Just Another Blog

Re-re-boot. (RE: This is a Re-Boot)

2010-07-06T01:03:00.005+08:00

It's been party-time all month. If I perhaps concentrate I may be able to relate some of the details. Probably not, but the sooner the backlog of 'Stuff that happened' is swept under the carpet, the sooner I can maybe start writing in this again. Why? Because a Blog is a drain to sink free time into. And I have plenty of that for the moment.

-) I am still the secretary of the Writer's Society. Another year of apathy and abuse awaits.

-) All of the people I know are still alive.

-) I became a Yu-Gi-Oh duellist; in other words I have started playing a children's card game with other adults/man-children.

-) I have started wearing what I call 'guycessories'. Not to be confused with jewellry.

-) Two short-story projects have sprung up.

-) I have started designing and scripting my own videogame. Yay.

-) I am now a Masters student of English. I've had worse days, I suppose.

-) Staying up through the night and into the depths of the next day have become normal.

Anyway, onto the most recent happenstance.
***

Was at a Hoedown in pollokshields, hosted by Cati. Managed to get rattled in five minutes and lose an inflatable game of snakes and ladders. I suspect they were skipping my turn and not telling me while I went to talk to Cati's mother and sister. Managed to connect over Coronation Street. Managed to offer myself to Mrs. Monti for a price, pour booze on myself, and STILL make a good impression. Am still waiting on her counter-offer.

At the party was another of Rebecca's friends, called Cat, who in the true tradition of all of Beck's other friends got herself a man within an hour and made out with him in the street, prompting a nice elderly couple to call in the police. Cue nervous chat with the police for the star-crossed lovers, who implied they were under-age. Hilarious.

After that we played Bullshit for a while, all of us. I played with my hand the wrong way round. Still managed to not come last. When the rain came we crammed into Cati's matchbox coffin flat and prepared to bathe in the glorious sweaty heat of Each Other. I vaguely remember Power Rangers being shown at one point. Forgot how great that show was.

Ended up with a lethal cocktail of red wine, Lidl's cider, coke, and voka in my hand. Tasted like...red wine. I hate red wine. Cat busied herself with Kieron next, who would make out with her on Cati's bed while trapping poor Heather beneath them, who was forced to lie there and think Happy Thoughts to avoid the Horror that was unfolding next to her. Andy was nowhere to be seen to free her from this predicament; he was far too busy playing Yu-Gi-Oh; the Children's Card Game.

Went out of the flat to check on card game. Kieron and Cat repatriated to the bathroom. Watched the card game for awhile. Kieron emerges from the bathroom, white-faced and looking very afraid as if he'd encountered Life face-to-face or something. Watched the card duel conclude. Some other stuff happened.

Cati, help me fill in the blanks here.

Cat moved onto victim number 3; the slumbering Dave whom she draped herself over (sound familiar, Joe?). I think Norris spent the entire night playing challenges in Smash Bros. When morning came, we all left.

That's all I can remember.

Re-Boot: A Farewell to All That

2010-04-07T08:13:00.003+08:00

Its about time I started this up again. Not because there's any pressing reason that what gets said here is in any way relevant or worth the time for your reading, but because it might be instrumental in helping answer, for me, a few questions. What you write is what's pooled in your head so it helps to see it held down in static print; hard to pin a thought down in its fluid form in the head, it keeps changing and warping and drifting.

Nearly finished with my education. All my life I've been in education. It's been the template behind my entire life thus far. School was my routine, my thinking. Get up in the morning, head in to class, be talked at, produce something to be marked, graded, and assessed. No different in university, where your supposed to develop a 'consciousness'. but really its the same old assessment and grading. Its good practise for being an adult in this society. For being something that is marked, graded, and assessed.

I feel that a person judged by performance becomes, through the same mode of thinking, something that can be 'upgraded' or replaced. A person, as commodity, is no longer a person but a material object. Dreams get forgotten after a while, when you wake up in the morning, every morning, they fade away. What they, the person, wants in time becomes their function. Its called 'settling'.

I come to the end of all this education faced with one question that was supposed to have been stamped out a long time ago. Its the question of my identity as a person turned potential commodity. What I may have wanted has become lost in a miasma of what other people wanted, what I thought I wanted, and what I never wanted at all. Maybe I never even wanted an answer to the question in the first place. Having a place and a 'worth' is alluring, to the say the least.

So what happens when I get set adrift out there? There's a romantic image of literally drifting from place to place and sampling the forgotten culture of a people who once said 'no', but who eventually were forced to say 'yes', over and over again like an industrial process. But what does that lead to, if anything. Their life was not 'my' life; my life hasn't been lived yet.

My greatest fear is that my life will never be lived but stuck in limbo trying to figure out who or what it was, only to find it out too damn late. My fear is waking up at thirty, forty, fifty and life still being unlived. Or maybe my fear simply is waking up at thirty, forty, or fifty, my life running out no matter how it was lived.

That's it, I guess. No matter how full the life, or how empty, it ends and we don't want it to. Best thing to do is give life to other people. I'm not just talking about families here, I mean enriching other people's lives with the experience of your company. Conversations, arguments. Talking. And the arts, too. Making music, pictures, making things for other people. Creation. The antithesis to 'settling' and death is creation. Writing. I'm going to try DAMN HARD to enrich other people's lives with writing, the same way that the stories and works of my betters and peers have enriched mine. And if I fail, or give up, then I deserve to wake up at thirty, forty, or fifty and exist, not live, in regret.

Feels like I'm howling at the dark here. Maybe I'll sleep for a while, and dream of a clock that can run backwards...Or maybe I'll dream of all the creation that I and other people can produce. Commodity? Maybe. There's a game to be played if you walk down my road. But adolescent identity crisis or no, its time I determined for myself what my life is and who I am. The answer to who I am is that there is no answer; there never really was a question.

Let me sleep please.

2010-02-01T10:16:00.003+08:00

It's two in the morning and the sun is in my eyes. Nope. It's the light of the lamp. Gotta stop staring at the light of the lamp. Finished a gig shift tonight (6.30-12.45) that I swapped with someone because I never learned to say no to people. My back aches. Walked home hungry because all doors were shut. Came in tired but too hungry to sleep. Let's talk about writing till I feel a crash.

I like writing. It's like when I was a kid with toys The toys were great, but it was the imagination that really brought everything to life. Writing's like that. Now the words are the toys and the mind is the playpen, just as it always has been. But then I guess it depends what kind of writing you're doing. Me? I've no deep message to convey that hasn't already been expressed perfectly by another. So I'll stick to my toys.

Think I keep getting distracted by wanting the weight of character I see other people have, or at least I think they have. To get there, this and that has to be done and given up. But there's pull in me to be another way, to do what I want to do. Do I want what I need to do or do I need to do what I want? Hm. Problem with growing up is that no-one tells you when you're through. Which way is right? Why do what's right? I think the answer comes with realising that there needn't be a question.

Toast. I'll make toast. Hold on. That was nice. What was five minutes for me was a matter of seconds for you, reader. But what you didn't read was the act of preparing toast, the anticipation, the warmth of the bread, the buzz of the toaster, the crackle of bread at the first bite, sweetness of jam on one side, dryness of savoury on the other. What else was lost in that small gap between 'Hold on' and 'That was nice'? Language can never express fully. There will always be something lost.

Here's an issue. How do you become the voice of a generation, like Kerouac did for the beatniks or Vonnegut for the post-WW2 people, when that generation is already expressing itself in a million different ways across a web of social networking sites? And how can your words reach out when those masses are crushing language down and down with their abbreviations and their stock phrases? You're abbreviating your minds, people. Your meanings are being narrowed down along with your words. Orwell was a genius for realising this one fact; without language, there is no thought. The narrower the language, the narrower the thought. Narrow minds. That's a small target to hit.

Crash.......Good night.

Enter the Collector (of glass (plastic))

2010-01-22T19:56:00.002+08:00

My arms are sore. My hands reek of cheap spirits. My hair is a tangled mess. My legs are bruised. My lower back has imploded. My clothes have been saturated with stale beer. I have a newfound hatred for humanity. Yes, my friends. I have re-entered the wonderful wonderful (ain't it wonderful?) world of employment. And because misery loves to spread itself around, may the blog recommence!

Thanks to five minutes work from Catherine, I got a job after seven months of searching on my own. Glass-collectors are by no means an indispensable bunch, being employed straight off the street I'm given to understand, but a job was a job and if I could stick it then there would be a nice thirty-sixty to take home each week. After signing some forms, my first shift began with a lengthy training session.

It was halfway through a lecture on customer service and then a practical demonstration on pint-pulling that I began to feel slightly suspicious.

The glass-collector, it would seem, had just been instantly promoted to Barman. I had gone from being invisible, safe, and fuck-up immune to being fully-visible, under-pressure, and working with many expensive fluids in shaky plastic cups that I have to fill with shaky hands. I forgot most of what I'd been told by what's-her-face (Sarah?) and stood there in silence with the four other bar-people, waiting for my own personal Doomsday to descend in the form of party-goers, clubbers, and anyone else expecting me to turn money into booze.

Shots were the worst of it. Shaky hands meant spillages. Spillages meant sticky hands. Sticky, shaky hands meant sticky everything. And there was one moment that, had it gone differently, would have destroyed my career before it had even started.

I had been pouring out shots of Jaeger, and as such had the optic for it sitting in front of the till. Not really thinking about it, I put the purchase through the till. Now, till drawers have a tendency to shoot out. Are, in fact, known for it. So I shall paint this picture for you. The till drawer has shot open. The optic full of Jaeger, as mentioned, is sitting directly in front of said till.

EPIC FAIL IMMINENT.

The till drawer opened in slow motion. It met the full bottle of Jaegermeister and pushed it strongly, closer and closer, toward the edge. It was the reflexes of an unfit cheetah, dumb luck, and a strong desire not to die of Lame that helped me stop the bottle's advance unto oblivion (and my shoes) just in time. Fortunately, no-one saw and I believe this because I didn't see them see me. If videogames have taught me anything, it's that if you can't see them then they can't see you.

Here's one for the Studio Ghibli crowd. Remember that guy who picks a fight (oh dear) with Shovelling Stevens? Well, he was in last night. Ginger beard and all. Apparently he drinks vodka in orange juice. He was ordering them five at a time. What a guy. He did not, unfortunately, burst out of his cardigan via flexage when I fucked up his order somehow. I forget what I did; there were that many fuck-ups perpetuated, you understand.

And, as with my previous job, getting away with said fuck-ups relaxed my utter terror into a nice, warm, anti-pathic Hatred.

"Can I have three Jaeger-bombs, and a vodka-soda with lime, please?"

Oh God!

"C'n I have two vodka hush-puppy reds, please?"

...What?

"Can I have two Jaeger, shot ay sambuca, Vodka lemonade, an' ay Sailor wi' coke?"

Fuck off.

I was surprised at how far I'd come. From fearing the customer to absolut (get it?) revulsion for anything waving money at me in four short hours; I imagine hookers go through the same rapid process.

...Anyway, the time came when glass-collecting had to be done and I was sent out to reprise my original, and fully legal, role with aplomb. I would like to say now that I glass-collected the HELL out of that place. No-one was safe from the purge, even the people on the dance-floor as I crawled, commando/hobo/pervert-like through the dancing legs of trammeling feet. Littering the smoky floor like a napalmed Vietnam battlefield where the shattered remains of countless plastic glasses and their severed shards. I deposited the ones mildly in one piece into the pile (but who knows of the psychological cost inflicted upon these containers of merriment?), plucked from the Killing Field that was the dance floor. I found a £1 coin during the search and kept it in a glass, despite having pockets, for, and I quote my brain at the time on this, 'Safe keeping'. Naturally, I forgot it was there five seconds later and threw the whole lot into the bin.

So, glass collecting went on for an hour or so. I was offered a break but cut it short to prowl the darkness of the bar, snatching drinks from people's hands when the empties on the floor began to thin out under the intense glass-collecting Might of the Glass Collector. I was grabbed by one guy, who voiced his concerns about two neds and wondering where his family was. I asked him if he was finished with the drink in his hand. He ignored me and carried on with his speech as I tried to sort out the seven cans of strongbow in my arms.

And then it was over. The crowd filtered out, and thus began the clean-up. I say clean-up, I mean World's Strongest Man Competition. Ya see, there were all these empty kegs that needed taking down the ramp to the doors. Taking them two at a time, I ran with that squatted bandi-leggedness that competitors on the World's Strongest Man competition also have when carrying similar objects (though of much higher tonnage) and I believe my face also mirrored such people, being horrendously out-of-shape. A muscle in my face also began to spasm in tandem with my arm, giving me the 'exhausted sneer' look. Fortunately, it was done before Michael could overlap me (though he was bloody close).

And it was finished with a walk home through the rain. Bliss. I collapsed into bed with a fervour and for all the aches and pains slept soundly. For I am Working Man again. Hear me whimper in my sleep.

Just Another Blog (R.I.P)

2009-10-26T19:13:00.005+08:00

Question: How do you end a blog?

Answer: Like this.

The End.

Flogging my mind to death with wet straw

2009-10-06T07:30:00.005+08:00

I played Bob at chess again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And at Smash Bros.

Damn. And. Blast.

Anyway, that was after some patient guitar mentoring courtesy of Rob. I always imagined that guitar was something you learned while on a road trip. Catching a lift across America in a cattle train, you find some long-haired drifter with a leg swinging from the open cattle-cart door and a bottle of Tennessey whiskey beside him, playing away on a grimy beaten-up guitar that's in perfect tune. Heh. If you want to ask him to teach you guitar, go to page fifty-two. If you want to shove him off the train, go to page eleven. God bless Second Person adventure stories.

I should probably co-write one of those with someone. The potential for madness is immense.

All I got was an unmade bed in Dennistoun, with a guy drinking flat cider showing the ever-ungrateful me where to grip the shaft and urging me to push down hard and strum with a regular rhythm. We made sweet music together. I could go on from there with the ennuendo of two men in a room but he'd probably stop teaching me chords. And power ballads in between his power naps.

On that note, entendre was the name of the game as I found myself stomping familiar ground with Little Ms. Riding Hood. In the children's literature class. Lots of stuff there, such as a cock-blocked wolf, the symbolic wet straw bolting a door, and the laughter of mystery man on my right, who had given me a creeped-out feeling when I first saw him come in through the door. Something about that guy...probably Norman Bates II.

Got to spend three hours with Guitar Sensei for classes today. I realise I am going backwards with events of the day. The first two hours were disastrous in Creative Writing where I managed to make the point that the message of the two stories was Fuck. I had lost my train of thought midway and swore. Said nothing for the remainder, 'cept small attempts here and there to recover lost honour. No chance. As final kick in teeth, my story got overlooked. Was promised that myself and two others would have their stories critiqued and analysed next time. Another overlooked, failed piece. Will spite them by writing 'I went to the Park. The End.' for next week; My one true masterpiece of the primary school years.

My head hurts something fierce. Probably the month-old cider me and Bob drank. Gargh. Hurts like Hell.

All in all, a good day. I had a dark Mars Bar for lunch.

Final Thought: I should stop talking.

Why WAS Kirk climbing a mountain?

2009-10-02T21:33:00.003+08:00

Seems to be the rage, so in lieu of anything nice to say I will put up a youtube video address. My sister and I find this amusing. Challege the rock, people!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HU2ftCitvyQ

Burning the Endangered Midnight Oil

2009-09-15T02:42:00.003+08:00

Greetings! Hellooooo! And Welcome! No point doing a blog if it's just an account of goings on. So, we shall abandon reason and delve into the macro-world of amusing dictation. Where words are used out of context purely because they sound nice.

I have been job-hunting since March now, and have been less frustrated in my efforts and more utterly ignored by the closing ranks of shopkeepers and giant retail outlets. To my shame, friends became a networked bank of coins and drinks. A frugal nature leads to dull adventures, my elite cache of readers, and so it is my intention to head-on charge the 12hr, watching the others drop-out one by one or in droves until all there's left is myself, the bottle, and Myself.

What an ungodly sight that will be.

I fear for the literary revolution and for J's next moves on the chess board of his life. So far he's playing it with a dice, not planning, not strategising, and while this life-style offers the greatest prize of all, it bears the most snakes ready to keep one playing the game, in a state of never-winning limbo, until retirement and death. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Tibbs. Let me know when the next issue is coming out. I'll help fund it. Then we'll put a revised distribution strategy to the test. Fucking Borders. I wonder if the spas who disposed of those booklets even bothered his acne-smothered arse to read them.

Watching Withnail & I. Exemplary film set in the aftermath of the great Hippy crash of the late sixties. Fantastic music too. Look it up. The acerbic humour is great.

We all like to talk about our fears, even if it's with ourselves. Ill tell you one of mine. I'm afraid of never growing up. I'm afraid of watching everyone else move on while I try to get off the ground. But don't get me wrong. It's no-one else's responsibility but my own to haul my carcass along the Great Road. But it's never good to go it alone. Best to have back-up and the Streets of Rage policemen with the RPG's and gatling guns when facing the next level; 'Rest of My Life: Act 2. Current Score: 0000027).

The ABC recently fired some folk, presenting an employment opportunity to collect spit-infested cups and glasses swirling with the half-drunk grog of some Godless Nedite. I will, however, be passing this one by, Catherine. I value my hair and face far too much to risk meandering through the sticky crowds of the ABC's (ir)regulars with the stabby promise of fist-face retribution playing in their glazing eyes. Thank God for Free Will and full student loan & bursary benefits.

Have no fear, though. There is always the October days to secure employment. I am in no rush, now that the storm has been weathered. It'd been easier if I'd had a mast for those dilapidated months of misfortune, sure, but, as the captain of my tramp schooner soul says, 'Worse things've happened in other seas'. That's what he says. He wears a bright yellow rain-coat and chews tobacco raw.

Looking forward to the influx of First Years I am almost certain to attract the vengeance/spite of come the brand new academic year. I have a knack for making enemies at first sight. I recall the nerdy girl and her friend who came in mid-way through a year, I forget when. 'I'll do that when he says something funny,' she says, snippy. "I'll say something funny when you say something interesting,' I replied to that girl, who'd thus far sat there and said nothing. Enemies, enemies, enemies, everywhere I look. No worries. There're friends everywhere I look too, these days. And they've got my back. So I'll get their back.

Chapter One is proceeding nicely. That deadline prize of a shiny new game is in the bag. That, and I've the outcome of the Bridport to anticipate. And the Cardiff International Poetry to assault with two promising pieces still in development. I'm thinking early deployment will win the day, one day. Get the pieces in nice and early. Sod the false promises of a stepping-stone to a writing career, I'll get that on my own when I look for a publisher to take on my books, I'm just after the money and the satisfaction of finally turning professional; a title that needs earning.

Well, that's that. I'm away to study the songs of Leonard Coen and a whole bunch of Red-Neck websites that lament what they call the Lost Cause. Interesting to think that there were two Americas in 1861, isn't it?

Suit yourself. I certainly will.

Thought of Today: If the motto of the CSA was 'God will vindicate us', does that mean that, deep down, they knew that what they were fighting to maintain was wrong?

The Wily Bishop Who Looks Like Bob-Sensei

2009-09-11T22:39:00.004+08:00

The writer's faculty met to discuss the plan for upcoming meetings and how to present our stall yesterday morning. I had to write a large part of what was said down, with times, and nary a chance for tom foolery. If only Tom were here. He makes Tom Foolery work with capital letters. God, I miss Tom.

The writer's faculty seperated after deciding that, though the Church was still available, that the lounge in the Union would be a far better candidate, containing fusball tables, shovels, lighting, leather sofas, and a Guiness helmet. There was also the big lecture hall that the Pratchett club use, like a House of Commons debating chamber.

Stalin and Jennli-puff then left, leaving myself, Andrew, and Dave. The latter had a dinner function to meet in City Hall. Probably to collect his rewards while in costume, under his alias as 'Party Khan'; the crime-fighting, move-busting, party-all-nighter hero. The former, Andy, discussed his first four chapters and prologue with me, characters and all. Every character that was described to me, I suggested that they enter buildings in some violent fashion or other, usually with obscene property damage taking place. A character with the name of Torque does not use a door code; he scoops the door out of the way. Such is the nature of his name.

Returned to Bier Hall with these two to sample the next delightful pizza on offer, a Salmon one. Verra nice. Too much sour cream sauce,but still verra nice.

Was walking home when Bob called me, so we went to his place instead to drink and play chess. I was wondering, as we went, why every encounter with Bob results in me carrying large, two-litre bottles of cheap dry cider in plain view down the street. The answer is; because I wouldn't have it any other way.

I played Robert at Chess again. It was our third game, of the last game I spectacularly managed to shoot myself in the foot by failing to capture a King that was surrounded by a bishop, queen, and horsie. Go figure.

The game started well. I trapped his queen and was ravaging the left flank with Black when the inevitable happened. My queen became distracted by a boutique window whereupon she was taken from behind by a wily bishop, bearing Bob's likeness. My king then led a valiant charge of his pawns and rooks against the White defences but fell into a hopeless situation; not even flicking the king at Rob's king in a suicide dive sufficed as it struck a pawn and rolled off the board, never to be seen again.

But it little mattered. We had bought Pina Colada mix and after realising that you have to mix it with various other elements to produce said drink, we enjoyed the creamy pineapple cocktail over the esteemed program 'Deadliest Warrior', in which there was much testosterone and cries of 'look at that budget!' whenever a splatter of blood or similar sprayed across the camera in one of it's many 'simulations'. Apache beats Gladitaor, apparently.

We took to the field of Smash Bros. where I was eager to show off my new moves. Unfortunately, Mr. Game & Watch (aka Bacon Man) was unavailable, as one of Rob's friends had deleted his save file prior declaring 'lets earn all the characters again! It'll be fun!' I imagine by the way only a handful of characters were unlocked that this friend's idea of fun had quickly soured.

We smashed our way through several bouts. Bob was still the better player but I showed a marked improvement in technique, claiming a game or two in the proceedings, coming close behind in others, and navigating the terrain in a manner now dissimilar to a blind, wingless pigeon. I tried various characters as ever, having success with Jigglypuff of all people.

Got to watching Watchmen last night, courtesy of Bob. Not a bad film. Nixon's nose was obscene.

On the writing front, things are going well. A well-timed comment from Joe and Catherine against using fourth wall has prompted a scrapping of the prologue and, in a delightfully unexpected turn of events, thus provided more material for scene no.2 of the first chapter. Self-congratulations all round. Then I start to doubt.

Bob says that I lose Chess games because I believe, implicitly, that I am going to lose, even when winning.

Well...

Generic Update #63

2009-08-31T23:15:00.002+08:00

Ugh. This infernal blog. It's grown like a tumour in my foot, slowing me down. No matter. I am sure things will pick up here again. On that subject, I'm feeling better after another bad spell and I can resume work on the first chapter of what'll be my first book. And whether published or not, I intend to take the lessons on work ethic I recently found in a Terry Pratchett interview to heart and start work on the next one immediately after this one is finished.

I've got a target. Finish Chapter one and the short prologue before the end of September. Then give it to you guys for advice. I can't mollycoddle what I write anymore; It has to read like a finished product or there's no point. Sure, there's a dissertation to be done but I only need to show for what I've done over the holidays and that can be falsified as easy as one, two, three.

I encountered the Chuck Norris of the gaming world on GTA Online a few weeks ago. It was while pestering a group of motorheads with a moped when he appeared, careening into their sports cars with a truck. What followed was a Everybody vs Chuck Norris, in which this veritable god of gaming held off and defeated gunmen, gunships, and numerous attempts to run him down, all without being killed. Once. I kept my distance and watched in awe as this unstoppable colossus destroyed these guys, who gradually dropped out of the game in disgust with themselves one by one.

After the dust had settled, I went on to make some 'friends' in GTA-Freak 194 and Babe-666, with whom we sped up the airstrips doing trick jumps from ramps. Also managed to get involved in a race with thirteen other people in emergency vehicles, which wasn't as fun as it sounds. Between that and clearing all the trophies for Fallout 3, I have spent a largely unproductive summer, being without funds (but not for long. Not for long.)

Movie-night cuatro (?) came and went. I have now seen the original versions of what have become staples in the horror film genre, such as Hostel, Texas Massacre, and Hills have Eyes. Windows were jumped through a lot. Chainsaw mishaps common. Hostel's best moment came toward the end when the main guy burst into an occupied cubicle with a considerable amount of force, braining the occupant in the process. Otherwise shit. Also saw a number of questionable films, such as The Crow and Twilight-esque The Covenant. Much effort was spent trying to prevent myself eating my own hands. Apparently talked in my sleep. No-one will tell me what I said.

Hmm. I need a holiday.

Progress. The bar is 1% full.

2009-08-11T18:45:00.003+08:00

I took the first tentative step toward actually writing a book yesterday.

For those of you that don't know, this is not the first time. There's a 50000 word draft sitting in pieces on my computer that marked my first foray into the world of writing, after what was supposed to keep the wolves from the door in the Writers Society turned into a feverish writing bug. I keep it there for posterity sake. And as with (most) first-time writers, it was a fantasy story that was going to rival Pratchett despite having none of the charm, poise, or intelligence of the man's books. It'll likely never see the light of day again, unless I ever have need to give someone an anyreusm.

I'm reading Christopher Brookmyre again. I was really surprised at how technically gifted he is. The man has an ability to make the ridiculous plausible and readable. His characters are real but not too real. Shame he started writing in first person and killed off his Parlabane character; that's when the sentimentality murdered him.

My back-up characters seem better than my mains. They always have a freedom that the main character can never enjoy. He's tied down by the focal point of the narrative, every move scrutinised and needing to be described. He's like a stage, on which the proper characters can play their parts and have fun doing it. That's just the way it goes, I guess. I have to get rid of this passive main character mentality. Or perhaps that would be counter-productive. I don't know but I've a feeling it's the way to go.

The path to success as a writer isn't a journey from A to B. Nope. It's more like trying to find a randomly placed oasis in a desert. You can wander forever through the burning wastes and never find it, just going round and round in circles if you're not careful. You'll see mirages as you search, that look like the goal, but turn out to be as immaterial and susbtantial as morning mist; you keep on searching.

How long before the avenue of thought I'm currently pursuing grinds to an untimely end?

I give it a month.

Hellion Melville

2009-07-25T00:56:00.003+08:00

Otherwise known as Gillian Melville, my erstwhile sister. I received news after a week-long radio silence that this bane of my childhood would be once again re-entering my life on a permanent basis as she moves into our flat. Until March.

Fucking March.

My sister has been my downfall on many occasions, and it is with no hint or shred of conscience that she turns the wheels that I get grinded in. It was my first semseter at Dundee; I had an essay to complete and my sister had came up to see how I was settling in. It was her prerogative that we go out drinking. Now, I had never drank a thing beyond a sip of this or a try of that so I was reluctant to take her up on the offer of a night on the town. The uncompleted essay was also due for the next day. Nevertheless, my sister would persevere.

"Come on..." she said, punching me on the shoulder. "I came all the way up to Dundee to see you. Let's go out."

"No," I said, and this one word prompts a performance that Ottoman Bismarck would have been proud of. After fifteen minutes of shouting, cajoling, wheedling, and guilt-tripping I finally relented to try my first proper tastes of the substance known as alcohol. The drink? A corner-stone of the profession; vodka-coke.

Six later, I have been sufficiently worn down enough to forget about my essay or that tonight would be followed by a morning. It is then that she triggers the next step in her nefarious plan:

"Stewart," she says with utter sincerity. "We should go to the Union."

"O-kay!" I replied, Muppet-like.

Now I can say, dear reader, that of all my dilapidated cognitive functions, my memory is probably the part not salvaged from a bargain bin. In poundland. I only recall a few things that night. I remember silver tables. And vision like running water. When the sambuca shots arrived, my first ever shot, I was a foregone conclusion. I may have said that sambuca tastes like liqourice five times in as many minutes. Throughout, I would drink quickly, egged on by the puppetmaster with her encourgaement and exclamations of disbelief that I could down vodka-mixers so quickly, having never drunk before.

Oblivion happened. Lying stretched out on the grass under the stars. We talked then. We talked about a lot of things. That would have been the perfect end to the night.

But my deal with the Drinking Devil was about to be cashed in on. No rookie could consume the amount I consumed, and certainly not so quickly. He cracked his broken fingers and a tremored smile stretched across his deformed face of broken blood-vessels and countless bottle scars.

It was when we got home that he struck. I crawled up the carpeted stairs, went into my new flatmate's room thinking it for my own, and then vomited copiously over her floor. Evil red dark vomit that immediately stained the neutral grey carpet with it's acidity. A midnight gift for Vanessa when she awoke the next morning and stepped in it. Gillian went straight to my room; the Drinking Devil's agent had done her job well.

But my sister is not without compassion. I staggered into my room to find a sleeping bag lying on the floor. She had taken my bed, with it's mattress and duvet. And just to show that she cared, she even threw me one of my pillows before settling down and telling me to turn off the light.

My essay was late; I spent the next morning scrubbing a wine-esque vomit stain that wouldn't lift out from the carpet. It was still there when I left one year later; the only tangible mark left by Stewart Melville on the great grey city of dull Dundee.

Catch the Pigeon (HRM)

2009-07-13T03:29:00.002+08:00

I awoke this morning to a scream. I ambled out of bed as fast as this dilapidated body would allow to discover my mum in the hallway tentatively peeking into the bathroom through a crack in the door. From inside the bathroom came the sound of frantic fluttering and warbling. Pigeons had taken nest in there during the night, apparently.

"Go in there and open the window," she said, and so in went Stewart Melville: Apprentice Pigeon Extricator (APE).

I went inside and the door was closed behind me. There were two pigeons. One was sat in front of the now closed window, which must have blown shut again after admitting our two feathered adversaries. It stared at the closed window with that blank expectant look which only a pigeon can truly pull off. The other one was perched up high on the extractor fan box, looking down with regal disdain at the featherless interloper in his domain. It warbled to it's manservant, window-pigeon, who turned it's head to fix me with a beady yellow eye of blank suspicion.

Caution would have been a byword here, but I had been awoken rudely and was up a full three hours early (it was 11.30am). I walked toward the window with my arms half-raised in feeble expectation of the violent maelstrom when I got too close. As predicted, when I reached the window, the window-pigeon went berserk.

It is a hard thing to perform a simple task with a panicking pigeon in the room. It battered itself against the light-shade, the extractor fan (an indignant ruffling of feathers from the King Pigeon), and my head respectively. When the window was finally opened, the warbling window-pigeon smashed into the frame in it's haste to fly out, fell to the ledge, and then hopped out dazedly to taste the sweet fresh air of freedom. It waited for it's liege, the King Pigeon, who got up slowly and actually stretched it's wings, before they flew off together into the great outdoors.

The next ten minutes was spent wiping the ringworm-esque turds from the toilet and floor. Guess who. As I cleaned, I wondered on the fate of those two pigeons and what fate had in store for them next...

***

"Gadzooks!" cried King, as he and his aide de campe, Benji, soared over the treetops and flats of the Gallowgate scheme. "The dust atop that extractor fan has chafed my nether-regions beyond all recognition! Benji! Prepare the ointment!"

Benji was flying erratically, dipping and rising. He was still shaking from the ordeal in the White Place.

"D-dood! I can't believe I'm alive, dood! Did you see that guy's guns, dood?"

"What 'guy'?" said King, rolling his beak around the common word with distaste. "And where's my ointment? I demand to have ointment!"

"You know, dood, it's times like these when you start thinking about-

"Prepare my ointment, I say!"

Benji duly prepared the ointment. He did this by ruffling his feathers in flight to create a special kind of bird sweat that could be used as a balm, of sorts. He flew into King, rubb ing him down with the ointment.

"Verra good," blustered King, His stomach gave a warning grumble. "And now it is time for one's breakfast. Benji! I see a feeding spot."

There was, below, a small park, a patch of which was being swamped by seagulls. A bin bag from the Indian take-away had burst, spreading it's contents everywhere. For a bird, it was a meal fit for a king.

Benji looked at the seagulls below with no small amount of dread.

"B-but there's, like, fifteen seagulls down there, dood-

"Do it now, I say!"

And then I lost all interest in wondering what happened to the two pigeons and got on with stuff.

They come and go, like viruses and flu.

2009-07-07T04:15:00.004+08:00

Hello to all of you on this, another fine day of muggy mist and rain.

I finished a book titled 'Index' by Bridget Penny. It's a pleasingly blank book, with a blank cover of neutral colour and tiny text noting title and author, much like a reference book. Inside is fragments of seemingly unrelated passages and short bursts of stories. Great for writing, as it contains many instances where relatively simple sensations, like how your legs feel after sitting in a cinema/theatre too long, are effectively produced in the reader's mind with no long-winded or jarring descriptions. The visualisation of the frostbitten man and his plastic skin was particularly satisfying.

My summers have all been long and timeless since...I started secondary school in Scotland. Particularly in the later years. They were spent indoors, away from the sun, and hiding from everyone and everything. The days would be spent sitting on a bed, playing computer games. In the flats of this city, there tend to be alcoves in the wall covered by mirrored doors on sliders, to act as cheap wardrobes. The summer would be spent glancing occasionally at these mirrors, and at the image of the young boy sitting there. It was such a hateful image. My theory is that prolonged exposure to a mirror leads to egomania, or self-obsession, or something with a fancy name.

The summers are better now, but still lack something. It's nothing that can be solved; they're being compared to the summers of yesteryear, in a sea-side town, where the best summers are to be found. I think that a holiday to a foreign country is the cure now. I need out of this place. And until that happens, my sister is not getting another penny from me to go on yet another of her own excursions abroad. Her job in France fell through; so no holiday to France for Stewart.

Fuck's sake.

My favourite time of the year is the winter. It's the cold, I like. Snow. But there's been no sustained snow here for a while. There were a few showers of it last winter, though. The evening sky went a dark earth brown, and the trees went black under their luminous gowns. I stood out on the verandah for that, more of a window ledge with a blue grille fence actually, and breathed the cold air. It's fresh. And the brush of snow has a polar chill, sharp. The cold stone of the ledge emanates through bare feet and arms rest on brittle wooden rails, each crag and fissure felt as a thousand tiny pangs through the ice-melt.

Then I caught a cold and felt absolutely terrible. The throat is always the worst, and it makes me say 'never again' but I know I will. It's like a hangover to alcohol; you know you'll do it again for the sensations. A life without those sensations isn't worth the effort.

As you may have begun to suspect through all that, my job search has yet to bear fruit. The workplace is thus far bogged with students and school-leavers whose tenacity has thus far blocked my every lack of effort to half-heartedly secure a paying job. Damn them. And damn myself for being one.

Is my CV with it's glittery six months of stockboying not enough for these employer types? Have I been consigned to the scrapyard at the tender age of twenty-one? If this keeps up, I may begin vigilante work, and keep what I find on criminals as spoils. Of course, in times of recession, one must broaden one's classification of what construes a 'criminal'. Is not the jaywalking elderly person as much a criminal as the seven foot hard man kicking that tommy cat into oblivion? Does the elderly person not have a pension book on her and a fine, if withered, ass?

Let us not dwell on the fact that the elderly woman left me picking my own teeth out of my intestinal tract or that I am talking a heap of intestinal tract refuse. I require employment not just for the money, but for something to do. Writing is all fine and well. Reading passes the time. But doing what you want to do all the time just leaves one heartsick. I need someone to make me feel artificially miserable to stave off real misery.

The glitz of online has long lost it's edge and I haven't been near it for God knows how long. I'm finding it hard now to play games with a clear conscience. Always at the back of my mind are the other things that I could and should be doing with my time, like job-hunting and working on my writing form/upcoming comp entries. Ah, well. Never stopped me before.

And...done.

Good morrow, my ever-dwindling smattering of readers.

Tricklings.

2009-07-04T06:39:00.003+08:00

Whimper. Hangovers leave a wake similar to illness, with a tenderness in the head, a lameness of the guns, and a feeling of blocked arteries in the body. Everything creaks. Even the roots of head hair. And lights are too bright. Headphones induce sweating.

I arrived home after a night on the sauce. To Let signs were pilfered, wine skeins were drained, horny flat mates were knocked from their stride and forced to start again. Friendly man rape occurred. Sleep was not had because someone felt it necessary to make a futile argument as to what Phil Pullman's dark materials trilogy was really about. My left leg feels ready to buckle. At the shin and not the joints, worryingly.

Starting to enjoy music more. Leonard Coen and Roy Orbison (a quiet Elvis, I thought) are soothing my head with dulcet lyrics that don't have a screeching guitar or hammering drum solo in sight. Joe gave me a Octahedron album off the cuff. It is awful. I thought it was broken at first; it just turned out that it takes some of the songs take an eternity to get anywhere.

Saw Euan in Forbidden Planet. It was my first time in there. I was disappointed not to see him wearing a brown ankle-length trench coat and shady shades with a brown paper bag tucked under his arm. It would be nice to meet such a man, though. But the man would have to be wearing gloves before a handshake is taking place. I forget my point.

Remembered some old cartoons courtesy of Harvey Birdman; attorney at law. Inch-High Private Eye and Secret Squirrel to name two. Funny show.

I owe people a LOT of drinks and one of them a regular breakfast fry-up.

My head hurts.

Welcome Back to The Online Adventures of Cheap Bitch! Episode 6: Death Race 2009

2009-06-13T19:50:00.008+08:00

I got my first online hate-mail! Yay!

It was a very lazy one, with the subject being 'cheap bitch' and nothing else in the body of the message. Ozkuce or whatever his name was (replete with a Ratchett avatar) had a bone to pick and so I promptly blocked him lest he delved his colossal intellect for new ego-shattering insults. But what had I done to offend him so, this esteemed gentleman with his worthy collection of bronze, silver and gold (and one platinum) trophies and steadfast social life? I racked my brains and decided that it was the fateful events of the Grand Theft Auto online GTA race.

It started innocently enough. After messing around in Free Mode with a malcontent whom I sniped from a variety of hilarious positions (my favourite being shooting his tyre out while he was bombing at 200mph down the freeway into oncomign traffic), it became time to go into the competitive game modes and earn some money, and thus a new rank. After being pummeled by lagging in deathmatch, I settled on GTA Race.

As the name suggests, first to the finish line wins but wit no holds barred. Weapons are allowed, as is switching your car. The tracks wind through narrow city streets, fraught with traffic, pedestrians, buildings, people with prams, and lamposts. I didn't do too badly for myself. A few 2nd places here, the occassional 1st place there...four rivals for the top spot made for a tense, but not overly taxing experience.

Then the online rushhour began.

Suddenly there were fourteen of us. We appeared on the starting grid and because the God of Online hates me, I started right at the back, little knowing that the God of Online actually smiles on me and works in mysterious ways that were about to become transparent. The counter counted down.

3.

2.

1.

Madness.

It is the prerogative of every GTA online racer that s/he ram the car next to him before s/he rams them. What this creates is possibly the slowest start to a race since Dick Dastardly tied all his competitors cars to a post in the opening credits of Wacky Races. Once everyone was sorted out, fourteen cars at three or four abreast were bombing down the road toward the highway, where the body of the race takes place (the concept being a high-speed drag down a crowded highway).

Now, to get onto this highway, one must drive up an entry ramp. As I accelerated with my compatriots to a mere blur, there flickered in my mind two problems with this proposed route.

No.1: The entry ramp was wide enough to take only two cars at once.

No.2: No-one, myself included, was about to slow down for those other bastards.

Fourteen cars careened into the entry ramp.

Three came out the other side.

I won't say I was among the three but I was certainly amongst the luckier. I ploughed through with my face set to Grim Determination, watching cars flip in the air, glass shower from the sky, severed doors bounce off the hood of my Dodge Viper-esque Banshee, drivers tumbling like rag dolls as they go through their windshields screaming. My car catches a sore one by a spun-out Corvette and I limp out of the entry ramp with a damaged wheel and a car that looks like it has seen action in Vietnam.

There was a mass exodus as people who had fell over the ramp and onto the green, green grass beyond gave up then and there. People who do this lessen the prize money at the end because te more people driving means more money for the winners. For my part, I still had a car, I had a vague collection of my wits, and I was roughly on the right road. I gunned the not-so-impressive engine and limped off in pursuit of the leaders.

I found the first of them, Guerrero_Kaiser, sprinting up the road on foot after passing the burnt out shell of what was once a sports car. I tried to swerve around him, honestly I did. In any case, I went from 4th, to 3rd and drove over a health pick up followed by an uzi. Suddenly, my car was purring again and I had a weapon in my digitized hand. Joy.

Taking 2nd was not so easy. The race left the motorway and he was far ahead, taking corners like nobody's business as I either careened into fences or slowed down to a halt to weave through awkward traffic. With him being so far away, and 1st even more so, I began to settle for the fact that I might get 3rd and be happy with that. But as I came in to complete the first lap, I noticed something most peculiar on the entry ramp.

Now, a number of people felt that their race was over after the big pile up on the entry ramp and simply jumped ship to play another game elsewhere. But not all of them. You see, some had been so traumatised by the carnage that they'd become savages, and had constructed a roadblock on the ramp. 2nd place had smashed into it and was no being treated to the business ends of several AK47's and a moltov cocktail to wash the lead down. Fortunately, there was another, yet slightly longer path to take and so I went up that way, and came onto the same motorway after an age.

So it appeared that 2nd place was on the cards, and a nice little $450 or $250 was safely in the bank. 1st was nowhere to be seen, and it was the second lap of three. Things seemed bleak for a win. Who was 1st place, you ask? Why, it was none other than our mentioned friend Ockuce.

It was on the third lap that I finally caught up to him. A bad spill on the freeway gave me an unexpected chance to catch up. What ensued was a battle to the finish line, guns blazing, tyres popping, and tailgating galore. He smashed into a lampost and I roared away laughing. The road glitched and I was flipped into the air, to which he roared away (probably) laughing. Then came the final turn. He took it badly and scraped a car. My fucked Banshee limped round the corner and cut ahead of him. There were literally yards to go. His car was in better condition and came up to overtake. A true sportsman would have conceded to his skill (his car was better off, you see) and let him overtake.

Not Someguy-88.

I swerved to block him off and his horn blared in outrage at this cheapness. The finish line was there. I stopped breathing as I was born toward it, by fate, by the God of Online, and by the sudden speed my ditching of heavy principles afforded. I had won. It was only $1000 but it didn't matter. I had came back against the odds and annoyed someone in the process.

And that was that. Other stuff happened in and around that but none of it resulted in hate mail. Ho-hum.

MGO: Surf's Odyssey

2009-06-02T19:53:00.006+08:00

An exaggerated account of my first foray into Metal Gear Online. All of this stuff happened, to a degree.

It started, annoyingly, with a two hour download period. When it was done, it was followed by a half-hour installation period. Fun. When it was over, it was time to make a character.

Surf came to life with his hopeless face, hopeless voice, and hopeless stats. The game works with levels, bizarrely, making it very difficult for new players to cope with level fives, let alone the vets of lv10 and 20. Nevertheless, there was combat training for the uninitiated and Surf sallied over to it to brush up and build his confidence. After a few rounds of solitary boot camp, he felt ready and entered a mock-combat game.

Chaos ensued. After killing and being killed, Surf stumbled across a sleeping enemy, whom he shot.

"Surf, don't #### steal," said the dead man, whose body disappeared to be respawned at the blue base. Surf rose from the ground and was immediately gunned down by Cybergirl, the instructor.

Respawn.

Feeling like a thief, Surf began to understand and think about the various rules of conduct that could exist in such a conflict. He thought about engaging fairly, face-to-face, and letting team-mates finish off their own hard-earned kills. He thought about it so much that he didn't see the sniper sitting on the steps.

Respawn.

A different direction, into the narrow corners and fenced off partitions surrounding a large building. Crawling under a break in the fence, Surf hunkered down behind some boxes and waited for prey. He got some, letting the reckless rookie careen down the passage with gay abandon before unloading a full clip into the back of the man's head. He went down and Surf noted his name appear on the 'who killed who' list with pride. Giddy with adrenaline, he began to run just as recklessly away from the scene of the crime. He began to descend the stairs, where a guy in shades awaited.

The shotgun went off with a 'boom' as a harmless percussive round rocked Surf's internal organs. Surf fell back onto the steps and struggled to his feet, only to be blown off them again. This time though, he lost consciousness; the man with the knock-out shotgun put it away and drew a knife instead...

Respawn.

Surf followed a teammate, creating an SOP link with him so he could see where he was at all times. They set up a sniper position in an alley, Surf watching his back and the teammate keeping a steady vigil down the alley with a rifle. From above dropped a grenade, tinkling to a halt next to the teammate. Suf began to clumsily search for the correct audio response from a menu, running away all the while.

"Grenade!" Surf shouted, a full five seconds after his teammate had been blown up by it. Surf added "Sorry," as an afterthought. It was then that a girl with a shotgun popped round the corner and shot him.

Respawn.

It was sniping time. Surf dashed to the exposed ladder and scaled it slowly, still a lv.0 trainee with no agility or finesse. By some miracle he made it up, and began padding around the roof in search of a good vantage point. As he searched, he bumbled foolishly into an unseen Sleeping Gas mine that knocked him cold.

As he lay there, sleeping, he had a dream. It was about a kind soldier who risked his neck and scoreline to help a sleeping newbie wake up. Surf woke up, feeling someone hitting him on the chest. The dream was true! He looked at the man in clear heroworship and responded to his 'Are you alright?' with a 'sorry!' Surf made his decision; he would follow this man and keep him safe as he sniped.

But irony! No sooner had he been roused from his induced slumber did Surf lumber into yet another Sleep Gas Mine!

"Doooood...!" he cried, as the brown gas rose and our delectable hero fell, once more, onto his face to sleep and drool.

Seeing this, Surf's saviour ran over again as his friend engaged the enemy sniper on the far-off rooftop. Once again he padded Surf until he awoke. Surf looked up into the kindly face, shielded from the sun by a military cap.

There was a short, dry crack of a sniper's bullet.

Blood had exploded from the saviour's head and splattered all over the innocent Surf's face. He stood up and ran, started to scream, pawing his face and unable to get the blood off, unable to forget the dead man's face as it exploded again and again in his memory! Oh, the humanity! Such was his haste to escape the unseen sniper that he clumsily ran into the ladder and fell, all ten stories, to the waiting concrete below.

Respawn.

No sooner had Surf set his sights on someone climbing a ladder, was the game ended. Everyone was respawned in the plaza. They sat in rows, like chided children, before the instructor who declared the training to be over. Only one graduated that day and was recruited into clan Shaymin. The rest, after congratulating him, took the opportunity of a closing down server to stand up and assault each other with grenades, fists, words, and iron drumcans.

Surf was clever. He hid under a box until all the bad people had gone away, fading to black. As he sat there, he thought that maybe he wasn't cut out for all this after all.

Epilogue

It's a team deathmatch, and red are losing bad. One more round and they're out. The blue team, on which resides the host, refuses any vets to join the ailing reds. They're good, but they're outnumbered. And when a lv.0 nobody tries to join, the blue host lets him in; a joke to annoy the reds and their angry demands for reinforcements to be let in. They're furious when they see the pitiable stats of the new red member. But they're professionals so they'll try to make do; the first round starts.

The game contained players of all levels, high and low, and all experienced. Into the unfamiliar map went the rookie, his newly purchased bandanna fluttering in the middle eastern breeze. A point was proven that day. The red team won the game in a spectacular turn around and the unknown rookie came in the top three players list in every single game, coming first in one game. The 'rookie' was near untouchable; his sprees and super-slick moves frustrated the opposition who tried repeatedly to have him booted from the game, with no success.

When the dust settled...

"Who are you!?" shouted the jubilant red team pro. The rookie stopped for a moment, ready to disappear forever into the void of the closing down server. If he could smoke, he would have presently blown a smoke-ring.

"I'm nobody...dood."

And with that, he disappeared.

The End.

Run of the mill post

2009-05-24T00:33:00.004+08:00

Ouch. Spent friday/saturday in the company of friends of friends with the sales pitch being fun in the sun-soaked grass. This started with spending most of the sunny period sitting in someone's flat as they dictated a piss-poor conversation about how awesome they were because they drank and smoked all the time and had a printing machine.

When we eventually did get to the park, myself and Pete were subjected to Alpha-male activities. The football was interrupted by rule-changes when me and Pete scored; something which wasn't supposed to happen. With the rules sufficiently changed, the two alpha-males romped home to a convincing, if not slightly pointless, victory.

But I jest. They were great fun and it's good to meet some guys who actually play football once in a while.

Then we got to the grass proper. It was damp and the sunlight was quickly racing toward the trees so out came the bomb-thingie that you throw and it makes a whistling noise. I improved, very gradually, on my girlie-throw and haphazard catching but was put out first by trying to catch the rocket with my feet. It was a vague improvement over diving into a ditch and cowering in fear, I suppose.

We walked home when the sun failed, and the alpha males were roundly heckled by neds, which was somewhat amusing. Hazel contemplated eugenics and splicing to make pets. I contemplated eugenics and splicing to make pointless animals, such as an alligator without teeth and a porcupine without pines. And also user-friendly suicide.

I am growing horrendously tired of adverts. Their 'humourous content' that was pulled from the tight arse of a faceless Sir Alan Apprentice wannabe. The 'catchy' tagline or jingle that annoys with it's crapper than crap rhyming or it's blatant disregard for old songs as it tries desperately to squeeze extra syllables into placers where syllables have no right to be. And no; having children sing said jingles does not distract us from the fact that they are crap.

But Rangers won the league title.

I got my pocketwatch back from the repair shop.

A writing project has shaped up.

And there's a Tuesday drinking session with Joe and Mikey.

But those adverts are still crap. The one with the coffee-grain artists wasn't bad, though.

PFF: Popular Fucking Fiction

2009-05-19T05:19:00.006+08:00

Disappointment upon disappointment. I visited a website to which I'd submitted a story concerning a mirror (the comp's requirement) to find the long list of winners, first-round finalists, second-round finalists and nary a mention of my name in the thirty strong lists.

The winner's post, along with a critique, was supplied. Stinging, I opened it up expecting to see a masterpiece, or a witty piece of writing that was fresh and energetic, or a powerful piece that moved the reader. What I found was an orgy of pulp violence full of clumsy metaphors, gratuitous gore, and an array of cringe-worthy critique remarks.

This is what happens when you enter free-entry competitions. You get bitter.

Too much time on your hands?

2009-05-12T00:14:00.001+08:00

Then watch this; The Man Festival!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyOQDvkkZo4&feature=related

Nourishing Roots

2009-05-09T07:32:00.006+08:00

I feel that there are times when one must reflect on the past. It was with that in mind that I began the laborious processof re-reading all the old posts of this blog, revisiting the citrus-scented vistas of spring-time musings, the tarmac-roaring heat of job-drive summers, the anxieties of angst-filled autumn days, and the contented murmurings of whispered winter posts, settling as soft on the mind as a glaze of diamond-dusting snow.

I can see you are drowning in metaphors. I shall presently throw you a life-ring; note that the word 'Bullshit-Inflated' is written upon it in pier-black letters. Which reminds me. The colour of a life-ring as I remember them was stripy white and sun-faded orange. Reminds me of Weston, a sea-side resort town. It's a place only I can visit; a Weston of this lonely living memory.

The summers of Weston are hot, and it stirs in the heated sea an invigorating aroma of green sea-salt that sweeps the stretching sea-front of soft sand and cheap stalls selling acrid-smelling buckets and spades of lurid pinks and yellows. There runs, aside the cars, a green tram in the shape of a minature steam train that ferries the elderly and sticky-faced children from one end of the long, crescent front to the other.

A growing boy waits outside a renovated former fishing port turned paddling pool for this very tram and its whiskery driver to arrive. He has the silvered fare of coins in his pocket. He is going to ride the tram right to the other end of the line! The crescent sea-front stretches into a dizzy horizon, mounted by a faraway cliff. That was the destination; summers were for adventures.

I can't recall how that story ended. Let's say that our intrepid, snotty-nosed adventurer reaches those cliffs and realises, as he gets off the tram, that he only had money for a one-way trip. Maybe he chickened out and got off before he was in unfamiliar territory. You pass a lot of places on that tram. There's an overpriced fish and chip shop on the left, bordering glitzy full-blown Arcades with games like Ms. Pacman, Point Blank, and puggy machines with spectacular pay-out rates. I made thirty pounds average there a week.

The tram passes seafront attractions, like the Tropicana. It was a massive outdoor swimming pool, with colossal passion fruit structures housing the fastest, most heart-wrenching slides I've yet to experience anywhere else. No tubes here; just open slides and inflatable rings to spin as you plummet, fast bends, slow bends, twists, turns, bumps, to a great crash of nose-stinging water and come up smiling as if the water were infused with happiness; a magnificent place that, sadly, was shut for the latter parts of my childhood. I heard it re-opened. I'm glad.

Never closed, but now lost to fire, was the Grand Pier. It was built over the sea itself, and getting to it required a five minute walk down a stretching bridge of wooden planks, German tourists, and nippy yellow...what? The hell were they? They were like golf-carts pulling these plastic seats mounted on stainless steel platforms that could crush children and plough the elderly with ease and success. They took the long walk down this short pier out of the equation but then you lost looking over the rusty railing down into the murky sea. I remember ice-cream, soft and creamy, with raspberry sauce. Or a flake. Or both.

Inside the pier is layers of my childhood. Infant years spent in bubble-ball pits, on a ghost train (once and once only; I've been fearful of the dark since), but never the Wheel at the back, because I've always been scared of heights. Slightly older, there was the fortress of crash mats, jungle-gym tunnels/catwalks, immense slides that fifteen kids could go down at once, ropes for scaling slopes, large foam-filled blocks to create forts, and supervised ten-pin bowling at the very top of this tiered structure. Entry was a pound. You could stay in as long as you liked.

Older and into adolesence, we upgrade from kid dodgems to adult dodgems that have new-car smell, and the air is charged with electric. There was eye-melting shooters on my last ever visit but there used to be coin-pushers, cuddly toy claw machines, Bingo, ear-splitting jockey races with tiny models of the orses running along, Noise, the Wheel at the back ceased to hold fear, the western shooting with air-guns, the Crazy House of Madness with it's shifting floors and wooden hamster-wheel...and the air-hockey tables.

Imagine hundreds of the things arrayed everywhere, first to fifteen for fifty pence and hands so quick they blur. I was King of those tables; boys ten years my senior played me and despaired. I loved the rush of air those tables made, the fresh smell that hung around them as machined air filled the great space that was the indoor carnival of the Grand Pier.

What was round the back? RC trucks in a pen, more water games (me and my sister would soak passers-by, not the targets), a minature train-set? I don't remember the rollercoaster, though. I hear it collapsed and people died on it. I do remember the sea though, the ocean view from the back railing of that magnificent building. Once the day was done, leaning there, the Pier tamed for the day, the sun setting slow beneath the jutting rock islands that I was assured was Wales and made me wonder why it looked so small. It wasn't Wales, of course.

God, the Aquarium! This appeared as I got older. I always think of night when I remember being in that place, so dark it was. And that blue. Every tank glowed like it were full of Mako (A Gamer's metaphor) and it reminded of Wooky Hole Cave.

Learning to swim in Hutton Moor.

Swimming out to the cordoned off Old Pier.

The rolling parks where I got done in bad by a downhill speeding bike, made a den with taciturn 'friends', went searching for conkers which we put in a massive cardboard box that burst on the way home and spilled our conkers down a drain, golf with a good friend in Craig (whose brother I stole a lv.100 Venusaur from and whom I gave a perfect FF7 save), the two playparks with swings and slides, the shaded vales and the hill with a permanent scar where bikes went down. That place was blasted by sun. It's not like any other park in the world.

Go there now. To Weston. It's dead now. All of it is dead. It feels cold and sunless. I went down a year or so ago and the place was cold, empty, and felt like water-logged decay. All estates and broken businesses. Even the neds complain that the place could use a economic boost with a few initiatives and cash-injections into key sectors as one drunken lout informed me (and in those exact words).

But it's still alive in my mind. And that's enough.

Ach-ooo said the Pig. Fuck run said the farmer

2009-04-30T01:01:00.006+08:00

Ha. No sooner is Stockboy off for pastures green does a new persona stride over the hills to fill the void. I refer, of course, to the birth of The Son of Secretarialism. I suspect this name will be confused for something else.

Not much going down in Apocalyptia these days. There was a vote on all positions of the writer's society in which I ran in every one until I got something. Secretary. Not bad. All the sweeter as it was stolen from another. Mnyah! I may have promised to do things like make an effort and give people tasks to broaden their spectrum and polish their skills.

Fuck.

After that, myself, Andrew, and Dave were the only people to visit the Union where we played pool to the death. I may have lost every game to the maestro. We then made for Aaron's joint 21st in Couture, stopped halfway when I realised I still had the keys to the Church room, went back, then headed for Couture. Andrew left for the train station.

Party-wise..I can't really speak. I was there for a few hours and no more. In that time I managed to spill drink over people, dance badly, and fall out with the barman. I hate barmen. It's like they bait me or something. I left after the mass dancing. Can't say I was in a flowering mood.

Better mood now, though.

...

...

I'm going for a walk.

Codes of Honour = Sore Feet

2009-04-19T03:15:00.004+08:00

Greetings. Am currently very sore due to a new work-out regimen I have decided to start doing. It involves sixty sit-ups, 100 squats (Cloud style except not done in a transexual gym), and ten minutes arm-weight thingies. They say that swimming and sex are the best exercises but this drudgery is what I will have to do; I am loathe to admit that my breast-stroke is decidedly out of practise.

In between muscle-heading, I have been reading chunks of books with a renewed energy. 1984 has been defeated in it's rematch and in the re-reading I was mightily impressed by the concept of 'newspeak', which would reduce the human language until it became impossible to express anti-establishment views. Freakishly brilliant stuff from a man writing in 1948.

The medium of film and TV has been scraping ass and chewing gum too. Firefly, which I have been watching on and off, blasted my dubiousness toward it into the vacuumed silence of the void with it's brilliantly dry humour, scenarios, and powerful archetypes. Joe complained that I had not seen Firefly because I was not online raving about it. Will rectify that immediately with:

FIREFLY!
OMG!
OMG!
OMG!
OMG!
etc.

Yeah. I find that the old excitement I once felt in my youth toward any new medium of superior quality has mostly disappeared, much in the same way an experienced vintner, on discovering a god-like grape in his crop, merely flicks his cap and twitches his face into a fleeting smile. I appreciate the aspergic-ness of this metaphor. For more, go to that website I found on Wiki where Aspies gather to ask wailing questions about the chances on their being able to do anything that 'normal' people do. For best results, have violins (viola) playing in the background as you read their catalogues of fucking woe.

I like to think that I have found a cultural-ness (...) that has not dulled my appreciation for all things media but instead deepened it. Good books, good games (new and old), and good TV/Film. As for music, I have my preference rooted in the blues and jazz movements, with good rocking tunes to fill the massive gaps. No idea what they're called but perhaps an investment in Guitar Hero would recitify that swiftish.

Thursday rolled around and I met with friends. I had re-discovered my talents for the air-hockey table which, while rustier than a retired whore's legs (zing...?), were sufficient to see off the opposition. £1 a whack for seven points, though, is not economical. That said, a writing competition involving mirrors would net a cool £50 in the bank if it comes through in May. Might not, but there's five others I've a mind to enter; some aren't free to enter but with prizes like £5000 and Nintendo Wiis on offer one must do one's best; and set oneself up for crippling failure and entry fee debt in the meantime.

We spent the time breaking codes devised by Hazel's Norse code and then concocting riddles to confound and bamboozle for all of one minute (until Andrew's Ultraviolet haymakered me into intellectual oblivion). Bob spent it talking to American girl Rhianna and breaking my hand/head because Bob likes to socialise. I accused him of cheating during the ill-fated arm-wrestling match; it was the only way out at that point. Eventually, myself, Bob, Catherine, Rhianna, and the other one left for Joe's, the malicious plan to buy cigarettes and smoke them before his teetotalling self foremost in the mind.

It was as I walked that the strange silence and behaviour of the Other one (Danny?) became clear to me; he was utterly smashed out his face. He would stagger heedlessly into things (i.e. traffic), stop suddenly to gaze at silent Sauchiehall merry-go-rounds, and make sluggishly flip remarks to passers-by. I took it upon myself to retrieve him whenever he fell behind and to regulate his pace whenever he walked too fast or slow.

We reached Joe's place. My pint of cider lasted all night, much to the disgust of my peers who imposed the forfeit of drinking it for me. Danny punched the couch several times in a sullen drunken rage, perhaps not appreciating my readings to him from an awful joke book, before being quietly led to the front door and let loose on the streets. In true chivalric style, we promptly forgot he ever existed.

Bob announced that it would have been a different story had he been present at Hazel's 2nd eighteenth Tekken-wise, while Joe mused on my gameplaying ability. He remarked that perhaps I was so good it only appeared that I was button-bashing. Interesting. I don't recall giving him any pretext to believe me a Tekken button-basher, having never played the game in his presence. Someone probably said as much so I now feel compelled to defend myself with a Chuck-ism.

Someguy plays Tekken 5 on Ultra-Hard. And watches television at the same time.

Strange how some of us get all defensive on the subject of computer games. Probably a self-esteem thing. Anyway, it came time to head home when Joe and Catherine skipped off to bed. Jenna had retired previously. There was some talk of music and I was again astounded by everyone's ignorance of brilliant showman Buddy Guy; the man who influenced Jimi Hendrix and still plays masterfully at the age of seventy. We left with Rhianna who had a 'fair bit to walk' as I believe she put it. As two strapping young gentlemen raised to do the right thing, Bob suggested, nay, demanded that we walk the fair Rhianna home.

Holy. Fucking. Christ.

The act itself I agreed with. You can't have a young woman in a hot-red mini-skirt gallivanting home alone at three/four-ish am. As for the actual trip- no, journey itself...

Walked for nigh on an hour, through black streets where windows on car were covered in bin-liners, past abandoned-haunted compounds where old boarding schools used to be before burning mysteriously to the ground and with spike fences straight from Hell guardng them, through stabby alleys, over deserted bridges with open steel doors on eiter side (perfect for a ned/junkie ambush), and past hedge-lined lanes perfect for housing an armyof waiting rapists, etc.

When we reached Rhianna's residence, she graciously gave Rob back his coat and then gave us each a hug that lasted nary a nano-second. Then she was gone without so much as a backward glance and with us facing an hour-long walk home through the same hell-hole whenst we came. A quick assessment set the likelihood of stabby alley becoming our premature graves at 50%.

One of us, statistcally, wasn't getting back in one piece.

It was so bad that even Bob complained. We collected our manly stoical selves, and headed for home, back through the nocturnal gauntlet. I nearly became the first casualty by missing Stabby Alley and heading for a very, very dark field. Bob called me back before it was too late; if he hadn't been there, I'd have no doubt continued my course and vanished from the face of the Earth.

We walked through stabby alley and back past the abandoned compound. Talk fell on the irony of us dying and being reincarnated as each other. Most likely, I would spend my time in Bob's body saying 'Oh! How the tables have turned, Bobert!' while Stewart aka Robert gets on with things and becomes a worldwide success. God, I hate Stewart.

We nearly lost our way after that but I remembered scaffolding and we got back on track. This lasted for five minutes.

"Left here...?"

"Uh...yeah?"

And that was how the inevitable finally happened. We were lost. And the cars here had binbags to cover broken windows. It was that kind of place. As we walked, we espied a Church on the horizon and used that as a vague landmark to walk towards. We also entertained the idea of phoning Joe, probably nice and snuggled in his bed, and wailing:

"Joooooooeeeee-! We're looooost! Come fiiiiiind us!"

But the bastard wasn't answering his phone. How dare he have sex- I mean, sleep (Heh. Nearly slipped up there. Save! F5!) while we wander the streets of the West-end! No matter, Bob's sense of direction is the stuff of legend (There was once...a man! And his sense of direction was GOD-LIKE. Here endeth the legend.) and we found our way home. We decided not to head back up to Joe's and instead wander home. As ever, we were to be thwarted in this endeavour.

"BUT-LER!" screamed the girl staggering toward us. It was Swan.

Swan is Joe's flatmate. She was also accompanied by a drunken Ally; a man who jumps on things with feline-grace and kicks over full glasses of drink with canine-grace. He also gives people home DIY piercings and has a button in his chin. We were dragged to the shop, where we bought high-sugar snacks to survive the coming ordeal and Ally questioned the shopkeeper's religion because he refused to have a bite of Ally's half-eaten, soggy, sausage roll-thing. He left us to deal with the animosity, while Swan wandered off to collapse on a heap of wooden industrial pallet crates and shout at random people anging around a car.

So we entered stage three of the night at Joe's, using what little energy reserves we could, topped up with sugar and power-naps. Ally decried porn before promptly turning the TV to it, so he could decry it in person. I snuggled under some coats and fell into fitful sleep, interrupted by people talking. I remember little. We left at six-ish, promised that the subway opened at this hour.

Of course, it did not. We arrived at the subway station to find it locked tight. It was very cold, and we both needed the use of a toilet. We opted to find a tea-thing and get some tea/coffee/steroids. Of course, there were none open. Musing was done as we wandered, using an arch-thing for cover against the fell morning wind. It was a very desolate morning; all broken pipes spewing water, deserted stores with shutters down, and churches with gaudy banners, now faded, announcing 'Sunday Service!' for another soulless week.

This is the price you pay for chivalry.

The subway opened eventually. And that's been it since then; not much left to do except write, look for a job (could you guys see me working in a pram store?), and live in fear of revision. Or try to; seems on the subject of exams everyone says the same thing.

Oh yeah:

FIREFLY!
OMG!
OMG!
OMG!
yawn.

I jest. It's really good. It died before it could get old and feeble; unlike Red Dwarf.

Ladies and Gentlemen; Mr. Stuart 'Woody' Wood

2009-04-15T07:17:00.005+08:00

I was reading the newspaper a while back when I came to a story featuring the Bay City Rollers. There they were, sitting on the couch in the full resplendence of their youth, and I received the shock of my life.

Joe! You never told me you were one of the original Bay City Rollers!

King of the Parapalegics (and Tekken)

2009-04-13T02:56:00.003+08:00

Ho fucking ho. An amusing tumult of events to relate on this cool sunday evening. Tuesday opened with, as ever, the usual meeting of writers who had amusingly failed to write anything. They therefore amused themselves by reading out loud the various works that they'd managed to muster. First lamb to the slaughter was everyone's favourite world victim Tom.

"Do you like it?"
"Wow! I've never seen one this close up before!"

And so on. Euan provided vocals to the female lead and managed to turn an otherwise innocent story about airships into a filthy tale of innunedo and perversion. Bless him. Amusingly, Tom had foolishly chosen to name his story 'The ONLY way to Travel' and there was much hilarity.

Next was mine. After confusion as to the pronunciation of a certain word brimming with GUSTO, it devolved into an accented farce with characters changing nationalities at the drop of a lemon-shaped hat. Scottish, Irish, and Pirate were the preferred accents and the story ended abruptly. with the promise of leather-clad Chew falling flat on dashed hopes.

That night was spent at Tom's, where 300, Poker and a certain anime film were undertaken. The anime film was Studio Gibli's 'Howl's Moving Castle' and the general plot as I understood it was a big war between Pink Russia and the Nazi Gay Pride Division looking resplendent in their powder blue uniforms. I also understood that the main characters swan off to a Happy Ending while millions of unseen ordinary people pick through the ruins of a Dresden-esque massacre. Lovely. The film's true hero was an eponymous man who would later go on to be known as Shoveling Stevens; a moustachioed man with the balls to take nothing but a shovel to war. No doubt it was he who was left with the thankless task of burying the dead while the main characters bugger off into the sunset. Was he thanked? No. Is he a true hero of the people?

Fuck. Yes.

Next on the agenda was Hazel's second 18th birthday, because young people nowadays like to rip the pish. Nevertheless, it was a fun day and I learned to my cost just how difficult Guitar Hero can be.

"So, you're going to put me in training mode?" I say to Euan.

He wordlessly sets it up. Training. DragonForce. Hardest setting. The whole song.

I swear my fingers feel shorter. I think I struck 26% of the notes. Euan then took the device from me and hit 56% notes; just to kick what remained of my pride down my teeth, you understand. But that didn't matter, because Tekken was about to come on.

As I'm sure some of you can also say, I grew up with the Playstation. I therefore grew up with the Tekken crew, with Jack's double hammer, with King's stagger kicks, with Heihachi's roundhouse demon, and with all the other famous moves that have remained virtually unchanged for an entire decade. It is with great relish therefore that I can happily report destroying everybody consistently in a rampage of meaningless skill. Even Hazel's Xiaoyu was no match for the comprehensive skill of Mokujin aka Morning Wood.

"Mokujin doesn't mean Morning Wood," I believe Andy says.

"Then I will re-write Japanese culture so that it does," I reply.

Tekken 3 was the game, and button-bashing was rampant. After attempting to win Tekken Volleyball with a paralysed scientist, Euan announced a parapelegic gruge match. There are few things more amusing than launching an elderly man who cannot walk for more than three seconds through the air, head-first, at an opponent while crying 'Lunge!' Pete correctly surmised that we were all going to hell. Ah, well. So long as there's Parapalegic Wars down there, I'm happy.

Ah, yes! Much drink was had, and Russian Roulette was played. Six glasses, one with pure vodka. Now, Vodka has become a natural enemy of mine since A Certain Incident so it was with much effort that I kept my horrendous luck in drawing the bad shot glass secret, so as to watch the agony on Hazel's face as she chose one of the two remaining glasses. Score. There was also a drinking game played with cards. Basically, we made up rules and it came about that myself, Euan, and Dave became intrinsically bound by Fate to drink whenever one of us said someone's first name or failed to add 'in my pants' at the end of every sentence. I believe I annoyed them by saying their names on purpose. It began to grate after the fifteenth time. We were also concoting a lethal cocktail in the centre as a King meant a portion of that person's drink to go into the empty pint glass. The person who drew the last king would be an unlucky chap indeed to draw two parts Rum-Coke and one part Euan's Marvellous Medicine.

Guess fucking who.

It was surprisingly mild and fruity. Good thing, because my stomach was saturated by liquids at this point. We then moved into Password, a game of describing the word presented to team-mates; whichever team held the buzzer when it buzzed drank. Oh, the fun we had with the word 'Uncle'. And 'Blow', which crippled me senseless with drunken schoolboy giggles.

So, yeah. After Tekken, it was onto films. We attempted to get through the 'Chinnish' film 'Hero' (as Becks classified it) with no subtitles. As ever, hit and miss. My head was hurting something fierce by now. I may have asked Hazel if her sister was ovulating. A man was stabbed many times in the film, in varying fashions. Very impressive film, a style of cinema which I've grown fond of for it's striking use of colour and setting.

Well, if there was more I've forgotten and I'm in no mood to recall.

Checkmate! No, wait. Awwww shit...

2009-04-04T03:16:00.002+08:00

It has been a while. Due to circumstance beyond my control, I was unable to make a new posting in...a fortnight? Might be a fortnight. Fuck cares? We're here now. Fortunately, we still have enough in common for this bizarre relationship to continue (ala viz: we both don't care about the blog) and so without any further narcissistic fanfare, let us press on and pretend that this lapse never happened.

*yawn* *Scratch-scratch*

So I quit my job a while back, and I am going through the usual mixed emotions of guilt, elation, liberation, worthlessness, worry, exultation and the niggling worry that I'm going to have to get another one at some point blah blah blah financial situation blah blah blah

Soooo...a lot of people getting together at long last. I am not happy for a single one of them. This yawning chasm of bitterness consumes all such positive emotions, fermenting them all together to achieve that exact blend of exotic spices and smooth taste that's always refreshing. Which reminds me of that rather marvellous Toffee-Apple Cider, courtesy of my good old homeland of Somerset; surely, if George's Marvellous Medicine tasted of anything, then it tasted of liquid death and the Toffee-Apple Cider was used to wash the abominable concoction down.

Too much writing last week. Essays, comps, projects, love letters, ransom notes, diplomatic communiques- it all reminded me of the Soviet Union where writers were chained to a desk with nothing but a typewriter with spiky keys and a drain to collect blood from your bleeding fingers to use as red ink (nowadays, we have Microsoft Word and a simple 'change font colour' option). No worries. Rather than go to the sausage-fest party of my former colleagues in TJ's, I instead went to Joe's official flat-warming no.3 and did my first dusk-til-afternoon. Catherine took it upon herself to reassure me by stating that I was 'not a creep; bit of a freak, but that's it' and the following Tuesday, Dave decided to cast my alter ego as someone who is well-dressed and has nice hair. Oh, how I love them.

...ah, but I do. How annoying. I shall aeroplane Dave and bore Catherine twice as hard from now on. I am fully aware of how that sounded, thank you.

A Burger Thursday led to a meeting of, as Bob puts it, the original trio plus one. Guess which category The Outsider fell into. It was a relaxing affair of chess, and Gai-Sensei assing people with gay abandon. When it was over, myself and Bob walked home through Mean Streets full of Drunken Rage. My efforts to remain inconspicuous amongst the drunken crowds was foiled in no small part to Rob's insistence to point at every couple we passed yelling "THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND!" with gleeful aplomb. He may also have shouted "Fuck off!" to some very far away people, prompting a mad dash to escape our imaginary pursuers. Gotta love Bob for a safe walk home.

Or should I say, sneaking mission? For as we walked, we seemed to enter some bizarre liminal zone in which the deserted road became sandwiched between dead buildings and a strange, eerie land of shaded ditches Where the Foxes Roam. A lone stranger standing sentinel at a bus-stop where a bus would never come shouted warnings that the road ahead was surrounded by a barrier of steel Impenetrable.

"Fuck it," Bob may have said.

True to our silent friend's words, the road had been barricaded off for roadworks and was completely blocked off. For ordinary people, that was! Bob immediately spotted a gap in the fence on the left and we simply sauntered through, feeling immensely superior to those unwashed construction types. Until we reached the second set of barricades.

This time, there was no gap to saunter through. But the fence had been set at an angle and so we removed our bags and crawled under it, humming the MGS1 theme while wondering what a Russian Gunship was doing here. It was a lot harder than it looked. On my part, I crawled under the fence like a dying mountaineer with spinal trauma, with the facial expression to match, I imagine. Bob reminded me of a pregnant cow in his own efforts.

We came to a third fence and repeated our super-sly Solid Snake sneaking supterfuge when a milk truck suddenly came into being and gave me quite a fright. I thought it was surely a construction vehicle bearing irate night watchmen come to run us down for our transgressions. Sadly, it was not and it passed us by without incident. That was the end of the night.

Oh, yes. Prior, we had been walking and bumped into some Stuart Holme enthusiasts/haters who were chanting his name. They were asking people if they were Stuart Holme. One wonders if they ever did eventually run into him, by accident. He could have showed them all the things one might do with a dead princess.

Then again, perhaps we should have referred them to Joe.

Stock-boy (lv.99) was released into the wild! Go! Go and be Free!

2009-03-21T21:52:00.003+09:00

I quit my job and now have no money. I have also set the persona fragment one might call stock-boy out to pasture, until such time as he is needed again. You should have seen his little face as he ran out into the great wildernesses of my mental landscape, his unbuttoned and untucked shirt flying free in the liberating wind as he ran, ran, until he was out of sight. I imagine I will find him near the old watering hole, if ever should his services be needed again. For some reason, I doubt it.

So, a depression has came and went but still lingers with the possibility of a come-back. The fact that I now own my weekends and can spend them writing and reading is of great comfort to me. Also, attending a gig for the first time in my life has done wonders to boost morale. It was a friend of mine who sold me the tickets, and his band 'Unknown Method' may or may not have lived up to their name; they were last on the bill and it was £3.80 for a single drink of Magners.

Three. Fucking. Eighty.

Must dash, going for burgers and beers with my nearest and dearest. But remember! Wherever a shelf needs stacked, he'll be there. Wherever an item has been incorrectly priced and requires rectification, he'll be there. And wherever there is injustice, suffering, and general turmoil, he will not be there; he will be selotaping boxes shut instead. He is Justice. He is Unemployed. He is-

Stockboy! Defender of Capitalism!

Sham-rocking, across the universe...(we should have sang that instead)

2009-03-16T23:37:00.004+09:00

Hmmm. Feelings of mellowness grip me gently at this moment in time. This isn't normal! I must piece together the evidence at once.

I have had a lot of conversations in the past week, and as a result scored five free books, a mix-tape website, and a very able critic who has restored my faith in the system of criticism. Who would have thought.

Thursday came and burgers were not had. Instead, fishes, lasagnes and other heathen foods were consumed thus violating the sanctity of this precious day. Andy decided to lay ground work for a computer game and roused my passions by giving me lowly stats, thereby making me challenge a worthy opponent to an arm-wrestling duel (Emma).

I barely won. It was the hardest five minutes of my life, struggling with this former Soviet behemoth.

We skipped to a quiz at the Aye, Write thingie and seperated into factions. I would like to report that the Flying Hellsquid Division managed to come first amongst the losing teams in that we earned the lowest score. The other division, the Exploding Penguin Division fared little better and we all left despondent at our lack of literacy and quizzing prowess.

There was a neon party on the Saturday. It was most shit. It was full of junkies, wannabes, and layabouts...and that was just the people who lived there. The music failed to be Techno and Jenna bit me in bad places; I still have lurid bruises that were brighter than the pink face paint she was trying to apply. My fault for being unsporting, I guess.

Joe entered some way through and discovered his pillaged room, which he failed to react to. Boo. A girl assed my head as I sat down, then proceeded to ass others in the general vicinity. A guy sat down, obviously hoping to be assed. A large sweaty man with dreadlocks then obliged him, to his horror and untimely end. Oh-ho, how unfortunate.

Was given a final review by my manager at TJ's. I am on a 'knife-edge'. He has to consider this from a 'business perspective'. He cannot allow the meagre matter of £7000 worth of stock being at risk of disappearing from existence (a likely outcome if I have to stack it; one minute it's there, the next it's in the X dimension.) In order to secure my job, I must forge ahead and sow my mettle.

Pfft.

St. Patrick's night was completely forgotten about on my end that day and I'd worn an orange t-shirt so I didn't expect to get into the Union until Bob and Euan simulatneously produced spare tickets which I snapped up (one of). Cue non-stop Irish dancing, sweating, more Irish-dancing, singing Queen with Pete (Good work,Floppy! I cried, slapping him heartily on the frozen shoulder), more sweating, masterful pool, and exhaustion as the remainder of our party (Cpt. Formal, Bain, and the Girl Known as Bacon But Formerly Known as RoadRunner). Oh, and Female Pete kept turning up and waving in a very circumspect way.

Did other stuff happen? Ah, yes. I was annoyed that everyone departed and left us with their stuff. So I took revenge. On Euan's flapjack. I ate it, and Andy filmed it. God, it tasted good.

Went home by Taxi. Bacon needed dropping off first so the driver went to Dennistoun; by the
!EXTREME! route. I probably owe her money for the fare. Probably.

It's nice and warm today. I shall go for a walk.

Film Night (During the day)

2009-03-09T22:39:00.002+09:00

Hazel's film night began at 10.35 in the morning (fuck's sake) where I espied Agent Baine and Captain Informal standing on the opposite side of the Square which belongs to George. Deciding that a lukewarm entrance was in order, I ran toward them with my fist upraised, scaring a passing black man, before half-heartedly barreling into the intrepid pair. Then I sat down on a wet bench and the three of us waited.

We saw Tom passing by, an experiment gone wrong accelerating his age to that of an old man and we watched him hobble by with his new orthapeadic friends, shunning us utterly. It was, of course, not Tom but a simple old man with a red blazer on. Still, it burned one minute. Euan appeared dancing a merry jig, freakishly tall leprechaun that he is. Or did he appear before Old Tom? I forget. On account of not caring.

Hazel then appeared and we were missing everyone except whom the film night was intended to educate. Something may have happened in the ten or so minutes we waited but I can't remember. When Becks did turn up, our band traipsed to a nearby bus stop and got...a bus. To Dennistoun where Bob lives.

We marched into a corner shop and purchased as much diabetes treats and sugary cancer juice as funds would allow. In my defence, I got mikado sticks and two pints of milk. 'Cause I'm all healthy and multi-cultural now. When I exited the store I saw Baine's head sticking stealthily like a bright red balloon from round the corner, waiting for my reaction to seeing no-one outside waiting for me. They were, of course, hiding round the corner and the disappointment on their faces at my utter apathy entertained me somewhat. With the 'craziness' behind us, we went to Hazel's flat,

The first film we watched was 'Dazed and Confused' a plotless American High-School jaunt that was entertaining enough. I wasted fifty malteaser's trying to throw one up in the air and into my mouth, like students do. My final score was Stewart-1, Floor and Sofa-49.

The next film was Wayne's World but by this time I had work to go to. I left the flat and then returned to get changed on a whim. I exited the bathroom to find everyone in the hall, armed, and expecting a hobo to emerge from the bathroom; I should have announced my return to get changed, I suppose.

Work was engaging and a mental challenge. After dusting boxes, I rounded into Taking Things Up To The Cash Desk And Making Sure They Are Priced Correctly. Did a few of them, everything checked out, went into the stockroom and slept for a bit. Got shouted at. Went to the till, slept there, shift ended. Got invited to a party on the 28th;

"You looking for a girlfriend?" he asks.

Not so much looking as questing. "Yes," I reply.

Now, apparently he has a female friend (he being gay) who is looking for a boyfriend. A golden opportunity to fly solo and fire off the bullshit missiles unchecked! Unless it's a Nazi trap of some type. In which case the wanton murder will do me good.

So work finished and I returned to the flat through the howling wind and hissing rain. I broke a taboo and bought a hideously overpriced Subway and wandered through Dennistoun looking for the flat. I wandered in circles, annoying people with my wanton buzzer pressing. Apparently, I had the rigt flat at one point, just not the right buzzer and the elderly woman who demanded to know who was pushing her button didn;t know that Hazel lived above her (and instead directed me on a wild goose chase to a completely different road.)

I finally got in to see Moulin Rouge conclude. The ending was tender as she (don't know her name) dies in his arms. How I laughed.

The next film(s) was grindhouse, and I had to watch, again, the death of Kurt Russell. That said, we got to see him get his lapdance at long last. The poor man had been in limbo ever since the cinema production, where the reel was 'missing'. The film ended with Kurt being axe-kicked and me dying inside for a second time. RIP Mr. Russell.

Which reminds me, I saw Escape from L.A. a few nights ago and was staggered by the level of plagiarism that must have went on with Hideo Kojima and his MGS series. I won't bore you with the details, but it just goes to show that you start with someone's idea and then make it better and your own. Distressing, yes, but a wonderful precedent to just write what you want to write with no regard for piddling things like 'creativity' or 'The Law'.

The last film was 'Crouching Nazi, Hidden Squid' to which subtitles were turned off and me and Euan attempted to dub our own dialgoue to it. It was good in places, fell in others, but fatigue was setting in and my character was beginning to have long undubbed rants without my knowledge. The plot of the film centred largely around an Anti-Squid sword and the impending Nazi invasion it would help repel. The appearance of Squid was just one of their many diabolical weapons. After an hour or so, I left for home.

Quite a good night. We got through the film list, at least. And Pete is going to include the random squid in his story. Which will be better than any of our squids, apparently. There appears to be a trend now to write humorous stories within Writers, which is ironic because I've veered more toward serious works in the past weeks with recycled funnies just to keep the wolves at bay.

Damn whippersnappers and their music...

Disqualified from Life, Dignity, and Firefly Priviledges or however that's fucking spelled.

2009-03-03T07:24:00.003+09:00

Cough. Sniff. Sneeze (of disease). I have a cold that was contracted from Roadrunner (or maybe it's one of Baine's insidious chemical weapons, raging Soviet spy that he is) and am fighting an urge to sneeze/kill. Colds aside, the focus will shift to the night of Couture, where I burned out in not so spectacular style as cigarettes worked their wonderful magic on my lower intestinal tract once again. Prior, we had been 'warming up' in Rufus T's, so when I got to Couture I was already acutely aware that I had alcohol and nicotine in my fragile body made of sugar-glass.

But I had learned a few tricks. I managed to draw the heavy queasiness out long enough to retreat to a toilet, where I added to an overflowing basin of vomit, urine, and toilet paper fragments. It was, disturbingly, a moment of great pride for myself.

Hmm.

We all left Couture at two-ish/three-ish and I staggered home between Joe and Euan through Mean Streets full of Irritation. In a true representation of awesomeness scales present witin the trio, they got scooby snacks; and I got a plain ol' sausage roll.

Somewhere on the wind, the voice of Gai-Sensei shouting 'LAAAAME' drifted to me.

I summarily crashed at Euans, after being assured I could borrow (though it was more like stealing because it wasn't Euan's copy but his flatmate's) Firefly, which I have still not seen. What we did see at Euans was Hellsing. A lot of people wear glasses in it.

The following morning me and Euan simply played Left 4 Dead on the XBox for several hours before devolving to play Mashed; a micro-machines clone in which four hours were lost, never to be seen again. Still, fun all round and I got home, finally, at about seven-ish. Or six-ish.

It was then that I checked my e-mails. Prior to the Couture Moustache night, I had submitted the efforts of me and my writing partner's story to the writing website I'm with. Apparently, it wasn; sent in the right format and I had 24 hours to amend it. Where was I for those 24 hours? Getting bevvied in Rufus T of course! Now we've both been disqualified! And I made some new life-long enemies!

And they are not happy.

Not happy at all.

Loser Gene; Deactivated

2009-02-28T21:43:00.004+09:00

Tales from work begins today with the cute American girls who approached the till-point I was at a few weeks back. They were clearly from out of town, as anyone wearing shades in the depths of winter clearly must be.

"Thank you, T.J Hughes!" one trilled as I bagged their purchases (an electric pepper mill).

I was wearing a red T.J.Hughes badge. In my work, we don't get our own name-tags; we are given no identity aside the collective of the store which promotes a hive mentality. If a rival store's assistants were to invade, I imagine us drones would swarm in to give our lives for the good of the store. In any case, I felt compelled to explain as I clung to whatever remnant of self identity remained to me.

"Actually, it's Stewart. This is just a-

"Whatever you say, T.J!" trilled the other one. "Do you, like, own this store or something?"

I carefully scan her face for any hidden seminal messages that would reveal a joke at my expense; the only message I find is a 'moo' of innocence.

"No..." I said, slowly. I realise that the two American girls are rather hot. "My Dad owns the store; I'm Thomas Junior, heir to the franchise; Nice to meet you."

This raises a titter. I fear I've failed again.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Thomas!" ("God, they're so polite!" whispers her friend as tey leave. "It's adorable!")

I watch them go, with the unshakeable feeling that I've re-entered that well-trodden territory that I am most familiar with when dealing with the opposite sex. I call it the Little Brother Zone, where head-patting and condescension are rampant).

Anyway, away from work is the success of the Tuesday night now past. Where despite much whining and gnashing of teeth, yours truly managed to triumph over a pool opponent who was having a very bad night and probably only lost because he was having a brain seizure and n ot realising it (such is this man's stoicism). His name? Or nickname, rather?

The Comeback Kid! AKA: Tom!

After the Union, we went back to the Kid's flat, who graciously hosted us despite having a Death Class the next morning. We played Poker, me, Euan, Tom, Bain, and Hazel (Roadrunner). Of course, two of Tom's flatmates also joined the fray and the big blonde guy who had previously given me a nacho kiss began to clear house again.

Until everyone lost interest in the game that is!

As Euan dropped out to pore over his puzzle sphere like some nobleman obsessed with finding the fountain of youth and losing his fortune to it, I surfed to victory upon the tidal wave of their apathy, clearing the table and organizing my skyscraping towers of chips with silent dignity. Until a projectile crashed into them not unlike the Twin Towers disaster.

Then we played Halo. And, as ever, I got my complaining on.

"This game is so jerky!" I cried, trying in vain to line up the crosshairs with someone's face. "Why won't that tank die?"

Amazingly, the complaints seemed to vanish when we played capture the skull and I started winning. This lasted until my fellow competitors began to play tactically.

"Goddamit! If you assassinate me one more time-

"Assassination!" cried Euan, plugging my head with the business-end of a large shotgun.

Somehow, my random jumping managed to get me to victory. And, feeling exhausted, I trudged back home after successfully creeping out Hazel by saying 'good night'. That said, I've spent subsequent days feeling ill and sorry for myself as the cold Hazel had finds it's way into a new host. It's more or less disappeared now, though; it must be because I'm reading the Good Book; Fonze be praised!

Justice Delivered; Pool Table Form!

2009-02-18T08:37:00.002+09:00

So, for those of us who weren't there (Joe *Cough* Hack Wheeze* who left early *Cough Hack Wheeze(ing)*), here's an account of the night's events.

I was awesome at pool. Or, rather, I was doggedly persistent at pool for like the monkey that types incessantly will eventually write Shakespeare so will the guttersnipe one day shoot a mean game of pool. Several mean games of pool.

I went and got drinks with Bob. A lot. Nice ones with girly kicks like Southern Comfort and Lime coupled with Apple Sourness and Lemonade. With the occasional Strongbow and Blackcurrant thrown in. Hic.

A fire-alarm went off and we filed out. Me and Hazel valiantly saved Euan's baby-faced passport from the invisible flames. Pete valiantly sprinted down the stairs and was out of the building first, seemingly. Euan rescued the Ivory Cue-Ball of Solid Elephant Justice which I clung to, a poor replacement for my student ID still stuck inside. Fortunately, the manly firemen (four truck-loads of them!) rescued my charred ID and now it wears a mask ala phantom of the Opera.

Or did it?

Ended night with me and Bob parting ways, having been abandoned by everyone else in the wake of the imaginary fire. Got a hotdog before I left though. It was covered in ketchup and mustard which immediately deposited itself on my mouth and boot. Also, it was precariously perched above the bun, not inside it. I think you know were this is going.

There was a 'plop' of finality; true to my fears, the half-eaten hotdog had fallen from it's moorings. I stared at it like a kicked puppy stares at Fate and Infinity when casuality has metaphorically shouted at it.

Now, there comes a point on the drunkeness scale when normal responses are disabled. As I stared at the hotdog lying forlorn on the cold ground, the fleeting thought of picking it up and eating around the ground-infected parts did indeed float past, nay, demanded I pick it up and eat it! Fortunately, there is what I call a buffer; a thin blue line that represents what little sanity remains and floats atop the drunken wave of Highly Circumspect Good Ideas. It is like the mother of the mind, constantly rebuking and reassuring and reminding that maybe what is being proposed isn't the best idea. Fortunately, the thin blue line consoled me with the remaining bun and so with ketcup on my face and mustard on my shoe, I happily ambled down the road, feeling merry as I ate plain remanded bread and tried not to think of hotdogs.

But the sausage was left dying on the pavement, the heat draining from it as greedy cold concrete sapped it away. But I don't fucking care about processed meat. Oh, but I so miss that hotdog and the reassuring satedness that completing it brings. Oh woe. I can smell it's alluring aroma now.

Time to sleep...or watch Naruto instead! Naruto till dawn here I come!

Trains, Cabs, and a Fist-ful of Halo.

2009-02-09T20:54:00.004+09:00

What a week. Nary a night has gone by without some kind of amusing diversion cropping up to keep me amused into the small hours and, before any hasty conclusions are drawn up, I had best begin this tale of Two-Halves with the foray to Andy Federer's parents house. In Bothwell.

I met Andy and his zombie-faced chum (who does a colossal impression of Big Arnold Schwarzenegger) in the Gamezone of the Union, where we proceeded to play pool. My awesomeness was waylaid, however, by Zombie-chum's innate luck for last-minute come backs. Dejected, I watched him play and lose to Andy and then I was up for yet another challenge to the pool king's throne. To cut a long story short, all the balls were potted and the black, finally, rolled in after them.

...

And I was the fucker who potted it.

Andy's hoodoo spell over me was finally broken. With my first victory over him secure, I broke down and we hugged each other in a most manly fashion. I stared over his shoulder at the next opponent, looming on a horizon no other person could see, this opponent like the personification of fate himself and just one of the many facets to overcoming the Loser Gene I believe I carry in no small quantity. I will beat him at pool. And possibly Smash Bros if I'm given a few extra millenia to practise.

We left the pool tables and went to pick up the lost strays of Andy's crew. First was Scott, his cousin who had brought the back-stock of Zavvi's DVD and game collection with him (which no-one played). Next was Jimerson at the bus station, a name which would soon become synonymous with treachery, backstabbing, and annoyingly accurate sniping. Assembled, we got on the bus which I suggested had been retrofitted to kill old people with gas while the driver sat nice and safe in his compartment of shiny plastic; the swine.

I spent the journey pretending to know about Street Fighter as Scott relayed his vast life experiences, from the humble original to the days of Super Hyper Ultra Street Fighter Alpha Omega Double Plus Justice Edition Volume 25. When that petered out, I tried to fall asleep; an effort confounded as zombie-chum in the seat in front kept prodding me awake. In Arnie's voice.

And so we arrived. In Bothwell. Which was to become the joke of the night as we trudged through the icy streets. Of Bothwell. And made witty repartee. In Bothwell. And threatened each other with physical violence. In Bothwell. On our way to Andy's house and home. In Bothwell. Which was a detached house of the Bothwellian era.

Inside was everything young men needed to amuse themselves. An X-Box 360, a Wii, a Big TV, and goldfish, whom I believe to be Andy's parents. With booze, pads, and each other, we got the night started. With Halo 3.

Everyone, at first, went with their usual avatars and names. For my part, I had to create one so I resurrected Ghandi from my brief day of Halo in Weston-Super-Mare. Only this time, he was In Bothwell.

And so Frizaven, Jimerson, Ghandi In Bothwell, and Frizaven (1) burst onto the Halo scene with barely concealed fury. Except we weren't playing online. We were playing in Bothwell.

At first, Ghandi didn't do too good. He was running around a lot and trying to get people to take a non-violent approach to things. Then, as the game wore on, he found a large machine-gun and decided to take protest to the next inter-galactic dimension; the dimension of Justice.

People were killing Ghandi In Bothwell and Ghandi was killing people In Bothwell. After the first match I tagged out and came back to discover a whole new set of names waiting. I was given a random controller, which was linked to the immortal avatar of Fisty.

My penchant for innuendo cracked it's metaphorical knuckles.

"When you get Fisted," I cried, "You stay fisted!" as I tore through my opponents like a flaming deviant of Hell's inner circle through a nunnery of fragile young girls. Many references to funny smells and stickiness figured in the room and when Dave (aka Useless as he'd chosen to call himself) fell to his death courtesy of a shotgun, I felt obliged to shout 'Dave, respond! Dave? DAAAAAVVVE!'

But I never placed higer than second. Why so? Because of Jimerson. At every turn, he was there! Always behind, always one step ahead! My TimeSplitters experience assisted me to an advantage over the others but the inexperience of Halo's guns and maps proved deadly and Jimerson usually walked away with it towards the end of the match. That was one man Fisty could not break.

Play turned to the Wii, of the Mario Karting variety. After losing to Andy, I went on to sweep the board as he tagged out for someone else, with many a 'Mnyah!' as my devious banana peels and strategically placed fake item boxes confounded and befuddled my human opponents to near despair. After that, we put on Blazing Saddles and mid-way through, decided to call it a night.

The banter at the train station was most amusing. In his best Arnie voice, Zombie-chum imitated a train run by Arnie himself 'If you vant to get off, shut the fuck up' and 'Next stop is Govanhill, vhere this train vill turminate.'

Well, that's that one. Next up is Joe's flat-warming party. Or at least it would be if I could be bothered to go on. I'll be brief.

-I barely catch the last train and am collected by Joe and Dave, whom I am grateful to for making the effort through the cold.

-I was given the sacred duty of protecting Jenna's teeny-weeny little bear which I placed in my shirt pocket and he was peeking over the top like a child through bannisters at the top of the stairs down onto all the adult talk.

-We ate flame-flavoured monster munch crisps; out of a certain fez.

-I smoked two cigarettes at once and then went on to smoke, say, most of Cuba.

-The Uzo shot was par excellence.

-Dave reprised his broom once more for a deadly duel with Mop-Man.

-The balance of power between me and sensei went through a subtle transition; I will not bore you with the details.

-Joe had sex. Again.

-While girls patted me on the head. Again.

-Was appointed a butler by a girl after successfully finding her sunglasses and hair-spray. She even gave me my own cupboard to stay in.

-Hats were worn.

-I can't remember anything else. That's how damn good this night was.

Adieu, for now.

The Horsie moves in L-shapes.

2009-02-05T23:21:00.004+09:00

Been a while. Anyway, I shall start with the curious case of the Writer's Society and the Iron Fist that has mashed us all into powder and then milled it into a cohesive pane of glass. Critique was not to be had and, having enough, Super Stalin stamped her steely authority on all us sinners. As a result, criticism is now flying thick and fast just like the wittiness. It took me, however, a week and two re-reads to realise that her piece was about a horsie.

Oh, how they laughed. And, oh, how I died.

Speaking about horsies, Bob's headache was transmitted to me via text so up to his flat I dashed through the treacherous blinds of snow, on a mission of no-mercy with Strongbow and the onset of brain-freeze. Of course, he was fine, and we played Chess. For two hours. True to form, I was within one obvious move of checkmate when the Loser gene kicked in and I spectacularly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Then we watched House. Who Mr. Mercer wants to be. Then we watched Starsky and Hutch, the former being who Mr. Mercer actually is. Strangely, Bob was becoming more and more alike Hutch as I watched and drank, leading to the inevitable conclusion that a woolly marriage of cardigans and tender man-love await these two confused and vulnerable gentlemen.

Had a haircut. Ironically, I spent the hour or so waiting for my appointment at the salon to swing round by reading about Che Guevvara, my idealistic alter ego, before heading off to be pampered by salon people. I fucking hate salons. I may take up Bob's advice of a barber haircut then let it grow in for the rest of the year. That way I can spend half the year looking like a pin-head and the other half like a deranged hobo.

Drunken creativyt 3: now it personal

2009-01-31T02:24:00.003+09:00

So¬ ! Sdrunk again. All tanks to the ediatatuce powers of Bulm eras. o C PURS, i WOULD NRE presume to som eting or other. Anyhoon it sdtareed qirwith an incvitation to l7ucnheon with eUAN AND CO, IN WHIC JOE un expectedclyu turn ed u[. nA dteen twe went to On iels, and got food. AnD Ddrin. Lost sof it, AND I gDSHAD a lectute.whcih I webn to tk and wad awesome. In ans awesome kingn of way. Returned to stwreet off George square and wernt to VROEK en wejell. Wich wa quote nice. a ndn had more drink and toffee pudding. which oemkepy stickikg ksi finger into. Te swine. Went speeratev ways . thoiugh invited to goi top Jennads into which Jpe is ,ovingn but decline d when approahced by chairth worker snad lack of effrt which on te wop,e is fair eniug ins thusb state. I'm sure you';l abree,

Will trabsktev soon...

Party THIS, Wayne! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-ta

2009-01-26T03:24:00.004+09:00

So, a House party to relate but first the Game of Kings; Chess!

A good game is one that provokes a reaction that isn't frustration. Doom made one roar as the last bullets are emptied into a charging horde of demons. Fifa made one cheer as the ball rolled past Sunderland keeper Gordon to put Exeter City through to the FA Cup Final. And Destruction Derby 2 has one sharing in the manic glee of a commentator who revels in crashes that cripple drivers.

Chess makes my armpits sweat.

I was playing Bob-Sensei; a self-professed Chess veteran of a club when he was in school. I rushed through as many tutorials as I could on YouTube to freshen my mind and then we engaged in mortal combat.

I didn't do too bad. As with all games, the secret to win is to play and a year or two lapse does not do one's technique any favours. That said, I have only played basic computer programs and a sickly little cousin who I could head-butt over and over again. In that respect, he reminds me of me.

Well, that's that relayed. Time for the party.

Crowded place. I recognised a few people like the catatonic wiry drunk who Tom knows and the man who called me 'His Boy' all night the last time I was there (ahhh, shaddup) but aside from them and the people I usually hang with it was pretty awkward. So much so that we all spent an inordinate amount of time in Tom's Bedroom causing merry hell.

Highlights of the night include wandering into the main room with a blindfold on and a saltire cape, seeing Mikey again (Mikey!), being given a nacho kiss by the 'My Boy' guy, and discovering Tom's condom drawer. Amusingly, it looked very unused. It was clearly the drawer of an eternal optimist.

Hours passed, and drinks sank people. Joe came back at some point and hugged me, saying happy things. Needless to say, the smell of hash was overpowering. Oh, and we attacked a vending machine at some point.

Three(ish) in the morning rolled around. That's when me and Tom got our Rage on. Streets of Rage, that is.

"I wanna be the gal!" said Tom, in not quite those same words. Pretending I didn't mind, I went with Black Guy- I mean, Adam, instead.

Justice was imminent.

"FOOT OF JUSTICE!" I roared for the twentieth time, fly-kicking a woman in the face. The woman in question was Tom's character, whom I had decided to protect from thugs by ensuring she spent as much time on her back as possible. You heard.

"Suplex of Sanctimony!"

"Punch of Piety!"

"Elbow of...Something!"

"Bottle of Baptism!"

"Shoulder Throw of Reason!"

"Pipe of Dreams!"

"Bakie-Bat of Yore!"

And so on. Interspersed at regular intervals with cries of 'Look out, Tom !" and throwing a knife in his eye. Teamwork on a Sega means beating your buddy all the way to death and then stealing his roast chicken.

"You cock! I needed that-

"FOOT OF JUSTICE! Oh! Sorry, Tom! You startled me!"

And then it rained men on the elevator level as the red mist descended and people started getting thrown off the open-air elevator. By me. Even Tom was not able to escape the massacre and I accidentally threw him off the elevator. Twice.

After that, my character bit the bucket. Throwing myself down pits for laughs earlier was now coming back to hit me hard. I crashed out in disgrace and found myself joining Joe, Jenna, and Euan in departing from the block of flats. Which was on fire. The alarm was blaring as we got into the elevator and then left. We were reminded of the possible inferno when two fire-trucks passed us and so, considerately, we rang Tom half an hour later to see how the fire was going.

And the rest is hum-drum. Had two magners left so I drank them. Did some shifts at TJ's. Was shouted at for lying on the escalator as it carried me upstairs. Came home. Became awesome at Fifa instead of Pro Ev. Dug out the Sega and played 'That Game'. Good times. Lets have more of them.

Ego-Bashing with a big chunky stick.

2009-01-22T20:49:00.002+09:00

I was cruising the internet today. Who'd have thought our own intrepid Jonathan Mercer had already broken onto the small screen. What a difference a haircut can make, eh? Must dash. Am currently looking for genealogy links between Mercer and the new Doctor Who; there is a chunkiness in the chin department I intend to investigate immediately. If there is, I shall call him...Chunky Chin Chap. Thank you, CL.

Zipping through the blue, the bastard never drank the drink I brewed

2009-01-11T20:25:00.004+09:00

It's good to be young. This is because a gentleman in the Springtime of his Youth can wake up in the morning with nothing more than a heaviness behind his eyes after a night on the sauce. This morning finds me in fantastic, yet mellowly understated, spirits. I intend to step up my writing campaign but before this, a tale is to be told.

Yesterday saw my returning to work after a week-long absence. In a bold new stratagem, the manager of the floor has decided that the best way to make me useful is to not have me anywhere near the store for as long as possible. His gambit paid off; the department recorded record sales and enjoyed cleanliness beyond Godliness in my absence.

But if he thought I'd spent my week off twiddling my ass-inserted thumbs around, he was to be sorely mistaken. Call me petty, but I devised a number of ways to bring the store down before they show me the door. Unfortunately my scheming brain was reduced to mush by a 4.5 hour period in which I...put fifteen cups onto a shelf. No. That's it.

Fucking time-wasters.

Let's just move on to the night. I traipsed in my squeaky new shoes throug the wind and rain to Central Station, by which time squeaky shoes had became squelchy new shoes. I entered Central Bar and calmly ordered a drink (Bulmers? Oh, I suppose) and a burger for £7. I sat myself down and awaited company,

"Oh hey, Andy, how are- GOOOO-KUUUUU!"

My nemesis had returned! The man mountain who would not look amiss as the silenty huge bodyguard Molo in Enter The Dragon was accompanying Andy Federer. He had went to a halloween party dressed as Goku of Dragon Ball Z fame. Like in Dragon Ball Z, we began to swap threats and talk narcissistically before tussling vaguely then resuming our talking and twitching.

So food arrived and talks of where to go fell victim to procrastination. I tried to engage Kieran Knightley (pre-op) in conversation but it proved hard-going. I battled on, looking for that opening in which to ace a quip and solder a friendship through laughter but it was long in the coming. It wasn't until the man they call Dave arrived on the scene that things began to mellow out. The mellowing was helped enormously by the ease with which one can drink the awesomeness that is Bulmers.

Oh my God! I cried inwardly. It's like motherfuckin' Ambrosia! I mean, *hic*, the mythical kind, not the custardy kind.

There was a whoopee cushion in there as well.

I can't really be arsed going through the ins and outs. I was given a book at one point and secreted it away into the recesses of my armpit. I like to think that the black mouldy substance growing on the pages was already there.

So, yeah. Left this post draft a little too long for it to be relevant now. But you're the one who read this far so that's your fucking problem. Since then there was a game of chess of incredible tenseness between myself and Boib who was pleasantly surprised that I wasn't crap at it. He won, of course. As promised.

That line of losses on the wall is starting to get rather long.

We went on to indulge n Burger Madness and a spontaneous Twelve-Hour challenge (first of the year) was organized with great...spontaneity. I lasted three or so hours. I'm not a fan of places with loud music. I'm there for the company and drink; the music just ruins it 'cause I can;t hear what people are saying or concentrate.

Met the elusive Ruth there as well. She did not talk to anyone but Bob while I was there. Seemed friendly enough. Euan reduced me to that special place where laughter takes us when it is hurting and you think you're going to suffocate. He was relating the madness of Helsing the anime to me and I cracked up. Deciding to leave on a high, I left with Dave who was disturbed that I always seemed to leave when he left. Thinking about it, all my spontaneous body language may be suggesting the wrong message to him.

...

Have you got a good strong mental picture of the two of us there? I hope so. May it be burned there for the rest of your life.

...got complimented on my writing by a certain drunken friend. You could say that drink makes a man whimsical, or that it loosens his real opinions. Either way, I'm taking it as a plus. Unfortunately, the depression is coming on so it's time to get morbid.

Time for a break from blogging? Yeah. I'll give it till February when I've entered those comps, done the exam, and stuff.

...

Are you still here?

Same year, New shit...uh, reverse that.

2009-01-02T08:42:00.004+09:00

'Get out of your comfort zone, Bawbag,' wrote the mysterious horoscope guy as I peruse the morning paper's star signs. Cue phone call later that day from Bob offering the chance to party away the remnants of the year like it were dregs swilling about at the bottom of a glass. The place? His parent's home in Lanark.

He was taking me to meet his parents at last.

But first came work. Was surprised to learn that my probation wasn't over, as I'd otherwise been led to believe. No, the one month probation was merely a cover for the sinister secret covert probationary period designed to catch me off-guard as I relax into a false sense of security.

Bastards.

Suddenly afraid at this hanging knife, I departed work and embarked to Lanark via train. The tunnel and station were smeared with crab-smelling lubricant, making walking impossible. I entertained a fleeting fancy as a squad of police with sniffer dogs did their rounds of the platform that the clabber on the floor was a clever way of throwing the dogs off any bomb scents; and that the device of mass destruction sat beneath a lurid yellow 'wet floor' cone; which was sitting opposite me. No. The fancy was not about the policemen.

Anyway, the train journey was uneventful. After arriving, I stood on the station and slowly froze to death. Fortunately, I was able to draw on life experiences and kept my body temperature up by hammering the Square button. Bob arrived in his Swish car and saved me from my sub-zero predicament.

"The seats are laced with velvet!" I cried with childish delight.

The home of Sensei's parents was the home base of four intrepid Halo players who surfed the net in search of their next exciting challenge. They found said challenge. In every single online game they played, they didn't just know defeat. They married it.

We embarked to the town square (I think that's what it was) and bore witness to a large bonfire that was probably full of gagged sacrifices and doped-up cattle, knowing these village types. The local pub and chippie was crowded out the door. After a single hasty drink and stolen chips, we tramped back home.

Hmmm...shot poker was played very briefly. I think we hit the sack at...six-ish. Maybe half-five. A girl crawled toward a toilet at some point. I developed a taste for Margeurita. Uh, Halo was played and many games lost. I did not once break even score-wise (just like real life.) There were peanuts. I arm-wrestled Rob's younger brother; he used both hands and I still won, evidence of my developing Mighty Strength (this elation being killed, somewhat, by the wiry Stewart No. 1 who jumped in and arm-wrestled me into oblivion.)

So, yeah. Up to Bob's room to sleep. We did not push the beds together. Following morning is spent finishing Slaughter House 5 at long last while Bob watches a countdown of the Hundred Greatest Family Films, muttering "They'd better not have had sex," in reference to a couple at the party.

The day of rest involved Scrabble and picking up the colossal Andrew Supreme Kilgour, who got close to me in the back of the car, even though his girlfriend was right there. On the plus side, he was very warm.

Scrabble was completed (God knows who won) and we were driven home. I was bumped up from Stewart the Second status up to Stewart the First. I said 'yay!' Then they abandoned me like an unwanted christmas puppy in front of a closed-up Liddles, hugging myself for warmth as they roared away in their car, waving cheerfully.

I wonder if there's a avenging spirit for unwanted/summarily abandoned christmas puppies? If not, I do believe I have just found a gap in the market...

Circle of Truth, man, like, Truth-athise, man!

2008-12-18T04:48:00.003+09:00

Damn infernal tags and the emotional blackmail that accompanies such pedantic memes. No matter; this will be done quickly.

Six Things That Make Me Ever-S0-Slightly Less Hate-Filled:

i) Bearing witness to some Mad Skillz. With a 'z'.

ii) Tuna-Mayonnaise. It is like a Tranquilizer for my Soul.

iii) That special moment after writing something where I am too giddy with glee to realise that it is shit just yet.

iv) Hippies. They're great. Especially the older ones who are beginning to realise that forty years have passed and bugger all has changed. The dying fire in their eyes pleases me.

v) A goon or henchman having his day. It is very rare, but good to see.

vi) Six already...Hm. And amazingly I have avoided any and all hints of cheese in my answers. Final answer is...cats. Cats are great, if they have a personality. Especially Boss Cats that look like they run things and have a distinctly aristocratic look and think things like 'There is a spy among us...' and 'You failed me, Cummings?!'

But I'm not tagging this on. It is because I will not be pressured into such things and has nothing to do with me knowing only five people blog-wise.

Biro Scars Upon My Heart

2008-12-15T08:48:00.005+09:00

For some reason, I have become entranced with the book 'Scars Upon My Heart', a compilation of WW1 poems written by women during the war. Every page you open it up at offers some deeply profound imagery or powerful emotive language that has you reading whole segments at a time. I found the picture on the front enchanting too; a woman sitting cross-legged on a bed, pen and paper in had, with a smile people have when the words just come, her goliath shadow cast onto the back wall. She looks a lot like my mum, back when she was young and childless and happy.

Am halfway through Kurt's book 'Slaughterhouse 5' which is not a slasher as it's name suggests but instead a delightful book with a great way of expressing things through understatement. I read it whilst on break during today's ten hour shift, feeling faintly embarassed by the quizzical expressions of my collagues who simply shook their heads and returned to glitzy celeb mags. Perhaps stabbing boxes with a safety knife before retiring to read books with names like 'Slaughterhouse 5' is not creating the right impression.

My vision for the Endgame now involves a cat. I was once sharing a house with a cat, the word 'owned' not really suited to this feline intellectual who would enter via my sister's bedroom window and rest, buddha-like, on her bed with it's head upright and it's eyes closed, like a hermited sphinx. Approaching said cat in this state usually resulted in the cat-equivalent of rolling it's eyes before grudgingly bestowing you with a little tolerance in that it would not turn your arm into a pincushion. I would dearly love to share a home with such a malvolently delightful creature again.

My life has been planned, and success or failure at the various objectives doesn't matter. The best plans are vague plans; that end with the Inevitable.

Down goes another, like scythes before the steely wheat.

2008-12-12T02:03:00.006+09:00

RIP, Mr. Mercer. Your presence will be sorely missed; may your next reincarnated cycle be a productive one.

Oh, and the last post was my hundreth, apparently.

I got a PS3 yesterday. I like it.

Feels like this tiny pocket of the world has advanced somewhat. New year bears down on us all as another year of whatever it was we did and didn't acheive. I have a regret in that I feel my friends and family are in a bad place and that I've done bugger all meaningful to alleviate it.

Ah. And my hopelessness has a palatable name at last. Little Brother Syndrome.

It's very cold. I can barely feel a thing.

Spontaneous Poker Night! The Foot of Justice! Beige Baron; Transport (3)!

2008-12-09T21:37:00.005+09:00

Busy weekend. Friday saw a trip to the cinema with James and chums, Euan the Tall, Pitcher Pete (McBain!), Bones, a Very Large Man, and another guy with a terminal case of dandruff. We went in to watch the night's blockbuster; Transporter 3

Sweet Merciful Zombie Christ on a Pogo-Stick.

Basically, Euan and co are big fans of the Transporter franchise. I realised this when they looked at me with murder in my eyes after I said 'Oh, yeah. Transporter. That was shit.' The new film, called Transporter 3, is about a bald guy being invincible and stoically manly with an unspoken painful past in the army and-

BLLLLEUUUUGH! BLEUGH! BLEEAUGH! MOMMY; HERE COMES THE NOISE AGAIN!

Anyway, the object of his hard-won affections this time around was a husky voiced Ukrainian girl whose name I cannot remember (what a character) who's all-encompassing freckles I found actually quite charming. I did not, however, find her pissing on the floor of a petrol station in quite the same humour. Nonetheless, her goading of Jason something-or-other to strip and 'make it sexy' was a comical moment made by the fact that Jason aka Transporter looked like a stressed out office flunky with a mortgage when she said it.

Yeah. Oh, and guess what happens at the end? They all get together and live happily ever after. Oh joy of joys.

Fuck's sake.

It made me resolve to never ever write a happy ending. Ever. We left the cinema, talking about how bad the film was. True to my predictions, James' pals began to talk about all the inconsistencies in the film such as a wing mirror being knocked off in one scene and re-appearing in other: "I mean *snort* what are we led to believe? That his car was some kind of miracle self-repairing car? I think not.'

Sigh.

Moving right along, we went to Rufus' and had a single drink, myself in quite good spirits because Euan had surrendered half a bag of Mars Planets for my consumption which is not to be sniffed at. In the bar, a bouncer who is a friend of James and co sauntered up and informed us that this side of the bar was now closed and that we would now have to move into the main area were there are no seats. We decide to call it a night. The bouncer, replete with earrings and tattoos leaves us.

"Who was that girl?" I said.

The following night (I think) was spontaneous Poker Night. After getting worldly advice from the taxi driver ("Naeb'dy loves a winner, son!" So that's why people like me.) I went up and played Halo 3 with Tom and Tall Euan, who duly thrashed me into oblivion, the echoes of my complaints the only thing left drifting here in this mortal world. A grand total of two more people turned up, and they were Tom's flatmates. We got the game of poker on the road.

Cut a long story short, I was coveting my big piles of chips when I foolishly got into a duel with the girl sitting opposite me, Tom's flatmate Acuita (I don't know how it's spelled) who blitzed me with awesome hand after awesome hand. To add insult to injury, she threw me some chips like a wealthy tycoon throws a beggar pennies.

"Thank you, miss!" said I, the Biggest Loser of All Time.

Our game evolved into five card poker when it was mercifully interrupted by the arrival of two drunken girls whom Bob and Joe might know quite well from Tom's birthday party (hem-hem, the very same) who proceeded to steal Tom's chips and announce very loudly that Tom was a bastard for not going to her party. Still, her friend was okay and so me, Euan and Tom were able to repatriate to Tom's room, who had a hankering for Streets of Rage on his PC.

After re-reading my serial entry and the three of us collapsing in lung-bursting laughter (I am so awesome) we engaged in the noble game of the Street. Black guy and red gal pummeled many on their way to the big boss at the end, Euan coining the phrase "FOOT OF JUSTICE!!" whenever he fly-kicked someone. Which he did. A lot.

The end boss came and we had managed to leave Tom with half a health bar, no continues and no extra lives. he was mauled again and again by the boss, restarting with a handy press of the F8 button. Me and Euan decide to call it a night and after a tug of war with Sharlotte for Euan's coat (which she was using as a pillow), we walked home through Streets of Frost, making up new terminologies for the moves, such as Sanctimonious Pile-Driver of Truth! And wondering, if ever, we were going to get girlfriends within the next forty years.

What else. Ah. I scared a work colleague by stabbing boxes with quite some ferocity, boxes that were full of teddy bears. She then asks me if I have my eye on anyone in the basement and feeling very evil I replied 'Not, really' to which she took the huff. I was in a very queer mood last night. There was no rage, just a want to smash and grind things. Of the carboard variety. Also felt very...mellow at the same time, resting down behind the tills and generally going 'fuck it' to the world in general. People have started calling me crazy and/or nuts (the security guard calls me 'Love God' but that's another story.)

And my foot hurts. Feels like it's going to burst open when I put my weight on it. Bah. This Tuesday night out will be great. If not, I shall make it so by killing everyone and stuffing them full of flame-retardant and pinning strings to the their limbs. Then my puppets will get along all hunky-dory. Ta-dah. Dance for me puppets, dance- etc.

Last year we repatriated to Revolution (I think) but I went home instead. This year, it's to wherever the wind that is Writer's Society takes me. If we do go to Revolution I might run into Tahn again. Lovely, lovely Tahn of T.J. Hughes; she's lovely. If only I had my phone on me that time, we could have swapped numbers that time and-

Hm. Time to do a Psychology Report. Or watch episode 2 of Great Teacher Onizuka. I think I'll do the report.

I'm unbuttoning my trench coat...close your eyes, guys!

2008-12-05T07:21:00.005+09:00

When writing, everyone faces certain challenges depending on the kind of person they are and how long they've worked at it. One of the two greatest challenges I'm facing right now is untangling all the bullshit I've picked up over the years and transplanted into my work. Ideas, plot themes, characters, dialogues...I began picking through three years of notes. Half of it is outmoded musings, half again things that had impressed on me at the time or made me laugh as I'd read, seen or heard them somewhere.

So that leaves the original material. The ideas that are mine and mine alone because I've checked. I've done my utmost to keep these ideas pure and free of pop culture; hard to do when you're impressionable.

But what I've surmised is this; original ideas don't come and cannot come from popular culture. Popular culture is processed material, a finished product. Writing down what I've seen is stupid because unless I have some kind of inspirational flash to improve or change on it then there's no point. Popular culture provides no inspiration, and fan-fiction is not what I want to do with my life; I don't want to be a goddamn parasite leeching off the genius and hard-work of creative people.

It's the realisation that inconsequential things are inspiration. Trees at night, patterns, a sound of squealing bus brakes, rain on the face, mosquitos gathered round close-door lights, facts, vague mythology. Keeping the brain running is fine, but pushing it to create is hard. University helps. I spend whole lectures in the grip of some frenzy to get down ideas while the lecturer talks about something or other, all 'cause I'm in that environment (it's as if my brain is rejecting the sheer boredom of terms like Co-operative Principle and desperately pinwheeling off to distract itself.)

The greatest enemy is probably apathy. That great sweeping cloud of grey low-grade depression that makes everything seem bland, hopeless, and futile. Feels like it's impossible to get anywhere, that it was all just a whimsical adolescent dream after all. And then the prospect of a future lived out in offices looms up; alone and a loser from start to finish. A pathetic wannabe who destroyed what slim chances there were through laziness and, simply put, lack of talent.

Where are all the protective lies then? Where are they when you need them most? Where are-

And then this realisation seeps in. You don't need those lies, you only want them. Moments like these should be turned to one's advantage. Instead of moping, it's time for action. That's when the drive rears up. A rejection of a future I believe was mapped for me from the off. I believe that everyone has a 'league', and what they get given in terms of nature and nurture determines what they're going to be; I am of the firm belief that my most likely role in life (still) is a 40yr old virgin who gets the coffee for office interns twenty years his junior while desperately trying to show off whilst being tolerated, in a pitying kind of way.

Go fucking die, future me.

And then I realise what it is that's really bothering me and it's got nothing to do with any of that. It's just a simple need for praise and the thought of all the piss-poor stories I've thrown out under the guise of 'exercises' when they were really just cobbled together in a rush for desperate praise from my peers. That was all. Bundled collections of excited scribbles and copied material. If I could go back, I'd obliterate every last fucking one of those stories I had the stupidity to attach my character's names to. People say they liked them but then people don't like to hurt their friend's feelings; especially if they're a 'fragile' friend.

An attempt to get empathy and praise...

Just like this post is doing...right...now...

...

I'm signing off now.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step...that was a while ago, I'll admit, but I'm getting there.

2008-12-01T21:19:00.005+09:00

Well, I went and did it. I took the plunge and joined a literary website that deals in criticism and free competitions with an aim to beginning my Great Publication Campaign of 2008. I entered the poem, flash, and short story comps which are open each month ('cept for December. Boo.) and the results for Flash and Poetry (short story still pending) came back today:

3rd place for poetry: Some Guy!
6th or something for Flash: Some Guy!

OHHH YEAH!

And thus did the fledgling bird, a quill clutched in it's silver talons, take to the free airs of Literary Publication! Considering that I spent all of six minutes writing the poem and a further three pasting the flash story about a wife-beating sweet-talker, this was time well spent. My works will be appearing in their magazine when it is next published.

That aside, I've entered some more hardcore comps from the website as well. The Story a Month and Poem a Month (SAM/PAM respectively) ask for what they say and Envy is the theme for this first month of this literary Rally Championship! I've also entered a comp that sounds like our serial at Writer's, in that Winn will be writing the first 500 words, then me, then Winn, and then me to storm to a glorious finish! There's a holiday to be won with a New Year story and a Christmas disaster to pen.

Next year, and every year, it's gonna be the Bridport. That's £5000 of pure prize money for the Top Gun. And anything I see from the Keith Memorial to the NaNoWriMo is getting mollicated. Wait for me world! I'M JUST GETTING STARTED! HEAR ME ROAR:

MNYAAAAAAAAAAA-

[at which point, his expanding head exploded.]

Is there a doctrine in the house?

2008-11-29T01:35:00.003+09:00

I have been deceived! In the worst possible way, too, because upon reaching near the end of the Naruto Shippuden series (where the story gets all wrapped up and concluded) I discover that there are no episodes! Just glitched sounds and fragmented tunes! I will now never know how it ends!

Dammit!

Ah, well. Met CL and we talked at length about life in general and how to use MSN which, I regret, was beyond me until recently. I was also given a number of websites to check out, most probably not for me but I found one that I could see myself submitting to (hmhm) for the foreseeable future. That, and I have now discovered my genre: Humourous, dark, steam-punk.

Yeah.

Am currently starving to death while Rob gets through the last of his political film on YouTube. We discussed the possibility of forming a think-tank. But first I'm gonna need a successful business that expolits children in locked sweat-shops. Only then can I don the fez and pipe, guzzling good brandy disgustingly as I 'Mnyah! Yes! More Tax rebates! Mnyes!" with the infernal glimmer of the fireplace reflecting in my monocle.

Thought of the day: In the War of Words, what you need is a bunch of Think-Tanks to smoke those arguers out of their trenches.

Dooooood! Leave me alone, dood!

2008-11-27T07:44:00.003+09:00

I seem to bring it out in people. Today, the Angry Man at work decided to divuldge that he spent six years boxing before playfully bum-rushing me into a corner. I was left richer for the experience, I'm sure.

Must be the Surf Factor. Harmless looking wee gits like me are always the bumbling lackeys in the grander scheme of things and I like to think that because there is something universally loveable about the Bumbling Lackey.

...

I have decided! My life's goal is to become a professional Bumbling Lackey to some high-flying detective-cum-crime fighter. I'll say things like "Oh boy, here we go again-!" and "Sarge, look! My verruca came off! See?!"

Yes, that makes me smile. It shall be so. That's the key to keeping everything fresh and wonderful, folks. Reinvention. Where's the fun in playing the main character? Everyone depends on you and from what I've seen, they're rarely happy on the inside. Nah. Bumbling Lackey it is, until I change my mind. Christ, I may even start using 'that' catchphrase. Shoot me if I do.

This is a true story. Please do not laugh.

2008-11-23T07:42:00.005+09:00

I finish my shift and head home, eagerly anticipating the next exciting foray into the world of Naruto Shippuden. I sit down on the couch, put in my headphones, open up a fresh ice cold bottle of sparkling mineral water (29p from Aldis) and as the opening credits roll I realise that I forgot to check what time I was due in for work tomorrow.

Back to the store I went.

My work times for the week checked, I head back home and sit down again. I put in my headphones and open, again, the bottle of mineral water. As the opening credits roll, I realise that I've forgotten to sign out on the time keeping sheet.

Back to the store I went.

The sign out sheet signed, I head back home and sag onto the couch. I put my headphones in and open the bottle of ever-so-slightly flat mineral water. As the opening credits roll, I remember that I was supposed to book a day off today in anticipation of my sister's homecoming.

Oh for the love of-

Back to the fucking store I went.

I trudge back home and collapse onto the couch. I put in the headphones and open the, by now, flat bottle of mineral water. As the opening credits roll, the phone goes and I read the text. It's from my mum, who is still working:

'Can't get food tonight,' it said. 'Nip out to Tescos and pick up a few messages for tonight."

I slip from the couch and fall to the floor, defeated.

I don't like Mondays. Or Thursdays. Or weekends and Fridays. Or Wednesdays. Thank God for Tuesdays.

2008-11-21T01:17:00.002+09:00

I hate hectic days where I don't get the freedom to bail when I have to. Thursday was such a day when God demands penance for every lecture I skipped last year. With virility-shattering interest.

Mikey again exhibited an abnormal enthusiasm for the world of syntex and sentence structures. I simply dozed through most of it, waking up in time to get all the answers correct. Hmhm.

Lit Tech I spent saying nothing. I've read all four volumes of Marx's Kapital (that Summer spent in Weston at my sister's boyfriend's flat was wild, as you can probably tell) but so what? That doesn't mean I have to get involved if I don't want to. I prepared a few theories relating to the fulmination of the current system and where it might lead but he didn't press me for anything (shut it) so whatever.

The press of the blackest depression is closing in. Hopefully it can warded off but who knows. Maybe it was because I was hungry. I discovered a minature version of O'Reilly's/O'Brians (the pub) in George Square and ate there. As I waited, I wrote and read in public. Pretentious? Maybe. But I don't care. If I want to read Hemmingway while dangling on a man-sized stool instead of sitting there, in silence, feeling awkward then I'm going to read Hemmingway with one hand holding the book and the other holding a finger up at anyone with the fucking gall to throw mad-eyed soulless looks of disapproving fuck-headishness my way.

QM tutorial tonight. Done and dusted. One off so that was the last one. Thankfully. Because it was painfully constricting sitting there listening to her talking. My feet were suffocating so I took off my trainers. Left feeling cold and empty; a feeling not helped by the cold-pressured urgency to go to the toilet.

Relieeef.

And here we are. I was going to skirt the Terry Pratchett fan club again tonight on the grounds that I'm not really into that anymore but I said to Tom I'd go and this is what drags me back from the foot of the hill, to sit here in the relaxing company of two strangers who I know are academic and probably friendly enough. That's why I like it here at Strathclyde; people, for the most part, don't try to make you feel like an outcast. Their minds feel nice.

I'm revising my book too. Before, I was living in some impressionable world of bullshit. A fuzzy pink cloud where reality was knowingly staved off just for the sake of re-living the works of more creative people in my words. But fuck that. Fortunately I have enough original material that I've kept by to start doing something instead of pissing my time against a wall. Summarily, I've broken out of the old ruts and am now trying something new.

Just realised something. I'm twenty years old, life is constantly throwing nice things my way and I've my whole life to perfect something I'm beginning to feel good at. And I have a new author whom I adore in Hemmingway. That's quite a nice lift.

It ain't meths, but it'll do.

Realisation, finally, sinks in

2008-11-20T08:01:00.003+09:00

OH MY GOD! IT'S BEEN ON HIS CROTCH! ARRRRRGGHHHHH! WHAT THE FECK AM I DOING WEARING A FECKING FEZ THAT'S BEEN ON HIS FECKING CROTCH?! ARRRRRGGHHHHH! SHOWER! SHOWER NOW! BUT DAMMIT ALL! THEY DON'T MAKE WATER HOT ENOUGH! WHERE'S THE CAUSTIC SODA?!

Et cetera.

The Post function doesn;t work properly in Uni so I have to write post in title. Twas a nice day; many people didn't die. The End.

2008-11-17T21:50:00.000+09:00

Shave...and a haircut- TOOOOOOO BEEEEEEE!

2008-11-15T03:25:00.003+09:00

I may have got a haircut today.

I'm not a big fan of salons, all the overhanded pampering makes me awkward to the pit of my stomach. Take my coat? Certainly! I'm utterly incapable of removing such a troublesome garment myself. Seventeen offers of caffeine-based refreshment? Why not! 'No' clearly means 'ask me again five minutes later', after all. Incessant attempts to engage in mind-numbing conversation? Go for it! My stony-expression must be indicative of my burning desire to spit out my life story in awkward-sized chunks.

But here's the thing; salons make cowards of us all. It is impossible to be sardonic, sarcastic or rude to the denizens of these follicle butcher shops. Try as I might, the comments won;t come and every question relating to my opinion or if everything is satisfactory will invariably turn into a 'yeah, sure' or a 'no worries'; even when the 40yr old woman (dressed as a 18yr old Eastenders reject) cutting my hair ripped half my face off with one of her Kruger nails. "No worries", I said, sliding off my seat as blood pumped out of the severed face artery.

On the subject of the hairdresser, something was a little off as she turned my samsonian locks into a Beatles mullet. She (I will put this delicately) she kept 'pressing' herself into my elbows.

Merciful Christ.

No matter how far my elbows retreated into the chair, she would merely lean over more, intent on a rout. And when something needed to be cut on the other side of my head or fetched from the table, would she move around the chair? No. She would lean over me. Thus creating the most awkward atmosphere since grown men took it upon themselves to run into a room shouting 'Dynamic Entryyyyyy!" and no-one in said room knowing what the hell they were talking about.

She ignored the way I wanted my hair done too. Hairdryer? No. On goes the hairdryer. Wax? No, never. On goes the fucking wax. Length okay? Yes! Off goes four inches.

Eventually, the ordeal is over. We hold a small service in memory of the severed hair that now sits in a ignoble heap upon the ground and I go through the small ritual of being dressed by a horde of smiling people with scary hair who call themselves stylists. I pay what's due (£38. Why?!) and am given a card with the name of who cut my hair, should I wish to be serviced by whover it is again.

No. I shall go see a prostitute of equal physical attractiveness instead. Should be mariginally cheaper.

And finally, homeward bound, feeling very self-conscious. I have bought a tuna baguette which, upon getting home, has been seperated into two portions whilst inside my bag; tuna mayonnaise, and the bread. I painstakingly reconstruct it before eating. It is then that I notice a shadow on the wall but it is not mine; the shape of the head is all wrong.

Who's shadow is this?!

When I raise my hands, it also raises it's hands. And when I take a step, it also takes a step.

Which means..............................
.....................................................
....................................................
....................................................
..................................................
......SOMEONE IS STANDING BEHIND ME AND MIMICKING MY MOVEMENTS PERFECTLY!

I spin round and deliver a brutal kick to where the interloper should be standing. My foot meets nothing but air and I fall over. My face meets tiles with brutal speed.

Well played, worthy adversary.

The most valuable tool in the universe is...

2008-11-08T02:47:00.004+09:00

So, Thursday. What a day. I'll briefly recount the day's events.

10-11am: WW1 Tutorial
11-12am: MLC Lecture
12-1pm: Technology in Literature Tutorial
1-2pm: MLC Tutorial
2-3pm: SPSS Practical

*gasp, gasp* Then work was to start at 5.30 sharp. This ended with my supervisor screaming at me, the discovery that some sneaky bastard had snuck in and added an hour to my brief shift, and my leaving anyway at 8.30 because I've never respected authority when it is a) hypocritical and b) shouting at me. Plus, they wouldn't let me unbutton my shirt.

Erego. Cue mad dash through city centre at night, up the eerily-lit neon gauntlet of *shudder* Young People that is Buchanan street; one girl makes gagging and vomiting noises as I pass.

Look! Is it a plane? Is it a bird?! No! It's my ego plummeting to Earth in a ball of flame! NEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOW-KABOOM!

Anyway, I reach Sainsburies and park myself by the door. In this time, two scary guys out on the town come over and ask me where such and such a bar is. They are standing very close to me. I reply in the negative. They (thankfully) walk away but are still hanging around five minutes later.

Mr Second Coming was the first to arrive. He graciously waited outside as I nipped into the store to buy some Sainsburies Value cider (what's wrong with that?) and I return to be told that Gai-Sensei has just entered the store as I left it. When he returned, Tom soon turned up also and we now only had one person left to arrive so we phone him to establish where he is "Probably not coming," one of our team says.

Of the conversation, I caught these two ideas. Party Dave was already at the party (Animal!) and that Peanut Butter was involved (ANIMAL!).

So, yeah. Subway. I forget the chat, for I simply buried my head into my satchel (is there a way to phrase that which doesn't sound dodgy?) but I believe it involved...stuff. We get off the subway and instantly decide that finding an off-license is far more important than the party itself. Fortunately, there is a towering chapel just up the road and my developing alcoholic senses (Alkie senses tingling...) know that there must therefore be an off-license nearby.

And, of course, there is.

We leave with our new stockpile, ready to wage war on sanity, pride, memory, and each other. The flat is entered and the Madness begins with general milling about and Not Much. Amongst the guests was Duffman (Spreading awareness of Duff! Hm!), Mr. 47 (as he would have been if Mr. Bean's genetic structure had been used), Henry the VIII post-op (Now Henrietta), Dr. Horrible (no, me neither), Cleopatra (replete with The Incredible Falling Tights) and the Two Zorros (Steroids Zorro, and Fonse Zorro. Eyyyy.)

And...the memory fails. I remember in general but it's too hard to relate in post form (that's how you know it was a great social function). I melted my teeth with Value cider in a drinking game and spent an inordinate amount of time freezing to death outside in a housecoat and towel. End of all, I shared a taxi with a failed pirate, Duffman and fairy girl while Aaron ran into the night.

Run, Aaron! RUN AND BE FREE!

Out of the taxi, by the Buchanan bus station near where this great night began, I made the unfortunate mistake of trying to intercept a man hug between Duffman and the failed pirate, Duffman being, as we know, no light-footed pixie. I have a disturbing mark On my face now. It's still there. The mark of Cain.

But despite the hectic schedule, the drudgery of work, the fear of treading these streets solo, the cramped subway, the off-license girl's insistence for ID, the Drinking Game, the best efforts of Tom the Half-Pirate, and the dangerous trek home whilst tipsy, just one little fact tells you, dear reader, all you need to know about this dapper man about town.

I STILL HAVE MY TOWEL.

Now where was I? Ah, yes. Conservativism, Thatcher, Fuck the Poor puff puff

2008-11-02T08:21:00.004+09:00

Harumph.

The sun has set and I can now continue unmolested (due to fickle providence, I have no curtains). The Halloween party started at full throttle, with me and Anti-Sensei sitting at a kitchen table in an endless silence that even the offerance of Rocky bars could not break. We then watched TV. In silence.

Party Dave arrived and, in true sitcom fashion, he and Rob had chosen the same costume! A moment of great uproar were it not for the fact that Sensei and Dave were depressingly chilled about the whole thing. Still, I got a £1 pistol to click at people and a flimsy tin-foil sword bent at a suggestive angle (one stab and it was done).

It was time to depart (Dave decided to get changed when we reached the Union). Sensei donned the first steps of his Zorro costime, I the house coat and fez. Into the child-filled Valley of Death, strode the three studs! Children demanded etiquette of us, roaring their displeasure when pleasantries were not reciprocated. Another party of shell-suited oiks demanded to know who and indeed what our costumes were based on. Harry Potter, cried one.

When we were out of sight, I removed the fez.

We reach the Union in good time. A thick line of party-goers ahead, judged to be less than 300. Sensei now completes his hand-made Zorro costume, replete with jacket/cape and rag with misaligned eye-holes. I laugh, before realising that he is far warmer than I am.

Our party was bolstered by two others as we waited. One, the boy chef; whom we adopted temporarily into our ranks as a guest. I gave him my fez, citing that he had transformed from trainee chef to Saudi Arabian heir to a large fortune. Dave's insane friend who, to put it kindly, was advanced in both years and forced insanity, joined us soon afterwards, telling of his joint obsessions with electrocution and general violence (and all because I stabbed with him a length of tin foil.)

The queue moved slowly. As we waited, various peoples of colourful character passed us by and squirted us with silly string. Asian Spiderman, for instance, and his cheaply made sweat-shop costume held together by both a board clip and sheer testosterone. The Polo Witch, a Man of Grapes, Lazy Mario, The Cat in the Hat, Various and Assorted Slags, The Blues Brothers and some Other People.

Amusingly, half of this motley crowd would be turned away by the King of the Potato People cum bouncer, who scissored the throng into half with a mighty wave of his arm. By this time, the shortcomings of my beloved housecoat were becoming painfully apparent. I jigged (for want of a better word) for warmth.

Inside at last, we found vacated seats on the Sixth Level (save your games, folks). As we relaxed, another person joined our ranks just as soon as Boy Chef had left them. Writer's society Baseball Girl (whose name I will leave anonymous to protect her identity) joined us. Dave set about the laborious process of pulling on his own Zorro costume, not home-made, internet bought, and it appeared that someone had fused together the genes of Zorro and Batman before pumping the creation full of Steroids++. I demanded to see a duel between Steroid Zorro and Peasant Down-On-His-Luck Zorro.

And then Gokuu arrived! No, he really did! The man had blood on his face, torn overalls of Orange colour and a fake barnet of yellow spiky hair. Impressive, I say! He attached himself to Sensei/Peasant Zorro and was most Uproarious, as was Baseball Girl and her hilariously sized bat as she pored over my Evening Express.

Myes.

Curly Stalin and her Tarantino Doppleganger chaperone turned up later, the former ready to pass out from her corset, the latter pulling coins out of my ears dressed as Abraham Lincoln in a desperate attempt to escape his celebrity face-sake. Unfortunately, this company would soon depart and t'was me and Dave alone to stave off the barrage of female attention levelled our way. After several imagined adventures, Sensei and his new disciple in Gokuu returned. Dave's friend had also returned with a fester-ish costume and then myself, Gokuu and Sensei disembarked to seek out Curly Stalin and her chaperone (Okay, drinks). Along the way I won a raffle fighting against Breast Cancer. Spiffing.

Drinks were found, friends returned briefly. Unfortunately this mansion-bound oddity was forced to retire from the lukewarm fray early as he had work in the morning. I escorted Stalin to the door and then made for home, my absence going unnoticed until I had reached said home. Then spent half the night being assaulted by two people's text messages, depriving me of the sleep I'd left to glean. Which was vaguely ironic.

Hm. Yes. Ironic.

I have a Smoking Pipe! I'm supposed to be at work!

2008-11-01T21:48:00.002+09:00

Halloween has came and been. Yup.

My costume was relfective of my personality: Half arsed and rushed. A fez, housecoat and newspaper was implemented to try and make myself look vaguely assembling of a aristocratic gentleman, replete with a £5 pipe. Unfortunately, with my bag over my shoulder I looked more of a Turkish Post man cum Harry Potter film reject.

Will not write anymore till later; the sun is in my eyes.

Mr. Muscle, were art thou?

2008-10-28T03:30:00.001+09:00

There are moments when a piece of childood can be razed from the brain forever by an event so crass and horrible that it simply destroys the related memory. I am talking of the new Mr. Muscle advert which stars CGI's latest freak spawn: An orange latex-bound muscleman trying hard to sound British as foreign people in dubbed voices scream for his help.

Merciful Christ.

What happened to that loveable chap with the pipe cleaner arms and misted spectacles whose battle with the oven we could all relate to, eh? What happened to the age of adverts being less glitz and more humour? I'd rather see the Honey-Puff monster burst through a wall and demand his breakfast from the dead-pan male actor whilst shouting "Where's the honey, mummy?" than the sell-out version in hip-hop gear trying to rap badly with a generically student-looking guy over a bowl of the said cereal.

And there are too many reality shows. Not enough shows like 'The Street' or 'House'. Too many shows like 'Dear Green Place' and 'The Wrong Door', not enough...huh. Can't remember the last decent comedy I saw. If I had more channels I might be able to catch re-run classics of Frasier and such-like whilst reliving the past with a clearer brain than the one enjoyed by a ten year old me.

Oh yeah. Me and Mercer went and got food at Merchant City. It was going well until a car pulled up outside O' Brians and opened fire, a wave of new age IRA members streaming into the building. After rallying the staff and customers, Mercer led a do-or-die charge and died in a blaze of bullet-induced glory. I had a lecture to go to so I didn't join in. I hummed the line 'Into the Valley of Death, rode the four hundred!' during it. It reminded me of a event idea so I'm going to pick that up again.

Oh, Mr. Muscle! I always convinced myself that you would someday return but you weren't, were you. All this time I was just fooling myself.

May you watch over us, always. You too, Captain Caveman.

Little black book

2008-10-26T05:34:00.002+09:00

Hilariously, there is an ever so slightly disgruntled individual in my workplace who lives on sheer rage. On the subject of managers, there is one person this Stockroom Hercules despises more than any other.

Tina Graham (not her real name.)

So it was that a few words on my part led into a full blown theory on why this floor manager was such a bitch. I listened with fear and bemusement as he wildly numbered off said reasons, ending with the revelation of the Diary, a book containing notes of mistakes and general insolence shown by members of basement staff. Without waiting for me to say 'I believe you', he dragged me along on an espionage mission to retrieve the book from the office before padding back to the superlative safety of the stockroom to leaf through our prize.

"Look."

The names were ingeniously coded ('J' for John. Ingenious, I tell you.) and had all sorts of things like 'M Forgot to cash up' and 'L left phone cabinet unattended for ten minutes'. Disturbingly, the abbreviation 'S' appeared to have whole pages devoted to it. I wasn't overly surprised. Here are some of the more interesting ones.

'When he gets bored of a job, he just wanders off and does something else' (Yup.)

'Had £1200 sitting in his till at the end of the day; very iresponsible (her spelling left a lot to be desired. She spells 'Bike' with a 'y'.)

'Has been spoken to on numerous occasions regarding his personal hygiene. Has had no effect.' (There's nothing wrong with a little musk. 'Tis how REAL men of the work smell!)

'Left the phone cabinet unattended, during which time four phones were taken' (Though in my defence there were mitigating circumstances ala viz: my feet were sore.)

So there you have it. The chronicles of this Four-hour shift working champion of endeavour. And I had twenty people ask me where the cash desk is, even though there is a big blue sign with white letters saying 'PAY HERE' on the far wall.

Sigh.

Pointless

2008-10-23T05:36:00.005+08:00

I've got a housecoat now. The dream of wandering around with a pipe and edition of the Guardian whilst saying "Mwa, yes. Shallow and pedantic" is no longer just a dream. And my mum is throwing small M&S grapes from across the room with alarming accuracy. Now we're going to watch a film called '48 hours' starring Eddie Murpy which she is adamant that I have already seen but I can't remember for the life of me.

Just like I can't remember the point of this post.

Last night had a few events of note. Lessee...me and new Brazilian guy James managed to net his first win in the noble game of pool and I declared a new life goal to defeat Anti-Sensei at it after a mano-a-mano encounter went badly. He listed this later as one of the three things I'd never surpass him at.

Upstairs, the priory was hosting karaoke again. After several Ice Ages, Jigglypuff (I was Magikarp. This says it all) finally decided not to pick a song after all (to my vague recollection). Pitcher Guy was adamant that if he sung 'Greased Lightning' we should go and dance around him, something I was up for as I'd drunk Cider like Greased Lightning (I can hear the sighs. Gotta love puns). He also promised Barony Girls to make an appearance at some point.

So self-wrought humiliation was upon us. As the night progressed, our numbers dwindled and some went wandering. Reluctant Sensei gripped my head and pressed it into his forehead. I tried to reciprocate the pressure. "Are you trying to hurt me?" he says, trying hard to look evil. To which I replied "Ouch," for the pain was tremendous. He then numbered off the three things I would never surpass him at. I think the first was pool and possibly smash bros. ("Oh yes I bloody will!" I roared.), the second was drinking ("well...maybe," I said, a little unsure now.) and the third was pulling. ("ah..." I said, defeated.)

Well, two (zero) out of three ain't bad.

Hours burned away. Pitcher's song had failed to materialise on the karoake machine, and we sat forlorn and girl-less as his Barony chums had also failed to appear (not that we'd have known what to do with them anyway). In the meantime, a guy we'd met previously who had dyed his hair used his Iphone to show us the 'hilarious' clip of a man being ass-raped. Cue hesitant laughter and disturbed glances around the table.

Eventually, me and two others decided to do the honourable thing. Bail. Bail hard, bail fast. Outside, a deluge of rain awaited and, serving out of the Church building, a toastie stand.

"Let's get free toasties," said someone.

On the steps (just outside the vaulted cover of the church archway so of course we got soaked.) we met two pirates, one of whom was wearing a cardboard eye-patch with the words 'have you seen my Parrot?' written on it. "I've seen your parrot!" I cried, and then mumbled some piss-poor punchline about it being in his friend's shirt. Said friend had a plastic katana in his belt, so he became Japanese Pirate.

Our turns for toasties finally came. They got their cheese snacks and promptly buggered off. The guys working the place had also brought out some strange looking toasties. The second I saw them I knew they were going to give me one (of the toasties).

"What are they?" I ask.

"Chocolate and Marshmallow," they reply.

Hm.

So I come away with the sugary treat and nip through the waiting queue and into a wall of rain. I run/amble towards the safe, safe cover of a Shadowy Recess.

Now, there are certain things to be known about these two substances I was about to consume. Firstly, they tend to ooze. Secondly, they tend to be skin-meltingly hot. I will attempt to relate the noise I made on the first bite.

"OOOARRRRGGGGhhh itburnsSO BADbutit'ssoooooarrrrggghhhhhGOOOOD!"

I examine my snack and I realise I am also eating tissue paper. Such was the flavour that I shrugged and carried on. There was some fried skin in there too.

One final agony awaited me for this sugary indulgence. As I took the last tissue-sodden bites, I go to place the remains in the bin. As I do, my thumb collides squarely with the iron, and a tear appears across the nail (into which, of course, goes melted marshmallow and chocolate). Thankfully, I was already in the advanced stages of pain-induced shock so I didn't notice. I used my ruined hand to wash my face with the rain.

And then I came home and there was a housecoat waiting for me. Neat.

Mancold Martyr

2008-10-21T17:36:00.002+08:00

I got the cold. Urgh.

Gonna get an XBox 360. When the wages come in. Yup. That's it for now.

And to round off

2008-10-17T03:09:00.002+08:00

I bought sandwiches before the QM tutorial, gave the nice lady the money, got my change and was half-way up Graham Hills when I realized I'd forgotten to take the sandwiches.

Gumpf!

Backtracked and went back into the store. No-one there but a customer so I just took the sandwiches lying on the counter ('THIEF!' said the other customer's face).

After the tutorial I head home and stop off at a small burger vendor whose store is built into a wall on the street. I chatted to mole-chin lady as the burger hissed in hundred year old fat. As she hands the finised article over, she also slides a mars bar over.

"Thought I recognized yer wee face; here ye go."

Got home. The mars bar was mouldy.

Fucker.

Routine

2008-10-16T21:27:00.003+08:00

Starts at 8am, I get up to do the reading I should have done last night but didn't 'cause I watched Naruto until three in the morning instead.

Again.

10am rolls around and the day pans out thus:

10am: WW1 Tutorial, I have brilliant idea and am unable to exporess it because I don't have the words. Agonizing thrity seconds as I freeze mid-flourish, realizing that I am an idiot.

11am: Meaning, Language and Culture Lecture: Instead of listening I write metaphors (which the class is on) for my book. I come up with water-balloons and the idea of running linked metaphors through an entire event. God bless I feel smart again. Bump into Dennis the Scoundrel (Mercer) down the hill. Amicable. He makes an awful joke about Oxford, how you can see the wonderful buildings and then get eaten by a student. I let a significant pause drift by and then, like a pro-baseball pinch hitter, I laugh ironically. He swears. We part ways, amicably.

12pm: Tech workshop: Fly for first half, but brilliant idea goes unexpressed because there are no openings. Arse. I return to my spurious attempts at metaphor.

1pm: MLC Tutorial: I literally begin to zone out as words wash over me and letters hover sharply in front of my eyes, which close for five minute stretches. As if proof were needed of my utter lack of contribution, no-one notices when I do, in fact, fall asleep.

2pm: I'm talking to you.

3pm: QM Workshop, which will follow in a lengthy report involving statistics! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But apart from all that, and the fire in my flat, it has all been a very nice day. (Thank you Spike Milligan, for being such a loveable nutjob).

Run! Save yourselves! I think I'm going to...SMILE!

2008-10-11T03:38:00.007+08:00

Well, it appears God has reached the end of his retributive bowel movement for the Shit Shower has begun to cease. As my mum says, you only need two things to be happy in this world and one of them's people to care about, the other one's money. Got both and you're sorted.

Things are looking up.

I came home to an empty flat. We both work and as a result are now on the road to financial stability. It's a strange feeling. Growing up, there has never been a time of financial security. Not even selling the house (£90,000, of which we got £30,000 because of an unpaid mortgage) afforded such security. I can now just go out and buy whatever I need, from food to books, and go to parties without begging fivers from gloating family members who are generally suspicious of anyone who reads outside a carry-out menu. It's freedom.

So I get to reading and writing event plans for the first segment of my book and mum arrives home from her work. The way this works is that I buy the dinner and prepare it because I can successfully follow complicated cooking instructions (Gas Mark 6, 35 minutes) and mum gets the dessert because she has to feel involved somehow.

But tonight she excels in her choice.

"Bonny pie!" she declares with aplomb, producing a Banoffee pie. I point out that it is actually called Banoffee pie but it's a good nickname for something so delicious. I think I've found my equivalent to Pratchett's Banana Daiquiries.

I've prepared a chicken curry with a tomato sauce infused with strands of spinach. It's actually not that bad, honest. To balance out such a naturally prepared meal, I microwave some special fried rice. We sit down at the table in the kitchen and begin to talk about intelligence (you get it from me, mum says. Shame that idiot (dad) watered it down.), fridges and then Gillian. She is coming home to do her diploma in Glasgow. This means her staying here for three years. This is a colossal relief.

"And I've paid Pat n' Billy back. We'll gie Roseanne hers when your wages come in."

We're playing it safe. We could pay everyone back right now but we've had bad luck before and so better safe than sorry. Just keep the bank balance as healthy as possible. Never know what might happen. But, all in all, my more prevailing problems appear to be falling over each other in their rush to resolve themselves.

It's nearly all okay again. Nearly.

"Hey."

Mum has held her hand out to me. On the middle finger, glittering away, is the diamond eternity ring she's always worn. It had always been on that finger and the idea of her not wearing it had, until a year ago, been unfathomable. A while back, it had been pawned (with great reluctance) to keep us afloat.

"Got it back out the pawn shop," she smiles and a few minutes later adds: "Oh, and we're getting a freezer."

All is well.

The Rival appears!

2008-10-10T03:14:00.007+08:00

Gah!

I noticed her in my first Tech Lit tutorial. A polo-sweater wearing know-it-all honours 4th year going on long monologues as she voices the opinion hundreds of musty old researcers have implanted into her brain. Cue my unique insight into Heidegger's otherwise unfathomable paper on Techne' that wins me first-name terms with the tutor. Rival girl went quiet. I'd won the round and thought myself invincible.

Then she was in the tutorial I had right after that. The score was evened as I struggled in a group of honour-students who thought a lowly 3rd year too inexperienced to make a contribution (they just ignored me and talked amongst themselves. Leaning in and speaking directly yielded only cold stares). Annoyingly though, theywere right. I knew little of the literary terminology we were working with and my ideas and proposed examples fell flat bar one. The Rival romped home with two examples, acting as speaker for her group. Bugger.

Second tech tutorial today. The Rival made another lengthy monologue, this time on the subject of the bible (which she has read. This is a disadvantage I must remedy quickly.) which ended on the grandiose claim that she believed in Human Goodness. It sounded like she was reading from an invisible essay (and it ad one of those conclusions). My interpretation of the ploughman as an apathetic figure (and therefore apathetic to the ground he was tilling and Mother Nature's natural order which farming destroys) fell on deaf ears. 30-15 to you, ol' fratei...

The tutorial right after was a chance to make amends. However, things got off to a shaky start as the tutor forced an admission from me that The Rival's implicature example was stronger than mine, which failed on the context-dependent test. There is a snigger from the back of the room. My face goes carefully impassive.

"Look for examples of how the four maxims are flouted in the text, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Now, I'd be the first to admit that I'm competetive if there weren't a long line of people willing to do it for me (and if someone else can do it, why bother?). And to my shame, I found my brain being kicked awake by a wave of petty schoolgirl-esque one-upmanship. I roved the passage, found my examples, and then waited patiently.

The Tutor re-enters the room. He starts with her table. Cue long-winded example of how the Maxim of Truth is flouted because "I'm going to buy a Smith & Wesson" isn't true. By his own admission, he doesn't buy a Smith & Wesson. The tutor is hesitant to accept this.

And then I strike!

"Actually, the sentence as a whole is true, because the dialogue is actually part of the running sentence in that the narrator tells us that he said these words to his wife. Therefore, the line is true: the chracter did indeed say this to his wife; the act of his not buying the actual gun is moot."

Oh ho ho ho...the glare that girl gave me!

"Correct!"

Damn straight. From there, it's a simple romping home to victory with my assembled examples.

Later, she tried to get her dismissed example validated through rushed logic but the tutorial was ending and the tutor was getting tired/cold turkey or whatever. He draws the class to a close. As I leave, I see The Rival cornerning the tutor and continuing her explanation as to why her example was correct (maybe she's Mercer in disguise...) to a harried looking tutor who clearly just wants to be away to his car where he can smoke/shoot-up in peace. I leave the room.

Outside the room, I find Pete waiting on his own tutorial to start. The poor guy's been ill with a couple of things apparently. If anyone sees this leather-jacket wearing, pitcher-drinking hero of the Apocalypse then give him my regards.

And I'm going to try and talk to The Rival if the opportunity presents itself. Why, with our powers combined we could...

Get on each other's nerves even more. Here's to a Friendly and Productive Rivalry, my Learned friend!

Fleeing the XPF Ogre and his Mighty Pro-Noun Club

2008-10-06T23:23:00.005+08:00

Owing, perhaps, to a certain amount of impulsivity, I left my first XPF tutorial and went straight into Cath Wales' office to get it changed. Henceforth, I am now a proud member of the WW1 class instead (poor Jane).

Today did not line up to a be good day. A statistics-heavy lecture of Quantitative Methods at 11am, followed by the equally anesthaetising bore that is Experimental Prose Fiction in which we ignore the book and instead identify the nouns and pre-something modifiers for the purpose of...knowing where all the nouns and pre-something modifiers are. Call me old-fashioned (or new-fashioned) but I prefer to appreciate a good book by reading it. Properly.

Cue a bout of crushing depression. I was having trouble spelling basic words such as 'it' and an overwhelming desire to crush the skulls of those around me was distracting me somewhat from the importance of knowing how Henry Green conveys a cockney accent. It was akin to science, I tell you.

After that, an encounter with four of my fifteen favouritest people in whole widest world boosted my spirits. Oh, and Sensei was there too. I got patted on the head a lot. We then parted ways to head for our individual places of interest.

XPF Tutorial summation: ARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

Now I have work for four hours. Not a proper shift by any stretch but still enough to have me muttering 'fuck you, pencil' under my breath during today's tutorial. And then I've got to go home and whip up a short story for tommorrow that will either be torn apart or completely ignored. My money is on...the latter.

Intellectual Brevity

2008-10-06T06:35:00.006+08:00

Mourning aside, my stupidity phase of the year appears to have at last abated. We move, then, with all due speed towards the terrifying world of clarity, integrity, and, of course, high delusion.

My football team met with defeat today. A devestating blow to my new outlook on life were it not for the fact that my every waking moment is dedicated to the art of Not Caring. I went through the motions of groaning and hitting my head off something for the look of the thing as a co-worker I'd never met before gleefully informed me of the routed Gers misfortune. We chatted of many things and then parted friends (for, alas, I was bound for the Loading bay and he the Restraunt of the 1st floor; I have not seen him since. Unable to remember his name, I shall christen him...Deadteeth).

The shift had but one interesting event of note. A tremendously blobby lady asked the price of mugs, to which I said '£1', there being a large sign saying '£1' above the mugs (fair basis for an assumption, you might say). Unfortunately, it was my ill luck to make for the cash desk just as the Mound of Gastronomic Indulgence was paying for her mugs.

"You told me these were £1." she says.

I freeze, an iron in one hand and a scanning gun in the other. Fuck.

"Weren't they?" I say. The guy on the till is putting the mugs through the machine. Piggy eyes are boring into me and the till screen glares 'Paint-ur-own mug: £2'

"It would appear not," she says, drawing up to her full, impressive height of five feet nothing.

"Hm."

To cut a laboriously long story short, Mrs. Blobby demanded she be given the mugs for £1, this being the price she was quoted by me prior to approaching the cash desk. The acting-manager's reaction is very mellow, almost...resigned. She merely tells me not to quote a price unless absolutely certain and asks (not demands, asks) me to find a pricing gun and do a little pricing. She has, perhaps, given up on me. One cannot light a candle without a wick (No, I don't know either. It is probably deeply philosophical and appropriate in some way. Then again, if there's no wick it's not a candle at all. More a lump of wax shaped into a hollow tube.)

Anyway, the shift ended with some football when the supervisor wasn't looking. We then gather, the seven of us, and the supervisor calmly admits to having a drinking problem.

New Slang (R.I.P)

2008-10-05T07:50:00.000+08:00

*sigh* It's always the good ones...

The Oscar Initiative

2008-10-04T02:09:00.002+08:00

You've probably done it at some point. Sitting at home, you notice that the clock is nearing six-ish. Bored, you turn that television set on early in anticipation of the fifty-fifty gamble that is the Simpsons (will it be Old classic comedy? Or new self-indulgent crap?)

Anyway, you turn on that television at, oh I don't know half-five, and switch it to Channel Four. What meets you is you the Paul O'Grady Show.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It started with him swanning on and opening letters from his geriatric adorers. They'd sent him some dye for 'down there'. Cue yet another classic Brady reaction (that is the same as his reaction to every other little thing, I might add). His audience hack and cough as they use their last collective breaths to laugh at the subsequent light-hearted ranting. Meanwhile, the pudgy little dog he's perched on the desk like a mascot looks like it wants to die.

I cannot imagine why.

The show then pans out to whatever interviews they've managed to muster and a...(no, no, I can do this. Just say it) 'hilarious' Generation-Game style slot where Paul (formerly known as Lady Savage) attempts whatever it is that they've cooked up, be it pantomime, keeping up with a professional dance team, cooking, etc and invariably doing badly at it and giving us his own brand of off-the-cuff witticisms and looks. Then he pretends to play an organ. 'Tis all in hilarious good fun.

I would dearly love nothing more than to go down there and force-feed that man his own dog's testes. After that, he can eat his own glasses to wash down the taste of anxious urine. Hopefully, the shock of seeing their hero meeting such an untimely end will cause cardiac arrest in a larger part of the elderly population, getting rid of them too.

But I won't because it's not the dog's fault.

Wrong fucking Idea

2008-10-03T05:35:00.002+08:00

So, the Wrong Door. As soon as I saw the big build up with the Little Britain Guy doing the voice in the advert 'The Wrong Door! The hit new comedy on BBC3! etc, etc, etc', I knew not to get my hopes up.

Two words sum up this program (well, one word and an abbreviation).

Shoddy CGI.

Then 'jokes' (if that's what you call them) to each sketch are hopelessly desperate in their randomness. A woman whose boyfriend is a Velociraptor? Inspired! Death by chocalate being a literal consqequence rather than just a very chocolatey dessert? No-one's ever done that before! A woman tries to cross the road only to be nearly run down by a Pacman-esque creature being pursued by ghosts? Hilarious! And a witty reference to our childhood experiences of the Arcades to boot!

Fuck off.

I don't know if anyone knows it, but there was a show called 'Big Train' with Simon Pegg in it that did similar sketches but with a hit-and-miss credibility that made it worth watching. I think Wrong Door is trying to emulate it, only with bad CGI. Not a good idea. The ninja thing might have been funnier if performed with live actors instead of 60's quality animation.

So what's my point? No point. Just a little disappointed is all. Some of the sketches could have been really funny if funny people were doing them and the script writers were a little more talented. It could have been a show adding to the ranks of League of Gentlemen and others but no such luck. By any stretch, a cheap pine wardrobe leading to an equally cheap forest of Narnia derivative (also full of cheap pine furniture) should be funny but...it wasn't. It's not the matter, but the manner.

Hmmm...don't feel any better. Think I'll go do some reading. Maybe take a break from blogging for a while.

Spare Change, good sir? Thank you kindly.

2008-10-02T16:32:00.003+08:00

Nice day yesterday. Fickle weather notwithstanding, I ran into Relecutant Sensei and the Little One (why are all dictators short?) in the uni bookshop and after buying a few books, we went to grab a bite to eat. It was nice. We planned to eat our Greggs comestibles out in the sunshine's embrace but he unzipped his fly to take a leak on us all instead. Cue run to the train station where we sat, on the floor, like a smattering of beggars (I think that's the plural).

I took to asking passers-by for spare change, which I found amusing. The image of an intellectual beggar, sitting outside Waterstones or elsewhere with book in hands and a well-penned sign saying 'Good day. I regret to announce that I have fallen upon fiscally hard times of late. Any financial assistance you could give in the form of underclass coins would be greatly, nay, IMMENSELY appreciated.' I would be rich in no time, well before the novelty wore off.

Went to work to see what time I was due in. Five till...nine. Hm. Went home to get changed when I discovered a thick layer of ginger icing had compacted in my bag to the point of indepedent movement and intelligent thought. I shall call him Charlie.

Write something for the good people Charlie.

nfabaywfvyeagfbiugbir

Good Charlie. Have a newborn infant as a reward.

Uh...Damage Control? We have a problem.

2008-10-01T18:05:00.002+08:00

Hmm.

In retrospect, mixing three pitchers into a cider and blackcurrant was not a good idea in the long run. By one in the morning (or was it twelve?) I was walking home through dark streets past celtic bar, utterly oblivious that Celtic had lost that night, with my strange erstwhile companion Reflector Jacket Man. We talked of growing up and social ills, he being forty years my senior. He asked for my number. I respectfully declined.

"Naw, naw, naw!" I may have said. "Ye're awright, big chap!"

"Ur ye sure?" slurs my potentially paedophilic friend.

"Ah'll c ye aboot!" I shout, heading into my close. "Take care a yersel!"

Ho-hum. Midnight breakfast snack of pizza only I didn't have any pizza so I had the groundbreaking idea of putting cheese on bread and then ketchup, thus acheiving the illusion of pizza. Twenty minutes in an oven later and I am chipping lumps of fossilised distaster into the bin. I turn it into a game, trying to land it from the other side of the kitchen. I didn't hit the target once (That's what she said!)

Feel okay now. My shilef of youth has protected me once more from Night's ravages and while I am still an ugly bastard I am not more so for the experience, thankfully. Woke up this morning with a brilliant idea to do that git's task without actually putting myself on the line in any way. Which is a relief.

WHERE THE HELL ARE MY BOOKS, AMAZON?

Am...verydrunk

2008-10-01T07:17:00.002+08:00

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHWWWWAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!

aM VERT drunk. But no worries, I will keep yoy rewntertained...entertained for a s long aspossible beofre conasicousness beciomn s an im[possibility. So! The state of Israle. Verra...importantl Probablt tied in with the current credit crunch and (shock) recesion" OIh Noes! We are all going to be paying 2500000000 pounds for as can of coke before long but not fbefore I';ve killed everyone! O bno! You will all die before my stock-fu! Secret deDLY NINJA ART THAT IT IS.

Worried about my sister, SHe hasn't been oin contact and I'm worried. NOOOOO! WHY but thqta's my problem bnot yourds or so the dead rabbits say! Damn them! Alwayds plotting world domination and suc h like. Wee fuckers. And thei pink little coats olfDEATHN! Alwaysd potting with the commando lemming legion instigated buy a scertain someone's fifteen year old sister (JUST ONE MORE YEAR!) in qa bid to get my psps wit crisi core so SHE doesn;t havr to spend er writing prize money the tight arese git (makes entry...diffcutly.)

Am vera drunk. VERA! DON;T LEAVE ,E! YOUR PETFORMACE IN SOAPS WAS LEGENDARY! MUY CODLGOOD../.CHILDOOS? wITH A d. Yup. ltos lots og f old people in my cho,dhood but tey get od,er and Die. so ...wayywah/uahyeah. got in it in te end, the spelling I mean. what do YTOU MneAN? What do any of us mean? when you get rigt own ti to it????

Not a lot. Propbablt just an exercise in self perpetuatuon. Pretentioys thing to say, but I;m pissed so I can GET AWAY WITH IT! WOHEY! AnuywaY, uou you take care okay:? seeo you guys tuesday next week you'f better qrite something worth mytime reading otherwise I qilll EAT YOUR SOUL AND TOENAIL CLIPPINGS!

C ya.

Did Rangers win today?

2008-09-29T01:56:00.006+08:00

Watching Kelly's heros, a film where heroic American soldiers heroically sequester a bank's money for themselves while dastardly Nazis try to steal a bank's money for themselves. Everyone in this film has the same surname. And there is a loveably insane tank commander guy who says things like: "A hero is some kinda weird sandwich not some nut who takes on tree Tigers!"

Ah, well. Think I'll play Doom for a while. I mean read textbooks, of course.

Fill in the blanks

2008-09-27T22:55:00.003+08:00

Not feeling good. Not good at all.

I rediscovered a hitherto forgotten aspect of my nature last night, and it is a tendency to worry myself literally sick about something. And while I lie in bed shaking slightly with feverish symptoms, the only thing I can think of is: 'Who the hell was he talking about?' and 'I think I'm gonna hurl!'.

A little self-obsessed, that's another characteristic of mine (a little?). When I'm in a lift, I always assume that when the doors open it's on my floor (which leads to a comical social faux pas of me leaving the elevator, realizing I'm on the wrong floor, and then sheepishly getting back on to the stares of customers/colleagues). Kind of a metaphor for how I process information. Unless otherwise told, I always assume it's about me. It's a failing, but given the amount of worry and anxiety it wreaks on my psyche I'll forgive myself for that one (just).

Ah, well. That's enough heart-to-heart for one day. I will close with a question: Does £25 for the entire collection of Naruto and Naruto Shippeden (?) episodes sound a little...suspicious? 'Cause I...may have bought such a collection off e-bay (yup, e-bay. This story gets better and better).

Creatively regurgitated answers on a postcard.

Journey's End

2008-09-26T04:06:00.003+08:00

Worked a strange shift tonight. I will relate the events that occurred as faithfully and as accurately as possible.

***
It was time to move on. Stepping away from the tea-cups that needed sorting in order of colour, Stockboy appraoched the only other person in the room. The enigmatic mentor to our dapper hero: Stockman.

"Ey, stockboy. Is good night for nachos and sweat, no?"

“Teeeeea-cher! I have come to ask you a favour!”

“Oh, yes, favour-asker, I’m open for questions 24-7! If you got a problem, spit it out, open your heart, your body will follow! Hm-hm!”

“I am leaving…to save the world!”

“Oh yeah? Well, Mister I’m-Leaving-To-Save-The-World, you know company policy. Once you get in, you don’t get out.”

“I know. Which is why…I must defeat you!”

Silence descended throughout the deserted basement. Stockman turned away, looking grave.

“You don’t mean it.”

“Teacher! I must go to back to Uni to learn the art of Expression! To do this, I must leave this store! I believe this is why you have trained me in the secret deadly art of Stock-Fu!”

A smile played across Stockman’s mouth, unseen by Stockboy. Perhaps it was a trick of the light…

“Verra well said, Stockboy! So you challenge me for my backdoor keys, then?”

“Teacher!” roared Stockboy, pointing his finger of conviction. “I challenge you to a duel of mortal combat!”

Stockman turned. He nodded.

“Good…but you know the consequence of failure, no?”

Stockboy blinked. He lowered his finger of Conviction.

“Consequences?”

“He who loses the challenge…loses his manly Dignity!”

“D-Dignity?”

“Yes. For the loser must receive…the winner’s Manhood!”

There was silence. It went on forever.

“Now,” said Stockman. “The time for talk is over. The rest will be decided by Sweat-”

A fist thudded into his chest.

“Blood!”

Another fist crashed into his manly abs.

“And Tears!”

Stockman stopped advancing. A trembling Stockboy was backing away before him, like flotsam

before the tide.

“What’s wrong?” leered Stockman. “Are you afraid, trembling boy? Oh-hoh-hoh-hoy!”

“N-no…I-I’m-

A box bumped into the small of his back. Stockboy turned. Inside was-

“If you wish to back down and meekly return to sorting teacups, be my guest!”

-Row after row of can-openers.

Confidence returned to Stockboy’s eyes. He reached in and grabbed one. And placed the can-opener over his face, like a mask.

There was a blinding flash.

“Do what you want!” roared Stockboy. “No matter what the battle, I’ll fight it! In the name of Truth: this Fist! In the name of Justice: these Muscles! In the name of beauty: this Hair! I shall overcome all obstacles in mine way!”

“GOOD! COME AT ME, MY LAD!”

“RRRARRRGGHHH!!! TEEEEEACHERRRRRRR!!!!”

The fight that followed was a long and furious one, stretching deep into the night. The highlights included a palletruck, cascading boxes, and strategically cruel use of the Toastie-makers. And when it ended, silence rang through the basement, the dust settling on the shoulders of one man standing, one man prone.

Stockboy calmly removed the can-opener from his face.

“Teacher…are you alright?”

Stockman was on the ground, his chest rising and falling like a pair of bellows. After a while he sat up, his face streaked with the effort of battle but strangely effervescent, as if a load had been lifted.

“What a relief…” he gasped. “Go on. Take my keys. I beg of you! Uneasy lies the body strapped down with backdoor keys.”

“T-Teacher!”

“No, Stockboy! I am no longer your teacher! From this day forth, you are…Stockman!”

Stockboy nodded, and took the keys from Stockman. He helped the fallen mentor to his feet and Stockman slapped both hands down on Stockboy’s shoulders. He gripped them like a vice.

“You passed the physical, my friend! Now, is time for mental test, eh? Oh-hoy!”

Stockboy was borne gently, yet firmly, to the floor.

“Now I show you what the point of squatting to pick up box was really for! Oh-hm-hm-hm!”

“W-w-what? What’re you-Ah-Ah…

…

“NNNNNOOOOOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh……..”

...

"Christ," he said. "Am I going to be sore."

****

[Stockboy levelled up; Lv.99, Exp to next lv: ----]

Fin.

Thought of the hour

2008-09-25T21:40:00.001+08:00

If Dandelions had stripes they'd be called Dandetigers, and they would prowl about night proudly with their foppish hair and sleek coats picking up anything that construed the tag: 'A fine bit of tail, what?'

Just a thought.

Feeling it Slightly (but only slightly)

2008-09-25T21:08:00.003+08:00

A last minute goal sees Rangers beating Thistle, like a greasy-haired spanish thief in the night. And the team whose players look like a collection of knobbly appendages in a sack go crashing out, which serves the upstart bastards right for daring to defy us.

Footballing dogma aside, I have been forced to do Quantitative Methods, the plea to do someting else to make up the credits (academic or otherwise...) falling on deaf ears because a little blue book told them 'no'. Still, the head of Psychology has promised one-to-one tuition should things get difficult for me. For this purpose, I have purchased a tent and will be moving into his office shortly.

It occurs to me that the best inspirations come from otherwise completely unrelated books, not films. Who'd have thought that Milton's 'Paradise Lost' would have proved so inspiring? As such, I got a ever-so-slightly religious theme underlying the event structure in the book, namely the expulsion of Man from paradise, crossing the desert/wilderness, and then finding- well, you can read. If you care, I'll let you do the legwork. It should tie in nicely with the conventional Humourous story wherein the main character goes from a state of isolation to a state of acceptance or whatever that book-thing said.

*Sniff* *Sniff*, I can smell something in the air. Smells like...pretentiousness.

Smells good.

So, to continue, I'll be reading a lot more. Mostly classics and whatever people recommend. Which reminds me, I'd better read that Norton anthology again. I want to study Manfred's (I think it's Manfred. It was a character name, anyway) communing with the spirits. Why? Why not.

Still not feeling it.

2008-09-25T04:53:00.002+08:00

The karmic circle just closed on me, with brutal efficiency as ever. My excessive sponging off the backs of my betters has yielded me yet another generous dose of Poetic Justice.

My sister requires £400.

Fuck.

It's because of some China trip during her internship to the sunny climes of Cambodia and Thailand (oh, and Vietnam). Rather than use her extensive qualifications and brain unfettered by Apsergers to get oh, I don't know a job?, she has taken it upon herself to do...sod all. Except, perhaps, send her bank details to me in advance.

No worries, though. This is why I have a job now. And what a job! Though working four shifts of standing at a till getting dog's abuse from ugly bastards who're too cheap to go to a real store doesn't count as work. (cue long spiel about what real work is and why it is so tear-inducing. Yawn.)

COME ON YOU DIRTY BASTARDS!!!! SCORE!!!! I COMMAND YOU!!!!

Damn Thistle. Every close up of their players reveals a man seemingly constructed of chins, elbows and knees that

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm...not feeling it.

2008-09-24T21:34:00.003+08:00

My motto for a night-out during fresher's week last night. Sweaty first-years crowding out the bars in search of the 'Univeristy experience' turned an already stale establishment into an intolerable one. But it wasn't a completely wasted evening. I met some old aqcuaintances and friends, most notably Party Dave, and when you get to share in foot-long meatball subs (delicious) and chargrill chicken pizzas (ditto) it's score one for the Result board.

But I just wasn't feeling it, this being a phrase I put into solid use throughout the night. Alcohol was affecting me physically but not mentally and I was as loose as a welded box wrapped in a conundrum, tied with an enigma bow (the card saying 'Seasons Greetings and Fuck you: Snarl!') while around me the others got into that delightful phase of loose chatter where everything is hilarious. For my part, I was stuck taking weak pot-shots from atop my tower of repressed fury and pathetic neuroses. They weren't very good ones either; I was firing blanks mostly ("That's what she said! 'Cause I couldn't get her Pregnant! Which is why she left me!")

Ah, well. Can't be magnificent all the time. Which reminds me of the night's moral lesson which was regurgitated from a previous night: 'We all have to keep each other in check with cutting remarks' was the night's salt-smelling nugget of wisdom. That, and the disappointment that was Dark Bob Lite. Here's hoping that he got his girl in the end (and something else, too.)

Book-wise, I'm researching Japanese topography for...certain events. Mt. Fuji is the prime location, that and another location with particularly strong magnetic leylines. If I do research on the cultures, religions and mythology of various countries I'll have yet more semantic ammunition to fire into the reader's feeble little brain.

P.S. Damn you, Catherine, and your Spud-Featured team!

I am speechless

2008-09-23T07:01:00.003+08:00

Watch a film called 'From Dawn to Dusk'. Don't ask questions, just do. All the way to the end. Just...watch it.

I have not laughed so hard in a while.

The Simpleton Soldiers On

2008-09-20T06:27:00.004+08:00

I shall be working through deep into next week. That'll be eight days in a row. Four hour shifts of standing at a till being nice to the Cabbage Folk (those who are now in their winter years) while seeking air in a cloud of BO from the lazy bastard on my right and rotten egg farts from the git on my left. It's a crime that a cocktail stench of that calibre doesn't have colour.

Anyway, I have been driven to distraction by the amount of mis-priced items I get handed to me at the till. Once the item is scanned, the customer's reaction is always the same. First the head tilts slowly toward the green LED display showing them the price of the scanned item. Then the look of outraged disbelief is turned on me, and I wilt like a dandelion before a Flymo Blower.

"That's priced as [insert lower price value here]."

I look at the item, at the price tag on it, and then at the computer telling me otherwise. Now, if working on the tills as taught me anything (and it hasn't), then it's this important Truth: The Customer isn't always right, but they think they're always right.

"Ahhh...so it does. We've been getting this a lot lately. Someone isn't pricing the stock properly." (there, it's someone elses fault now...)

The expression of outraged disbelief becomes mere outrage.

"That's not my fault, it's-" they start to say.

"Our fault. I know. And I'm sorry. I'll have to call the supervisor to get this all sorted out."

And now the solution is in the hands of someone else too. Cause and solution, all palmed off in one fluid exchange of dialogue. After I've called the cash office, the tannoy blares the name of a supervisor to go to my till. This impressive show of action placates the irate customer, be they Cabbage People, Pram-Faced Bastards, or Manbeast McGraws. I immediately push home my advantage while the forces of reason temporarily dam my adversary's frustration.

"My supervisor is on the way. Would you mind if I kept the queue moving while we wait? ('we', being the crucial word: we're all in this together. What a great lie)"

Embarrassed, they relent.

"...Oh. On you go, son."

Karmic circle closes. The queue, like the flow of time, moves on.

Working the tills requires a certain kind of bloody-mindedness. As my supervisor and sensei (didn't) say:

'The Trial of the Till is the greatest test of them all. The body is pushed until broken, and the Spirit...is tested to Madness. And there is a limit to what even the strongest of Men can endure.'

The day is coming when a breakdown that'll make even Doctor Faustus seem mildly vexed is coming. On that day, a customer will be slumped against the last-minute-buy displays with their eyes scooped out with a spoon and a blender up their nose while I get frogmarched away, screaming 'The Tags! The Tags! The Security Tags told me to do it!!!!!"

The gears of madness have already begun to turn. Today, as I peeled the security tag stickers from their boxes, I heard them scream.

Come, My Loyal Flock!

2008-09-20T06:27:00.002+08:00

So I suddenly have a follower in Dave the Rave. But my so-called 'devotee' has already implicated himself in treachery by associating with another blog! Infamy! The infidel shall burn! (And then I will be follower-less again).

That aside, I finally settled on a narrative voice I like and that fits so proper writing can once again resume. Bit of a relief, and I have the combined talents of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (Good Omens) to thank for it.

Another big decision was to drop the totally fictional setting (just a cheap re-naming of existing countries) for a real world one, with a slightly adjusted timeline to suit the book's events. Think of the real world, only with all the paranormal beliefs, superstitions and the like actually existing. I'm only limited by what I know of the world and it's mythologies, stories, and beliefs so VAAAST reading is on the cards, more than I've been doing. I'll be picking up American Gods again, and forcing myself to finish it. Then it's onto non-fiction and that author who writes historical fiction (he takes events from history and then alters it into a fictional plot).

My mum is convinced she is psychic. She saw a woman on television and predicted she was going to draw a Star of David and, lo and behold, she drew a Star of David. I asked her if she could predict what I was about to say to her, to which she thought for a moment before saying "Well, you're my son and that means...half your genes are my genes and that...you're at least half-stupid."

Damn her. I need my own place.

Is this the end for Stockboy? (Lv. 86)

2008-09-16T03:01:00.002+08:00

'Some Guy, come to the conference room, thank you.'

Which leads into a long character assasination where the section manager denounces my character and attitude. I suppose answering the question 'Who am I to you?' with 'Manager guy?' wasn't the best way to start the hearing thingie.

Cut a long story short, I intend to finish the shifts for this week before the Uni stipulation thing kicks in whereby I am no longer free to work whenever. I shall resign at this point. That way, I won't be running away from the horde of nameless staff/customers who've filed complaints against me for being a cheeky bastard.

I've learnt a lot about working in a store. And about human nature, too. In any workplace, there is a clearly demarcated hierarchy with people on the bottom and people on the top. Some take on jobs for temporary money, but there are those who have to work in the grudging 9-5's of stores, kitchens, and offices. And a number of these are arse-lickers.

Now, Arse-lickers come in two forms. Angry and Two-Faced. The Angry are in a constant state of fury, caused by a sheer disapointment with life so far. For these unfortunate souls, malice is a byword and so any inconvinience visited upon them will be delivered tenfold in return. I may have stolen a lift from under the nose of such a person while they weren't looking.

But the Two-faces are the worst as they come like tigers, all smiles before scooting to the nearest manager guy to score brownie points (and brown their noses too). Managers tend to be people drunk with power (The different colour shirt showing rank corrupts their souls) and will attempt to bully or assert this meagre authority by drawing you into their microcosm of a world (where it matters that the pots and pans are all pointing handle-outwards and symetrical all the way down).

Unfortunately for him, I am already in my own little microcosm. There are bunnies in it.

"Right now, you are a hindrance on this company!"

"Oh."

"I could dismiss you three times over for all this, you know..."

"Oh."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Sorry?"

I will work 'till the end of the week. Simply to reach lv. 99, you understand.

Stockboy Returns (Lv. 51)

2008-09-14T16:17:00.004+08:00

Dooooooooooooood....

So, a night on the sauce last night. Damn goood one too, and I came home to a muttered 'there'sabeefhorseradishbaguetteinfridgezzzzzzz' from the heap lying on the bed in my mum's room. I am hungry so I go and eat it, reflecting on the day behind me...

The Adventures of Stockboy: Enter the Fiddler!

Just another day in T.J.Hughes. Our hero is stacking children's toys in the newly developed children's toy section. Needless to say, he is going quite delightfully insane.
We looooove you, yes we do! We looooove you, yes we do!-
Fortunately, there is a large consignment of battery acid nearby, and the duck man with the umbrella hat never sings again. He melts, screaming. The children begin to cry.

On the subject of children, I despise them. What with all their happiness and skipping and carefree existence you just end up wishing that they'll fall on some broken glass or go too near the Flymo display and be crushed to death in a cascade of garden blowers (they really blow and they really, really suck).

"Arsehole! Phones! Now!"

My new floor manager tells me to go man the ground floor phone desk so I trudge up and do so. As I stand there trying to look as suicidal as possible, I have a variety of interesting (that's the polite way of putting it, I guess. I'm sure they are wonderful people on the inside. And that they have, of course, great hair). people approach to gawk at the bizarre contraptions I have locked away in my glass cabinet of silky box goodness. A half-dead ned and his beanpole bitch/pal/scivvy approach, and say nothing in a malevolent manner, then walk away in an equally malevolent manner. The one with blood, specs and trousers that had seen the business end of a paint bucket looked like the extra from Dawn of the Dead who was cut because he was too scary.

So four of the clock rolls around and I take the phone cabinet downstairs. I am instructed to tidy up the pots and pans section (Ground Zero). I do just that, and it takes an hour before I finally finish, exhausted but happy.

Then I notice a dischord in my area of pot perfection. Some complete bastard has gone round and messed all the pots and pans up again. I straighten them up again and think nothing more of it.

Minute later, I pass by and see that the section has been devestated once more! I veer towards it and begin to stalk the shelves, looking for my unseen Nemesis of the pots and pans section.

And then, as I walk down a suddenly deserted row of Tefal box frying pan sets, I sense him behind me...

"...ha...ha...ha..."

I whip round.

"Who's that?!"

It was a man in a blue suit, a fedora sitting rakishly on his head. He is respectable looking, but in a contrived way. A gangsta way. He smiles like a sex offender and gives a sweeping bow.

"Lo and behold! For I...am The Fiddler!"

"Are you the one who keeps handling my pots?!"

Fiddler grinned malevolently.

"Yes! I am the one who takes pots out of their boxes and then doesn't put them back properly again! It is me who leaves fingermarks all over the cushions! 'Tis I who regularly rapes your Wendy House!"

"But why?! Why would you do such a thing?!"

"By messing up all the pot arrangements, the flow of Chi through this floor is disrupted," replied Fiddler. "Thus shortening the lifespan of all who enter it through stress! Welcome to my Social Experiment!"

"You bastard! I'll kill you!"

I leapt for him and we smash into each other, scrabbling for purchase. We break apart, engage in a little kicking action before settling into a good old fashioned thumb war.

But the Fiddler's fingers are too strong, too supple. My thumb is caught, held for three seconds and then I am kicked away and blasted by a powerful Sonic Boom. I hit the floor on my back, and slide across the ground.

Fiddler has a look of gloating triumph on his face. I drag myself to my feet, holding my stomach theatrically. "Damn...you-!"

"You let your emotions rule your mind! How can one strike without clarity? Without their very soul behind them?!"

"Grrr...! If only there was some way to channel my soul!"

Gareth, a colleague, suddenly appears from behind a row of cooking pots. He is running towards us. He has something in his hand.

"Stockboy! Use this!"

It sails through the air, glinting. The answer. The very thing for channeling the soul and attaining mental clarity.

A Can-Opener.

"Nooooooo!" wails the Fiddler as I catch the thrown utensil and put it on my face like a mask.

There was a blinding flash. I leap onto a display and strike an alpha-male pose.

"When the forces of darkness descend; this Fist! When the sanctity of the pots are disturbed; these Muscles....When the name of Honour must be upheld; this Blood! Ah-HA!"

Transformed, I leap from the display and land in front of the quailing Fiddler. I pick up a box containing twenty pieces of cookeryware with ease and heft it like a club. "Champion of Truth and Justice: Stockboy Wonder! Ready to fight all evil-doers! If you can face the unfettered fury of my rippling muscles, nefarious adversary, then...COME ON!"

I use my Stocker's Slam technique. It is super-effective! Fiddler fainted!

And then I straightened up the pots and pans, helped a few old bumbly ladies with their boxes (and believe me, they were pretty bumbly), allocated the sphere points I'd got in the last fight and then then clocked off to go on a night on the sauce. Such is the double-life of this mild-mannered shop assistant.

And that's how it came to pass. Tune in next week stock-boy fans, when we join Our Hero in the next exciting episode; The Nightmare Shift: Bird in the Hand!

Stockboy Begins (Lv. 42)

2008-09-13T05:44:00.002+08:00

GGGGOOOOOOODDDDDD...

Eight loads of boxes full of electrical appliances moved and then constructed into a display by yours truly. Sweat, blood and tears. I lose a fingernail and the feeling is gone from the toe next to the pinkie on my left foot. But, my efforts did not go un-noticed. The man who set me the biblical task (and I was the only bugger in the basement that night) seemed genuinly impressed and I heard him remarking to a store manager that he was running out of things for me to do (read into that what you will).

But there was a price to pay for my efforts. As I crouch to build the base of yet another display of slow-oven cooking pots, a noise resounds through the basement. It is a primal noise, as old as time itself. In all it inspires the same reaction, regardless of race or creed. It is a terrible noise, a herald of humiliation impendent.

My trousers had ripped open.

As with anyone hearing such a noise, my head shot up like a deer caught in the headlights. I tentatively stand up. There is a distinct breeze about my thighs. I untuck my shirt and pull it down over the gaping hole. I then get on with the task at hand, like a true professional. Before I clock off, I nab a black cloth and stuff it down the back, hoping it will go unnoticed during the walk home through dark streets.

And as I search for the ever elusive soap in the bath, I finally find it and somehow stub my finger on it, resulting in another fingernail casualty.

Soap:1, StockBoy: Nil

Stockboy Forever (lv.21)

2008-09-10T21:48:00.002+08:00

The stolen shift has ended (it ended yesterday, but so?). A mightily interesting bunch of characters came by during the course of. Some of my favourites:

Teapot Lady
"I love them all!" she cried, fondling a packaged teapot. One of my superiors is laboriously putting fifty or so teapots onto a trolley, ready to be carted off to a vehicle which in my mind will be a limosine, crazy eccentric that she was.
"Ohkay son! Rrrrrrrrack 'em up!"
I give her what I have the nerve to call a smile, and begin to scan the same eye-assaulting teapot over and over and over again. I scan it fifty one times by mistake. I have to start over.

Hagg
This is what I call her. The queue winds around the floor, affording a good view of impending customers and bampots. 1st prize in the latter category went to Hagg, otherwise known as Manbeast McGraw.
She starts, as I knew she would, ranting and raving as her turn to be served neared. "WHO SINGS THAT?" she asks a customer. "Bonny Tyler." comes the reply. "NO IT'S NO!" and this is comedy defined as Hagg bursts into gales of wheezing, choking laughter.
She reaches my till, lone ranger as I was on that day. She wants a phone (the cheapest) and I get it for her. When I return, her hands are on the counter. She is leaning forward and grinning through a graveyard of tombstone teeth. She is terrified that I will not give her a recepit and demands one before she has paid. I patiently explain this is not possible. She relents, and takes both purchase and recepit away, leaving two massive handprints of black grime on the counter.
It smells suspiciously of excrement.

Bunny Boiler (In Genocide Mode)
Just an innocous question, answered just as quickly. It concerns a pair of GHD straighteners. I tell her she cannot buy the ones attached to the display cabinet because they are, in fact, attached to the display cabinet.
"Fuckin' attitude!" she mutters, slinking away. I shrug and think nothing more of it.
Why does this stick in the mind? She was my first disgruntled customer. In three weeks of working a till. I'm just so likeable, I guess.
And in a later note I passed her by today at a bustop, to which she shouted "There's that fuckin' prick!" to which I walked ever so slightly faster. She still remembers, then.

Mr. Belly buys a Telly
Hilarious scenario where the two of us will carry the television upstairs but Mr. Belly is too fat to pick up his end of the television set. He mutters something about the awkward shape of the normal-shaped box and waddles off while I mutter something about too many pies and cakes. To be adapted into a award winning children's book anyday now (thus tackling childhood obesity: Remember kids! If you can't see your pecker then YOU WILL DIE A DIABETES INDUCED DEATH.)

Kindred Spirits
I say "I gave you five pounds change, am I wrong?"
And he says: "No, you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole!" and we spend the next couple of minutes throwing lines from the Big Lebowski at each other before high-fiving and parting ways.

Time-bomb
Not a customer, but my floor manager and in charge of basement stock. Amusingly, I call on him whenever something goes wrong which is beginning to play with his sanity. On the Stolen Shift, he chibbed a shelf to death with a safety knife. Today, he kicks a pile of irons which promptly falls on his foot.

Oh, and the store boss demanded to know why I had £3455 knocking about in my till at the end of the day when tere is only supposed to be £50-£100 at any one time. I just say that it was a good day, all in all, and no-one got hurt. This is before the disciplinary talking-to this morning.

Dogfight

2008-09-09T19:44:00.003+08:00

So, book. Hmmm. Not going too bad. A chipping process is underway of grinding out sentence after sentence for a host of new scenes integral to the plot thing (which has evolved again!) Stockboy has been created, as has the Warehouse.

Dogs belonging to my cousin, who is away somewhere with the fat versions of Jordan and Andre, are currently fighting over my affections. The mother and her pup wrestle, jump onto the couch I am sitting, and then chase each other away. It is most vexing.

Miserable day. I might re-read the Dark Materials trilogy if I could just summon up the emotional energy for the ride. That ending was a good one. The sort you don't forget 'cause it;s bittersweet. Can you see where I'm going with this?

In a unrelated note, what do you think of this? Daniel Defender finds a Royal Mail postbox and decides to use it as a club. He describes said postbox as: "A steely sentinel/A messenger of Love and Courage'/What better weapon to combat Evil than this?! The collected sentiments of a thousand, nay, a hundred thousand souls rests within this hallowed shell; I can feel their words of Truth and Goodness flowing through me!"

At which point, someone should probably slap him. Hard.

Cut off one head, and two shall take it's place.

2008-09-09T19:25:00.003+08:00

The swines! THEY HAVE CUT OFF MY INTERNET CONNECTION!!!

Now, I would explain why I am on the internet complaining about no longer being on the internet but that would be a waste of finger tips. Instead, we shall move right along to the phone conversation between me and the girl representing the vodaphone company.

"What?" she said.
"Uh...(I slip into Polite mode, thereby upping my understandability somewhat) I have just received a letter throught the post informing me that my 'Internet' connection has been cut off and that a blah, blah, blah. Will it be possible to pay this bill on the following Wednesday?"
"...no."
"Ah."
Silence.
"So how long have I got to pay the bill before the cancellation fee kicks in?" I ask.
"...I don't have that information in front of me."
"Oh. Right."
Silence. I begin fearing for Vodaphone girl's life.
"Anything else?" she says at last. I breathe a sigh of relief. But fury is in there too. Sheer unadulterated fury at the sudden £200 death sentence hanging over my head. A phrase from Family Guy comes to mind:
"Well, I'd love to stay and chat but..."
Silence.
"But what?"
I lose my nerve.
"Nothing. Thanks!"
I hang up.

So no internet at home. Least 'till Wednesday. It just goes to show that- wait a tic:

"I'd like to breath down HER receiver!"

It just goes to show that life is money. And a certain epitaph comes to mind as well. It read:

'If life were a thing/
That money could buy/
The poor could not live/
And the rich would not die.'

So there.

In a uncle's house, drinking banana milk that he has surreptitously laced with Becks. I am waiting for my shift to start. Technically, it's not my shift and it belongs to Thahn, my Viatnamese colleague. Relationship status has upgraded to buying each other sandwiches from Greggs, walking home together and some bumping and grinding because the area behind the cash desk is SOOOOOO cramped. However, she still thinks I'm gay.

Fuck you, God.

The Daily Grind(house)...ha.

2008-09-01T18:42:00.004+08:00

An interesting night-out last night. A trip to the upmarket cinema that is so upmarket that they do not tailor to the vulgar tastes of the uncultured masses (a viz: they didn't sell popcorn) was juxtaposed nicely by the purposely trashy double-header that was Grindhouse. People laughing out loud and clapping in a cinema was a new experience for me. Normally I'm so aware of making ANY kind of noise that might disturb the strangers surrounding me that I leave sweets uneaten 'cause of the rustling the bag makes but I relaxed and enjoyed the atmos (and the choclate-toffee-popcorn I'd snuck in, rebel vulgarian that I am: I'm eating popcorn in a cinema that doesn't sell it! Take THAT society!).

The Car-chase scene when the hunter became the hunted in Death-proof was awesome. I've always liked car-chases that were real, but to throw damaged muscle cars into the mix made it (almost) perfect. The Experience was ruined slightly, however, by the dismantling of a fairly new role model I'd had instilled by Bob in Kurt Russel; the man with the Death-Proof hair. He screamed like a girl before getting kicked in by girls, his final fall from grace onto the tarmac of obscurity a truly heart-wrenching moment. Probably just as well he got axe-kicked to death, really.

As ever, my plan of sticking around for only one poached drink was ruined by one tiny yet sizeably proportioned snag; Bob. (well, why not blame you?).

Annnnnnyway, the first portion played out rather atypically. Flashes of conversation, new comic inventions, contests of hand dexterity (He couldn't get his cigarettes until I handed them to him) and physical leg strength (the tar-filled bastard has stronger legs than me) tempered with the odd bout of shut-out time, wherein you wait until the person who is talking runs out of interesting things to say, so as to jump in. Or something. And apparently I look good in a cheap leather jacket.

The Cathouse was the next destination away from Cellars. A long conversation was had on the way, that way being the looooong way round, possibly to avoid Argyle street but I don't know; I wasn't in charge of the trailblazing/staggering. Once in the Cathouse, three of us stared in carnal unison at a free-spirited young lady in a very short skirt doin' her thang on the dancefloor next to a sizeable meatloaf lookalike. Eventually, we ourselves took to the dancefloor.

I danced as I have always danced; with limited skill and dangerous enthusiasm. Never a good combination. Copying what other people are doing a full five seconds after they have done it never sets a good impression either. Oh well. I enjoyed myself and that's the main thing. After a while, Smokey-Joe drags me outside for some much needed 'fresh air' (a talk). That is, until he offers me a cigarette, the swine.

Apparently I'm getting better at shooting the smoke. What I'm not getting better at is tolerance for nicototine in my system and after two seconds of light-headed elation I come crashing down into the Bog-pits of I'm Feeling Ill In A Dangerous Kind Of Way, Man. Smokey-Joe, upon noticing my drooping head and laboured breathing (the tell-tale signs of a drink escape), advises me to think of 'kittens'. I do think of kittens. Now I must tackle cute-induced nasuea as well as smoke-induced nausea. His next suggestion is more sensible. 'Go get some water'. 'Tis a good plan. I get some water and immediately feel better.

I find Tim la Femme and Friction Man sitting on the steps toward the back and sit down next to them. There was a thingamie going on that night which was, to my knowledge, resolved. I'm talking ambigously just in case any 'outsiders' read this (though lets be honest. Only five people read this blog and two of them are me.) Even so, discretion is always a good idea. 'Specially if it's none of your business.

So...yeah. Taxi to Bob's, followed by a trouble-free walk home. Don't even feel ill, either. I will now spend the next two hours or so working out new and exciting ways to be spontaneous and...zany. Oh Lord, kill me now (and everyone else while you're at it).

Oh...and remember:

If you....decide to...open...that door...

DON'T. LET SOMEONE ELSE DO IT INSTEAD. PREFERABLY AN EXPENDABLE FRIEND WHO HAS BEEN DISSING YOU ALL WEEK AND DESERVES A SLIGHT KNOCK TO THE HEAD, WITH AN AXE. THAT'LL TEACH THE SMEGGER.

Combrosia

2008-08-30T05:52:00.002+08:00

Just one of the many witty inventions that occured during tonight's celebration of Ms. Osbourne's birthday in Filling Station. Apparently it's like ambrosia only runnier and hand-made.

Got two long days of respite rolling aead of me. If anyone wants me to make them feel better about themsevles by comparison then give me a call and I'll be depressed at you for a bit.

Ah, yes.

2008-08-25T16:39:00.001+08:00

And condolences to Mr. Kilpower, who may also be hungover and has work in the morning.

Augh! (as Charlie Brown and chums would say).

2008-08-25T16:21:00.002+08:00

There are better times to blog than when hungover. My wits also refuse to rally under the banner of Cerebrum because the pulsating batters them away like some neural electromagnet gun.

The nightout of Sunday was a good one (as far as my stunted social chart goes) and despite not being able to find the place that I'd suggested, the fact that I'd not eaten anything all day meant that after one pint of The Safe Stuff my inhibitions about people in general began to drop. Banter was made, drinks were spilt, revelations revealed, and arms were wrestled.

...there. The paracetemol has just kicked in. Now have an overpowering urge to write stuff so if you'll excuse me-

Stock Boy (Lv. 16) Improves!

2008-08-24T04:07:00.003+08:00

It happened. I can now pull a palletruck without killing someone. Small children do not count.

Now, I could faithfully relate the day's events...or I could make them up. Erego:

Shop, Stock, and two Smoking Hedgetrimmers

Just another day, blah, blah, blah, terrorist attack, blah, blah, blah, our unmanly hero is in the stock room at the time, blah, blah, blah, vows to fight off the terrorists and protect the store, blah, blah, blah, crushes some terrorists to death with a Heavy Load, blah, blah, blah, firefight over the trampolines, blah, blah, blah, advent to the roof for some abseiling, blah, blah, blah, defusing bombs interspersed through the garden section, blah, blah, blah, tension-soaked showdown with terrorist leader (who looks suspiciously like my all-time favourite bad-guy Hans in Die Hard, played by Alan Rickman), meeting with the First Minister for tea and medals. Back to scanning novelty cleaning brushes in the shape of potato people by Monday.

The End.

Till death do us part (or my break at 1.30)

2008-08-23T02:27:00.002+08:00

Monday's till training bore it's fruit today as I spent an entire nine hours putting trashy products through The Scanner of Malignance. Some six mistakes later (some people short change the customer, I just plain forgot to give them any change) and I got the hang of it. Due to a misundertsanding in some banter with my colleague Tan, the girl is now convinced that I am gay. Joy.

As I sit at home relaxing and writing general notes, I developed a system for measuring the rise and decay of football stars. It all depends on what product name they are sponsoring in the adverts. Like so:

Super Successful: Nike, Adidad, etc.
Was successful but now fading: Gillette
Old Has-beans trying to cling to whatever dregs of a career they have left: Permanent Marker pens (*cough* *cough* David Beckham *cough* *cough*)

My mum discovered the French cafe du Paris CD left by mine sister and now gentle ducet french tones fill the flat. She's also trying to learn German so the soft music is tempered with harsh Germanic words that sound like she is ordering a genocide.

Hmmm. My feet are tender and the skin is starting to ebb around my nails. Have begun developing an assasin team for my book, in the shape of various characters I've seen in other books and films. There will be a man with an exploding piano and a guitar-gun. Should be interesting to see if it can be written or not.

And Mr. Mercer, your game shall be returned on Sunday. You may then take it home to bask in the glory that is a clean sweep of every time trial, every mission, and every cup, all in the glorious name of 'Some Guy' (Alpha-male pose!)

I slept through the boring bits.

2008-08-18T03:09:00.003+08:00

Had a near death experience today. It is a bad idea to pull a rather large, rather heavily loaded palletruck down a slope when you are in front of it. Cue me running for dear life with 1000kg of placemats and doormats bringing up the rear. (Un)Luckily, it got caught on a set of firedoors before it could squash me against the far wall. Looking left, a woman with a pram who was waiting for an elevator clucked at me; clearly I had put her at risk of being lightly spattered by hot steaming blood.

The days of work since my first have been strange, almost surreal. Days that would have been whiled away trying to think of a neat name for an Italian-esque country and advance a team of sprites to level 9999 are now being spent running from scary old ladies with mingy beards, finding out why the term 'safety knife' is ironic, and muttering inanely while putting stock on shelves, to the tune of 'My Can-openers will see the light of day!' and 'The Woks...the Woks are all wrong!'

Gahhhh...I'm bored. Let me know if anything comes up.

Stock Boy, Awaaaaaaaay!

2008-08-14T05:17:00.002+08:00

My first ever shift (in my life) drew to a close at 6 today, and had started at nine. I could lie and say I had a torrid time but I enjoyed the bustle.

Some anecdotes of my first day:

i) Thermos: The old lady with the pinched up face was the epitome of Britishness, demanding to know why a thermos flask of identical size to another costed less than the other one. After fifteen minutes of establishing where she'd left the entire shelf stock of flasks, we finally worked out that while the flask did cost £2 less than the other one, it was still exactly the same capacity (1l). Thermos woman takes a moment to let this sink in. "Ah'm no waitin' in that fuckin' queue," she mutters, stalking off.

ii) The Million-Dollar Idiot: A typo on a pricing label causes confusion, "Is that telly £50,000?" asks one man in outraged disbelief. I patiently explain that it is, in fact, £500. It's just that the decimal point is missing.

iii) Money is no reasonably priced object: A woman asks about a scooter for her child. "£25" says I, in response to her query. "I'll take six," she says.

iv) BOS (Be-sozzled. Old. Cunt): A man in a stripy jumper, clearly high, speaks with great machismo and presence. He walks up to me with a gait somewere between a prance and a swagger: "Where's t'phoanes?" he demands. "Upstairs. You'll see a counter the second you get off the escalator." The man shakes his head, with GUSTO: "No, no, no, NO!" he insists. "Bring 'em all doon here." I walk away.

v) Bouncing off the walls: A woman wants a trampoline. I cart it upstairs and outside via a lift, ready for it to be picked up by said lady and bundled into a taxi. She doesn't show. Out in the fresh air, I lie on the trampoline box mounted on the cart and rest until someone notices I'm gone. This gives me an extra twenty minute break.

vi) Exercise in Pointlessness: Main tasks of the day were to replace all the green price notices with white ones. In two weeks, we will replace these white ones with green cards again. We also disassemble displays of electrical goods and reassemble them upstairs in place of another display. Again, this is to be switched over in a week or two. I feel so necessary.

But now my feet hurt and I intend to enjoy the rest of the night reading American Gods. Go read something else.

What would Bob do?

2008-08-13T05:04:00.002+08:00

So it was written upon the wall of the T.J.Hughes stock room, a mysterious notice declaring that in the event of any disaster one need only think of what Bob would do. Who is 'Bob?' Is he some spectre of benefaction haunting the T.J.Hughes building? Whatever the case, my turn to operate the pallet truck nearly resulted in my being crushed against a wall. The man teaching us was amusing in a hopeless sort of way. He spent five minutes declaring that he would not waste time with pleasantries and instead get right into the lecture, and it took a considerable amount of will power to resist pointing out the irony of spending time telling us that he will not waste time.

Ladders took a full hour to explain. Another hour was spent telling us that items with a skull and crossbones label on them were 'bad news'. Learning to work a till will take fully three and a half hours but this doesn't matter because I am being stuck in a stock-room where nobody can see me, thank God.

Oh. I appear to have started this post in the wrong order. It was my induction day today.

I have revising to do.

Bugging out

2008-08-12T03:14:00.002+08:00

One down! That's another event-thingie done. That makes...five? Yeah, let's say five. It occurs to me that the only time a writer feels at his best is when he isn't writing, sitting smug in the knowledge that he's done his workload for the day. On the subject of work, my induction day starts tommorrow. And I have to say, in my black uniform I look uniformly hot. Oh, yeah!

It sparked a conversation between myself and my mum, the pair of us going out to buy spare black shirts from Marks and River Island. She told me to look around at the people passing by: 'See the way people're walking about? They've no got much (aye, very good) but they make the best of themselves. If you do that, you feel good, and if you feel good it'll come across. If you don't feel good, you'll snarl at people and they'll snarl back.' To which I replied 'Oh,' and then we sheltered from the sudden deluge of rain in a shop doorway. A man with a woolly dog also took shelter. 'Oh, that's a beautiful dog,' my mum said softly. "Shame about you,' she said to the owner.

Wise words. A while, while back, my mum suggested that I book myself into that guy grooming place and get a facial, get my hair styled properly and get tips on how to style it myself in the mornings. I had adamantly refused at the time (I don't have the patience and I always feel awkward when strange people make a fuss), but now...

Time for a change of wardrobe too, methinks. When I start work, I'll be able to afford these things.

He comes and goes like the wind...

2008-08-10T00:35:00.003+08:00

Is it just me, or is HMV the best place to get books? I found Lord of the Flies, a classic that I tragically lost a while back, for £6 but the most interesting purchase of the day was Neil Gaiman's American Gods for a fiver. Remembering the recommendations and praises of some of my peers with regards to this man, I purchased it with all due haste.

Thoughts so far: The main character is called Shadow, he's just been employed by a guy who is probably representative of the devil 'cause of a goat reference on page48, and a man has been consumed whole by a hoar's vagina. Classy. Will be interested to see just what exactly this bodyguard role that Shadow has been employed into will actually curtail. It's already resulted in a fight with a seven-foot leprechaun who (we're smashing all the steroypes here), drinks coke and Southern Comfort and not Guiness. He let's the Society Against the Discrimination of Irish People down moments later, however, in that he gets into a fight with our hero veritably quickly. Oh, well. He was just a stereotype in reverse, anyway.

I see in Gaiman a reflection of some of the writing styles I saw in the society. Oh, and Shadow smokes Lucky Strike cigarettes. 'Cause they're 'First Again, with Tobacco men!'

Numb3rs (did you see what I did there? Did you see it? My standards are slipping...)

2008-08-08T08:34:00.002+08:00

Numbers. Numbers, numbers, numbers,

How I hate them.

If ever there was a thing that needed shooting, it's numbers. That and Psychology exam-setters. They want shooting too. The passionate hatred for both flared suddenly when I revisited some sample questions for my upcoming Qualitative Methods examination. Some simple writing down of alien terms to revise later was interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of the ignoble tyrant called 'mathematics'.

I stared frozenly at the question glaring back at me. It demanded I find a number seemingly unrelated to anything on screen. It was like being asked to build an aeroplane out of some wet cement and string. I would read the question, stare at the materials I was to use to find the answer, in this case the percentage of anxiety test scores that are equal to or less than 102 (from a mean of 120, and a SD of 12), and then stare stupidly at the screen for a while.

This is when the rage begins to build, and a desire to smash the screen with it's question into a million fragmented pieces is near o'erwhelming. It's a common occurence. When faced with anything more complicated than a simple multiplication or division question, my mind seems to shut down a layer or two. Attempts to break the question down are met with a memory that decides to go on holiday to whatever relaxing resort a memory gland is wont to go.

It's the reason I quit Psychology. Anything with math in it is going to kill me. Probably through sheer indignation (and a rage-inflicted aneurysm).

The rains have come! Head for the flat!

2008-08-06T21:58:00.002+08:00

My flat has become a fly sanctuary. I open the windows to let some air in and they all come buzzing in out of the rain. It's not a huge problem, but it can be disconcerting to have five or seven flies orbiting the light-shade. They tend to bugger off again when the rain stops anyway.

I love the rain. It's refreshing on the skin and hearing it drum against a window pane or roof can turn any room into a cosy one. The aroma after rain is invigorating too.

All in all, it's saping up to be a good day in a relaxing kind of way. It's raining, which is always good. I'm making headway with the beginning of the book (quite an important part, really), the dulcet, sweeping tunes of Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Meatloaf are ticking in time with mine brain and a friend texted to say 'Good luck' on an exam that I don't, in fact, have. Still nice to know people care, though.

I'll get something posted on the writing board, too. Something funny, here's hoping. With pirates!