" boring. It's "Always choosing Ryu when a new Street Fighter comes out" boring. It's knowing what I like, and willing to do little (read: cannot be arsed) to change it.
Don't feel sad for me. Sure, the amount of sexual excitement of the last 20 ranks up there with a three piece suite, but I am really not that fussed about it. I'm doing good, and doing things which I find enjoyable loads of times. One day, I'll find a woman who is as bland as yours truly, and I will have a long and happy, if unexciting relationship.
A Small Diversion
Roland asked me (nicely) to guest post for him while he's off throwing a frisbee in Italy. I was more than happy to oblige (it's a way to plug this place). So, to read my better than Dickens entry in it's entirity, click here! Be nice, it took me about an hour (well, 15 minutes to write the post, 45 minutes to realise that the silly sod converts linebreaks, which meant my pure HTML was all over the place).
Keep the faith
Yeah. A woman in a bikini, plastered on a billboard. I'm shallow.
Just before you all think I've gone soft, here's a gratuatous arse shot....
The fact is, that it is so stereotypical. According to them, all "real women" are size 16 or above, and love it. Whilst I'm not saying that's bad, but what about the overly skinny women? Why are "Real" women (which, I can assume is everybody except for models and celebrities) are portrayed to be big? Not like that's a bad thing (speaking as a big bloke myself), but why?
Go out into any high street, you see all sorts of women. Big, small, skinny, curvy, and all the colours of the fucking rainbow. Take a small sample of them. I pretty much guess that all of them have had some sort of relationship in their lives, someone thought "hell, this person is attractive.". All of them, unless you live on Millionaires Row, is a real woman. She is your neighbour, your workmate, the cashier in Tescos, the clubber. She may be big, she may be small. But she is probably loved by someone. I know beauty is not skin deep and it's in the eye of the beholder (incidentally, I always, always go for a nice face. Doesn't have to be perfect, as long as it's looked after, not too much makeup, and no tampering, I'm happy), but why the media is shifting from the "Beautiful People That Exist in Hollywood" to "All the larger women that exist in your society" I have no idea.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that, whilst I personally appreciate the days of stick thin but huge norks models are passing, why do you go to the other sweeping generalisation that all the women in the "Real World" are huge? Where are the ones who are skinny, short, tall or - shock horror - physically 'perfect'.
And, should a "one size fits all" bra does come into fruition, and you advertise it with all shapes and sizes, then I will join the manufacture on the goldmine they are sitting on.
Keep the faith
When, Will I, Will I Be Famous
The whole British Blogging world (well, those who matter) have been discussing this article in The Observer (which is The Guardian on Sundays, for thick people). I sort of expected it, I mean, Max changed his MSN screen name to "Read The Last Ever 'A Teenager Blogs' This Sunday In The Observer". I confess, I was a little interested.
Due to work commitments, I cried and begged my mum to get it when she did the weekly shop from Asda. As my dad loves reading broadsheets on Sundays, I got it for free. Bonus.
I got home from an uneventful but bruised noggin day in work (due to me banging my head on a doorframe) and half arsedly searched through all the supplements until realise that the one I wanted was right in front of my face:-
"I thought you wanted that one," my mum says, "it's about blogging. Thought it was an essay that your mate in Liverpool Uni wrote."
Off on a tangent here. I've been very open with my blogging. My mum, brothers, friends and extended family all are daily readers. Yet, I get uncomfortable bringing it up. Probably because I am honest. If I get pissed, it goes on the blog. If I get arrested, it goes on the blog. However, what I'm most embarrassed about is when I'm emotional or - shock horror - remotely sexual on my blog. Those who know me in real life will know that - besides bowling, football and music - I'm not actually that emotional. I'm not good at showing my emotions, when people who know me in real life say "ooh Rhys, last night I read about your post whereby you poured you heart out about being alone in this world. That is so like me.". For people to confront me about a bit on my site, I dunno, I kind of get uncomfortable.
Back from the tangent. So I read the article, half expecting Max to be in it, and he was. It was his last post on his blog, just there. One sentance, I can honestly say, did send shivers down my spine:-
"It was just a bonus that people from Colwyn Bay to Berlin...."Okay, call me pathetic, but like most bloggers, I'm an egomaniac. As - to the best of my knowledge - the only blogger in Colwyn Bay, to see my town name in print, and it directly refferring to me, makes me happy. Those two words in The Observer - "Colwyn Bay". That's me that is. Me. Me. Me!
In all reality, it's nothing, and doesn't beat my mug on S4C due to a pitch invasion at Colwyn Bay FC. However, I'm just feeling a bit warm and fuzzy inside about it, and found an ace blog by a fellow 20/m/student - Honestly I'm Sober!
That can't be bad, can it?
Keep the faith.
As my last post suggested, I got a bit sick of University. Luckily, Colwyn Bay welcomed back it's most gorgeous alumnus with welcome arms, and I've had a pretty good weekend. Why? Well, here's one reason:-
Scaryduck! That twat that used to live on Guy's corridor! Arsene Wenger! Thierry Henry! Can you hear me? Thierry Henry! Everybody who supported Arsenal last week! 90% of the visiters to Arseblog! Did you see that? Your boys took one hell of a beating!
I know I'm going to get some "Oh, but we're top of the Premiership" bollocks for that, but I'm not complaining. Pure and simple, we won the match, the only the second English team to beat Arsenal this season so far (twice, if you count the Charity Shield. Understandably, I do). We're going on to play either Milwall or Sunderland in the FA Cup Final. I can hardly wait.
It's Like Watching Red Rum!
The second piece of good news was that my horse finished first in the National! In the first piece of good luck I've had on the Nags for a long, long time, Amberligh House ran a brilliant final straight to take the win. The fact is I used a tried and tested tactic to pick the horse: glance over the morning papers and pick 3 horses at almost complete random. The money I put on? 50p each way. The return? ?11. I haven't seen the race yet, but I'm sure it was good. I was in work, y'see, and jumped almost 3 feet (which is a lot for me, done my knee in doing so) when I heard the result. What will I spend my winnings on? Beer, beer and...errr...more beer!
Whe You Find Yourself On The Side Of The Majority, It's Time To Pause And Reflect
Unless you are an avid reader of Mark Twain, you probably have no idea where that comes from. Even if you do, you will find it tricky to see how thank links to me. However, if you write for Uptonia.com, you will have a vague idea. You see, Christmas 2003 came around, and I sent out a number of cards to various people. I got a few back, but Lauren's got lost somewhere in the post. So she sent me a nice hand written letter (anything that is hard for me to do - ie. write neat - is something I appreciate) that I got on Friday. Thanks Lauren!
See the Storm Set In Your Eyes, See the Thorn Twist In Your Eyes
I got a new CD player over the weekend (well, I say I. It's a communal one, but I've used it the most) and it truly looks amazing. Anyway, I've been mainly listening to a band called "Scala", who devised a unique concept. You know how Soul/Jazz singers (like Jamie Cullum and Joss Stone) are covering songs by rock groups (in this case, Radiohead and White Stripes respecively)? Well, this is rock songs, covered by A Belgian Schoolgirls Choir! It's not April Fools, so I'm not making it up. I could be wrong. Anyway, some of it is ace ("With Or Without You" and "Creep"), some of it is shite ("Smells Like Teen Spirit"), some of it is funny ("Muscle Museum" by Muse) and some of it is just wrong ("I touch Myself" by the Divynals). The album is on Amazon, though you really have to search for it. Alas, it's a bit hit and miss, but it's well worth listening to.
Keep the faith
I Pity The Foo'
Just in case you couldn't tell, pretty much all of yesterday's post was an April Fools. I'm going to hell. Oh how we laughed.
Pity the foo'!
Well, that's it for another term at Uni, with only 4 more left, I really should pull my finger out to make the rest as brilliant as possible. That being said, I'm glad to be going home.
No no, don't get me wrong, there have been a lot of times that this term has been the best so far in uni. Making new friendships, cementing old ones, and pulling more times in the last three months than the previous 19 years combined. Sure, there have been downs, but the ups have been outweighed by them. However, to continue being an 'up' term, I need to get outta here. Why? Because I'm sick of it.
Last two weeks, which my dad will be pleased to hear, I have just been going through the motions of lectures, small amount of private study then out. None of which have been much to write home about. Take Monday for example. On the same night as this, I saw this white-hot bird out (incidentally, the same one mentioned in this post as being hit with a bottle). Anyway, she was out on Monday, and seemed to like me. Given any other day in bar the past two weeks, I would of read the signs like a Harry Potter novel, and moved in for the kill. Alas, not Monday, whereby I simply just danced slowly and looked away shyly when she made eye contact. It wasn't that I didn't like her, just I really couldn't be arsed, and that sums up the past two weeks. This term has been so good, that it's been so good that I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of MATLAB, I'm sick of not being paid, I'm sick of feeling tireder waking up than before I go to sleep, I'm sick of pulls that have no meaning, I'm sick of reports, I'm sick of hangovers and I'm sick of not having decent food.
I'll get over it. Three weeks, I'll be repeating this post, only with "I'm sick of the zoo, and paid labour" replacing the above statement, and I cannot wait for my triumphant return to University.
Keep the faith
It all began on Tuesday where I went to watch everybody's favourite film about the last few hours of Our Holiness: "The Passion Of The Christ". Short review: Film was good, one of those things that you must see, but the book was better.
And that's when things got, well, a little wierd.
Fast foreward to wednesday morning. I had missed a lecture, and was sitting at home doing not much but playing minesweeper. One game (which I lost), I had this outcome of mines in places:-
I immediately shouted "Jesus Christ....it's Jesus Christ!". Okay, not quite upto the Turin Shoud or the Virgin Mary at Lourdes or owt like that, but it is very freaky. I know some of you cannot see it, but here it is a little clearer (the one on the left. The one on the right is the man himself):-
Freaky, aint it? It's a vision, no doubt about it. Probably due to me singing "Always Look On The Bright Side of Life" outside the cinema on Tuesday.
Should I do something about it? Become a modern day Moses? Haven't decided yet. I'm not a bad kid, just don't bother with church on Sunday, can be blasphemous and swear a lot. Nevertheless, it is incredibly freaky, and I felt the need to tell you about it.
Now, watch me get hit with a thunderbolt as I leave for home today.
Keep the faith.....literally.