Please Don't Give Generously
Charitable organisations are the masters of using the guilt trip to maximum efficiency:
"This poor, defenceless kitten was abandoned at just three weeks old from the litter", the advert begins. "Mittens over here was abused by a cruel and sick master, often being beaten over the lugs and having to cower outside fearing the masters next strike. Some kittens aren't as lucky as these two, for without your continuing contributions they would still be living a life of torment and misery. Thankfully the Random Charity, registered number 5,607,770 can make the lives of poor kittens like these bearable. Please, give 3 a month, and save a young kittens life. Thank you."
The uplifting music (which replaced the sad and sorrowful music previously) then fades till end with an enduring picture of a small kitten with big eyes sitting in a pile of garbage in a back alley. Then, the producers hope, the viewer- overcome with grief and guilt- then picks up the phone and dials the easy to remember freephone number and pledges to give ÂŁ3 each month in return for peace of mind and a tri-annual newsletter giving news of all the kittens that have been rescued.
What these charitable organisations don't realise is how transparent and obvious their guilt-trip ploy is. No one- and I mean no one- gives ÂŁ3 per month on the back of an advert showing well groomed and looked after pedigree kittens with a little muck rubbed on their face looking like a japanese anime cartoon character with characteristic bulging eyes.
The musical ensemble throughout the advert is not uplifting at the end, and it is certainly not thought provoking or reflective when the images of abused kittens flash up. So what that a few kittens are being knocked about (deservedly so if you ask me), give ÂŁ3 a month for the starving african who also gets kicked about by their father on top of having to work 12 hours on the farm each day. I don't care for animals- they don't even feel pain anyway. Your ÂŁ3 each month goes towards the charities directors pension funds, not to finding, cleaning and returning kittens to 'good owners'.
What gets to me the most is the slant these organisations are going for. The world's problems aren't my fault, and if you're looking for someone to blame it was that petty KP's fault. Kittens rank bottom of my list of priorities behind endangered species and whales, and there is a gulf between stupid little kittens with a less than desirable life and underprivaledged children in third world countries. Cats walk about the place with their head in the air and think their so important, but I think a few of them need to live in the hardship of life to learn them and stop making all the other cats think they're so important. Their just pets anyway, I always think that people place too much emotion and affection on their pets as it is. They're just animals, who gives if their not living a royal A standard of life- we're not.
Last month I saw a flat-faced cat in my garden digging up my front garden and spraying piss all over to mark its territory- on my lawn. It didn't matter that my girlfriend was watching- who is passionate about animals- I took my shoe off and launched it towards to offending cat. It wasn't enough that my sturdy shoe smacked it straight on its ugly flat face, in its state of dizziness I tore across the lawn to boot it into next week with my other shoe. Unfortunately the artful cat managed to recover its senses in time and made a quick exit, but if I see it again I'll mangle it's face so that it'll take hundreds of pounds to put it back into place. Stupid cat, if only I'd found it when it was still a kitten- then we'd see who was defacing whos territory. I urge you- if you see an advert showing a tiny kitten with a broken foot and the most adorable eyes think of what it will become in the future, shooting urine all over your lawn and thinking it owns the place on your property- then see if you feel like giving just ÂŁ3 per month.
Like Montague And Capulet
Originally written for Wee Issue 2, but now demoted to my rarely-read blog site
Unknown to many students in sixth year, and even more outside of it, there is a silent battle being fought each and every day in our beloved STA. It is a war concealed behind locked doors, hushed letters and masked faces. There is a rift between two of our most luxury-lapped students that rages and fires without the need of words, for this battle is never ending, and so tentatively close that the two are locked in intensive battle across the entire curriculum and anything where a decisive victor can be gauged. Wee Issue sent a reporter, Alan Wales, to investigate this fascinating modern-day "clash of the titans."
It began, we are to believe, countless years ago. The exact date has been lost in the fog of time, but speculation leads us to believe it was around the sixteen hundreds where this fierce rivalry first started. Little were they to know how much this rivalry would spiral out of control down the corridors of time, but neither party can concede defeat- their pride extends well past resolution, and there is no reasonable end in sight.
The earliest writings of this combat can be found in the Central London Library, where The London Times records the first mention of such a confrontation:
"…it was then that George Trundell was presented the award for "most accomplished potato farmer 1614", as rapturous applause engulfed the town hall. The jubilation continued for several minutes as he proudly displayed the prestigious trophy to his loyal workers and family. However, there was speculation that George Trundell had destroyed the crops of his close competitor James Anderson, who was reported to have been markedly enraged. The celebrations…"
Legend has it that both continued to destroy each other's harvest for decades after, until it became the turn of their eldest sons and daughters to resume the feud. James Anderson's dying words to his son were "don't you ever forget what they did to us boy", and with that an epoch was created in the lives of all in both households.
Both sides deny vigorously their involvement in any family feud, yet the evidence suggests otherwise. To this day, David Trundell and Isla Anderson both continue their forefather's plight, striving to better each other at every turn; they refuse to concede, and battle hard to erase each other's records. While the Anderson's continued in Agriculture, the Trundell's concentrated on building a larger empire through aviation and science.
Some say that if you look hard enough on a cold winter's day, you can see Isla scan Trundell across the STA with a look of contempt and disgust. Similarly, our sources say that Trundell refuses to be in the same class as Isla, and even requests different meals at lunchtime from the canteen staff in case an Anderson has eaten from the same dish.
Statistics provided by our resident statistician reveal that these two households are excruciatingly even-matched- where Isla has over 500 acres of land, Trundell owns 32 pedigree horses and five villas situated around the world's most desirable places. Although David's father is an ex-RAF pilot, the Anderson's can boast a helipad and helicopter and even their own private indoor swimming pool. Furthermore, both are the male-female equivalent of each other, lavishing in expensive goods and cleaners.
If you are perceptive, you will notice the little signs of a repressed hatred between them. Even when Wee Issue was interviewing Isla Anderson for the rich list (abandoned because some people are easily offended) she turned to Trundell who passed her and said under her breath "your horses are a bag of bones". In return, Trundell slated third-world countries (who the Anderson's donate to regularly), saying "they deserve it" and if a starving Ethiopian tried to take his buttery he'd "punch the daylights out of him."
This ancient argument runs deeper than any of us can possibly imagine, with rumours circulating of both writing a log of events between the two to calculate who is on top. The points system is apparently "exceptionally complicated, with formulae including advanced logarithms and differential variables", our mole on the inside tells us- but for now we can only guarantee the legitimacy of their quotes.
There is far more to this than we have uncovered, but you can be sure that Wee Issue will be the first to tell you of any further developments in this chilling saga.
Punk Rock
Nothing ruins a gathering more than one person flicking idly between sky music channels as the others sit in silence and watch the remote-bearer do this. Nothing ruins a gathering more for me when the said remote-bearer is amy, tom, louise, jaye or anyone in fact that leaves it on the worst channel ever- P-Rock.
P-Rock, as the name suggest, is a channel dedicated to playing music that allows warring teens to vent their anger at their parents through loud and meaningless music. Flick to P-Rock and you'll likely hear "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck" or something to that effect- you understand how mundane and boring this channel is at best. All the artists are unknowns because let's face it, punk rock is never going to be mainstream and any bands that show promise are pushed over to rock or indie by company execs, leaving all the shite bands to play their dregs on P-Rock.
Recently P-Rock was pulled off the air because of appalling ratings and many offended parents writing in who complained. Most were complaining about the standard of music played, like Marilyn Manson (a regular on P-Rock), but others were offended at the lyrics that have made their little 13 year old daughter buy trousers that stop at her ankles (see Avril Lavigne). P-Rock couldn't be any more commercial, trying its best to sell its hard-skater image so that legions of easily influenced teens will rush to their nearest Elementz to stock up on what Avril Lavigne is wearing.
Of course it's not the commercial aspect of P-Rock that gets to me, it's the music. All I hear is *crash crash crash "fuck you mum" crash crash crash "die dad die" crash crash crash*. To be subjected to this at someone's house is one thing- to have to suffer it for an entire night when you're supposed to be enjoying boozing with your mates is quite another.
The TV shouldn't be on during a gathering. Period. No one will agree with the music being changed, and flicking channels every three minutes does not make for interesting viewing- especially when the frustration of someone changing channels during a good song kicks in. I think it works better when a CD is put on and let played until the end, no one is occupied with it and it means you can get on with socialising rather than watching a screen all night.
Sadly, P-Rock has returned on channel 461 to ruin my channel hopping and gathering experience again. No doubt all the punks will lap it up and call it a hit against capitalist money-making, but I'll be sitting there sipping my beer and shutting it out completely. Or at least trying to, because by the very nature of the music played you can't do anything without the noise of *bang crash crash* drilling through your skull until the next ad-break. Die P-Rock.
Misconceptions
My mum really managed to insult me today in one of our obligatory little chats that we have as we go about our daily lives. I forget how the conversation started, but it got to a place where I explained what I do in the evenings:
Me: "If I'm not seeing Leanne or going out I'll just slouch on the sofa for the first half of the evening and spend the rest online chatting to friends."
Innocent enough I thought, going online has lost the 'geeky' stigma that it once upheld. No problem with that, so long as I'm talking to friends I know and not nerdy leet-speaking losers I've still got my rep intact. That was until she replied though:
Mum: "Oh yes, Elaine (my next door neighbour) says that Paul does the same. (Chuckles to herself) She says that he'll go on from 7 until well into the early hours, perhaps 4 or 5, sleep through the day and do the same the next evening. Typing away at his keyboard all night, speaking to his friends and playing games... It must be a new trend amongst your generation."
I stopped her there. What she was doing was putting me in the same league as Paul Adamson- a spotty faced nerd with no friends who spends all of his time in front of a monitor and whose only social interactions are between his family and faceless nobodies across the globe. Paul is precisely in the same league as Wee Yann- a fellow nerd whose internet hours exceed 8 daily- and they are practically brethren when it comes to maths-based internet games. My mum would have been just as well saying "are you going to see l33ane009 t0nigh0rs?" in a patronising tone and prodding my stomach with her elbow saying "eh? eh? Seeing all your loser friends tonight are you, you nerd?" It was hugely infuriating, trying to explain that going on the internet for an hour a night doesn't make me a nerd. I told her that all my friends had used up their 150 hours of allocated internet time per month except me, but this only seemed to fuel her argument. Eventually I got so annoyed at her inferring that I was no different to Wee Yann and my neighbour Paul Adamson that I stormed out of the room and prepared to put my fist clean through my screen to learn it for reducing me to this. Honestly, going online will never be cool but I'm damned if it suddenly makes me a silver sword wielding, noob-killing, leet-speaking nerd that spends up to ten hours playing internet games alone at night. Just try telling that to the ignorant though and you'll soon realise why most nerds (I speak of Wee Yann here) are closet nerds and not proud of their heritage.
In fact, I've seen the likes of Pauline Murray, Suzanne Smith and a whole wealth of pops online before. And in case you were wondering- this makes you a nerd too, because you've clearly got internet access too. Hey why not just brand everyone who owns a computer as a nerd, they obviously know how to use it. I'd say you were more of a lose if you can't use a computer than can, so I laugh at the likes of Craig McKewn who blurted "Outlook Express? Guh, I think my compu-ers got one of those" in front of a bemused business management class. It's funny when someone tries to hide the fact that they know how to use a computer, but tragic when their proud of their nerdy exploits (witness Lee Christie's many attempts to become popular by bringing in excell graphs and suchlike).
Sharply changing subject, I've removed Kayleigh and Sharon's blog links because they haven't posted in weeks. Only blogs that are still in use will be advertised here, hence why I'm going to add Isla's blog despite it being about dreams. Ironically nothing is more likely to send you to sleep than reading about other peoples dreams, but if you're wondering what goes though her warped mind then give it a bash. I see this is not any incentive to go, so I'll copy one of her recent posts:
"Mightily pissed off, I retired to my bedroom for a wank. Later, in my exhausted and sated state, I tossed the vibrators on the floor and fell asleep only to be woken up"
Just make sure to come back here now and again ;-)
Prom
Before I start, let me take you back down the corridors of time to one Sunday 15th June, 2003:
"... except Tom that is, but he wouldn't last two days without mummy and daddy to wipe his arse and feed the poor soul."
It seems that I'm not the only person in this frame of mind about poor defenceless old tom, as he proudly carried off the inaugural "Most Likely To Be Living At Home At Forty" award to his admiring girlfriend, who was quoted as saying "I just knew you would get the award my little pooh-bear!" Needless to say I was one in a long line of people who gave Tom valuable votes to win this prestigious award. Tom's parents refused to give Wee Issue a comment on the decision, but insiders say they are "devastated" at the news.
Sadly it was the only award that us- "the savages" (as the social elite would call us)- would win the entire night, mainly because we're outnumbered at least 1:10 to the pops, who carried away the vast majority of the awards, unsurprisingly.
At the start of my prom journey I embarked upon a limo with the as yet nameless crew of Razz, Sarah, Carys, Lillian, Claire, Shaw and Leanne (my date for the night, and girlfriend of 9 months). I don't consider myself part of this group and I spend very little time with them because they don't organise gatherings, or for that matter go out at all. However seeing as I made a point of not sitting or socialising with them throughout the whole of sixth year I felt it fair that I made one tiny effort at prom to be with my girlfriend's friends, so I shared a limo and a table with them at the prom. Call me selfish and unwilling to compromise, but I don't give, they've probably got it in for me anyway.
Before we had even entered the limo all I could see were little yellow dots, courtesy of the thousands of photos my family simply had to take. "No more!" I cried, as my mother set the flash to full solar-force and my vision was swamped in yellow for the following thirty seconds once again. It was an annoying interlude that began what would be an evening of keeping up appearances. The guy who drove our limo was a bleached-haired ruffian who had huge tattoos the length of his neck and a collection of chunky gold 'pimping' rings, remiscent of Gangchesta and his choice of music (totally unsuited to a limo) made me think we were spending a whole evening in Chappy's car rather than a luxurious limosine.
When we arrived at Ardoe (pronounced Ar-do) we spied a gaggle of pops outside, the most prominent being Gus who opted for the 80's hard rocker look. Most people didn't stray far from the norm wearing kilts, beffiting of a social function held in Scotland, but a notable few went all English wearing suits, tails, and then Gavin's ensemble- but I'm too common to be able to call it by its proper name, although I'm sure it exceeds five syllables. After a spot of mingling I decided to give my fake ID an outing and it performed favourably being sold seven times out of seven attempts. Beer was the obvious drinkers choice of the night being sold at a "mere" ÂŁ2.85 in stark contrast to the horrendously priced spirits and mixers (one shot, 50ml of mixer four-pounds-thank-you-sir). It's at times like this that I really felt for the tete, whose drinking habits revolve around vodka as if you didn't know, and I bet he'd have killed for the alcoholic content of beer but without the aquired taste.
The music was a mixed bag- cheers for the scottish country dancing dj, jeers for playing teenie-bopping Justin Timberlake. This is a sixth year prom, not a primary school disco you moron. The highlight of the evening by a mile as far as the music went was the full version of "Paradise City" by the legendary Guns N' Roses. My heart soared when four minutes and forty-seven seconds passed and the song turns from being average to classic Guns. Download it now, you won't regret it ;-)
The Prom was also the place where Wee Issue 2.5 (laugh) was "issued" [Star raises his finger tips and smiles cheekily, enducing histeria and repetitions of canned laughter until the effect wears thin]. It was a damn good read, and for those of you who missed it you'll find my articles below and probably the rest on their respective author's websites. They seemed to disappear suspiciously fast, leading me to believe that the management had confiscated it themselves, probably to claim it as their own a few weeks down the line. It was a damned good read and I thought the highlight was Kayleigh's masterful article, although it would have created a riot if the fascists could read, but thankfully they looked at the pretty pictures and bypassed the articles completely, much to Lisa's relief.
In a reversal of my bet with Dabby at tete's last gathering (where I stupidly challenged Dabby to take one shot of vodka and I'd take 3 while already very drunk...), Dabby proudly challenged me to get a pint at the bar in less than five minutes. He'd just spent about twenty minutes queuing for one, but I boasted wildly of a little known technique of being served first before others. "Ok", Dabby started with a hint of certainty in his voice, "if you can get a pint in less than five minutes I'll give you a fiver." Easy enough I thought, and headed straight for the bar to exercise my patented technique. Two and a half minutes and I was back pint in hand to look at Dabby's expression of utter disbelief. True to his word he immediately handed over his fiver and tilted his hat to me, a sign of recognition in higher circles I believe, and I smugly took an extra large gulp of cool free beer.
By the end of it there were many drunks but the bar prices were that horrendous that not everyone was drunk. I had the misfortune to be within a clutch of drunks on the bus home, who persisted in shouting and trying to make intelligent conversation to no avail. "OI MARK I'M FUCK SO D-" [flops onto Alexandra Buchannans lap], despite Mark being an armlength away he makes sure Jelly simply couldn't mishear his reply and cries "OH YOU'RE" [sways left and right] "YOU KNOW. FUCK IT'S" [tumbles onto the space between rows of seats and rolls onto his belly and doesn't move for a good few minutes]. The rest of the journey was spent in blissful silence as the sorry figures of Mark and Jelly were left crawling on the floor, threatening to throw up constantly, much to my amusement and their prom date's dismay.
Home then I was with my beautiful girlfriend and we spent the rest of the night curled up on the sofa in front of a crackling fire. The prom seemed to me to be a resounding success, and I eagerly await photos and gossip from the parties held after the prom. From early rumours though it sounds like you lot had quite an eventful after-prom ;-) You crazy kids...
Interview With A Nun
Standing outside a modern house not far from where Snail and Lisa Hadden live both myself and partner in crime Dabby are arguing about who should ring the doorbell. Having been assigned the task of doing a proper interview, in leui of Tom's 'hilarious' previous attempts, we fall at the first hurdle. Spying a light being turned on in the hallway Dabby bravely steps up to ring the doorbell, looking at me in a mixture of disgust and shame, and bows his head as if he'd been made to turn off a life support machine to his dying brother. The guilt trip works marvellously as I grab the question sheet off him and prepare to ask if we can come in.
Under the guise of Alexander Knight and Iain McNeil we prepare to tell the gullible old woman that we're interviewing them for the Ellon Boys Brigade, because the very mention of "Wee Issue" would have her pressing the speedial to the authorities in seconds. As the door creaks open a slight figure emerges from the comfortable looking home, sporting an obvious hunch and a gamy eye. She looks at us out of her good eye with clear suspicion and after a scan that seemed to last forever she invited us to enter her gingerbread house.
Looking around this is definitely not the stereotypical monastry that one would expect from a nun, and the long flower-embroidered skirt isn't exactly the regulation black and white overcoat TV would have us believe. In fact, contrary to what TV would have me believe, she wasn't the sex-mad nympho I was half expecting and the way she hobbled through to the living room certainly raised nothing but a deep desire to leave. In typical old maid fashion she pointed wryly to the sofa directly in front of her, and I led the way like a fearless hero, shepherding Dabby who, it must be said, was having a nervous breakdown of sorts around all the pictures of God and Moses. I could tell he could hardly take any more of this, and the fact that our host was marginally smaller than him must have really brought him to the edge of his dwindling sanity.
Of course it was left to me to draw first blood, but I made sure the first few questions were soft on her and she lapped them up and enthused about her divine love of God. Dabby, being the master of subtlety, interrupted her carefully worded speech with one of the harder questions from the "Risqué" column:
Dabby: "Why don't you lead a minimalistic life?"
[He blurted this out rapidly with an accusing tone, as I pretended to scribble down notes. The nun paused and looked at us both, and then calmly began]
Nun: "We need cars and other... expenditures, let us say, to do better work in the community. If we could live off bread and water, we would" she added rather sheepishly, making sure to add some Christian connotation to emphasise her well-versed knowledge of the bible. Just as I was about to ask an easier question that didn't question her integrity or suggest ulterior motives Dabby continued
Dabby: "Surely the bible isn't based on historical truth, yet many devout Christians swear by it. What's you view?"
Realising she couldn't win either way she brought out one of her stock 'safe' responses that can be moulded for almost any question.
Nun: "I believe without question the ways of Our Lord as he works in ways we cannot understand."
Dabby: "That doesn't answer my question."
Getting visibly irate, the nun added firmly:
Nun: "I believe everything that was written happened. What does this have to do with serving the community?"
Realising that we were losing track of our ploy we took out a few safe questions to ease her suspicious mind before taking out a real thumper:
Alan: "How you do you earn enough money to look after yourselves so well?"
It seemed it was me, the one she liked, that had pushed her over the edge. In the most diplomatic way possible she kicked us out of her home with commendable speed and efficiency.
Nun: "I think I've answered enough questions for you to earn your badge" she began as she stood up and I pretended to jot this down.
Nun: "Now if you would care to leave" she finished as I looked over to Dabby, who was meant to bring out our "during being kicked out" question. Noticing that this might incur her true wrath Dabby piped down and refused to ask when Jesus was next scheduled to return. As the door slammed and the corridor light was extinguished again we chuckled to ourselves, knowing that we'd kept up a proud Wee Issue tradition of pushing the boundaries of taste. The first properly organised interview was a resounding success, and we skipped down the lane singing "you've got to pick a pocket or two" arm in arm before stopping this embarrassing charade and walking sensibly.
The Prom (again)
Today I received my reward for "being an exemplary student in the field of English" in the shape of a ÂŁ10 book token. Stop right there- a book token? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?! Having tried to flog it to my parents and Jenny- who I'm sure would have lapped it up if she hadn't spent her allowance on magical beans- I looked to sell it on ebay. A wealth of gullible people buy useless crap for stupid amounts of money on ebay, so I hoped that the next Tom Banks to come along would hopefully exchange my book token for their ÂŁ10. The auction stopped with me still holding my useless book token and the reserve price of ÂŁ10 wasn't met. I'm seeing Tom at the prom tonight tho so hopefully he'll have a spare tenner to buy my book token, failing that it looks like I'm going to have to burn it as if it were a book.
People often criticise me for "doing fuck all" for the wee issue, but I'll have you know I walked all the way to the school and back to deliver 30 copies of my article printed at my expense along with a filled stapler, again at my expense. Now that's dedication to duty, for I had the displeasure of once again walking past the snotty third years who were pulling at my jacket and screaming in my ear. Being clear of the school system I socked one of them in the eye and made him cry, and booted him in the stomach as he writhed on the floor and clutched his bleeding eye. Of course that never happened, but when I walk past third years visions of them going through unspeakable pain always makes the journey more enjoyable. One of them asked me to kick their ball back to them, so I turned one hundred and eighty degrees and punted their ball over the fence into someone else's garden. How I laughed when they threatened to report me- who is above the system now- to their year head, and my laughter multiplied ten-fold when an old lady came out her back door and thrust a knitting needle deep into their only ball. I was standing there with my arms on my knees bawling my eyes out with laughter, eventually I gave into gravity and spent the next two minutes on the floor laughing and greeting my eyes out at those pubeless little benders who would have to do without a football for some considerable length of time. Wiping the tears away and trying to control myself I could just make out a blurred image of them walking away towards the office and I howled and laughed at them some more before falling to the ground again and thumping my fist off the floor in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
Eventually I picked myself up off the floor and finished my days errands, still chuckling away to myself and shaking my head at those helpless little benders who would- I am sure- still be in class, robbed of a lunchtime and perhaps many more lunchtimes to come until christmas when they can afford a new football. Upon arrival at home I did a "dummy run" for the prom and I must confess, wearing a kilt far surpasses my expectations and it feels great. Well, a lot more liberating, if you know what I mean. No more chaffing or cheese-grating of the old nut- umm, forget what I just said. It's comfy. That's all you need to know.
Sadly I don't have my bottle of Bailey's rip-off that tastes so fine, I think I must have left it at tete's. So as a consequence I don't seem to have anything to fill my hip-flask with apart from wine and beer... not exactly ideal for smuggling. I hear that a pint at Ardoe costs in the region of a fiver, and if speculation is true then they can shove their pint up their arse cos I'm not that desperate to get drunk, I'm not kp.
That last sentence doesn't make much sense but if you know me then you'll know that everything wrong with society is solely that incorrigible kp's fault, and nobody else's. And if it rains tonight, blame kp. If Iraq decide to strike Ardoe house you know what? Blame kp. I'm away to get my drinks in now while I still can, see y'all tonight!
PS Won't see you tonight Goldie because you've decided not to come, despite my scaremongering and letters written in blood I want you to be there. Just don't cramp my style, you know what I mean?
Capades
Last night myself and Beefy embarked on yet another summer holiday tradition- the noble art of capades. Capades- for those "not in the know"- are a series of amusing activities often done under the influence of alcohol. These range from the standard door knocking and gritting of lawns to the vandalistic destruction or alteration of things.
Memorable capades include setting light to the long chute in the gordon park, to cycling 8 miles along the railway line at 1am to Justin's house with a bagful of beer, and then returning at 4am along the better-lit roads. Indeed capades are better done in the early hours when not so many old ladies are awake to give your details into the police, but when you're intoxicated safety isn't always the first thing on your mind.
Recently I've been involved in a speight of capades, and none, may I add, are worthy of prosecution, but are merely classed as "petty vandalism." One recently involved stealing the Golf Club's 13th hole flag and carrying it down to the midget's and planting it in his house like some sort of flag you would erect to signify conquered territory. One time Wigg had asked me and yann to come to Telemech's house, which we did, but it turned out to be a sick joke. So I let down his tyres as he watched helplessly inside Telemech's fort to a degree where it was unsafe to drive. That'll learn him.
A couple of days ago I was walking past Meiklemill and spotted a huge amount of materials used to divert the traffic when they were reconstructing the road. Having finished rebuilding the road the materials were left to presumably be picked up in the near future. I phoned Beefy immediately and last night we made the mother of all roadblocks! It was a touching sight, and it was fun watching cars drive down only to be redirected into an endless loop. Roadblocks have become a standard capade lately, thanks mainly to Ellon Council's ongoing road renovation work and the lethargic attitude of their workers. Beefy called me today- our road block has stood 19 hours so far, a record as far as I know.
On many occasions I've cycled along the railway line to Udny with Yann, Dabby and Tom mainly, and I've run the distance too but not as a capade. I'd love to tell you about more that have been done but I don't want to incriminate anyone else, you know who you are and I hope the capade tradition runs all through the summer. If anyone's bored anytime give me a call and we'll arrange a mindless capade to wash away the long summer nights which run from 8pm-3 or 4am most nights for me. I'll have three phone lines at the ready ;-)
It's Time To Partay!
Until a few days ago there were no parties scheduled in the near future that I knew of, but I guess that isn't saying all that much as I'm usually the last to know, behind Feesh and Goldie, even. That was until a savoir of 3cmx5cm dropped through my letterbox entitled "Kara & Craig & Andrew's 18th." Clasping the portentous paper between my middle finger and thumb a ray of light burst through the window and the voices of a chorus of angels filled the room with the feint sounds of an organ making a religious backdrop to the haunting melody. Long I stood there engulfed in the spectacular light viewing the promised paper and listening to the beautifully orchestrated music that would deliver so much. In one calendar month I, Star, was to be in attendance with many people in the fabled and much talked about Udny Arms. As the light dimmed and the voices subsided I replaced the cherished paper upon my mantelpiece; it lies dormant, ready to be used in exchange for an epoch-making party. Leaving the room I could see a soft glow radiate from it, and my heart warmed with anticipation at the party to end all parties. My ticket to immeasurable enjoyment was safe, and my mind was at ease knowing that this sole ticket would bring with it an upturn of fortunes.
It's understandable that no one wants to host a house party anymore- I for one would be more than happy to if it weren't for the way that no one respects your house. You can guarantee that with the "party atmosphere" something's going to get broken, spilled or damaged. Needless to say the more drunk people are the better the party the worse the state of your house at the end of it. It's also not much fun being host, you can't afford to relax with people threatening to spill their intestines over your carpet or putting anything of value near people (think petty theft or breakage). To add to the list of reasons for not having a party having one doesn't mean you'll be invited in return, so why have one?
You'll be remembered for it for perhaps a week, if you're lucky, and you're left with all the hassle and aggravation of cleaning up and setting the place up. There's a trend of people who have had one or perhaps two parties at a push and refuse to hold parties beyond that. Sadly, everyone that is willing to host a party has, and that leaves the volumes of leeches (who shall remain nameless but everyone knows who they are) to phone round and wonder why no one is having a party anymore. There are notable exceptions- Amy and Tete have had the most gatherings/parties I'd imagine, closely followed by Dabby and Myself and then there are those who have had one-two, like Tom, Sharon and Morna. The rest of you know who you are.
And don't let me forget the 'certain' individuals that are guaranteed to raise chaos in even the most carefully planned parties. Step forward Jackie (a pseudonym for a girl renown for creating carnage at gatherings) who, instead of informing me of a spillage like any other self-respecting party-goer she decided to cover it up and hope I wouldn't notice. Very helpful, thank you. It was almost as helpful as the time she threw Alexandra's weights out of her window, or the time she mashed bananas into Alexandra's walls. Drunk or not drunk, this isn't the way to get yourself into people's good books.
All in all the sad lack of parties is only the fault of the disrespecting minority who refuse to stage one and care not a jot for the houses of their generous hosts. I for one feel this summer is lessened for it, but so long as people are still turning 18 there is still a light- no matter how dim- at the end of the tunnel.
+ Beefy's an insightful chap, as you all know, and today he enlightened me on the ugly side of the prom. "Why is everyone wearing kilts and formal wear", he started, "when there isn't a calidgh band? I mean, what are you supposed to do after the meal? Dance to chart music in your kilt? Pff." I gave it thought and yes, the prom committee made a mistake. A very big mistake. We'll see what happens, but if Beefy is right then it looks like I'll have to leave my dancing shoes with my school shoes and ballet shoes to gather dust in my cupboard.
Wee Issue Prom Edition
Development for this seems to be going apace but it's the publishing that I forsee as the problem. In anyone elses hands no problem, but Tom Reliable Banks been left in charge of it. Oh dear.
I wrote my "Interview With A Nun" today and I must admit I've outdone myself. It's not a bad read and should be a worthy companion to the article I wrote on Isla and Trundell. I hope that it is published and that Wee Issue is handed out on the day of the prom, but as I said the prom is on thursday and Dabby is really up against the odds. I've been writing a lot today so I'll leave you with an article I wrote for Wee Issue 2, which was subsequently confiscated and not published. Enjoy!
Gramp's Rant
Grandfather Wales stirred in his chair, closing his eyes and attempting to catch forty winks. His peaceful slumber was, however, disrupted when a small group of grandchildren, eager to hear more of Gramp's inane stories from the past, clamoured into the living room awaking him in the process. It was obvious what they wanted, what with them sitting round his chair in a neat circle, arms and legs folded, gazing at the old man. He sat up, put on his specs, and took a deep breath.
"Sit closer, boy, and hand me my slippers", he announced to the boy nearest his feet; "we're off on another intangible rant!"
"First stop", he began, about to embark on a rant on music these days. "If there's one thing that epitomises music, he started, it's Avril Lavigne". A self-proclaimed 'hard-rock skater', she immortalises all that is wrong with music and society today. Angry and repressive against her parents, Avril took her anger out on them by subjecting them to her appalling taste in music and embarrassed them by trailing them on their weekly shopping, throwing fits and shouting obscenities. At the age of twelve Avril grew in with a crowd of teenage depressants, who shared her fury at their parents and with their music they found they could unite and reach new levels of excruciatingly bad music that shamed their rock counterparts. At fifteen Avril found a rising trend in the skating market while reading the share index, and decided to cash in on it as quickly as possible. Before long she had managed to change her image from a catholic-school prefect to a rebellious skater with no regard for parents or authority. She had successfully masked her past, and the shrewd businesswoman began her plan for global domination, plastering her disgusting, 'ghoulish' mug on every lunchbox and skateboard she could, all the while counting the pennies rolling in and cackling to herself as her wicked plan unfolded. Her small group of followers, wishing to imitate their idol, are growing in number as the days go by. No one can be certain if this worrying trend will ever stop, I implore you; don't buy Avril Lavigne records, for the sake of humanity.
You son, stay seated. Gramps has a bone to pick with first years.
First years are the incarnation of benders, gramps broke his arm falling down the stairs, yet for some reason they aim for it. Not content with walking to class, these little brats continue the childhood ritual of "tagging" each other, squealing incessantly and pulling each other's hair. When they are stopped and told to grow up they reply "I know you are, but what am I?" and they grin at each other, revelling in the exceptional wit they have just displayed. These underdeveloped kids giggle and pull faces, they laugh at such a frequency to shatter glass, and they find pleasure in annoying one another: They are like a game nature played that went horribly wrong. First Years, (even the name has to be said as though it was in italics), over-joy themselves in swearing. Anything that is viewed as forbidden is an instant attraction to boisterous first years, they laugh at giving each other 'dead arms' and basically anything that imitates the life of a 7 year old. The more you age, the more your hatred of these wretched creatures increases exponentially. And at 87, my bitterness has gone uncontrolled and these 'S-club junior' wannabes deserve my wrath."
The fire crackled as Grandpa threw in the phone directory, accompanied by photos of himself as a first year.
He glared at the small kid at the back of the group, who looked suspiciously like a first year. His eyes met those of the kid, he screwed his face, and for a moment there was complete silence in the room. Gramps began to foam at the mouth, and clutched his chair as a means of controlling himself. The chair began to rock progressively more violently, until the parent of the child took him out the room. His blood pressure fell, and he continued...
To be continued in the near future :-)
A Miss-Mash Of Unrelated Events
Welcome back friends to Starsite- The one stop shop for blog!
I know you're all itching to know how I got on at the weekend so I'll no don't leave! I'm sorry for mentioning my running. It won't happen again I swear.
Opening the free paper I got on the aeroplane, sadly not a smutty one (they must have all been taken by the Gold&Silver card holders), I read about a holiday resort in the south of England. I wouldn't normally have looked at this longer than it takes to flick the page but a picture at the bottom of the advert caught my eye. It portrayed two cartoon bears, the smaller one in front of the larger one with the larger one stretching out his arm as if to welcome you into his park. Try to picture this, a father figure bear wearing a smarmy grin with his arm outstretched and another bear standing in front of him smiling warmy inviting you in. The picture only showed the top halves of the bears but it was enough to annoy me, however small the crime was. I can't quite explain why this small and insignificant picture offset me so much, but just seeing that bear open his arm like a fairground owner opening a park to hundreds of screaming kids really got to me. Also, he had whiskers. Bender.
And don't get me started on the food. Normally the standard of food on a plane is passable, but apparently not when it's delivered before midday. Lost in slumber I had the fortune of missing 'breakfast' on the flight out but on the flight in I thought I'd give it a try. There is always a sense of anticipation when they peel back the foil and the sweet aroma meets your nasal receptors before your eyes even get a look in. Judging by the smell alone I knew it was a full English, which it turned out to be, but it was full English British Airways style. One E-grade sausage that seemed to be lacking in meat but drastically over-compensated in cows bollocks and turkey eyes, one half of a fried tomato, two undercooked rashers of bacon and a layer at the bottom of the tray that was meant to be scrambled egg but turned out to have a lovely moat of egg sauces with a runny egg mountain in the middle. They even had the decency to give me the token gesture of two shots of orange juice, although I say two shots it actually only took one mouthful to down the lot. Not bad service for a ÂŁ300 flight, I pondered sarcastically, and I resumed reading the crumpled paper making sure to avoid the advert with the irritating bears.
By my moaning you'd think I'd had a bad run but I didn't, in reality I ran the second fastest I've ever run which was none to shabby seeing as I missed ten weeks of training earlier in the year. Going to a high performance sports centre was a real eye opener and a world apart from the wrecked Chris Anderson stadium in Aberdeen where it's recently been deemed unfit for throws competition (this is, as you'd imagine, the hallmark for a bad track). The track in Eton was pristine and polished with its own indoor warmup area whereas the Chris Anderson, in contrast, has turned a shade of charcoal black and the wooden stand is crumbling to the ground. It made me realise how fortunate I am to be going to Loughborough this year (can you say "Olympic Sized Swimming Pool?" :-) ) and leaving the hell hole that Aberdeen is. To my friends' credit they've also seen the same light that I have and have also decided to pack up and leave scummy Aberdeen taking the initiative to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Except Tom that is, but he wouldn't last two days without mummy and daddy to wipe his arse and feed the poor soul.
Jenny has decided to make a rare appearance in our house, and right now she's sitting on my bed and trying to fit through the gap in my window. It's not often Jenny comes up to see us, but then again we have to make sure that no one will visit us when she comes up. I've dusted out the basement and laid some straw down for her to sleep on tonight and she even claims to have found another mouse (apparently the last one didn't take to well to having it's neck broken). He's called Eddie and he's got a large black spot on his back, which Jenny claims happened when she dropped a cigarette on it. Oh look she's given up trying to fit through the window and is reading this, or at least she's trying to, probably got distracted by the bright colours.
Besides lack of sleep, a common occurrence in the summer holidays, not a great deal has happened. The school prom is on thursday and I'll be there wearing a kilt full-scottish no less. Dabby has decided to show up in a top hat and tails, and Tom- being a little short of inspiration- has decided to double up and wear the same thing. This is completely different to the dress as you please incident because... actually, it's not, it's deja-vu in every sense of the word and feel sorry for Dabby for having a wee yann carbon copy mirror his every move. Must be flattering being the trendsetter that Dabby is but also infinitely infuriating when the trend is revealed beforehand and is copied on the day it's unveiled, making him look like an unoriginal goon. For the record, Tom and Yann had the same yearbook quote, another example of Tom's outstanding ability to lead the way in originality. For girls the prom is a doddle- buy dress, shoes, expensive haircut, jewellry, makeup and act with expected decorum and ladylike behaviour. If anything the prom is the first night that one has to act politely, and one assumes that one will behave properly in polite society.
And then there will be Drew- lying underneath a table in a pool of his own vomit, stinking of strong whiskey and gin and rambling obscenities. Sure he'll grab the odd leg that goes by and cry "drink!", and perhaps he will try to sit up and bash his head off the table and make himself properly unconscious, but then there's always one, isn't there?
It's Your Future!
NB Ok it's not that funny but I simply can't write to order. There, I've said it. I'll spare you the ordeal of having to read this, so you're more than welcome to not read it and come back on Sunday night where I'll be back with more of the zany mad-cap antics and hilarious hi-jinx that have brought me roughly no awards.
After serving two years on the sex offenders register and a hundred hours community service Jonny Goode was back, once again, prowling the streets of Aberdeen with a bag of sweets in one hand and an action man in the other.
Spending years in social limbo "JG the P", as the local police have wittingly dubbed him, decided to make something of his life by joining his best friend Nicholas as a farmhand. For many weeks he slaved away on the farm, nicking and tucking the barley, squeezing and pulling the udders and mucking out the cows. Things seemed to have been taking an upward turn of furtunes for the former Ellon Academy pupil until Rhona Marr discovered a large collection of child pornography on the farm computer. Shocked by the discovery she made sure she only told two people of the discovery- her husband Nick and a close friend Edna Banks, formerly Tom Banks.
Within minutes the whole town knew of the shocking revelation and Edna appeared on national tv to broadcast the news nationwide. Annoyed that Edna abused her trust so readily, Rhona kicked her square in the nutsack (some things science just can't change) and Edna writhed around in the country filth for minutes, before Nick walked up and put a boot into her face for good measure. A distant screeching was heard as a convoy of marked police cars pulled up into the farm.
With frightening speed and efficiency the police had handcuffed Jonny Goode and he was whisked away to the station to spend a night in the cells. His captors made sure they exercised extra "police brutality" and no weapon of self-defence was spared. Jonny was bludgened in the face for blinking, pepper-sprayed in the eyes for rubbing his smashed skull and tasared in the japs-eye for moving too fast. He hit the deck instantly, and had his foot not twitched as the station doctor entered he'd have been presumed dead.
Jonny made a miraculous recovery and was out of his coma after six months of perpetual slumber. Opening one eyelid the first thing he saw was a group of angry protesters swarmed round his bed carrying banners and chanting unprintable songs. He had never felt so low in all his life, but opening his other eyelid he managed to see the hospital for the sick out the window, caught a glimpse of a woman pushing a pram and suddenly felt a lot better.
Before he knew it he was standing in front of a judge with a mussel round his mouth and being held in a straight jacket. When asked to plead guilty or not guilty he immediately responded "not guilty", but when article 2B, a picture of Jonny looking through a window at a girl's 12th birthday party holding a large zoom-lense camera to his eye, he submitted and admitted to everything. He was ordered to serve one hundred hours community service and forced to spend two years on the sex offender's register. The verdict seemed particularily lenient, but when Jonny realised that the community service included working in Miss Selfrige he broke down and struggled to free himself from his straight jacket unsuccessfully. He declared he'd rather die than have to help in a women-only shop, but his pathetic pleas to work in mothercare were met with disgust and horror.
Two long years flew by as Jonny cringed and covered his eyes daily at woman trying on bras before his very eyes and he even began a log of his days simply entitled "my struggle." He had never felt so low, everyone knew his name and he couldn't even get a bus without someone starting an argument with him. Taking desperate measures Jonny packed up and left for a new place to live to rebuild his life. He would wander the streets aimlessly at night, raking through trash-cans for soiled nappies or even a pacifier to ease the pain away.
One fateful evening he saw, or at least he could have sworn he saw, Star walking with a hot bird round his arm. He walked with a swagger, you know what I mean, and he had an air of affluence about him. Jonny scurried over and tried to make contact with the millionaire psychologist.
What a pitiful sight he is, Star thought to himself, walking over here with an obvious limp and a complete lack of dignity. His clothes were torn and ragged, he was completely lacking in youth and his face was loathsome and aged beyond its years. What could have reduced him to this pitiful mess, Star contemplated, as his entourage grabbed him by both his arms and flung him into a nearby puddle. He looked up at Star, his face covered in street muck and shed a tear, before Star walked up to him and stretched out his arm. It was only so he could gain more leverage to bitch-slap him back into the deep puddle, as he and his troupe walked over his back towards the helicopter. Jonny Goode picked himself up, his back twisted well out of place and his limp extended to a comical slant in his middle torso also. He hobbled over to a nearby bin, and made himself a place to sleep for the night.
Sadly, Jonny passed away later that night, the multiple fractures in his back snapping his spinal chord in half. However on the plus side Star had a great premiere and was featured on the front cover of Heat magazine alongside all the top movie stars and was critically acclaimed for his witty quip at the aftershow party, "I'm just a psychologist, afterall."
A Night With The Tete
I'm going to begin where the story ends- I'm lying in my bed at 9:15am with a thumping headache and my stomach is yearning for food but not being able to accept it for some reason. It's like a reverse rabies, and the confusion of being hungry but unable to eat causes unspeakable frustration and anger. I can't lie still for more than a minute before being forced to try a more comfortable position- any position that will ease away the killer hangover, in fact. Only one thing reduces my body to a cowering wreck- Vodka. And what do we think of when we read "Vodka?" Yes, you're right- that damned poulet tete and his damned love of the vile liquid. And, thanks to tete, I've got to go to work with a raging hangover and serve pizzas all day. Damn that ridiculous poulet tete.
I turned up at tete's for 11:30pm and, without going into too much detail, it wasn't my fault that I was late and consequently missed the centrepiece of the gathering- the grand burning. I'd saved up three stolen library copies of "Emma" to be ceremonially burned, or sacrificed if you will (although admittedly it wasn't all that much of a sacrifice...). Upon arrival in Isla's passion wagon, featuring an all new pair of black handcuffs presumably from her second job as a policewoman, I was greeted by Tom charging down the steps towards me like a japanese bullet train. Obviously drunk I stayed clear, Tom's reputation as a violent drunk giving me ample warning to overt a potential disaster. Next came Richard who welcomed me in a more sober fashion and then the noble host himself.
Half expecting a "come in Star, make yourself at home" Tete told me I was to take two consolation shots for being so late, so I was effectively being screwed over twice for being late. Grudgingly I knocked them both back and then looked at the label casually assuming I'd just swallowed the standard 37.5% stuff that you can find anywhere. Blue label. Crap. Tete had outsmarted me, and with taking a double shot of highly expensive 50% Blue Label Smirnoff Vodka I'd have been just as well to have taken one shot of 100% proof alcohol. If there's one thing I've learned is that tete's generosity is also the cause of many a hangover, and I can't quite understand if this is a good thing or not.
Not wanting to be a spoilsport I unwittingly put myself in for the return of "Shots and Ladders", choosing the unsinkable "HMS Loss" in place of a degrading hat or- even worse- a bitch. Naturally a woman took the ugly mutt, but it was Isla who was landed with the unfortunate counter. Luckily for Richard it took Isla just two shots to send her on her merry way, and a further two hours to shake off the effects. Dabby was currently on his way to an unfathomable 23 shots at the end of the night, further proof that alcohol tolerance can be genetic. Tom was buckled before I arrived but I suspect he didn't quite have the titanic amount to drink that Dabby had proudly managed and in the process shamed the lot of us, Isla especially. Morna lived up to her name "Sleezy Mo" by taking her top off thinking it was "Stip and Ladders" giving Tom an unforgettable eyeful. She later drew tatoos on Tom's leg and one, rather symbolically I thought, portrayed a snail crossing a river and another showed a chicken flapping wildly on a battery farm.
Within minutes of taking my sixth shot in ten minutes Richard lead me upstairs so that Kayleigh could show me a disgusting clip of a horse taking a woman from behind. How it was trained to that I'll never know, but I imagine it was done the same way Jonny has managed to teach his little sister to put good words in for him to her pre-school friends. Kayleigh revelled in this clip restarting it several times before it lost its novelty and I wandered off to continue getting buckled off of tete's goodwill.
Tradition is important at tete's, and despite our intoxication both myself and dabby managed to uphold the most sacred of traditions- playing chickenelli on tete's horny next door neighbour. Our plans were almost fioled at the sight of their beefy new guard dog Butch, but it turns out it was just looking for a scratch and dabby dutifully obliged. While it was distracted I rang the bell six times and we tailblazed it back to tetes at fast as our legs could carry us, which you can imaging is quite fast for me and quite slow for dabby. Our decoy had worked, and we re-entered tetes slightly breathless but elated.
The night took its usual route- a lot of talking and messing about accompanied with several more tete toasties. Tete even went as far to give me a Deluxe Tete Toastie- a marvel of culinary genious where an extra craft slice is lovingly added to bring the tete toastie experience up to perfection. Great value for money anyway, seeing as it came out of tete's pocket (microwave). However the deluxe tete toastie soon became the thickner of my lengthy bout of vomiting, and I recall sprawling my body on the bathroom floor and writhing in severe inebriation. Luckily for tete this is the first time I've managed to locate the toilet for vomiting purposes, and also lucky for tete was the way I managed not to throw up on his bed, which is a favourite of mine. I must have spent an hour in that bathroom, admirable dedication to keeping up traditions at tetes, I'm sure you'll agree.
In the morning tete immediately accused me of breaking his toilet seat (?), which was rich seeing as I spent all my time in the other upstairs bathroom. In tete's kitchen there appeared to be a mass midnight raiding of tete's food, with Pot Noodles being the popular theft of choice. The culprit is still unknown, although I'm being grossly sarcastic here and I'd implore you to read the thread "Phat Tom" for further understanding. Clue: the hint is in the name.
All in all another fine night at tete's and I'll thank him again for having us round and being such a great host. I'm away to find that bucket again now, because although tete's is always a great laugh it's not so funny when your head is spinning in the morning and you're retching every few minutes. Damn that ridiculous poulet tete.
My Room
People say that your room is a reflection of yourself, if so I'm a minimalistic lad with a penchant for Ellon Meadows (formerly Colts) calendars. My room is the only room not to have been decorated since we first moved in 12 years ago, and it shows.
The first poster I bought for my room was a poster showing Buffy in a moody (and hence erotic) pose, the kind she would give before giving you head (especially if you hadn't washed yourself). "Into every generation a slayer (slapper) is born" runs below her near-perfect visage mildly obstructing the view of her breasts. I've spent many an hour looking at this poster, and even more stalking Lauren's hot little sister Buffy #2. I stopped stalking her about a month after buying the poster to stop her filing an official complaint. Some say that if you use the technique of "magic eye", where you allow your eyes to rest and see hidden images, you can actually undress Buffy in the poster, and if you use "magic lens" you can actually see Lauren's little sister undressing (so long as the curtains aren't drawn).*
Hanging from my trophey cabinet I have a signed Scotland vest by a wealth of the world's top athletic superstars. Household names such as Berhane Adere, Paul Koskei, Jolanda Ceplak, Joyce Chepchumba and Susan Chepkemei grace the unique vest and it is estimated to run into double figures at auction. In all seriousness this vest is worth a decent amount of money and it's definitely one of a kind. I was running in the Great North Mile in Newcastle and we shared a hotel with all the stars, so I spent my night stalking the best stars with a pal and we eventually got all their autographs.
In front of my bed is a poster saying "Have A Day" with all manner of little faces describing different days, and behind my bed there's a poster saying "Have A Night." My favourites are "Have a hit by an armoured personnel carrier night" and "Have a bad day after"- well worth ÂŁ3.50 each. However the best poster in my room is one entitled "Beer, Sex or Drugs?" The pictures are drawn 60s style and have the best captions, from "Masturbation- If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself", to "Marijuana- Can't we all just get a bong?" and "Internet Porn- The art of one handed typing!" Chuckles aplenty I'm sure you'll agree, and always a discussion point for visitors (ie "didn't know Star took drugs...").
I've got some weird obsession with collecting the calendars handed out annually by the Ellon Meadows. My collection spans from 1994-2003, and it's a cheap means of taking up wall space where it should really have been painted. Behind these posters are large cracks, secret tunnels and behind the 1997 poster is a vault containing the holy grail itself. Again this collection could be worth some money well after I'm dead, all the better for my lucky descendants.
Brilliantly my bed is "lifted" which allows for a secret hidie-hole underneath where I've stored a wealth of useless crap. It's great for hiding in when times are tough, but usually I don't bother going in because it's also home to a gang of nasty spiders. They don't bother me and I don't bother them, although I've been waking up with bites on my leg recently. One more bite and it's curtains for my resident spiders, let's just hope they can read.
Apart from that nothing in my room stands out from the norm; a race number "1" on the wall from Margate, a pin-board, pile of magazines, drink cupboard, photo of tete as the milky bar kid etc you get the idea.
Sorry to cut the tour short but I'm away now to ask the nuns in Ellon if they wouldn't mind a couple of adolescents posing as Boys Brigaders to interrogate them and make a farce of their beliefs- Wish me luck.
* I'm just kidding. You can't see Buffy undress in the poster.
Phat Tom
Last night I had Tom "2 posts" O'Malley round at my house for a lads night in summer-style. Sporting a dramatic haircut that makes him look more of a groomed bum than a street bum Tom had made himself at home on my PC when I came home from work at 11:30pm. Instead of the usual "how was work?" or "hey man" Tom opened the evening with "where are your games?" Taken aback I pointed out that I had solitaire and minesweeper removed because they're crap. He seemed mildly disappointed, and continued downloading a video of a man with a huge black penis penetrating another black man.
I'm going to come straight out with it- Tom isn't the ideal guest. As tete will testify, any food that could be eaten by yourself soon becomes his property without the need for permission. Two examples from last night:
Tom: "These your pringles?"
Me: "I guess so"
[Tom picks them up and brings them through to my room]
Tom: "Hey, these your bonbons Star? Man I love bonbons"
[Helps himself to a handful. Mouth full of sweets he splatters:]
Tom: "Thesh are good Shtar"
Me: "Yes, I quite like them too"
[Tom leaves empty packet on floor]
[It's morning, and for the first time ever I haven't had to tell tom to leave, something I don't like doing and only reserved for people that seriously can't take a hint. Tom's left my sleeping bag slumped on the floor and the pillow in close proximity, there's a full glass of coke on the table and an empty coke can on the floor]
Tom: "Cya later Star!"
[Slams door]
Me: "... before you leave! Oh, forget it. I'll clean up."
I like Tom a lot, don't get me wrong but we disagree in some areas. Where Tom would rather sit in silence in front of Babestation or Takeshi's Castle (lame Japanese show) for three hours I'd rather talk or do something out of the usual routine that I'd be doing on my own anyway. Tom is the misunderstood member of our group I feel, he rarely opens up about anything that could be considered personal and you could talk to him for an hour straight and not learn anything. When I tried to talk about something non-superficial I got batted back in style:
Me: "How's things with you and Ashleigh?"
Tom: "We broke up last month. Man look at the tits on her!"
Me: "What happened between you that made you split up?"
Tom: "You can almost see her cunt lips! Erm, mutual agreement. Jesus, surely they can't show that?!"
No reciprocation, but it didn't really matter, Tom doesn't want anyone to know the real 'him' and I'm happy to view him as a testosterone driven thrill-addict, heartless and pining for hot meaningless sex.
We had fun playing Smash Brothers, Tom taking the heavyweight Donkey Kong and me taking the puny Pikachu. There seemed to be an obvious injustice- I'd punch like the oldest woman in the world would a fly, and he'd "spastic clap" me half way across the screen with a tap of the A button. Games used to be my forte, but I seem to have lost myself along the way to the new wave of PS2 casuals. It was demoralising watching Tom mash the pad like the ape he controlled and watching my character soar off into the horizon, but I'll beat him yet- on my terms.
Afterwards- predictably- Tom put Babestation back on and I headed off to bed to listen to music and read beano annuals. Upon closing the door I just caught him add "take 'em off you filthy bitch. Yeah!! Right down your naughty little..." and I decided to call it a night before I heard something I really didn't want to hear.
In the morning I found Tom suffering from withdrawal symptoms, twitching violently and tapping "223" with incredible frequency. I told him to let go and he stopped, but only to restart again more determined than ever. He had a demented look about him as he frothed at the mouth and gazed at the tv, startled and confused at why Babesation had ended 10 hours previously. He left eventually, but sped down the road faster than his greyhound to the bus stop to resume babe-stationing at his house. Worryingly, Babestation runs from 12-2am, and I'd have hated to have been within punching range when he found out that my digibox wasn't the cause of the premature end of his favourite show.
+ I was going to write an "obituary" (published in a newspaper when someone dies) about every member of our group but my sense of humour might offset some people and be viewed in bad taste. Not everyone agrees with my sense of humour and I wouldn't want someone to be sickened by reading their own obituary online. I'll write a couple up and put it to the vote sometime next week. Bet you're just "dying" to find out the results...
A Day In Glasgow
Once again I made the near weekly trip to Glasgow but not to race or join the Aberdeen Soccer Casuals in beating up some germans, but to see my little sister Jennifer [cue: "aww", you've been framed style].
Everyone knows who jenny is- she's the intelligent stoner (an oxymoron if ever there was one) who wears her heart on her sleeve (she doesn't, but it sounded good). Jens packed up and left the nest last year to etch a meaningless existence as a dental student, a lowly job and one that only schmucks need apply to. Penny stunned the academic fraternity at Ellon Academy by becoming the first stoner to go straight to university without spending a few years at college first, and without going into too much detail Gay-Face could rival even dabby in visits to mrs stuart's now trashed office.
Anyone who read Wee Issue Online will remember the festering pit that she lives in, but for those of poor memory/poor social connections I'll recap. Wales Inferior lives on the third floor hall of residence in the notorious Mary Hill- a rough area and retreat for half of the UK's illegal asylum seekers. Pennyeater's room itself is an outer representation of her inner self-worth an sacrifice- it's a pigsty, and reason enough for "the feds", as she would put it, to shut down every hall of residence in a 100-mile radius. Wine bottles dated sell by september last year lie broken on the floor like a makeshift deathtrap, and the way she darted and dodged past them like a ballerina running from a heat-seeking missile bewildered me beyond belief.
Then, returning with repeated grace and dexterity, 'the other twin... I forget what she's called' (mouthed by over three-quarters of my relatives) opened her hands to reveal a tiny white mouse. I almost died of shock. Assuming, as you would, that she picked it off the floor I calmly asked her to put it away from me so that only one of us would contract rabies. "It's ok, this is monty!" she added as I turned to my father and spiralled my index finger around my ear. "I've had him for three months now..." she continued with a disturbing hint of pride and a strange glint in her eye that I'd never seen before. "Imma look after him real good!" the simpleton persisted in a country voice, transfixed completely on the rodent running amuck on her arm. I stepped back slowly with my arms outstretched and made a desperate glance towards the door. Suddenly I felt an arm grabbing me by the shoulder. It was my dad, "We're staying longer" he said sternly, looking over to the village idiot trying to stuff her mouse in her pocket.
Usually when friends or relatives come round we hide jenny in the basement and insist until we're blue in the face that no such sister exists. We convince them that it was a government miscount in the census and that those banging noises are the heater playing up again. It's a shady existence, but Big Pens understands why we have to shun her from civilised society. We took her to the zoo to see the animals, and the rest of the afternoon went without a hitch. It was a pleasure seeing my wee sister again and she wanted to show us round her room again but my dad quickly intervened and hastily said we had to be home before nightfall. A blatant lie, but my dad's become used to distorting the truth. Actually, come to think of it, much like my older sister...
+ NB For Tom's benefit this blog started off serious but the truth isn't as funny sometimes, so I'm sorry if I confused you, but I promise I'll highlight the made up stuff in big red writing next time for you. I'm really proud of jenny for getting into Glasgow in 5th year and the trip was really enjoyable, even if she had to be restrained seven times for indecent exposure.
Gone With A Fight
Today was a defining moment in my life, for today "I became a man" according to my dad, although I'm sure he meant to save that one for my 18th birthday. For today I became liberated; I'm at the intermediate stage where I'm not a school kid anymore but at the same time I'm not a Uni student either. I fit snugly in the middle and- this feels great to say after such a hard time studying for exams- there is nothing I have to do anymore. It feels wonderful, and all the more so because tonight I start a new job that will see me work for ÂŁ4.25 an hour. Bliss.
In between handing back my stuff and trotting between classes both myself and dabby decided to have a bit of mischievous fun ourselves. Step forward Mrs Stuart's office, a place that dabby has familiarised himself and even formed his own little 'groove' in the chair that opposes hers. I knocked weedily to no reply, so I entered and saw a neatly packed unit holding Mrs Stuart's files and important belongings. You can guess the rest. I tipped this unit onto the floor and began scattering its contents all over her office floor and much laughter and joviality ensued. Later that day we returned, and I decided to floor her second unit of similar size for good measure. Even dabby entered and stamped his feet on the fallen notes before returning seconds later to put "afters" into them, handily reaffirming his status as a Grade A psychopath.
But more fun was to be found! Elsey bitched and seethed that I'd lost one of his prized Chaucer books and even went as far as to write this on my leaver's form. However as soon as he'd turned his back and left for, presumably, a quick wank in the staff toilet, I went into his class and pinched a copy of it off the shelf. Amusingly, it wasn't until I was walking home that I'd realised that I'd got my leaver's form all signed along with the stolen copy of the Miller's Tale in my bag! It should make great fuel for the Wee Issue bonfire along with three library copies of Emma.
Elsewhere I said farewell to Mr Ritchie, voted the best teacher in the school by popular opinion. Writing about this man is useless- you have to experience his unorthodox ways of teaching to appreciate what a legend this man is. He single-handedly got me through 5th and 6th year maths, and it's him that I owe a lot to. Where most teachers are power-hungry tyrants Mr Ritchie is both lenient but can draw a line to stop the loud-mouthed idiot dictating the class that every class seems to have. He is exceptionally funny and every period is a joy just to see what he's going to do next, and although I didn't work hard in his class I certainly learnt a lot more than in other classes where I worked my ass off. He has a way of explaining things, and if all teachers were as approachable and good at teaching as he is the Ellon Toilets and Woods would be empty of the legions of intolerable NEDs that drop out of school in their 4th year.
Another high school legend is Mr Forbes, who allowed me to dump a pile of Business Management stuff today without checking a single thing. Again Mr Forbes gets the balance right between discipline and fun and everyone loves his sound approach to things. For example, the last few weeks of school he told us not to bother coming to class and go to the pub instead of coming into Business Management. He's another teacher I'll miss as far as you can miss a teacher, and highlights what a jerk Mrs Stuart is.
Walking home for the last time was a sobering experience, especially seeing as I pass my old primary school on the way home. It's been a long, hard slog and as far as I can see it only gets better from here. Four months of sublime holidays lie before me, University afterwards and after that a paid job. What more could anyone ask for?
Dreams Of Pastures New
When people force their dreams onto me I sigh because it's the most boring thing in the world to listen to. "... and then the ostrich handed me a golden amulet and disappeared into the passing fog" is a typical nonsensical ending that I would expect to hear at the end of someone's dream. The only time I ever remember my dreams are when I'm woken up and have been in the process of dreaming, and even then it's only vague details that I remember.
People seem to think that dreams have "hidden meanings" or perhaps can foretell the future. Bollocks. You dream because it's either that or stare at the blackened inside of your eyelids, and as you get older your body gets bored of the same old dreams so your subconscious makes up more and more wild and inventive dreams to keep you amused. That's why last night you probably dreamed of being a prostitute taking anal for money, or something equally unlike you (unless you're Nicola Donald muhahaha!)
I get a recurring "dream" where I'm running away from something, but the only way to outrun it is to run backwards. Make of it what you will, but the person to best describe it to me was sharon who suggested that to run backwards is to face your fears... which I thought was surprisingly thoughtful of her. Thankfully I don't suffer from nightmares, or perhaps I do it's just I don't remember them.
The reason I'm blogging about dreaming is because last night I had a particularly weird dream. I wrote a long personal blog last night but decided not to post it because it's not very much fun to read and like I said it's perhaps overly personal, so I decided to stick with my usual slapstick routine and talking about fart jokes and anything else that entertains my target audience (ie you). Anyway, to cut a long story short I dreamt about being at a carnival with all my friends (and I mean everyone) and it was great fun. I think it was my brain compensating me for not going out last night and reimbursing me by creating a dream whereby I could act out my perfect night.
Why is this the most boring blog of all time? Because it's about dreams, keep up. Time for a quick turn of pace before I lose all four of the people who read this 'sight'.
Tomorrow I finally get to leave the school that has taken six years of my life from me, four of which were compulsory. I handed back the school prize I won last year and went searching for lisa hadden to buy my prom ticket. I was unreliably informed that she was in the STA, so that's where I headed. I opened the door, and the large room was completely empty. Looking round I realised that I'd wasted an entire year here. The STA was where I spent 14 hours of "study", 5 hours of lunch and an hour of break time a week running down the 6th year clock lazing around and basically doing f-all all year. I can't believe that for the second time in my life I'm going to have to say goodbye to all my friends and restart all over again. It's a daunting thought, but I could never spend another year at that place and I doubt that anyone else in 6th year could either.
I'll miss everyone in my group and Leanne, but I won't miss a lot about that school. I won't miss the corrupt authoritarian head teachers, the fascists, a lot of unnameable people and I certainly won't miss having to study subjects that have no relevance to my future career whatsoever. What I will miss is the banter (if you read dabby's blog you'll know that my group has some very interesting characters to speak to) and the comradeship that 6th year brings. From 1st to 5th year our small group had segregated ourselves from the bulk of our year (who spent their time in the canteen) and it was only in 6th year that we saw who the groups were (4 basic divisions) and what they were all like. I'll miss only having two hours of work on a wednesday and a friday, and I'll miss the people that made another year at that school enjoyable. For the record, most of the decent people to talk to go to the Tolbooth on a friday so come down one night and have a night chatting to all the good people from 6th year. Ellon Academy then- a mixed bag, but a place that will only be alive in your thoughts and memories soon. When I think about it, perhaps last night's dream was about me losing all the friends I've made in the past, or maybe it was just compensation for my crappy night. Time to dial 1800-dream-interpret, methinks.
He's Not One Of Us Anymore
Hate is a word I've become very used to recently, and never in my life have I become so engulfed in hate than in recent times. Lots of things make me fume with rage, and none more so than the resurgence of the "minor celebrity." Allow me to explain.
Who here knows who "Howard" is? Can't quite remember? Let me remind you.
"Sexyyyyyy, you're going to find our range of loans so sexyyyyyy. Our loans will taste as sweet as, chutnayyyyyyyy"
[Enter Howard, dressed like a bender and sporting large circular glasses, not unrecognisable from the ones that Harry Potter dons when he gets up to mischief in and around his school]
"For homeowners from here to Bali!"
His 'funny quip' makes the average viewer burst out with laughter and coat the tv screen with a sparse layer of spit. That's the idea anyway, but what actually happens is the viewer mutters "a fair bender" and changes the channel. Why do you think Halifax merged with Bank of Scotland? Financial problems my son, spearheaded by that moron Howard. If you were fortunate enough to watch the monumental title decider between Rangers and Celtic you would have noticed it was Howard, always well placed for a media shot, who handed the Huns the trophy. Whose idea was it to have this unmarketable goon grace all posters created by Halifax? It must have went something like this:
In a large conference room the senior management of Halifax have gathered to have crisis talks to find a solution to their increasing debt problems. At the head of the large table is the most senior of company executives, Steven Gordon, and around the table are branch managers from throughout Britain, along with some foreign correspondents. Once the room has settled and the managers begin to tone down their conversations Steve knocks three times on the table to signify order. He takes a sip of water, and begins.
"Above me is the FTSE 100 share index, and below that is a graph of our performance since Halifax was first created. As you can see there is a steady increase here", he uses a pointer to point to the far left of the graph, "and then a surge here", he points to about mid-way of the graph. "However, this is what is alarming about the graph", he points to the red line plummeting towards the bottom of the graph, "and this is where we are now." The room gasp, feigning surprise at the downfortunes of Halifax. The line seems to continue down, and hits the bottom of the graph at year 2007. "This, friends, is the projected revenue of Halifax in six years time."
The congregation whisper amongst each other and there is a sense of anxiousness in the room now. The muffles grow in size, until Steven has to knock on the table again. The noise dies down, and he recommences.
"Besides a merger, which could take years, we need a solution to the disinterest in Halifax, and we need it quick." He pauses, "I've talked to each of our departments and they're lost for ideas. Does anyone here have any suggestions?"
This is met with silence, as the two rows of branch managers turn and look at each other completely miffed. After a long silence Steve adds, "does nobody have any suggestions?!"
At the back a plucky young branch manager raises his hand tentatively, unsure whether he should proceed or not. At first no-one takes notice, until one manager half way up shouts "this boy has something to say." A mass turning of heads occurs, and suddenly the whole room are looking squarely at the young manager from Kent. He half begins to stand up, but stops and decides to remain seated. Nervously he readjusts his tie and looks up once again at the thirty or so faces looking back at him. He takes a deep gulp and opens his mouth.
"S-s-s-sir..." he starts, overcome with stage fright. "Perhaps, w-w-what the company needs is a mascot, but not a hen, or a squirrel or any kind of animal. Maybe we need someone who the public can relate to, an ordinary employee perhaps. Someone who is unique to us, and someone who will make people think "Halifax" whenever they see him."
Steven stands up and cries "this boy might just have something here!" The whole room talk feverishly amongst themselves, such an idea, such a concept!
"Yes, you're right! Someone who the public can relate to! We will begin this week! This meeting is adjourned!" he cries, and rushes off to begin the plan. That same week, hundreds of Halifax employees submit a one minute video of themselves in a bid to increase their salaries ten-fold. Somehow, most likely due to an administration error, middle aged father of three Howard Duguid of the Dunfermline branch is picked to star in a series of annoying and humiliating adverts for Halifax. He rises to stardom, appearing on the Adstars CD issued by Halifax (this does actually exist) and appearing at many celebrity functions. He has no credentials or personality, yet the public warm to him regardless.
Sitting at home, young Alan Wales of Ellon is watching his favourite show "the Simpsons." During the ad break he stays rooted to his seat, intent on creating a dabby-style groove in the seat. His fun is ruined when an advert starring the obnoxious Howard Duguid appears, but the remote is just a fraction out of his reach. Refusing to move, he is forced to suffer Howard's painful singing and the sounds of "Who gives you extra? Who, who? We do!" rings throughout his ears and keeps him awake for the entire night as images of Howard flying on an albatross crush any chance of getting to sleep. He gives up, writes a blog about it, and feels better for venting his hatred of Howard. Despite this he still can't sleep, and takes to knitting instead. The last words he uttered was "damn you Howard, one day I will find thee", and that brings us up to this present moment. He will get his vengeance, when Howard winds up on "I'm A (washed up) Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!", but until then he will make do with the Howard-embossed dartboard up on his wall.
NB all names have been changed to hide identities. Except Howard.
A Drinking Game? Why Not
I really should have learned my lesson the past four times I've been at tetes house but, as usual, my original gameplan of stay away from tete's vodka you idiot fell through in the usual fashion: drinking games.
It's bad enough that tete encourages you to play drinking games that mean it's your turn every thirty seconds, but when he's making it 50% blue label smirnoff vodka (let's face this- this is a world apart from the Safeways Savers crap that put me off vodka evermore) you can safely say that a shot is worth considerably more than your "average" shot. Plus, it doesn't help matters when dabby sniggers everytime he pours your shot and you just know he's filled it to the brim to piss you off.
Last night's muckling game of choice was Shots And Ladders, a crude variation of a harmless childhood game that until now held fond memories for me. Roll dice, move counter, climb-ladder-fall-snake repeat till end. Quite simple actually, but then again the game is intended for the 3-6 years old market, as demonstrated by the kids who make litter the board. Amusingly, it was only when I looked properly at the board itself that I realised that the little kid on the board was doing a series of capades himself like stealing eggs, chasing pigs, and racing cars- all under the influence of alcohol too, I'll bet. There were a couple of snakes in particular that were intent to blight my progress and put foul-tasting vodka down my throat, and they all seemed to gather at the top of the board as if to say "you lose, we're just playing with you- you ain't going nowhere, pal." For some reason the ladders seem to outnumber the snakes heavily, but this was probably the due to the fact that there isn't really a reward in this game- only a punishment.
It's become a tradition to get buckled at tete's to the blandest alcohol concieved (and, may I add, the most stupidly named alcohol, Vodka?!), and hence the worst imaginable to take a shot to. Even entering tete's kitchen makes me nauseous and the fumes of vodka laced with a tete toastie (perfect when drinking) will stay with me to my grave.
Tete led by example, drinking an unfathomable 8 alcopops and many, many shots. Such was tete's leadership and great hosting that he even volunteered to do the hilarious "poulet dance" for five minutes should I roll a 5. In return myself and dabby had to knock back yet another shot, but by this stage taking a shot of vodka was as common as drinking water or milk. In a bizarre turn of fortunes for me I happened to roll a 5, and much laughter ensued as tete pecked and flapped his way round the circumference of the room and ended it off wonderfully with squawking "bwakaa!" at the turn of five minutes. Unfortunately for tete he threw up midway through the dance, but like a stallion he came back for more humiliation and ridicule.
Myself and dabby had to suffer for three long games of pain, roll-dice-take-shot became a familiar routine and a routine which makes a mockery of the almost as quick "Shot Pontoon." Graeme was playing too but because he had to drive home we let him off with taking his solitary beer in shots instead :-) Morna graced us with her presence, but like the prude she is (you'll all be familiar with the time she refused to let us interview her for wee issue) she decided to stay out of any drinking games, or even drinking as it turns out. I'm sure I overheard her saying "drinking is for" and then making the motion of holding her right thumb perpendicular to her index finger as if to indicate a "Learning" L, or as is more probable an "L" for "Lepers". Similarly Lauren thought it would be more fun not to drink as well, and between the two of them they single-handedly ruined a life-long tradition at tetes. As I have come to learn, by a mathematical formula tete derived through months of brain-taxing sums and differentials, "tete's=vodka based games."
To thank tete for his generous invitation we stole a picture of him from primary school. Can I just make it clear that this wasn't a premeditated attack but more a "spur of the moment" capade, and tete you'll have it back as good as second-hand, unless you want to pay myself and dabby the sum of 1 peseta in cash. By midnight. When it was time to leave, how shall I say this, Isla, Dabby and me took tete's photo around a few comical places for inclusion in wee issue 3. I won't reveal any more but the cryptic clue "from ashes to ashes, dust to dust" should give you an early indication of what it was all about. Watch this space ;-)
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