To hell in a milk float

Okay, some things, like "MSN is evil" are pretty guaranteed to find a united audience with you lot, ie "NO! Shut up! We hate you!" while others, like "I wear an Electric blue fishing hat" get a kind of mixed reception committee: those who haven't seen it seem to love it while those who have seen it realise that I'm merely a pretentious moron trying to look like I'm actually a freethinking individuallist.

Well, this is a topic that usually splits people in two:

1) Do you lke kebabs?
2) You're sober. Do you still like kebabs?
3) You're sober, the kebab house looks like a genetic experiments test site and the restauranteur looks like Captain Hook. Do you still like kebabs?


With me, it's a "Yes". Or more specifically, it's a "Yes, LAMB DONER!"



But anyways.

Y'know, I think I'm probably the most egotistical person on the planet! I was in a kebab house the other night, and while waiting for the goods I had an idea for a post, so I tapped it into my mobile. I've just got onto the computer, and completely strayed off the point in order to tell you all precisely what I personally like. God, I'm pathetic.

What I intended to say was that while waiting for the kebab; Doner, Lamb, Large I spied on the wall the safety certifivate from the Government Health People. Now those of you who wear Burberry will know that every kebab house has something on the wall. Often it's a poster describing the various types of animal they chop up into little pieces and put into Pitta bread for you. Less often it's a certificate of "Culinary Excellence" from some newspaper, or from the government or from the owner's mate Fred or whoever it is that dishes out the certificates.

"What's wrong with this?", you may ask. Nothing. It gives you something to read while you wait, and...




~ In fact, "What to do while waiting for a take-away" is a whole subject in itself! That, dear reader, is the subject of some future post at some future date. Betcha just can't wait! ~



But this particular kebab shop had on the wall framed the certificate they have to get in order to legally sell you meat products. Blimey. Would you trust a place that either

A) Are so disreputable they feel it necessary to put this thing on the wall in order to prove they're legally allowed to trade, or
B) Are so utterly rubbish they are actually proud of the certificate telling people that they aren't actually poisoners.

Would you?

I did.





And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. I could go on and on and on like this for hours, but I'm absoloutely terrified of letting loose an unholy monster of a post like that last one, which I'm utterly certain that no-one whatsoever actually read right through from top to bottom!








DJ, I, if you want to know, am absoloutely and totally innocent of all graffiti-based activity! Blame Pablo!

Laura, Amen to that!

DJ (under whaever title you've conferred upon yourself now), "Lib Dem" backwards is "Med Bil", which is ironic because under the Lib Dems you won't be getting any med. bills!

Shan, there was no point. Rather, if I may say so, like your comparison between me and a badger.

Biscuit, I may have seen you on that train at some point! And I'd never know! Woah!

(Hang on. What am I on about? Biscuit in first class?)

Laura (failing miserably to post as many times as DJ), a fanclub? For little old me? Wow. I'm really and totally flattered that you think I'm worth all that, but if you ever meet me in person you'll lose that view pretty damn quick, guaranteed! But still, knowing I have a fan makes life that little bit more tricky - it means I'd need your permission if I ever decide to commit suicide. Ah well, at least I'll have a buyer for any sordid porn videos I decide to make.

Rosie Gingery, just a little bit more: "And he actually wears the damn thing!"

Ant D, don't advertise The Game! It's known to merely a select few! Once people realise they're in it, they're all going to lose!

Mrs. Eric PNB, Okay - it's acceptable for Biscuit todeclare himself to be a piece of confectionary, It's just about acceptable for DJ to pretend to be a peer of the realm, but pretending we're a) married and b) sharing the surname "Potnoodleboy"?

Rosie, you and Pablo could be the flowerpot men! You've got all the necessary movie skills, and you're both approximately the right size! It's a job for life! What more d'you need?

(~Possibly Updated!~ Either way, Charlie's name very possibly removed for security reasons!)


(People who're absoloutely sick of really long boring posts, leave now!)



Off to London last night, to take part in the make poverty history parade. Parade? Protest. Same difference, whatever. Anyways, I went up to Westminster with Pablo the socialist, Chris the adult, Attie the girl from Crystal Palace park, Juan the sex machine, Phoebe the quitter, Jamie the walking Levi's advert and Charlie the self-concious truth-hiding so-and-so (who has just gone and phoned me up demanding for his name to be removed from here!). After handing out International Socialist Revolutionary leaflets (Chris and Pablo being members of that organisation), Charlie and Jamie left, persuading Phoebe - who was planning to spend the night on the streets of London with the rest of us - to return to the safety of this great city's suburbs and to bed. Softcore bunch of quitters.

With a dismissive "Pah!" to that idea, we met up with two socialist party people and Attie's friends. About half an hour later we found ourselves at Trafalgar square, in two groups which I shall now proceed to relate: Attie, Pablo and myself (at the top of the steps), and everyone else (on the other side entirely).

Technically I should have gone with Attie's friends, leaving Attie and Pablo alone, but they have a really cliquey group, and happen to be the sort of people that say "Ehw Hellew" and "Ahhfterwahds". The sort of people that not only fill me with awe and wonder but are also probably legally entitled to have people like me taken somewhere quiet and shot.

Anyways, after much talk and official harassment in the form of an Austrian community warden (that is, a Community Officer who was an Austrian, not a guardian of Austrian communities. Because, of course, that is a point on which you all clearly needed clarification.) we wandered around Charing Cross road and similar places miles outside my geographical knowledge, eventually buying a fairly decent-sized chocolate cake from somewhere or other and returning to Trafalgar square in triumph.

Attie rejoined her friends at about this point, and Pablo and I went and imposed our company on a group of students from somewhere or other in the home counties (Pablo is genuinely the most adaptable person in the world. He can just wander up to a group of complete strangers and make himself instantly liked. He's the sort of bloke that can talk on equal terms with pretty much anyone on the face of the Earth. Do you put a capital "E" into "Earth"? I guess so - it's where we live, and all. Anyways, the point is, we sat with university people and wathed Pablo shamelessly scoff chocolate cake with a piece of cardboard in lieu of a spoon.

Seconds later, as they'd say in the movies (especially if the movies contain Dolph Lungren), it happened. >And this (unexpected text formatting warning you of a really, really, really deep point I'm about to make!) shows you what the war on terror (sponsored by the United States (TM) and not affillated with The Rest Of The Civilised World(TM). All rights ignored.) is doing to this country - after the rather startling sound of "wheee.. BANG!" was heard, everyone leapt thier feet screaming "Bomb! Terrorist attack! Aahh!". I, being the sensible, logical person I never knew I was merely got to my feet and remarked (yes - "remarked". As opposed to "gibbered in abject terror".) "Ah - there seems to have been a car crash". I may possibly have even raised my left eyebrow a little. I and a couple of student-types went to investigate, passing a bloke or two screaming "Car bomb!" and travelling rather hastily in the opposite direction (suprising, that). I was the second into the car (Golf GTi, jet-black, alloy wheels, racing seats.) and the first to do something more constructive then attempt to remove the radio. I checked the ignition (hotwired), checked the petrol gauge (three-quarters full - enough, I'd say at a guess, to effectively make me into doner kebab. Brilliant.), threw away the four or five lighters from the footwell (god knows what I was thinking - if the damn thing caught fire, fag lighters wouldn't be the only things to explode!) and found an ambulance had been called.

We then went and joined Attie's friends, and Pablo thoughtfully graffitied a hammer-and-sickle onto Trafalgar square steps. (Later on, the Austrian woman who didn't seem to realise "Evil Overlord" wasn't part of her job description turned up and made quite a fuss about that.)

What happened next? Oh yes - we're getting talked at by the forces of the law. As it happens, it was quite funny to watch ice-cool Pablo squirm (cruel, yes. But still funny.) the conversation kind of went:

Warden: "Who sprayed that?"
Pablo: "Err... can I go to the toilet, please?"

Ayways, he was saved, because I offered to take his bag and wallet (which couldn't be allowed leave the scene, naturallly) and look after them while he went to take his - purely fictional - slash. It was the work of a moment to remove the spray-can when the warden's back was turned and send it flying into the night. What I didn't count on was for the bloody thing to go "Rattle rattle rattle Bang!" and for Attie & co to start alternately clapping and giggling. Warden didn't seem to bother inquiring why, most probably because she was beginning to get ahold of the idea that she wasn't being appreciated, no matter how well she was doing her job.

These highlights over, we spent the remaining couple of hours until dawn sitting around in St James' Park and equally dismal, gothic places. After attending the protest march at half-six - I bet Blair didn't even wake up for it! - we parted at London Victoria. I bought myself a one-day child travelcard, hopped on the East Grinstead train, blagged my way into first class (I still don't fully understand why they accepted me!), left at Croydon, leaped from train to tram with a single, mighty, station-spanning bound, got very tempted by Morden Cafe, realised I was potless and travelled the last leg by London's own 93 bus.






Biscuit, I myself absoloutely love text messages - they're the least personal form of communication since the carrier pigeon! You're not obliged to answer them like a phone call, the time lag prevents any danger of a proper conversation and you get to express emotions via sequences of punctuation marks!

Sara, people phoning when your ill is brilliant! It allows you to bathe in pure, dripping sympathy!

Ant D, the green party cannot win because I am it's candidate. What it can do, however, is very effectively ruin an assembly. And it plans to.

DJ, you truly do know the way of of the egg-based pun!

Jo, I've heard about you - is it really true that you'd rather live in Scandinavia than share a country with Dan Gingery?

Rosie Gingery, cheese in and of itself is terrible. When the forces of cheese are combined with those of crackers, however, it becomes a totally different matter...

Gingery, pigs, as Hannibal proves, are merely savage, brutal killers. But a cow once outwitted me, and I was lucky to escape with my life. Have you ever been lured by a cow? Now I know why farmers carry shotguns.

Shan, hehehe! You've proved my point before I could even make it! HA! Up until now it stood for "Untited States Air Force", but "You suck arse fuck" just proves what a horribly rude little girl you are!

I heard about cow-tipping the other day, as it happens, from a posh girl who had no right whatsoever to indulge in such carryings-on. Apparently, the sport makes up about fifty percent of the nightlife in Devon. I am glad, it is totally unecessary for me to point out, that I don't live in Devon!

I don't use MSN at all, meaning I am regarded as the least cool teenager in the world!

There are very many things I hate. Those who know me will probably be too nice to tell you that I can throw myself body and soul into a whinge at the slightest provocation over pretty much any given topic. (Examples? Okay:

Tesco's - evil beyond any possible hope of salvation.
Cows - too cunning
Rivers - too big and too well spaced out. I'd much ratherr lots of little ones rather than just one huge one running smack through the middle of the city.
Drinks - never come in the exact size to satisfy you. They're either too big or too small, but not small enough that you can just buy two of them.
Takeaways - ditto.
Trained monkeys - you can't trust 'em not to masturbate in front of your family.
Purple things - they get "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple in my head.
Testicles - they're too vulnerable by half.
Cheese - it doesn't taste like it looks like it ought to.
Golf clubs - far too sexy for old men in knitwear.


Done it again, haven't I? I meant to give you all just one or two examples, but making lists is alot like freefall skydiving - once you start you just can't stop yourself. Sorry about this. I'll try and keep to the point.

The Point:

One of the things that annoys me more than most is MSN. I can't stand the bloody thing! I think I'm the only person in this country who doesn't actually have an MSN account. You talk to people, and they say to you at the end of the conversation "Oh, do you have MSN?" I-Grr-Argh! I feel like replying "MSN? What's that, some new breed of carrier pigeon?". MSN is a way of saying "Hmm, I may want to contact you in the future, but I'm not willing to pay the three pence that a phone call would cost, and I just can't bring myself to actually speak to you in person. What also gets on my tits is that people will brag about the size of their contact list like a couple of grubby teenagers at a urinal. A far as I'm concerned, people you know on MSN aren't real people! People talking on MSN aren't actually anything like themselves in real life. They seem to adopt this universal attitude that finds everything far more amusing than it actually is and are about fifty times as intimate as they would dare to be in real life. Also, I can't quite shake the belief that I'm talking to my monitor screen rather than to the people it says I am.

For god's sake! What's wrong with me? That wasn't the point either! I can't take this any more! The point was that I've just had to install the latest version of MSN for my sister, because she's far too thick to do it herself. (I'm not exactly the most competent person in the world when it comes to technology, but at least I can press "Next", for Christ's sake!)

Anyways, I realise that every single person (and I mean that!) will not only be an MSN user, but will be so in love with their MSN-provided social-life-alternative that they'll feel the need to post abusive and threatening comments. (This means you.) Well, help yourselves. Go on - let it all out! I mean it! The chances of me getting anywhere near the computer while Miss brb gtg lol lmao omfg meh usaf rspca is adding to her fifty thousand strong army of Contacts is pretty much nil. (Incidentally, if you want her address, go to hell, bitch!)







Laura, Rosie and Matt, well done - never saw that joke coming!

Sara, my favourite way to find O.C characters is dead in a ditch, but then I'm a dull, soulless non-MSN user, so what do I know?

Rosie gingery, "XXX Hat"? I take it you're honoured to have seen (and smelt) my fishing hat! At least someone appreciates it!

Ant D, I apologise for my inexcusable lack of detail!

Ned, I, of course, stand down. Your post was, of course, the last freak wailings of someone only two steps away from shopping in BHS, wheras I'm merely at the "Oh dear - I stay indoors playing the Simpsons board game in the one bit of sun we get all year" stage!

Ned, I, of course, stand down. Your post was, of course, the last freak wailings of someone only two steps away from shopping in BHS, wheras I'm merely at the "Oh dear - I stay indoors playing the Simpsons board game in the one bit of sun we get all year" stage!

Gingery, "Unbreakable" isn't so much a statement of fact as an opportunity for experimental verification, as you well know.

DJ, do I detect a hint of nervousnes in that "Haha, we're not really all poachers!"?

Sweet Jesus, I'm a geek!



I am turning into a ninteen-eighties-suburban-America-computer-nerd-stereotype! What in the name of all that doesn't involve Star Wars am I going to do? Let me tell you how it started...

~But first - a quick interlude for those of you who know me in what people insist on calling Real Life: I know we went out saturday night (as, by now, do Interpol, I imagine), but let's face it - it's one of those sort of stories that mean everything to the person who tells it and nothing to the people who read it. I realise that for history's sake a record of events must be kept, but fear not, for I doubt it not that able hands of other blogs are typing furiously away on this very subject as we speak. Finally, to be honest, I could care less what happened to "us" - there is no "us" any more, just me!~




And so to brass tacks.


Well, I'm turning into the perfect stereotype of a computer nerd. Just this evening I switched off Def Leppard in order to listen to pseudo-breakbeat MIDI sequences ripped from Lemmings for Windows! Also, the strap went on my old wristwatch (which has about as much steel plating as a battleship and is therefore cool), so for about a fortnight now I've been wearing a plastic watch.

At least it's not digital.


Well, I was going to leave it at that, but I'd be ashamed of so small a post! So I've no other option but to whinge yet further. I bought an unbreakable phone some time ago. This I have broken in three places - I've removed the waterproofing by being a little too vigorous with my insertion of the adaptor jack, I've killed the keypad-holding-in-place-bit-of-plastic by treating the buttons the way one treats the blunt end of a chisel (for those of you who have the misfortune to be female, a chisel is blunt at one end and pointed at the other (unless you're part of the someone's-uncle-helping-old-Jimmy-get-his-shelves-up class, in which case you've got a chisel that's blunt at both ends and a bruised thumb), and one hits it very hard with a clubhammer. Where was I? Oh yes - phone misfortune number three - The damn thing screens my calls. Genuinely! About fifty percent of the time, when people call me it refuses to actually transmit the sound of my voice! It is, however, interesting to listen to different people (in exactly the same way!) saying "Hello!" with increasing agressiveness, moving around to more interesting parts of the English language and then ringing off.







Gingery, the brick option is merely a low-flying alternative to the dart-rifle option. I'm still considering.

Rosie Gingery, cocka-whatsits?

Chaos Fairies (of the Dani variety or otherwise), as long as my sleepless torment amuses someone.

Laura fucking inbred Eric, yes, and I love you too you semen stain, you. No, but I bet cat sex is available on the internet somewhere...

Bec, cats? Cats? You so-hard-we're-nearly-bulletproof Aussies consider a cat to be a dangerous animal? HA!

Ant D, you have a blog? Why was I not informed? Ladies and gentlemen, alow me to introduce the biggest Libertines fan in the UK! Ta-daa!

DJ, they keep Roosters? You must live in the world's most patient neighbourhood!

Sara, I've got no sympathy for anyone who complains about being woken up at midday, you lazy sod!

Matt, that's all you have to say? That's all? No more stories of death and violence in the animal kingdom, then? Besides, you're pretty much the perfect height to be a member of the animal kingdom yourself!

Y'know, I used to be absoloutely and totally against fox hunting. I just didn't see the reason why rich country pansies needed to torture and killl small animals to pass the time. Definately, in my book, not right.





But last night I was woken up by yapping, noisy foxes alternately shagging and fighting on the street outside my window.

I'm still against fox hunting, but I can see nothing wrong with the deliberate shooting of noisy foxes/cats/dogs/drunks in the early hours of the morning. It's all very well to recognise savage barbaric cruelty to helpless animals when you see it (although half of them upper class, inbred, fox-hunting pansies have a hard time recognising their own dribble when they see it), but it's another thing altogether when the poor helpless animals in question decide to park themselves outside of your house and can't shut up, at which point love of nature is likely to give way to love of firearms. The only thing that saved them was the fact that the British Government disapproves of the discharging of firearms for no good reason in the middle of London.



Instead, I went out (shirtless, 2 a.m, April) and kicked someone's car. I'll admit it didn't occur to me at the time that the car alarm would last about twenty minutes and would be louder than the foxes were, but it bloody well got rid of my furry tormenters. Ask a nature buff, and they'll probably tell you that the sudden loud noise scared off the foxes because they percived it as a threat.

No, the foxes heard the noise, realised that their work was being done for them and went home.




Anyways, twenty minutes later, when free of the twin.... Argh! What have they done this for? A little messagebox has just popped up, informing me that my session will soon expire (I know. It always does), and suggesting I save my post (Yes. Nice of you to mention it. I, like pretty much everyone who uses this service, learnt to save our posts the hard way. With you deleting 'em.)





I would finish the post, but there isn't an awful lot more to say and Blogspirit, strict nanny that it is, is probably right. I should save my post, otherwise I'll get an "I told you so, didn't I? Blogspirit knows best, you naughty little boy" from the same source that both deletes my posts and pesters me with annoying little popups.

(Yes. I know I've been clamouring for some kind of solution to the timed-logout thing, but as far as I'm concerned, throwing popups about post deletion at me isn't warning - it's gloating over posts they've already scuppered!)

~Nice quick post this time, for dear old Biccie's sake!~

Spring (so the little month-by-month calendar on my phone informs me) is here. Now, it's easy to get sidetracked by the small changes this brings, such as an alteration in the entire country's farmed produce availability, variation in the money brought into and out of the country by tourism, rapid re-stocking of clothing ranges in fasion stores, the volume of traffic on the roads and reduced demands on the national electric grid, but it's important to keep in focus the three things that matter - less goths, more flowers and my fishing hat.


Have I mentioned my hat on here before? God knows. Well, the rather brief story of the hat was that I bought it last year towards the end of summer, and got to wear it for about three weeks before it started to rain so much that I had to stop wearing it for fear of being mistaken for a fisherman. Now the weather is slightly better it becomes socially accptible for me to wear it once again (well - I say "socially acceptible", but the hat was never that. It's electric blue with a wavy edge. What I mean is that I look marginally less like a moron in the hat now than I did in the middle of January.) The hat may look half-decent on a male model at a Japanese fasion show, but I am in no way capable of pulling it off. I wear itfor the simple reason that I love it with all my heart.



Anyways, the hat is now back in action (which may come as an unpleasant suprise to veterans of its campaign last summer!), and so on to the... NO! Hang on just one chop-sticking minute!



More about me hat! I almost forgot - I saw a teacher the other week, who was bitchy about my choice of headwear! Jesus! Teachers are, what - 50% closer to dying of old age (well, that or paedophile lynch-mobs, but that's not the point!) than teenagers, and if you can't wear a fishing hat at seventeen-point-five years old, when can you wear it? Do I complain about her going round in a cream coloured cardigan?








Sara, not bad enough for me to sue, I'm afraid!

Sara (again! I'm honoured!), Why do I have to have this reputation as a sicko?!

Gingery, Nat, if you recollect, had as much to drink as you did, got high on pot and worn out by two scary metal chicks and still got home easier than you did!

Biscuit, if the whole post is too long, don't read all of it!

Sara (Jesus, woman - three!), Have you really got nothing better to do?

Shan, Yeah - only once. That, my poor young fool, is how it all starts! You think to yourself "I can control my urge to be covered in horse semen" at first, but then it grows on you, until you smell like a sperm bank on open day! Give it up now, before it's too late!

Chaos, If you've experienced that before, you have my deepest sympathy! And I'm glad someone can find it in their heart to compliment me - I don't get so much as a peep out of the hard-hearted lot on here!

Bec, ooohh - I'm telling mummy now!

All plans of making a decent post have gone out the window, on account of my having had one absoloute fuck of a bad time.

I went to a piss-up in Crystal Palace park recently. (The bloke who invited me described it as a "party". He's now lying dead in the Thames.)

Anyways, I knew we were off to a good start when our tram broke down. We waited for a good twenty minutes for another one, which, when it cane, told me to "Get off that bloody ticket machine [Which I was standing on. I'm sure I had a good reason at the time.] - It's not a bloody three-piece-suite". I don't mean the tram-driver shouted at me, I mean the tram shouted at me. And when a tram shouts at you, you obey. Quickly. (Seriously, just why they build loudspeakers onto the sides of tram cabs is beyond me.)

To add transport-related injury to transport-related insult, after getting off the tram I got hit by a car. (Intrestingly, there was a bloke and a girl inside. The girl goes "Oohhh, are you all right?", the man yells "You're a fucking moron!!". Gender differences 101.) Anyways, after cheating death once again (the grim reaper, ladies and gentlemen, is useless. He's been trying to get me for years. Hell, I even make it easier for him (mostly by eating questionable, year-old foodstuffs found on the floor.). He's just crap. If you're listening, Mr Reaper, just bring it, beeatch!)

Where the hell was I? Oh yes; after cheating death (in the form of a Vauxhall Vectra), we met up with about fifty assorted grungers, rockers, skaters, metallers and just people living in bins, generally. After discovering too many people with the same name as me, I decided to call myself "Jesus" for the night, and as a result every time someone struggled out of a drunken stupor long enough to speak they cried "Jesus!", giving the general riot an interesting religous twist.

We then marched half a mile through Crystal Palace sports ground to reach a spot with the twin advantages of no light and lots of wood. The fire was used mainly to blow up deodorant cans with, though the skaters did do a bit of ollying over it as they got drunker. I tried - and actually got over it without going up in flames - but didn't land on the board, proving I wasn't the messiah after all.

With the boom box someone had brought with us, Nat and I concieved the idea of rugby-tackling people on the side of a hill, so that they fell down it. Several bruises later, we needed alcohol. Dan, Dave and Nat, being amateurs when it comes to blagging an off-licence, presented me with money which I distributed (unevenly) between Glen's Vodka Co., Guinness Ltd. and the guide dogs for the blind fund.

Other people had got their own booze, but one set of geniuses had brought a cardboard-box-full of Smirnoff Ice (am I the only one who realises this is the world's shittest drink? It's not alcohol, it's just the piss of a drunk man thay keep at the factory.) Anyways, these chaps seemed to like it, but they hadn't brought a bottle opener. Meaning I, being able to open a bottle by jamming a fag lighter or set of keys against my thumb, became pretty damn valuable, earning me the secret of the only bloke there who had weed on him!

Later on, at the "hold my beer and watch this" stage, where testosterone and alcohol compete for control of your bloodstream, I took part in a kind of martial arts event, where everyone tried to stab a huge black bloke with a knife. I got pretty close, manouvering the knife to withing inches of his abdomen, but he was just too strong, and forced my hand back. Which is, in may ways, the best possible outcome for all concerned.

Now, dear, kind readers, is the part where it all goes pear-shaped. Dave and Dan, sharing a quart bottle of Vodka between three people, somehow got themselves pissed. Not just pissed - merely "pissed" would have been understandable. Paralytic. That is what they got themselves. Well, that and delerious, anyway. I spent about an hour trying to get them to walk. No joy. When the party broke up, I managed to carry Dave fireman's-lift style to a bench (Said bench, by the way, was a quarter of a fucking mile away.) Dan, however, weighs about four thousand pounds. I enlisted the help of a rather friendly chap called Leon, and between us we managed to carry Dan to the same park bench, where we left 'em to sober up. (Leon, now, is my saviour. If he wasn't there, I'd have been utterly and completely screwed. Leon, you dancer, I salute you.) Eventually they sobered up enough for us to walk/carry them to a road, where I called 118-118 for a minicab number. The cab, however, suffered from the drawback of having someone in charge who couldn't even drive into the middle of a locked park at night that we didn't know the address of in order to pick up two underage drinkers who couldn't walk, all in pitch darkness. Honestly!

Leon (my hero!) walked the remaining quarter mile into Crystal Palace to get a cab and direct it to us, but by a process of shouting, slapping and shaking I managed to get the flowerpot men close enough to their senses to be dragged to the main road, where I called out a minicab myself, allowing Leon to go and get the last train home. Lucky for him. I slipped the thieving cab driver (who had already pegged us as "useless rich kids", and adjusted his extortionate prices accordingly. I slipped him 20 quid to cover any vomit-related accidents that may occur and to soothe his conscience (HA!) at carting underage drinkers about the place, and he took us to Dan's place (Dan being thankfully capable of remembering his own address by this stage!)

We all collapsed in his sister's room (who is luckily far, far away in Italy!). As it happens, her room contains a large cage, with no animal inside of it! Slightly freaked out and not a little worried, I fell unconcious. I was up about five the next morning, not wishing to have to try and explain to Dan's parents what in the name of god was going on at three in the morning, and not trusting myself to refraind from demanding they spank their son right there and then! I managed to limp home (I woke up with one sweet little hell of a pain in my legs, at the exact spot where tha car had hit me the night before (funny, that).




As I left I heard Dan and Dave struggling to help each other to travel the ten feet from bedroom to bathroom.



I left 'em to it.









~(I recieved a txt msg from a girl I used to know a little while ago, with the usual "Happy Easter, how are you? Fancy seeing a movie sometime?". She was suprised (and pretty freaked out!) to have me crying on her shoulder for hours on end in return.) ~




DJ, you'll be hearing from my [rather attractive elderly] solicitor about this!

Sara, the dark is brilliant! Only, when you're trusting someone to drive you along in it at fifty miles an hour, it somehow becomes less fun!

Shan, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: whatever sexual peversions I may (but do not, honestly!) have, at least I don't spend my days covered in horse semen!

Anon, what!?! Since whan did "keeping a diary" become a crime? In fact, personal writing is considred a valuable part of a young person's development, according to sources who should know what they're talking about. If anyone decides to start up a blog again, (not the best idea in the world, but hey - I would!) they can always password-protect it. Drop me an email (potnoodleboy@gmail.com) anytime and I'll see people get the password. If not, goodbye and good luck!

Dan and Dave, anytime you fancy paying me back for that taxicab...

So, to continue...

At pizza hut (where we'd booked a table), we had the joy to find dear old Dan W. After ordering our drinks (Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi Max!!!, Pepsi, Pepsi), we kind of decided that Dan wouldn't have any peace. Casting an imperious hand across the table of people he was sitting with and declaring "Who are these people?" we discovered he was trying to have a meal with a group of friends. This information was greeted with raucous cheers of "You have friends?!", which slightly disconcerted said friends, establishing our table as "the noisy one" (every restaurant in Britain has one - usually the one containing the most teenagers) for the rest of the evening.

~Later on we presented him with a paper napkin folded into a fan, though, which makes everything all right.~


The other person we pestered constantly was our poor, poor waitress. Clamouring for the mystic, magical ice-cream-machine-which-they-let-you-play-with-for-a-couple-of-quid (and which does exist! Sorry for doubting you, Will!) immediately put her on her guard, but she wasn't quite prepared for my request for her to get the cook to arrange the toppings on my pizza in a smiley face pattern (at a pinch I would have accepted a squiggly-Nirvana-logo-face, but they would only serve that with a Pennyroyal Tea. Sorry - sounded funny when I wrote it.) but she seemed to think we were just being silly. Pity.

One thing I will say for Pizza Hut, however, is that they do free refills! Though they wouldn't even spit in Jas' drink when I asked 'em to, they would pile drinks upon drinks onto the table at about twice the rate that we could drink 'em at. Meaning we put away enough liquid to make the Niagra falls look like a tramp pissing in a gutter.

Rosie spent the meal trying to persuade people to let her put mascara on them. At any event at which both Rosie and mascara are present, some poor fool always ends up with dodgy smears all over their torn, bleeding face. This is pretty much a law of nature. What Rosie also spent the evening doing was accusing me of fancying the waitress. Which is fair enough, but at least it makes a change from pensioners - so I'm at least thirty-five years better than previously thought, at any rate. Maybe next time I'll go for someone withing ten odd years of my own age... though I do look forward to seeing Camilla Parker-Bowles in a form-fitting wedding dress!

(Uurgh! That should never be said, even as a joke. I'm going to have nightmares now. Sorry people!)

To quickly change the subject, we tried to get the poor waitress to send over to Dan a bottle of champagne with our compliments. Which was probably when Rosie clocked I was checking her out. She's blatantly jealous, that girl. Never mind, Rosie. All you need is a job at pizza hut - and therefore absoloute control over the serve-yourself ice-cream machine - and the blokes'll be at your feet! (You will, however, have competition from the girls who operate the conveyor belt system at Argos.)




We spent the rest of the evening at Dave's house, watching Ross Noble. People kind of got bored and messed around with guitars/CD collections/various alcoholic beverages etc, but such entertainments are nothing compared to the attractions of Mr Noble, are they not?








Anyhow. That seems to be that. I've finished recording what is now ancient history. I've only bothered posting about this to provide any future psychiatrists with an easy starting-point. And, future psychiatrist trying to psychoanalyse my future self, I didn't do it! Whatever it is!


Next time, my dears, expect a post that's something more than a self-centered deliberate waste of your time by me. (Oohhh - I can feel your suspense from here!)



















Sara, my life is probably the least fun thing in the world (not including A-level psychology!)

Shan, the only time I'd dare scream at the mad bus driver is when I'm in a tank or something. You go right ahead - I'll see you get a decent funeral!

DJ, the tubes are brilliant! Nothing more fun than hurtling along under London at fifty miles per hour in pitch blackness while the floor creaks and groans beneath you! (Just look on the bright side - they haven't been bought out by Easyjet yet!)

Dan G and Dave's birthday do the other day. Present was the usual lot plus Nat the cat (some skater dude Dan knows).

Y'know, I'd have thought it'd be easy to write about, this. But I can't think of anything to do except list what happened - my thoughts, opinions and feelings have all been tucked safely away in that part of my brain which stores data not concerning sex, violence or song lyrics.

So, a list of what happenned it is!

Well, I joined the others (not The Others, obviously. It wasn't an indie pop gig.) at some park or other, where I joined what the very generous may call "a game of Cricket". The stumps and bails were combined in one entity which happened to be the trolley Dave used to deliver Sutton's own Guardian newspaper in, the ball was a tennis ball and the players were divided into two teams - the man with the bat, and everyone else. Luckily, after some strenuous begging, whining and general civil disobedience on the part of Jason and myself, we won permission to play football (a decent game, Americans, involving feet and balls.) instead. When we did get around to playing footie, we chose in lieu of a football pitch an empty outdoor swimming pool. What was specail about the location was not that it was an empty swimming pool, but that nearby was a tree growing next to a wall. Thus enabling Nat and I to run up and get up the (eight foot high) wall using the tree, Jackie Chan style!

Also, we played a fairly wild game of it/tag/bitch-slap someone then run away on a large wooden climbing frame, doubling the volume of dirt adhering to Dan's jeans.

After an angry phone call or two from Rosie, we decided to wander over to Wimbledon where she'd been waiting patiently for us for the last hour or so. A minor distraction on the way was meeting a bloke with a hurling stick (until now, I've always thought that a stick was a kind of puny branch type thing. The people who make hurling sticks, it seems, are not held back by any such views. When they make a stick, they clearly intend it to be used to kill dinosaurs with.

Another distraction was meeting a group of thigs in the middle of a roundabout, at which point everyone bravely stood back and let me talk to them, which I did while trying to look as though I wasn't wishing a couple of rugby players had my back.

Anyways, we got the bus eventually, and it promptly went and drove into the biggest traffic jam it could find. At which point someone had the brilliant idea "Lets get out and run!". I, of course, flatly refused to do any such thing - the course was a quarter of a mile uphill, with an angry Rosie at the other end - we'd need all the strength we had to defend ourselves. If I have to meet my doom, I'll odo it with ten-tons of bus around me, thankyou very much.



Well, there's more. Much, much more. But I really can't be arsed to type it all out, and I have no wish to kill my readership with boring whining about my own life. Tell you what - after I churn out the rest of the self-gratifying pap I'm hell-bent on producing, I'll actually put some thought and effort into making a decent post! I promise.

But that's days away, now. Go buy yourself a magasine or something in the meantime, while I work this thing out of my system.













Elly, it didn't contain any bodily fluids. That's pretty much the only good thing I can say about it.

Matt, what a waste of Guinness! And it's probably the reason you haven't actually grown since the age of eight.

DJ, time, as I define it, equals "willingess to be late" plus "amount of trouble I'll be in if I don't turn up at all". By that rule, I can pretty much spend whole days at bus stops, picking only ones I like the looks of.

Slightly manic-sounding Erica, I can just about figure out that "teh" means "the". I don't spend every minute of my free time on the internet/on MSN/in shady DnB chat rooms, I have no idea what "SUCKS!!!!!!!11111@!@$#%#@^$%@%$^$^#$%#%%%%@@$" is supposed to mean. It'd better be something good, bitch!

Shan, I remind you of pensioner's legs?! What sort of a compliment is that!?

Fi, welcome to the real world. Meet my friend, Mr Georgie Best, he's been here for some time. Liver, anyone?Bec, If there is something you most definitely aren't, that thing is actually "calm".

Shan, you've only youself to blame. Next time follow the easy route - become a prostitute.

Oaky, first off (and just to please Matt and Rosie), there's the drink. The Drink. This concoction consisted of pertty much every soft dringk imaginable mixed together plus a jelly baby and a crumbled-up jammy dodger. Upon discovering it was "undrinkable" from it's creators (who, needless to say, were extremely bored!), I knocked it back. I may have given myself some form of severe poisoning (the thing was at least one third pure sugar!), but at least I've proved my point. I'm not quite in the same league as the chap who tried to prove nailguns aren't dangerous by killing himself with one, but I'm on the right track.

Besides, (though it breaks my heart to squash the rumours, it really does!) the bloody thing didn't contain urine, semen, alcohol, vomit or spit.
~ I can hear you all colectively going "Pity"! ~



Anyways, yesterday after school was a lecture on psychology up in London. Our psychology class turned up, but the genius that is Will decided we should turn up without school uniforms etc, which resulted in us being told to go home, change and make our own way there. (The place was in some college or other near Tottenham Court Road. We got the train from Wimbledon.) So, the total journeys made yesterday are as follows:

i) Leave school two hours early to go home, shower, change, eat etc.
ii) Go into Wimbledon, meet others in Coffee Republic ("Starbucks for Chavs!")
ii) Get told by teachers to find our own way there complete with school uniform, knuckledusters, joints etc.
iv) Go home, change
v) Go back to station
vi) Get tube to Elephant & Castle, Bank, London Bridge or somewheres just that side of the Thames
vii) Get tube from there to some other Central Line stop I've never heard of before
viii) Wander around, find lecture hall, sit down, shut up
ix) Get cramped, smelly, hot, slow National Rail train home
x) Get 93 bus with the mad bus driver!
xi) Get thrown off of the 93 for saying "Look - the mad bus driver!" and trying to take a photo of mad bus driver
xii)Get next 93
xiii) Get off and walk just as it starts to rain
xiv) Get home, collapse, eat, resume collapsed state, realise Liverpool/Blackburn is on Sky TV, boot up computer.



On the plus side, we went down Holborn way and saw the Sainsbury's HQ!








DJ, whyja pay? Have you no pride, man? Just wait for a bus with a kinder driver!

Shan, you've got photos of some transvestites legs! What for, you sicko!?

Matt, I've verified the no-gob status of said beverage thoroughly. Rest assured it did not!

Rosie, maybe? Maybe?

Fi, What've Tony bloody Christie songs got to do with anything?

Elly, damn right! Lock the midgets up, that's my opinion!