A Philosophical View on Life
A bit of filler today, I wrote this for Advanced Higher English...
Mourning. Death. Sadness. Darkness.
What do you think of when you hear these words?
Plague. Famine. Fear. Resentment.
Now, imagine there was a word to categorise all of the above.
Evil?
Perhaps. But then one's famine may be another's feast. No, death and fear are necessary for the circle of life; without fear, we walk ignorant. We are afraid of all the aforementioned words, but why?
Pain.
As depressing as it may sound, pain is the one concept every human can understand. Every action has a reaction, every deed has a consequence, every pleasure has a pain. Pain is what maintains the balance of life; money is the meaning of life, yet some have none. What reason do they have to live?
The pursuit of happiness.
Happiness is pains opposite but equal reaction. There is no goal in life, only an end. Life ends with death. Does that sound strange to you? You are going to die, your life has no significant meaning. Does your life bring others happiness? If it does, congratulations- someone else is feeding off you. You must live your life, but what do you want from life?
Satisfaction?
The search for satisfaction is never over- In this world the goalposts are always changing, when you find nirvana, realise this: it will all be gone when you die. Does that upset you? Inevitably, you will learn that only pain can truly be reached, and when you die, consider it your last single-fingered salute to the bastards that made your life miserable.
So why do people do good? The idea of "doing good" is imbedded in all of us early in childhood, if a child does "bad" they are punished- we learn our first concepts of pain from those who bring us into the world. Pleasure comes at a price or a sacrifice- pain does not. Evil is the bottom state of everything, all good must be built from bad. Good is a subdivision of bad. Bad is life's default setting, the only reason people do good is to redress the balance of justice.
Life isn't fair.
Sometimes you must just accept the fact that others are more fortunate than you are, at least for the time being.
It's about time.
They say time is the greatest healer, because pain deteriorates over time. It doesn't. The point of balance between pleasure and pain is death- Death is the only outcome no man can escape. It's nice to feel like you are in control of your life, but so long as others are in control of theirs, you are at their mercy. Your happiness can be taken by your closest friend, doesn't that sound ironic? To be in control of your life you must control all that can happen to you.
The ultimate escape is solitude.
In solitude you have complete freedom to choose your destiny, but, unfortunately, humans get bored in their own company in time. Humans need randomness, spontaneous actions and decisions to avoid predictability. Humans have an in-built need for companionship, although you are not even your own mind's master. Take instinct, for example. The only way man can be truly independent is if he gains complete consciousness. You are forced to blink, to breathe, to live- These are the natural programmings of man, and as such, you have a subconscious need for order. Order decides control. Without order, chaos reigns.
Yet, unlike pain, happiness is finite. Effort must be taken to achieve happiness; no effort is required for sadness. Does this distress you? It should. The only way to escape this reality is death, perhaps it's time for you to finally find out what is waiting for you on the other side. No matter what the result is, it has to be better than your fruitless existence here.
Joy. Love. Freedom. Happiness.
Is it really worth the pain?
A Vision of Drew
"Zeig heil, zeig heil, zeig heil, zeig heil, zeig heil, zeig heil Fhurer Muirhead," the crowd lining The Mall chanted in unison as their number one citizen and great ruler, Fhurer Andrew Muirhead, arrived on the balcony of Buckingham Palace wearing full military uniform with a ribbon laden with medals pinned proudly on his left breast pocket. A gathering of this size had not been seen on The Mall since our last Queens golden jubilee way back in 2002, thankfully the days of her oppressive and pro-socialist rule were now over and the people of the Fascist Republic of Great and Glorious Britannia were now rejoicing and celebrating the 50th anniversary of another leader. The good citizens of the FRGGB saluted humbly in the standard stiff armed fashion made famous by Muirheads mentor and idol, Adolf Hitler, when their great ruler arrived on the balcony. Muirhead returned the salute to tumultuous applause as a great roar of excitement rippled down The Mall. Where union jacks and royal standards once proudly fluttered in the wind down each side of the famous road, swastikas now flew.
Muirhead came to power some fifty years ago, way back in the dark days of 2010. With Tony Blair and his Socialist Labour Party now entering their thirteenth year in office a young wiper-snapper from Ellon won himself a seat in the house of commons standing for the "Fascist Underworld Dump Socialism Party", more commonly known as the FUDS, the rest as they say is history.
Some three years later the FUDS were going from strength to strength and now occupied many more seats in government, their anti asylum seekers policy seemed to capture the imagination of the British public, or maybe it was just the offer of free Stella when Drew and his boys were in power but we'll never know. Drew wanted power and he wanted power now but there wasn't another election planned for another five years and Drew decreed that action had to be taken so he and his close cronie George Nixon met up in the Tolbooth one night to discuss the situation and hatched a cunning plot. They were going to assassinate Tony Blair and while the country was in the midst of the ensuing turmoil they would stage a military coup (they were already popular with the armed forces after saying they would have the right to attack any socialist bastards country when they got power).
Parliament was overthrown in a matter of days and soon the queen was also removed and Muirhead was declared the new dictator. Muirheads clean up operation of Britain began almost immediately with anyone not meeting the strict new rules regarding citizenship sent to live in Afghanistan. The regime was brutal to say the least, if you disagreed with Muirhead then you were shot, if you didn't follow the Dons then you were shot, if you drank more than your allotted Stella ration then you were shot. Everyone in Britain also had to make a pilgrimage to the Tolbooth at some point in their lifetime to see for themselves the home of Stella Artois.
But is this the truth I hear you ask, the honest to goodness, hand on heart gospel; is it fuck. Did you really believe that the boy we thought would never amount to anything more than an average bloke with 2.4 children could really become the leader of our nation. He has miserably failed to even fulfil our expectations, as Drew is now a down and out alcoholic drug addict with his name on the sex offenders' register.
Andrew spends a typical day in the company of his fellow dropouts betting what money he has left after he has purchased his days ration of Safeway Savers whisky, own brand "Iron Brew" and a six pack of Stella, betting on the horses, to this day he has never backed a winner. After squandering his remaining currency and polishing off his liquid investments Muirhead begins his evenings work at "the office" as he fondly refers to it. "The office" is the doorway of a firm of solicitors on Union Street where of an evening Drew sits in dishevelled heap singing the Evil Scotsman song and in between being kicked in the groin and urinated on by passing drunks he enquires of passers by "got any spare change pal?" Friday and Saturday nights are the richest, albeit wettest and most painful days of his money earning week. His affluence of a Sunday means that he can afford the luxury of paying a visit to Sleezy Mo the Brothel Ho for is weekly "oats" as he calls it.
As for Drew being on the sex offenders' register, three years ago one Andrea Mitchell (nee Bell) took out a court injunction against Muirhead for stalking. Every day for six months Drew would stand on a fish-box, peering over the fence with his pocket sized binoculars in the hope of catching a glimpse of Mrs Mitchell. Eventually Muirhead was caught by Andreas husband Gareth and beaten up before being turned over to the authorities. After this case came to light a number of other women who had been at school with Drew came forward with claims of sexual harassment, one even claiming she was constantly having to buy new underwear as hers kept being stolen from her washing line.
I saw Drew the other day, what a pitiful site he was lying on a bench in Aberdeen soaked in urine and vomit with a bottle of Buckfast wrapped in the stereo typical brown paper bag hanging limply from his outstretched right hand. It did occur to me that perhaps I had, as an affluent former acquaintance, a moral obligation to stop and speak to Drew, perhaps give him some cash and make sure he had a roof over his head that night but I decided that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie and that he would only spend the money on one of his many vices anyway so I called to my chauffer to drive on and leave this miserable wretch to stew in his own or more likely some drunken randoms' juices.
I read in the paper the other day that a gentleman in his mid forties was found dead in a doorway the other night. It transpired that it was one Andrew Muirhead and he had died of alcohol poisoning. No on e showed up at his funeral bar the owner of his local off licence and Sleezy Mo who were both sad to lose such a good client.
It Began In Africa
I know for a fact that none of my readers are into athletics, but I want to open the gateway for you, should you choose to go through it. In my experience, a little background detail can go a long way to appreciating a sport. How many times have you heard at the end of the news "and England are 4-244 not out with three wickets still to play" and thought "what the fuck..."? I know I have, but if someone would kindly explain it to me, I may yet appreciate cricket. Afterall, the stadia are packed, and surely no one would turn up to watch something they didn't like?
As Dabby once famously quipped, "let the ignorant be ignorant." Which I will, but if the non-ignorant amongst you are at least open to reading a litte of what I say, then you may find yourself appreciating athletics a little bit. Even after reading it you don't that's fair, I still hate the Gaystation despite the thousands of persuasive articles I've read on it.
As you should know, the World Athletics Championships are being contested in Paris as we speak. Now, I won't tell you about the simply fantastic men's 10,000m that's already been run, but set the scene for an upcoming final- the men's 5,000m.
The winner of the men's 10,000 was 21-year old Ethiopian Kennisa Bekele. Bekele is the future of men's distance running, having won both the short and long course at the World Cross Country Championships in 2002 and 2003. To put that into perspective, no one has even won the double, yet he'd done it twice by the age of 21. So he wins the 10,000m and runs 12:57 for the second half of the race. So what? So, only one European has ever run faster than that for the 5,000m alone, and no Brit has ever run below 13:00 for the 5,000m alone. To put it simply- Kenenisa is superlative, and incredibly talented. To top it off, he beat the great Haille Gebrselassie in the process, and obliterated the Kenyan challenge.
Gebrselassie himself is the greatest distance runner of all time. He's won the Olympics twice, the World Championships four times and set 18 world records. He holds the world 5,000m and 10,000m records at 12:39 and 26:22 respectively, and was unbeaten over 10,000m for eight years. However, he's getting older and plans to concentrate on marathons soon. He won silver at the World 10,000m on sunday behind rising star Bekele, and is the sport's greatest ambassador, putting all his winnings back into developing Ethiopia, where his business employs more than 300 people.
Also entering the men's 5,000m is 1500m legend Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco, who has won the past four editions of the men's 1500m at the World Championships. Last night he won the 1500m in emphatic style, striking for home with two laps to go. His record is 64 wins out of 67 races, the three races he's lost being two Olympics and a World Championship. He's only ran one 5,000m and that was earlier this year, clocking an outstanding 12:50 on his senior debut. He also runs the 5,000m, making for a mouthwatering final.
Add to that Kenyan Abraham Chebii, who has beaten Haille Gebrselassie and Kenenis Bekele this year, and you have a truly fascinating final.
Who's going to take on the might of the Ethiopians? Will the Moroccan take the plaudits? Who'll have the strongest kick? So many questions, and a tantalising race in store.
The heats are on tonight at 5:45, and the final is on at 5:40 on Sunday, the penultimate individual event. If that doesn't get your pulse racing, you have no soul. And you're a gayface with aids.
Driving Test #1
I feel genuinely traumatised today. On my first sitting of a driving test I failed for- wait for it- driving too cautiously. I'm absolutely gutted.
It's one thing to fail for going too fast, it's another to fail for driving too carefully. "You can never be too careful in the test" my driving instructor would say. I beg to differ.
Looking in your mirrors at every available moment and staying 5MPH below the speed limit is "a dead cert", my idiotic instructor would let me in on, me being the gullible fool who listened to him. All the times I drove inappropriately fast thinking "I won't do this in the test", I wish I could have thought "you know what, I'll go this fast in the test." If only I could turn back the hands of time.
It's so fucking ironic it makes me want to smash my head against something really hard. The only time I've ever drove below the speed limit and been so cautious was for the test- to my mind, I was doing everything "by the book." But "doing things by the book" simultaneously means "not doing things by the book" apparently. That peterhead instructor has paradox written all over his smug, cleaming face. If I see him, I'll mow him down screaming "who's driving too slow now eh?! Who?!"
I don't know what else to say... I can't believe I failed for doing what I was told to. My resit will be around 11th September, but I haven't got my hopes up. I can tell you now that I'll fail my next test for driving too fast. Any other examiner would have passed me, but not this one. I don't know what to do. I think I'll just sit here and stare at the screen.
Death Of A Gamer
Today I've made the tearless decision to sell both my GBA and GC with immediate effect. Not that I'm crying about that- they only had a weasly three games between them- I'm mourning the Death Of A Gamer.
Back in the day I'd play games solidly from start to finish. I'd buy a game, play it to death with my sister Geraldine, and head straight back to cash converters to buy Johnny's stolen copy of [insert snes classic here]. You see, in the snes era all the classics could be found in the bargain bin of cash converters for ÂŁ5-10. All stolen goods, like little Johnny's dad's TV, his vcr, his son's snes, and inevitably, his son's snes games. Which soon became the property of yours truly.
The golden N64 era was magnificent, and I ended up splitting down the middle for all the new games with my sister Geraldine (ÂŁ20 each, none too shabby)! Anyway, selling off my crappy GC and GBA made me reflect in a big way. For any gamers out there, I'm going to reflect through hazy nostalgic eyes and remember the Greatest Games Of All-Time.
Anyone not remotely interested in gaming, avert your eyes now
Secret Of Mana (Snes):
Quite simply, the greatest game of all time, bar none. Beautifully crafted, with an advanced combat system, gorgeous, gorgeous graphics and a truly huge world make the Secret of Mana the finest hour in gaming history. Teaming up with two allies (controlled with the use of the snes multitap), you'd hack, slash, and cast spells through the giant world which gripped you with its complex subplots for each character which would intertwine and increase the gaming experience exponentially. One of the few perfect games, The Secret of Mana was unbelievably hard, but always rewarding. Countless hours of of trying to beat that boss would always reward you with a huge, completely different place to visit inhabited with tens of vibrant people, each with their own story to tell. Pureland, the pinnacle of the game, was gaming perfection, evoking teamwork to progress against the ultra-hard challenges. The Sercet of Mana's soundtrack was loveling crafted and perfectly suited to the game, although lyricless, was still one of the best pieces of videogaming composure. What sealed it for me, was the countless hours teaming up with friends via the multitap and battling monsters, unlocking secrets and engaging in the best piece of storytelling outside of a book. Boss encounters were an epic battle where each of your characters strengths would come into use, healing one another, building up for an attack and pummelling the boss for sometimes half an hour till it took its last breath and fell before you. Hugely rewarding, every minute of Secret of Mana was a joy to play. Words escape the influence this game has had on my perception of a games greatness. Sheer perfection.
Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (N64):
The most hyped game of all time, Ocarina of Time was the first game to achieve a perfect 40/40 score in Japan's gaming bible Famitsu. The main hub of the game was a huge expanse that linked all the parts of the world together and alone showed the power of the '64. Turning 360 beside Lon Lon Ranch you could see the very peak of Death Mountain, the oceans (hiding the staggeringly hard Water Temple), vast forests, the desert, Zora's domain and Hyrule castle itself from one vantage point. The dungeons were even better than Zelda: A Link To The Past's (as hard as that may seem), and would often have you wandering for hours solving puzzles in their very differently themed premises. The time travelling element worked amazingly, making for a compelling storyline that was genuinely engaging. The follow-up, Majora's Mask, featured one of the best dungeons of all time in the shape of the terrific rotating Stone Temple. Ocarina of Time was the complete game, but we may never see as epic a game again with Nintendo's new "shorter game" policy. A dire shame.
Chu Chu Rocket! (Dreamcast):
Without a doubt, the single best puzzler in the world. Not the greatest, Tetris probably is, but it certainly teaches Tetris a thing or two in the puzzle stakes. Indescribably addictive, Chu Chu Rocket allowed privileged DC players worldwide to create fiendish puzzles and share them via Sega's online service. Not only that, but it was a wholesome four player game in its own right. The cries of "Mouse Monopoly!" and "Cat Mania!" would always indicate a shift in power, making for frenetic duelling. My only gripe with the game is the power of the cats- four player mode is always won by the person who shifts the most cats to his competitor. Besides that, the puzzle game is pure genius with a suitably well graded difficulty setting, being challenging to beginners and experts alike.
Pokemon (GB):
Ok, so there's a stigma attached to pokemon, big deal. This stigma only began when Nintendo started milking Pokemon and marketing it to the under 15s. Besides, video gaming isn't exactly free from stigma and bias anyway. But before Nintendo marketed the franchise to youngsters, the game that began it all was making big news in Japan and America- Pokemon Blue/Red. Buying it on import, Pokemon Blue was perhaps the best ÂŁ30 I ever spent. Wickedly addictive, the original Pokemon captured my young imagination allowing the player to catch, raise then fight monsters with other similarly-minded youths. The appeal was immeasurable, for once in a game you could, through hard work and skilful levelling, be untouchable at a game and challenge hundreds of people. Pokemon worked because so many people bought it, there was always someone to trade with or battle, and it was a great conversation starter. "Hey, you got a Flareon?" one would ask, "yeah, trade it for your Jolteon" and so forth. But for me, it was the stunning, indescribably amazing RPG that sold it for me. Not only was the game amazing, but there was always something to do. Be it catch more monsters, win badges, make it to the indigo plateau, or levelling your force up- the game would always have you coming back to it. Quite simply, a worldwide phenomenon. Forget the movies and crappy tv show, it's the Pokemon game that really started the bandwagon rolling, with good reason too. It was incredible, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Long gone are those innocent days spent behind a monocoloured monitor.
Jet Set Radio (Dreamcast):
Revolutionary is how I'd describe this game. The graphical style- Cel-Shading- would be copied worldwide, but its sense of street has never been seen since. Sporting possibly the greatest soundtrack for a game ever (beside Secret of Mana and Sonic Adventure 2), Jet Set Radio was a joy to play from start to finish. I remember the intro like it was yesterday- a big fuck-off skater comes sprinting towards the screen with a stunning metropolis behind him, being chased by the cops. He jumps onto a rail where the camera is situated and screams up the rail, darting around the level. Then, suddenly, you hear a man scream "Jet Set Radiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiooooooooooooooooo!" and the music ups in ante with a brilliantly sampled "stop playing with that radio me love, I'm trying to get to sleep!" If only you were there. The game was magnificent, the object being to grafitti the walls of a city in a pre-determined time. The style was great, the music was great, the gameplay was outstanding. Unforgettable.
Super Smash Brothers (N64):
One of the few games I can claim to be truly, and utterly, undefeatble at. Being Old Nintendo ("New" Nintendo seems to find it funny making Link a wide-eyed bender with a sister), the game redefined the beat-em-up genre. No other game had ever, or has since, bent the genre's rules to forcefully as Smash Brothers has- the end result? The best beat-em-up ever created. The object was to hit your opponents off the stage, but this was made easier the lower their health was. You can't hope to understand this game with words, you have to see this game to comprehend what an epoch-making game it was. Sporting up to four players, its longevity is easily on a par with Mario Kart, Goldeneye et al. I implore you- give this game half an hour. You won't regret it.
Perfect Dark (N64):
A timeless classic from the genuis' at Rare, Perfect Dark was the much-anticipated follow up to the groundbreaking Goldeneye. Having a storyline set around an alien conspiracy, Perfect Dark was a marvel in solo mode and multiplayer, where the game really came into its own. Truly original weapons like the Farsight, Laptop gun and Slayer set Perfect Dark apart from every other shoot-em-up ever created. A game I mastered to its very roots, Perfect Dark will always hold a place in the videogaming hall of fame for its outstanding objective-based solo mode and its new features. Even features like the Counter-operative mode were utterly ingenious, and the AI was simply breathtaking. Until Perfect Dark 0, nothing will come close.
Mario All Stars & World (Snes):
Having comprehensively completed every game, including the famously hard "lost levels", the original mario games managed to eclipse even the magnificent Mario 64. Frustratingly hard, the old Mario games are a world apart from modern platformers. The latter levels in each game were excruciatingly difficult, requiring precision jumping and nerves of steel. The crowning jewel, however, was the fantastic Super Mario World- a giant 100+ levelled monster, brimming with that Miyamoto love and design matched nowhere else. A showpiece for the snes' power, Super Mario World was also one of the finest created platformers of all time. The whole package, therefore, was absolutely essential to any self-respecting snes owner.
Terranigma, Mario Kart, Secret of Evermore, Bomberman and Sonic Adventure 2 are just a few of the classics that I've ran out of time for, sadly. The fact that I haven't completed one of the three games I've bought in the past year and a half is some testimony to my appetite for gaming, but perhaps indicative of the quality of games these days. You can have your Mario Sunshines and cel-shaded Zeldas- I'll stick with my Mario World and Ocarina of Time, thank you very much. Long gone are those halcyon days, along with my gaming appetite. I'll be mourning a golden era in my bedroom, alone, if you want me.
Raise A Glass For A Nobody
Glancing at this month's edition of Maxim in one of my routine WH Smith magazine-raids I noticed that the celebrations for Jack Daniel's birthday have begun already. "You don't have to raise a fuss for Mr.Jack's Birthday", the advert practically demands you, "a glass will do." Umm, hold on, I'm not sad enough to hold a toast to a fictional character, you'd have to be an utter fucking lose to do that.
I hate people who are obsessed with drinking to the point where they celebrate the birthdays of the imaginary characters associated with it, it's just sad, sad, sad. I can't get over this, another advert says "Nobody knows the exact day Jack Daniel was born. September should cover it." Wake up people! He's not even real! That's why he doesn't have a birthday, "September should cover it"- don't make me laugh! You don't see me celebrating Homer Simpson's birthday, Haile Gebrselassie's birthday or Shiguru Miyamoto's, do you?
These are the exact same cretins who campaigned to have a "born on" date put on Budweiser bottles. It makes me want to shit my pants so much, they've even got birthdays for the actual beer bottles! "Born on"- don't be so stupid, beers aren't born, they're produced. This must tap directly into the American delinquent psyche, "buh, my beer was born three months ago" one would spurt, frothing at the mouth. "Buuh, my beer was born bef-ore yours" his equally retarded friend would challenge, trying hard to pronounce the disyllabic word inherent in that sentence.
In a word, it's bent. This fascination with alcohol as anything other than a drink must end, for the love of God. I jokingly suggested that Drew comforts his beer like it was his child (ironic, seeing as his actual daughter was mere meters away) in my projection two days ago, but I'm starting to think some people do take their drink to this extreme.
Picture the scene: In the Budweiser brewery, Alabama, a husband and wife are sitting anxiously in the main reception. The clock is ticking loudly, taunting the newly arrived couple as they fidget nervously and stare at its mesmerising face. A phone rings and they are startled, before looking at each other and realising it was a call for the secretary. The husband is particularly edgy, his hand keeps shaking and he's sweating from every pore. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, one of the Budweiser midwives calls the couple through.
"Mr and Mrs Blackledge" she announces, peering over her glasses from the clipboard. "Please come through" she adds, turning around to invite the couple to follow. They stand up, and take one last look at the waiting room full of other anxious hopefuls, before scurrying off to quickly catch up with the pure-white dressed midwife. Through the corridors of the Budweiser Brewery they see pictures of many other happy couples with their sons and daughters, and imagine their picture there one day. Holding each other tightly, they soon entered a sealed room known simply as "The Plant."
The room's white sheen blinds them, as their eyes adjust to the sterilised walls and surfaces. The same widwife that called them through then steps forward.
"I'll just need a few details from you" she asks, her wrinkled eyes oozing kindness and warmth. After some routine details, she then points in the direction of a group of doctors, who are gathered round a crib. Losing his resolve, the husband heads immediately towards the commotion.
"Let me see my child!" he growls, as if the doctors were trying to prevent him. They move aside to show a cool Budweiser Bottle, dripping with water and perfectly chilled. The husband is speechless,
"It's... it's beautiful" he cries, adorning the bottle with kisses and affection. When the wife sees her gorgeous baby Bottle she too breaks down, as the husband wraps his arms round her. At that moment, one of the doctors sticks a label on the child's neck. It reads "Born On 21st Aug, 2003." They smile, and look at their bouncing baby Bottle, full of pride.
Just so you know, Jack Daniel was born in an artist's studio in Tennessee. Go on- cry! Cry for your shattered dreams, shout out to the heavens for the great injustice before you. The viel has been pulled, and you son, are the laughing stock. Just so you know, Santa isn't real either.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Podgy Pete
Seeing as Star has thus far sadly neglected to inform the masses of the mother of all capades I have taken it upon myself to fill in about dear old Podgy Pete. Enjoy.
Twas a braw night on the eighth day of July and twas the birthday of the one they call Snail. As is customary for an anniversary of this nature, a few of the lads engaged in the time honoured, masculine, testosterone driven ritual of descending upon an unsuspecting Indian restaurant for a curry and a pint. The spicy Kashmiri splendour was nothing short of delectable and was magnificently accompanied by a marvellous pint of the amber nectar known as Cobra premium draught (we stole the glasses of course).
The night wore on and the banter flowed unabated until an agitated Hindi gent minced over to our table and announced that it was about time we were paying our dues and getting on our merry way. And so after a short argument about how much each recipient of the meal would pay, Star was pissed off that the birthday boy and my good self had devoured a delicious starter and wanted him to pay the same as us, we vacated the Light of Bengal to the delight of the manager who even gave us a jolly "Thank you, come agai," as we filed out the door.
The night was yet young but alas, the piners known as Shaa, Tina and the good Mr Graeme Fraser announced that they would need to say their goodbyes and head homeward, Shaa citing work the next morning, Tina a previously made promise to pick up Hanza from nursery and the honourable Mr Fraser no doubt had some porn that needed watching. I was incensed. A certain something was in the air that night that signalled an evening of capading was in the offing and all that these three dissidents wanted to do was get home in time for a mug of cocoa and a good night kiss from mummy. Bahhh!!!
And so it came to pass that they left leaving behind the hardened capaders that are Star, Snail, Yann and last but certainly not least for I have the so called "Divine Right", my good self. This banterous quartet did not know it yet but they were on the verge of going down in history as the infamously legendary Tattie Boguls were about to be formed.
The Tattie Boguls were to be born that night but not for a good five hours yet, plenty of time for some capades of an Aberdonian nature. We decided to fill some time by visiting the newly opened watering hole, Chicago Rock Cafe. It was shite to say the least. The place resembled the bar attached to a bowling alley rather than a top city nightclub. We did get a laugh here, however as we were witness to a hilarious pulling attempt. A middle-aged woman was busy strutting her stuff on the miniscule dance floor when an even older and saggier bloke sidled up to her and tried his luck. The woman, understandably for the bloke did look quite slimy, shunned his amorous advances by subtly edging away from him as she danced. The man just would not take the hint and followed her around the floor, lingering like a bad smell. Eventually the poor woman had had enough and headed for the sanctuary of the bar but she wasn't even safe here as the slimy bastard followed on and tried in vain to engage in conversation with her. We can only guess as to what was said but I would imagine that such obscenities like "did it hurt when you fell from heaven" and "was your daddy a thief seeing as how he's stolen the stars and put them in your eyes" were uttered along with a few other choice cheesy chat-up lines. I don't know why they're referred to as cheesy chat-up lines when Cheesy himself would never display this lack of subtlety. The bloke continued with his monologue when suddenly, unnoticed by him, the woman got up and left silently. It was a few moments before he noticed and when he did his faced turned an intriguing shade of crimson. Needless to say we were killing ourselves laughing.
With the banter drying up and the Priory beckoning we departed Chicago Rock. As per usual the Priory was packed. The first port of call was of course the bar and whilst I was standing there waiting for my Coke, I had the car so I had to be tea-total you see, Star approached accompanied by a random. I assumed that it was an acquaintance of Star's so I introduced myself only to discover that Adoni was random to Star as well, no one knew who the hell he was but he was good banter so we let him sit with us. The banter flowed for about an hour and we unanimously came to the conclusion that Adoni was a thoroughly decent bloke, that was until he went and got the two ugliest girls imaginable for Snail to pull so we promptly left leaving Adoni and the ugly sisters behind us.
After some aimless wandering through the many side streets of Aberdeen we returned to my vehicle and drove off in search of a capade. First of all we headed for Torry but before crossing the Dee and entering the Royal Burgh we drove up a closed road full of road cones, built a road block by throwing cones all over the other carriageway, turned and drove the wrong way up the carriageway we were on and went around a roundabout the wrong way.
Balnagask golf course was next on our list of places to wreak havoc. The course is reached by driving up a narrow dirt track, so naturally I headed up this track but suddenly the track ended and I was driving upon a carefully manicured fairway. As if from nowhere the sandy hole of a bunker appeared in front of me and I threw the car hard right narrowly avoiding a highly compromising situation; how the fuck do you explain you're automobile being stuck in the middle of a golf course to the authorities? However, I continued my drive over the course and eventually found the dirt track again but not before Yann had pilfered a flag and I had done a couple of wheel spins on a tee.
We then started to make our way back to Ellon and were driving through Aberdeen when who should we meet but Adoni. We felt that we kind of had to give the intoxicated random a lift home so we took him to a petrol station near to his house where he bought us sandwiches and Coke before playing with one of the pumps by placing the nozzle immaturely between his legs and mimicking someone choking their chicken. We left Adoni at the station and after a brief stop at the twenty-four hour Tesco we headed homeward.
On the journey home we began to wonder what the fuck to do with Yann's flag so upon our arrival in Ellon we chucked it out the window and, as one does of an evening, made for the now infamous tattie mound.
As I turned the car, Snail, Yann and Star proceeded to fill the boot to the brim with tatties before launching a couple at the cows residing in the adjacent shed. We drove off with our bounty and pondered as to where we were going to put it.
First of all we thought of Eadie but then decided that he was too good a mate. Then we thought of young Miss Coonan but thought that the effect would not be good enough so we turned our attentions to Aungerrrrr McIntosh but unanimously concluded that we valued the use of our limbs too highly. Finally it was agreed that Razzzzzz would be the recipient of our cargo but when we arrived at Chez Robertson lights were still on and we thought that perhaps after the "duct tape round the car capade" we were pushing our luck a bit too far.
We sat dejectedly in the car for a few moments and were contemplating whether or not just to dump the tatties in a random place and go home when an idea flitted into my head. I felt such a fool that I had failed to think of it before. "Podgy Pete," I shouted triumphantly.
"Praise the lord for Podgy Pete!" Yann exclaimed from the rear of the car.
So we made our way to Podgy Pete's and dumped the load on his lawn. The pile, however, appeared miniscule in the vastness of Podgy Pete's garden so we thought that there was only one thing for it, get some more!!!
After a fleeting visit to Star's to pick up some black bags and a couple of shovels we were back at the tattie mound, this time filling two bin liners. We went back to Podgy Pete's, retrieving our discarded golf flag on the way because Podgy Pete likes his golf, and we emptied the tatties beside the others. Star then hoofed the pile, spreading potatoes far and wide over the garden and Yann put the flag in the mound proudly, as if he were putting a Saltaire on the moon. Satisfied with our nights work we returned contentedly home.
Later we found out that, upon discovering our starchy gift next day, Podgy Pete's mother burst into floods of tears and phoned the police who came and took photos of our handiwork, most diligent I must say.
The Tattie Boguls were born, next on the hit list, the venerable Martin J.
evening, made for the now infamous tattie mound.
As I turned the car, Snail, Yann and Star proceeded to fill the boot to the brim with tatties before launching a couple at the cows residing in the adjacent shed. We drove off with our bounty and pondered as to where we were going to put it.
First of all we thought of Eadie but then decided that he was too good a mate. Then we thought of young Miss Coonan but thought that the effect would not be good enough so we turned our attentions to Aungerrrrr McIntosh but unanimously concluded that we valued the use of our limbs too highly. Finally it was agreed that Razzzzzz would be the recipient of our cargo but when we arrived at Chez Robertson lights were still on and we thought that perhaps after the "duct tape round the car capade" we were pushing our luck a bit too far.
We sat dejectedly in the car for a few moments and were contemplating whether or not just to dump the tatties in a random place and go home when an idea flitted into my head. I felt such a fool that I had failed to think of it before. "Podgy Pete," I shouted triumphantly.
"Praise the lord for Podgy Pete!" Yann exclaimed from the rear of the car.
So we made our way to Podgy Pete's and dumped the load on his lawn. The pile, however, appeared miniscule in the vastness of Podgy Pete's garden so we thought that there was only one thing for it, get some more!!!
After a fleeting visit to Star's to pick up some black bags and a couple of shovels we were back at the tattie mound, this time filling two bin liners. We went back to Podgy Pete's, retrieving our discarded golf flag on the way because Podgy Pete likes his golf, and we emptied the tatties beside the others. Star then hoofed the pile, spreading potatoes far and wide over the garden and Yann put the flag in the mound proudly, as if he were putting a Saltaire on the moon. Satisfied with our nights work we returned contentedly home.
Later we found out that, upon discovering our starchy gift next day, Podgy Pete's mother burst into floods of tears and phoned the police who came and took photos of our handiwork, most diligent I must say.
The Tattie Boguls were born, next on the hit list, the venerable Martin J.
It's Your Future!
It's 7am in the Muirhead residence, and everything is still. In the distance the faint sounds of an alarm coming from, I suspect, the Parent's chamber along with a rustling of bedsheets can be heard. Soon enough, the intruding alarm is turned off and a loud yawn is emitted from the same room. Is it...? Yes, it's Andrew Muirhead, awakened from his deep slumber. He's wearing a long dressing gown, and looks like the face of death, no doubt still trying to figure out who he is and where he lives.
Making his way to the kitchen, Pa Muirhead stumbles around a bit, knocking over entire shelves full of Tesco value goods. A light is turned on in the corridor and soon a little girl of, I'd say, five years, appears from the darkness.
"Back to bed Andrea" he warmly tells her, trying his best to smile, although he can't feel his face. "Last orders aren't until eight" he adds, "now go back to bed honey." The girl reluctantly leaves, knowing papa was at the Booth again last night. Turning around, she looks at his age-ravaged face again, and looks at him with deep, sympathetic eyes. Somehow he now has a tin of Stella in his hand, and is gazing deep into its golden, loving, sweet nectar. She always found it odd that the only non-Tesco product in the house was her father's seemingly endless supplies of Stella, but never questioned her father, "or it's another chop in the mouth", she knew she'd get.
Andrew was lost in his beer. What was running through his head she'll never know, but he wasn't just holding it, he was caressing it. It was almost like he was looking after it; he was holding it to his chest and patting it, comforting it. She hurried off to bed, leaving her father and his Stella in peace.
These days Andrew was working as Chief Stock Replenishment And Control Officer for the newly opened Tesco in Ellon. It wasn't his ideal job, in fact he hated it, almost as much as "those socialist bastards." Somehow, everything was their fault. Andrew hated them with a passion. He always made sure to place the soup tins in the wrong place, work slowly, price things wrong, or do anything to hit back at his socialist boss, however small his rebellion was. Sometimes he would wonder if this was why he had never been promoted but would instantly dismiss this as lunacy. "My time will come" he schemed, rubbing his hands in psychotic glee, eyes darting left and right.
After work Andrew would call a taxi to escort him to the Booth in the most time-efficient way possible, despite it shaving a mere twenty three seconds compared to walking, and costing three pounds. Still in work clothes, he just needed to sit in his corner and a pint of Stella would be delivered and placed in his hand by the obliging bartender. They knew him on a first name basis, he was the only customer to have a tab there. The manager knew his bank details and would charge him for his drinks without Andrew ever having to move from his secured chair, or even having to speak. Most nights he would sit there paraletically and stare blankly at the opposing wall, drink being refilled the second it was emptied. He was a lonely, soulless figure, and scared off a lot of the younger drinkers. One time a group of rowdy teenagers come to sit beside him, clearly intent on humouring him. Drew just turned to face them, his icy stare enough to offset them to the point where they left the Booth, never to return.
At home he had a veritable beer mountain in the garage. He sold his car because it was taking up too much room in the garage, and ploughed the profits into replacing the car space with more crates of Stella. In a sense, it's all he ever wanted. The only reason he fought to look after his children was to use their small, agile hands to open his beer for him and put it up to his mouth. Years of neglect had left him with stubby fingers, which made opening beers and holding them very hard indeed.
That night Andrew went to bed at midnight, taking a six pack through to his room with him. Watching the late night porno, he drank himself stupid, like he did every night. It was then that he put a video entitled "Aberdeen- season 16/17" and decided to make a night of it, watching the flickering coloured images until he passed out and his daughter came in to roll him on his side. She did this for him every night, alternating with her brother each week to do the tireless duty. They left their father to drool and snore, savouring the prospect of six hours of sleep.
Andrew died aged 63 of heart failure in his bed. Some say it was Aberdeen's relegation to the fourth division that put the final nail in the coffin, others say it was an elaborate set-up, and he's now living in Hawaii. Either way, Tesco held a minute’s silence for him, and then promptly promoted an up and coming sixteen year old to replace him. The Tolbooth took all the money he had left in his bank account, and used some of it to put a commemorative plaque in Drew's corner. The rest they spent getting pissed and betting on greyhound racing.
Starsite's Back!
A lot of people have been complaining of not being able to load this site, so, accordingly, I've altered the template. Hope this works!
Gaz Batterson
Today is most definitely a "slow news day" with all subject matter seemingly being on holiday, befitting of the summer period. So this, as you'd expect, leaves me to toil with my brain and attempt to make it submit some subject matter for me to write about, vainly, may I add. I seem to be in a curious "subject limbo", where I feel I've opinionated myself on almost every topic imaginable and retold countless gatherings to the point where writing another report would differ not from the last. Sidekicks are meant to help me having to write daily, but alas, there's no such thing as a good sidekick. I even contemplated approaching Dabby with the idea of writing a combined blog, but being each other's sidekicks would almost certainly result in absolutely nothing being written. Stupid, ironic paradox!!
Moving swiftly, I've decided to write about something close to my heart and probably not yours- Me. If you don't like it, blame my ghost guest writers.
In the post this morning I found my admission to the Butler Court in the shapely form of a doormat-sized booklet. How Loughborough expect me to read all this I'll never know, I'll explain to them my dislike of reading and that should be the end of that. So I've been accepted to my first choice of Halls, which is positive. Not so positive, however, is the fine print.
"Butler Court- The Place For First Year Students!" the glossy brochure cooed, handily neglecting any photos of the said place. "Near the athletics’ stadium, Butler Court oozes personality and finesse, having a games rooms, networked rooms and ensuite bathrooms." Go on...
"Butler Court is always a lively and secure place, with access to the blocks by electronic swipe card." Eh, this place don't sound too bad! But, taking my magnifying glass out, I spy on the very last page "all rooms are twinned." What, sharing a room? Checking out the Loughborough website I find, to my horror, that I'll be sharing a room with someone in a months time.
Before I rant, let it be clear that these rooms are attractive and spacious. What I'm worried about is sharing a room with a podgy, stubborn bastard who stinks to fuck and refuses to compromise over anything.
I can just see him now- his name will be Gaz Batterson, a skin-headed former bouncer from Newcastle studying Geography. He'll down his Newcastle Brown Ale like it were water, and smoke like a chimney. Every night he'll stagger in at 4am pissed to hell and sweating like a motherfucker. "Eh, Al, look at me!" he'll cry, removing his top to reveal what looks like four tyres have been implanted under his skin. He'll be rippling his flab and suddenly, completely unannounced, he'll let loose the biggest fart I've ever heard. It'll clap like thunder and engulf the room in his pungent smell, and he'll quip "come through brown, you're through!" He'll then charge across the room and fling his body onto my bed, crushing every rib in the process. "Get... off..." I'll wheeze, as Gaz swigs another Brown Ale and burps in my face, allowing the kebab he's just eaten to taunt me with its smell.
What's worse, Gaz refuses to leave me alone. Night and day he'll try to start conversation with me, "eh, Al" he'll call, "check the minge on this bird!" and he'll hold up this month’s copy of Newcastle Fat Slags. "Great, Gaz" I'll reply, and put my headphones back on. By now, at the end of fresher's week, I've had enough of Gaz and his space-hogging ways. The room is completely littered with empty beers and the bathroom is cluttered with Gaz's belongings. To add to my woes, Gaz is regular as clockwork, and takes a shit at precisely 7 each morning. This leaves me to wake up to the odour of Gaz's elephant-sized craps, because he refuses to close the door once he's finished. "Eh, Al, can you smell that?" he'll tell me each and every day when I wake up, and he'll burst out laughing. "Good thing is, Al, that I can't smell 'em! That's right! Whoever creates..." I turn over and close my hearing with my pillow.
When going round the clubs Gaz is always there, making an arse of himself and always showing me up. He'll fling his arm round two good looking girls and say "see that guy over there? That's Al. He's my mate" and they'll free themselves from his tight grip and tell all their mates to stay away from me. "See those girls Al" he'll say, approaching me. "Toffee pudding minge." He always has a way of turning me off even the hottest looking girls. Gaz never scores, but he doesn't care, getting drunk and stupid is his life. By this point it's too far in the year (one week precisely) to switch rooms, and I'm stuck with Gaz for the entire duration of the year.
God help me.
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Sharon: "Too many convos open! Meh"
Me: "Everyone's saying "meh" these days- you're nothing but a sheep."
American Television Attitudes
Americans are superior to us in most social respects and none more so than their attitudes towards television.
Every American TV show is a grand spectacle and evolved years beyond lousy British TV, or anything else in the world for that matter. They know what audiences want- they want drama, suspense, entertainment, and the bosses give the American public exactly what they want. They want outrageous stunts, unbelievable feats, the boundaries of taste to be stretched to their very limits, they want to be moved, enlightened, feel good but most of all they want to enjoy themselves. However, somewhere along the line, British TV has lost the core of what viewers want- fun.
Let me show this through anecdotal evidence- please step forward Big Brother. In Britain, Big Brother is dumbed down as far as it can go, being a disgraceful showpiece for the reserved British lifestyle and stereotype. Any form of showmanship or gamesmanship is frowned upon, "it's only a gameshow" Nasty Nick once quipped- but not to a British audience. To a British audience Big Brother must be as decent and upperhand as is possible- they're not allowed to influence in-house voting in any respect, and it detracts from the fun in the worst way possible.
In America however, their Big Brother is bursting with entertainment and drama. All the housemates are out to better each other- they form alliance packs, double cross each other, use each other as pawns in their elaborate game, power sways a different direction each week- and they love it. The Americans love Big Brother to bits, because it doesn't try to emulate a real-life scenario. Two weeks ago all the housemates Ex boyfriend/girlfriends came to live with them, sparking a whole host of cat fights, shouting matches and new tactics. All the evictions are made in front of each other, and not behind a closed door like British Big Brother ("it's more fun if no one knows who voted for who!"- shite). The best of all, however, is the mockery American Big Brother makes of British Big Brother's "No sex please- we're British!" facade. Every time I tune in some lucky guy is sharing a bed with one of the female contestants, it's such a refreshing change from the scared pussies in the British household who (giggle!) maybe touch someone's boobies accidentally! Give me American Big Brother any day, and not the "Dear Big Brother- I think I like Nush, but I'm too scared in case she says no!" bollocks that have ruined E4's schedule for eight long weeks.
Big Brother is representative of the American attitudes to gameshows as much as the Weakest Link USA is. For the first few seasons on British TV the Weakest Link was a very dry and mind-numbingly boring affair. Contestants playing for a jackpot of ÂŁ3,000 doesn't set my heart racing, and nor does the eerie silence evoked after every round. Anne would retort "which village has lost their idiot"- and silence. Absolutely nothing. The Weakest Link UK was solely about answering questions correctly, where the American version focused on Anne Robinson's bitchy and snide remarks, with the questions taking second-precedent. In the American show, the contestants were playing for jackpots of $500,000 and the crowd were absorbed in the battle of wits between Anne and her unwitting victims. Even with a three series headstart, it was the American version that made even the sternest of stern-faced bitches, Anne, smile. The contestant told Anne how much of a turn-on her authoritarian stance was, along with the stiff leather jacket. When voted out, he walked up to her and hugged her, running his hands over her coat in the process. The audience loved this, and Anne smiled, just for a second. A world apart from the walk of shame on British TV, where the contestants depart heads-bowed and wrapped in shame. The Americans gesture to the crowd and walk with dignity, often putting an amusing retort/action to the cameraman- "it's only a gameshow", afterall.
Even the American news is a blown-out affair, with vibrant colour schemes, impending "BREAKING NEWS!" banners filling half the screen and the presenters making some excitement from an otherwise drab and boring broadcast. Nothing captures this more than the Sports section, where the programme jumps from continent to continent reporting on the most exciting and breathtaking plays around the world. BBC one however has a very politically focused agenda, where three quarters of airtime focuses of dry, painful viewing on political situations the world over. Even the Sports section focuses on cricket, golf and any other "civilised" upper-class sport. The colours are boring, the presenters are old guffs who don't sound the least bit interested, and everything has anti-bias, with no committal to opinion whatsoever.
What was the last good comedy to come out of Britain? The Simpsons, South Park, Friends, Futurama, Cheers- hold on, they're all made in America. Ummm... Monty Python? Hold on, that's crap. Ok, so Britiain don't produce comedies, so what do we make? Fact-based documentaries and quiz shows, that's what. That's what a British audience want's to see- they want to be whisked back in time to the age of the dinosaurs, they want to know what happened to the Aztecs, they want to know how long Queen Victoria reigned for be it through smart-assed contestants, or wised-assed documentaries. Well, I don't. So thank God for sky and the Simpsons, Futurama MTV (conceived in America), Fox, CNN and everything else fun to watch, and American. They may be across a pond from us, but while there are still satellites in the sky, I'll be an American viewer. Until Britain catch up, they can keep their crappy documentaries and political news channels to themselves.
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Leanne: "We girls have to put makeup on, do our hair, put perfume on which takes up to half an hour, but guys just need to shower and get out the door!"
Me: "If that."
Celebrate Good Times!
Last night a group consisting of myself, Tom, Tete, Snail, Yann, Beefy and Cheesy went to town to get most exceptionally buckled, embark on madcap antics and go overboard in dissing Morna. Well, only one of us did the latter, but you get the idea.
It began with the notorious Beef driving Snail, Biff's Ex (?) and I into Aberdeen, shame of the North East. Where I wasn't invited to Biff's meal, I soon met up with Sleeze and all her brothel hos in a nearby Travel Lodge for some quality drinking. You'd be amazed if I told you Morna was most thoroughly buckled before 9 O'Clock, but-gasp!- she was! As were all her friends, who looked quite fetching in their mini skirts.
This next paragraph is for Dabby: Rebecca Smith was wearing a minuscule skirt, easily confusable with a belt, may I add. Her tight fitting top was just ready to burst, and she was staggering all over the room, bending over a drawer to unplug the tv (plausible enough...). Her skirt drew up to her waist as I got a full view of her underwearless behind, and she then made out with Rachel Stevens. She was sharing a bed with three of Morna's other friends, who were soaked from head to toe in curry sauce. They were frolicking around on the floor, and playfully pinning each other down and splashing curry sauce on each others faces and licking it all off. None of them were wearing a brassiere, and Rebecca's top soon tore open at the seam and she was wearing nothing underneath, as she playfully splattered more curry sauce on her romping friends. This continued for a further ten minutes until all the girls were naked and making out with each other, including Rachel, who was fisting herself in the bathroom.
Leaving Morna's gathering of like-minded friends rather tipsy and dry-mouthed (because Morna has a way of making you drink wine when you don't want to) I found Tete and Tom across the road at the Lemon Tree. We went for a quick pint in Archibald Simpsons, bantered much, and then headed for Slains Castle. I had a chilled Corona, with customary lime, and we stayed there for a while due to the pleasant surroundings. Heading up towards Espionage who did we see but the not-so-random Ian Mackay! Taking the legendary and much talked about Mackay under our wing, we headed for the Priory to take advantage of the pound-per-pint/shot deal that was circulating Aberdeen.
I just know, being a prospective student, that I'll be seeing a lot of pound-per-pint deals in my time. They're brilliant, I had a double shot of Apple Sours and two pints of Carlsberg for a mere ÂŁ4! Unexpectedly, Mackay then effectively bought us a round by getting me a pint of Carslberg (unbeatable on tap), Tom a triple shot of Apple Sours, Tete a double shot and himself a bottle of Becks. For that, we had to call a toast to Mackay the Generous, for putting me on my way to a magical land of Bucklesland, where the world spins in front of your very eyes, everyone is beautiful, and your bladder has the capacity of a small hipflask, and needs regular emptying. Such was my newfound state of intoxication, I spilt half of Beefy's beer. Instead of spending the next month in endless confession, as I know I should after that horrific disrespect to the noble Pint, I poured half of one of my pints into his glass. Sorted. Let it not be known that Star doesn't keep the peace.
In Belmont street a rather bored looking Fantasy Club worker thrust a fistful of free passes into my hand, whispering nervously "don't tell the boss I gave you all these..." before disappearing into a dark side alley. So, it was settled- fantasy club we go! Mackay seemed to be left behind in the Priory, so it just the testosterone trio Tete, Tom and Star that capitalised on free entry. Before long a resident stripper was at our table chatting to us. Somewhere in the conversation, naturally, the subject of lap dances came up (don't ask me how she does it so slyly!). We all agreed that Tete was owed a lapdance after the many Poulet dances he's given us, so we paid for half of his lapdance and off he went. Returning five minutes later, hair a little ruffled but sporting a huge grin stretching from ear to ear, Tete told all. And will probably tell you too, if you ask nicely.
Drinking just isn't complete without a fat kebab, so we went to the Belmont kebab shop and I had a donner kebab. The meat was good, salad good, sauce mediocre. Auch. Afterwards we returned to Priory for a spot of dancing, and the whole crew had rejoined us. Yann, Snail and Cheesy were already (next to) the dancefloor along with the infamous Mackay and the whole Morna crew. Wait... did I say Snail and Morna were under the same roof? Oh oh. Well, they'll be fine so long as they just avoid each other. Wrong.
At two the Priory shut for the night, giving me ample warning to try and get Snail out without any conflict with Morna. True to personality, Morna just ignored Snail. I didn't hear what he said, but Morna wasn't caring. Good on her! I think everyone has reached that point now, Morna predominantly.
So on the walk to Beefy's car Snail had a go at Cheesy and Beefy, I'm not sure what for. I don't want to get involved, I've had it with being a target of hate for him when I try to help him get over Morna. He's on his own as far as I'm concerned, when I go out I just want a good time, I don't want to get caught up in this anymore. Near to the car and Snails anger and frustration had reached fever pitch and he was threatening Beefy (who was still offering to drive him home) and shouting at all of us. After one final offering, Beefy just drove away. Down the road we picked up Yann and Tom, not before hearing a bottle being thrown off Beefy's car from you-know-who.
Because Snail was drunk, I phoned his parents so that he could get picked up. You know, just trying to help out because I don't want him wandering the mean streets of Aberdeen on my conscience. Once I was dropped off I went for bed, end of story. Or so I thought.
Richard Matthews phones me at four in the morning. Me, of course, because all of this is my fault. He's angry, he thinks it was me that left Snail in Aberdeen. Sigh. As you would expect, Richard said his abusive piece and hung up, knowing that hearing the story from anyone but Snail's side would be a bad idea (note the irony).
Here's my justification- Snail threatened Beefy, very violent and aggressive behaviour, punched Tom several times, shouted at everyone, invited people to "have a go" in a fight, when offered the lift several times he didn't enter the car, when driving away he throws something at the car. What were we supposed to do again? Tolerate this? We could have phoned the police to pick him up but chose his parents, for obvious reasons. Another great night ruined by Snail's inappropriate behaviour.
For the record, I've had seven phonecalls today (it's currently 3pm) from Snail. I won't pick up, I've got nothing to say to him. If he needs to talk, there's a free Samaritans helpline I'd be happy to recommend. That way, at least, they can have their night ruined, and not mine.
Exams! Again!
It's not every day you wake up to a white sealed envelope containing the documents that will shape your life irreversibly. But today, that's exactly what I did.
Each year I follow the same tried and tested formula for passing tests, allow me to explain. It's imperative that you rest for the first half of the year, ie don't do homework, pass NABs with as little effort as you can muster, and generally make an arse of yourself. Everyone around you will be 'going one up' on you thinking that you're losing your edge- you're not, but don't tell them that. Around January time you have to step up your work- this is the hard part. This involves locking yourself in your room for 2-3 hours at a time cramming for the prelim.
The best way to cram is to read the course work in its entirety in as few sittings as is possible. If you put the radio on, time flies twice as fast. Putting music on doesn't always help, the spontaneity of someone else talking can keep you stimulated and makes revising less of a chore. After you're read all your notes, depending on subject, you have to do questions. Just take a sheet of A4 and absolutely fill each side with working, keep going until you've covered all the questions you need to answer. By now you're well armed for the prelim, and should walk it.
For the next couple of months reduce your revision diet drastically- you'll need to recharge your batteries for the next big effort. Approximately 5-6 weeks before the Big Exam, hit the books hard and fast. Spare no book, leave no question untouched. If you have to remember quotes, write them down on an A4 sheet and read them like a motherfucker. I can't stress this enough- you've done barely no work all year, and now it's time to knuckle down and learn with the best of them. Write, write, write- five hour revision stints are not uncommon at this level. If you want to compete with the private school boys, you've got to work, even more so because you've done barely anything throughout the whole year, and will have no notes to fall back on. Because you've done hardly any work all year, you'll be able to take heavy doses of revision. The courses are very long and hard- especially the sciences- and you've got to be able to produce a formula or a quote at the snap of your fingers.
Also, when in the exam, write scrappily. This is even more important in social subjects and Business Management. Your teachers will give you flak all year- I certainly took my share of criticism, but all the top performers write scrappily in the exam. It's the key to success- speed over legibility is what seperates the As from the Bs. One week to the exams and you should be invincible- there should not be a question you can't at least get a few marks from. Moreover, everyone will think you're a dunce- all year you've made a fool of yourself and haven't done the homework, but you'll show 'em yet. It's all part of the grand scheme. Those who work too hard early on burn out and suffer in the final stages. What's important to learn is that all you remember from the early part of the year (pre December) is how hard you worked- not what you learned. Everyone has a revision threshold- I've hit the barrier many times. You just can't look at that sheet of paper anymore, but you know you have to. No matter how hard you try, you can't bring yourself to do it. People who work hard early on reach this threshold prematurely, and falter. Do this at your peril.
So today I roll out of bed and tear the portentous white envelope wide open. Glancing slightly right I spy
Advanced Higher Maths A
Advanced Higher English A
Higher Business Management A
Well, blow me. Inside I had a feeling I'd done well in Maths and English- but Business Management! My word! Shows what a single night’s Leckie and Lecking can do for you, and also what a farce the course is.
Another year, another exam gone. Sigh. It's not easy- not by a long stretch- but you'll agree the work pays off if you really go for it. Ironically, if it wasn't for my predicted ABB Loughborough wouldn't have given me a conditional offer, thanks to my lack of working during the first half of the year. Without my lazing around stance I took up until January, I'd have never got a conditional, wouldn't have had any incentive to work and would almost surely have failed each of the above exams. Maybe I'm blowing my own trumpet, but it's my blog, I'll wallow in my own triumph if I like. It's only for one day anyway, tomorrow I'll just be "Average Alan" again, disrespected and the class punchbag as usual. I'll be "Shmucky Star" once again, and no one will care for exams. So, just for today, I'm going to be happy and proud of myself. From what I've heard, you guys are all going to your Unis of choice too, so I'm also proud of you lot as well. If anything, today as sealed my liaison with Ellon Academy once and for all. Long Live Loughborough!
+ The Starsite family is growing in size, with another guest writer being added in the portly shape of Beefy. Beefy's writing style lends itself well to this site, and I'm sure you'll enjoy what he has to say. He's currently writing his own book, but will take time to write here once in a while. Anyone else wants a guest spot, mail me.
Today's Anthem: Spooks- The Mission
To Cut A Short Story Long
Summer holidays, to me, have never been the ever-warm, playful and relaxing stereotype that TV has convinced me it should be. What's worse, TV insists on portraying summertime as the ultimate in family bonding, where a gorgeous middle-aged couple and their eternally well behaved, curious and full of life children romp in a blisteringly hot summer meadow, arm in arm. Indeed, the only time twins are ever shown on TV are when it's necessary to capitalise on all the mischief available to identical twins by 'swapping dates', 'sitting exams for each other', 'looking out for one another', or any other combination of cheesy antic that the adorable twosome can embark on.
The parents are always middle everything- not too wealthy but can still afford a family saloon car, not too good looking but certainly well dressed and honest looking, and always tolerant but never authoritarian. Nine out of ten times they will have two children- one a mischievous rascal with splatterings of mud on his trousers, always seeking adventure. The other will be a pig-tailed, befreckled girl who's always close to mother and loves to skip and epitomises joy and the marvel of youth and childhood innocence. Dad will buy them an ice cream cone with flake, and they'll hug him and say "you're the best dad!" under the watchful eye of mother, who will be grinning like the Cheshire cat in the background, overcome with happiness at her wonderful husband.
The father, as is common, is always the provider. Be it a washing machine, a car, house or any product the company is trying to sell the hard-working father will always be the one to provide the family stability. The worst are the father-son type scenarios. How many times have you seen an American film where the dad has promised to see his son's first Mini-League Baseball game, only to be held up at the office? Or to see his daughter's play, only to catch the dying seconds of the play as his daughter looks to the crowd and sees her wonderful father in the very back row smiling? But the very worst of these is when the family are on a camping holiday, the very highest of cheesy family bonding scenarios. Sitting on the edge of a lake, the son manages to catch his first trout. The father puts his arm round him, "I'm so proud of you son" he'll say, pressing his son against his chest. Gazing into his father's eyes, the son replies "Dad...", "yes son", "... I love you" and the corny Disney-style scene setting 'uplifting' music plays as the camera pans out over the moon-lit lake, with the son in his father's arms.
And the mother stereotype isn't any better. The special relationship that only a mother and daughter can share almost always centers on trust, and gestation. There I said it- a girl's first period is always a very uniting event, where the daughter has to pluck up the courage to talk to her mother about it. No doubt this brings them closer, more so than a father and son could ever achieve. The mother looking after younger children is an annoyance at best. The new Robinson's advert where two 'cute' kids are pretending their mother is a giant pisses me off. "You mucky pups!" she exclaims to the giggling little benders, "is that Giant's blood!" she adds jokingly. The kids giggle and squeal in delight, and the mother leaves them to play in the mud further. My arse. In real life the burly mother would have clattered them round the ear, and screamed "fit have I telt ye aboot gettin yer clai's dirti? Yer fithir will hir aboot 'is!" Replace giggling with crying, and you have a more accurate representation of modern domestic life.
This blog wasn't meant to be about TV's depiction of family life, it just got there somehow. Where was I... ah yes, summer holidays. In bygone years to earn money I had to work in the garden, slaving away for hours for mere pounds. On reflection this was a form of exploitation, but when you're young you don't know any better. Moving forward in time and I'm still not making money in my holidays, making a pauper of me rather than a prince. I guess that's all I was going to say when I think about it. Oh well.
A Long Run
Today I went for a nightmare hour-long run along the railway line.
It all began at 12:30 when my mother awoke me with the words "lunch will be ready in five minutes." I hate it when they do this, because once I'm up I can't for the life of me get back to sleep. Savouring the precious few minutes in my warm sanctuary, I pried myself out of the inviting bed and made my way to the kitchen. Thankfully Geraldine and Jennifer weren't present because as anyone will testify, 'family meals' soon become an excuse to berate each other in the spirit of 'fun'.
Looking at my plate my mum must have been rather uninspired this morning, for all there was were two rashers of bacon, a fried egg and burnt toast (is that an oxymoron?). This brunch has about as much nutrition as Dabby's entire days eating, so as you can tell I was hitting the snack cupboard moments after leaving the table. What's more, toast is shit. What's so good about toast? It's just bread (which, by definition, isn't an exciting substance anyway) burnt and dried of any goodness. Toast is about as essential to my diet as Squid is, and tastes like charcoal. My mum committed the cardinal sin by omitting sausages from this 'brunch', which put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
Energyless, thanks to a lame three-piece brunch, I decided to get this long run out of the road. What a mistake. I should know by now that bacon, an egg and a shitty piece of toast doesn't even begin to give you the energy to go on a long run, but today it was magnified due to the sizzling energy-sapping sunshine we've been cursed (blessed) with. To add to my woes, the wind was blowing right into my face for the entire first half of the run (which takes half an hour, surprisingly) and the railway line, such is its nature, is uphill all the way to Udny, a grand four and a half miles away.
Being the ignoramus I am, I set off at a suicidal pace for the first fifteen minutes. Sun scorching my skin, wind blowing a gale in my face and all uphill, I foolishly attacked the first few kilometres like it was some sort of solo time trial. Passing the first "check point" (the second bridge, fact fans) in 15:05 I knew I'd be very hard pushed to keep this pace up. To make matters worse the wind actually picked up and instead of blowing me back the way, it was a cross wind that was blowing me into the sides of the track. Very, very annoying.
After 20 minutes my limited fuel reserves died on me. The first sign of this is when your legs begin to swell with lactic acid and your stride length chops in half. Your stomach feels empty, your mouth dries like the Arizona desert and your legs stiffen up like Jonny's bell in Mothercare. Struggling on, I came up to the only hill on the railway line half a mile outside Udny station. Climbing this was an absolute killer, if I was any slower I'd be walking backwards.
By coincidence, or sheer chance, Udny Station is almost exactly half an hour's worth of running from my house. Don't ask me how it worked out this way, it just does- at full exertion, I'll arrive in Udny after precisely half an hour of running. Arriving half a minute from Udny, due to a ferocious first quarter and a lethargic second, it was time to turn 180 degrees and do it all again the opposite direction. This part is the toughest mentally, it's soul destroying being in Udny and having to run four and a half miles all the way back to Ellon.
Because of this, every step I take forward must be repeated on the way back. If I can only run another fifteen minutes that's just tough, there's still another fifteen that has to be found somewhere.
I realised in Udny I made a gross miscalculation before I started running. Usually I wear a good vest for a long run but because these are in the wash I was left with Grade C 'East of Scotland' attire. This vest clings to your chest and causes the most irritating nipple rub effect I've ever had to endure. And because it cost money to buy, it's not like I can finish the run without it. So here I am, half an hour minimum from Ellon with red-raw nipples and a chaffing cheese-grating vest. Sore, sore, sore.
Running on an empty tank, I try to cruise back to Ellon at a moderate pace. I'm very tired, my legs are cripplingly tight and the sun is beating down on me like I was in the hills of Addis Ababa on the hottest day of the year. The following half hour was a nightmare realised, a pain I don't want to endure again for a long time. After a long struggle Ellon soon becomes visible and home beckons. Fifteen minutes of strain later, and I'm home.
My nipples are now close to bleeding and I'm thirstier than that kid with the big eyes on the appeal who rattles his empty water bowl to the camera. I pass out on the couch, and soon dunk my head under the sink to relieve the extreme heat and dehydration my body has endured. "Never again" I say, but I know this is an empty promise. Next saturday I'll go through the same torture, the only difference being the addition of sausages to my brunch. Well, it's a start.
Eighteen
It's a turning point in any mans life- for most becoming eighteen years of age spells legality, for others it's a stepping stone towards legality (ask the Americans), but for me it's the end of hiding behind people walking into a club, presenting my fake ID and grinning hopefully, and sipping my pint with one eye on the door. For yesterday was my eighteenth and ended the tension associated with my typical friday nights because for the first time in my life I could legitimately enter a bar without lying. It's great.
Turning eighteen is to "come of age", whatever the hell that means. All I know is that "coming of age" means you can drink booze anywhere you like and not have to plead your case to picky bartenders. My provisional driving licence does all the work for me- one flash of the DVLA hologramed wonder and doors open. Bouncers step back, barmen fill your glass, club doors open all with one dainty flash of this modern day skeleton key. Brilliantly, the driving licence is not only necessary to own to drive, but is the number one form of ID to have. It's indisputable- no one will refuse your custom if you have this in your possession, and it's got more credibility than carrying your (ÂŁ50 to replace) passport. This magical card is indispensable- always carry one with you. Unless you're not eighteen. In that case, young man, you'd better keep a low profile and watch your every step. Oh, how those days of rejection have gone.
So for my eighteenth I got an expensive gold chain and a sports watch. Woo hoo! Due to my very limited family, I received just three presents from my entire lineage thanks, in part, to Jenny not getting me a present. Grandparents? Deceased or suffering alziemers. Aunties? Forgot. Cousins? You'd think so, wouldn't you? Amusingly, my girlfriend and her family bought me more presents than my actual family did, testament if ever there was to the benefits of a stable relationship. Leanne's mum went to the lengths of buying me Gucci aftershave- now that's a present! Leanne bought me a DVD (American Psycho) and plenty of fcuk toiletries. So for their part I was spoilt rotten, as one should be on one's eighteenth.
Dabby, Tete and Morna (speaking of which, will write occasionally on Starsite) came round to mine last night to celebrate my eighteenth getting most profusely drunk. Sevens was the drinking game of choice, with a litre bottle of vodka worth of shots being the incentive to play strategically to avoid it's brain-wrecking wrath. Admittedly Dabby and Morna probably took the brunt, resulting in both taking prolonged spells of not playing each. The delays soon bordered on the ridiculous, so I decided to crack open the beers and went it alone on the path to bucklesville.
A game of truth, dare or shot then happened, where Tete had to hold the "Doggy Position" with an awkward looking Sleeze (who protested endlessly about it) for fifteen seconds. After long bouts of indecisiveness, Sleeze decided to do it, looking thoroughly ashamed of herself. I swear there's nothing left to learn about anyone in a game of truth or shot, but it's a good talking point none the less.
For a capade we called on Addis' at four in the morning, and he answered the door despite being asleep before we came. I played Tete at pool and mauled him, despite being intoxicated, and we left after a brief game, much to Addis' delight. Then we stole a golf club flag, as is routine, and planted it in the nun's garden. Sleeze and I then went for a paddle in the ythan (!), before stealing some newspapers from outside the Mace.
All in all a good eighteenth, made better by my good friends and girlfriend. Tolbooth tonight for my first legal pint despite being sold there for months. A novelty you can only do once in life, and hopefully will mark many more years of legal drinking to come.
Questionnaire
Kayleigh created a questionnaire out of sheer boredom. Then, also out of boredom, Sharon and Sleeze Mo also filled it out. Out of contempt for questionnaires, I have also decided to fill it out, posting it here for those who are bored beyond their wits end. Isn't summer just so much fun!
1.WHAT IS UR NAME? Alan Worcester Wales
2.WHAT COLOUR PANTS/THONG R U WEARING? What, are you some kind of perv sleazy?
3.WHAT R U LISTENING 2 RIGHT NOW? Is it important?
4.WHAT WAS THE LAST 4 DIGETS OF UR PHONE NUMBER? Stalker.
5.WHAT WAS THE LAST THING U ATE? Pussy
6.IF U WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOUR WOULD U BE? "Good question"
7.WHERE DO/ DID U PLAN 2 GO ON UR HONEYMOON? You know what, I haven't planned that far ahead
8.HOW IS THE WEATHER RIGHT NOW? Residency: Scotland. It's cold, suffice to say
9.LAST PERSON U TALKED 2 ON THE PHONE? Learn to spell
10.WHAT IS THE FIRST THING U NOTICE ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX? Gender
11.DO U LIKE THE PERSON(S) WHO SENT THIS 2 U? No.
12.HOW R U 2DAY? What is this, the spanish inquisition?
13.FAVORITE DRINK? Blood
14.HOW DO U EAT AN OREO? The same way everyone else does
15.HAIR COLOUR? Woo-hoo! Fun, fun, fun! It's brown. Does anyone care?
16.DO U WEAR CONTACTS? Who makes this shit up?
17.SIBLINGS AND THEIR AGE? Oh wait, you're trying to get enough info to track me down and stalk me. Gotcha.
18.FAVOURITE MONTH? Another superlative question
19.FAVOURITE FOOD? Let me see... beans? Has that changed your life?
20.LAST MOVIE U WATCHED? Showgirls
21.ARE U 2 SHY 2 ASK SOMEONE OUT? Not if they're ugly
22.DO U LIKE SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY MOVIES? Is both not an option?
23.SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer
24.HUGS OR KISSES? Depends what age. I'll sooner hug a 3 year old than kiss her
25.RELATIONSHIPS OR ONE NIGHT STANDS? Relationships. All the benefits of a one night stand, and a whole lot more
26.VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE? Inspirational question. Ever thought of being on TV?
27.DO U WANT UR FRIENDS 2 WRITE BACK? No, even Tete could write a better questionnaire than this one
28.WHO IS THE MOST LIKELY 2 RESPOND? Amy
29.WHO IS THE LEAST LIKE LIKELY 2 RESPOND? Yann, because it would take up valuable dransik time
30.WHAT BOOKS R U READING? None, it's the summer, you don't read in summer
31.WHATS ON UR MOUSE PAD? My mouse
32.FAVOURITE BOARD GAME? Ludo
33. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? Vaginal thrush
34.WHAT IS THE FIRST THING U THINK OF WHEN U WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? Why do I always wake up with a morning stiffie? There must be a biological reason for this
35.FAVOURITE COLOURS? Blue
36.HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE U ANSWER THE PHONE? Less than four, or the answer machine cuts in
37.FUTURE CHILDS NAME? Alan
38.DO U THINK THE GLASS IS HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY? What glass?
39.WHATS UNDER UR BED? Bodies
40.WHAT IS UR FAVOURITE NUMBER? Does it matter?
41. NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON THAT SENT THIS 2 U? She's a less hostile person than Snail. I guess that doesn't say much though...
42.BLACK OR WHITE MEN? I'm not racist
43.WHERE IS UR NEXT HOLIDAY 2? Loughborough
44.BEST FRIEND IS A BOY/GIRL? Oooh that's a hard one. I don't have a "best friend", I've got a few people that I consider my best friends, but no outstanding "best friend."
45.DO U HAVE A MOBILE AND WHAT KIND? I'll punch you if you ask me anything more about my phone
46.WOULD U RATHER SHOP IN GLASGOW/EDINBURGH? I wouldn't care
47.R U GLAD SCHOOL/ WORK IS FINISHED? It's not finished, I still have four years at uni ahead of me
48. WHO WOULD U MOST LIKE 2 SLEEP WITH? My girlfriend
Counter
The counter now reads 25000 hits exactly. This is a defining moment of my life, I just know it...
Jamie's And D2
What's preferable; a single-topic blog each day (a-la-starsite), or a dual-topic blog once a week (a-la-dabby)? It seems you miserable wretches want the best of both worlds, where I'd write a dual-topic blog each and every day. Well I'll tell you now- it ain't happening. Except for today, because I'm feeling particularly generous. Enjoy it while it lasts kiddies.
In short, Addis' party was really good! Of course there was the problem of the socially repellent Hattoners being there, who seem to be in a tiny world of their own where outsiders are shunned and avoided at all costs, but there was a way round that. The Tolbooth crew were out in force at Addis', quickly making their home in the pool room. This is where we spent the night shooting pool, downing beers and having the best banter this side of the 'Booth.
When I first got there academic achiever and pals were watching a re-run of "Monty Python's A Life Of Brian." I hate Monty Python, you'd be just as well sticking Dransik in my face it's that nerdy and crap. Turning about, I heard academic achiever recite one of the many "amusing" and "witty" one-liners that nerds worldwide use as their IRC names and to woo other (male, posing as female) nerds. They laughed and I left, completely unable to pinpoint the humour in Monty Python slipping on a banana peel.
All the Hattoner females turned up with towels draped over their bodies, which was an inexplicable novelty but amusing none the less. The most amusing moment of the whole night occurred when Liz Broadbent pulled up into Addis' with green 'L' plates attached securely to the front of her car. No one does this of their own will- it happens when pushy parents wag their index finger and warn "the sooner you pass the sooner you crash", and make their child don ridiculous green "L" plates despite there being no legal obligation. You look like a tard when you put "L" plates on once you've passed your test, it's akin to wearing nappies at eight years old. Tell your parents to shove their "L" plates up their arse Liz, for goodness sake.
So the approachable Hattoners soon leave Addis' to go to Tesco... to get food. Because there's clearly a shortage of food in Ellon... hold on a minute, there isn't. Ellon has the largest ratio of people to fast food outlets in the whole of Scotland. It's just rude. To add to the rudeness yann hounded Liz's car with friends to show her up for having green "L" plates on her car leaving Addis, myself and a choice few to party in the derelict house on our own. They weren't gone long, and upon arrival the music flared up again and the party restarted like they'd never been gone.
It was great mingling with people, the atmosphere was lively and on the whole Addis' was a resounding success. He was hospitable and welcoming, everyone had a good time and enjoyed themselves. Isla soon found herself online, preferring to ignore face-to-face social interaction with her Hattoner friends and boyfriend for faceless typing with the few who were online. I beat Richard three times in succession at pool before he beat me twice and I went on to beat yann, snail and gary's cousin too. Not a bad nights work, I'm sure you'll agree.
As the clock approached 2am people were starting to leave, but the Tolbooth crew partied on regardless. Beefy and Drew left disappointingly early, blaming work at 8 for their premature departure. Once the numbers had whittled down, snail then spent the rest of the night talking about his issues with Morna. This led to annoyance from those who wanted to talk about other things, and tension rose. In short- I left, Cheesy phoned, I returned, and after another hour Cheesy, Gammon and I went home. As is custumary, Cheesy was most profusely drunk, throwing up all over Addis' driveway. Lovely.
Changing subject now, because this solitary subject obviously doesn't satisfy your reading needs, D2 is the best shop ever. I picked up three quality T-shirts for the bargain price of ÂŁ15 today, and was bought an expensive solid gold chain for my 18th birthday also. D2 have the balance absolutely perfect- affordable clothing that looks suave. I love D2, I spend most of my money there. If they could bottle what makes D2 such an awesome shop, there would be no more 99p shop or Harrods. All the shops would have trendy clothes at a reasonable price, and the world would be a better place. I urge you- go to D2 right now, you won't regret it. Unless you're the tight-fisted Goldie, you're in for a treat.
Chezwick
Before I start on Sharon's party, I want to talk about the most ignorant, conceited, self-righteous tosser I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with: James Chezwick, Morna's cousin.
At first I didn't mind Chezwick. At first sight I could see he was an ugly bastard so I, quite reasonably, thought his personality would compensate for his hideous lack of visage. I've never been more wrong. Wearing a complete burberry ensemble, Chezwick cursed and swore endlessly throughout the night, producing his favoured burberry lighter at every available moment. "Aye min sound as fuck" he'd brag, "it lichts up as weel" he'd continue, demonstrating this fascinating function to his fellow ned cohorts. They'd gasp in amazement, "aye min fuck aye" they responded in unison, blown away by the marvellous contraption.
Chezwick is the paradox personified- on one hand he's the noble and gracious peacemaker, making sure everyone respects the house, party and each other. On the other he's the beguiling, insidious, two-faced moron interested only in childish pranks and self-amusement. Synonymous now with Chezwick's ridiculous but deserved nickname are the words "ned", "cunt" and "bender", fairly representing each portion of his limited personality.
When Chezwick soaked a helpless Dabby in beer and a jug of water, I laughed. I admit it- I thought it was amusing. But Chezwick doesn't know when to end a joke, and continued to follow Dabby for the rest of the night, seeing as he literally had nothing better to do. Nobody likes Chezwick and his gay humour, so they dumped him and he was left to pester us for the rest of the night on his own like the outcast loser he is.
Sickeningly, Chezwick urinated on Dabby's head. One step too far, everyone would agree, but Chezwick is a little short of material, to say the least. "Did you sit fit ah did?" he erupted in laughter, "fuck min sound as fuck aye!" His ned cronies didn't do anything to us the entire night, leaving the group clown and self-appointed leader Chezwick to try his best to be part of their group.
My only personal encounter with Chezwick occurred at 2 in the morning. Having failed to hit the point of sleep where you don't return, all I could hear was Chezwick trying to provoke a drunken Tom, not the hardest of targets but Chezwick doesn't exactly go for someone who can retalliate, opting for the safe option every time. After the tenth time of asking, Tom finally gets rid of Chezwick by replying "yes" to his nonsensical and immature question. Does Chezwick then leave? Oh no! Because leaving us would bring him the harsh reality of trying to be friends with people you can't bully. Chezwick is nothing but a bully, but we didn't let him win.
A more sober Dabby announces "I don't mean to be offensive, but you're a cunt." Chezwick stands in awe. The bully doesn't like it when someone stands up to him, but doesn't have the balls to do anything about it. It's all one grand fascade- without Dabby's intoxication, he's powerless to him physically and mentally. Admittedly his friends could have us all, but Chezwick is a pussycat masquerading as a tiger. The big man acting tough if you will, until someone stands up to him.
Yet he persists on talking. Getting agitated I snap.
"Would you shut the fuck up you loud bastard?" I burst unexpectedly- Chezwick didn't bank on his helpless targets having reinforcements, and is stunned.
"Why are you through here? Does anyone want you here?" Everyone is silent, Chezwick's game has been rumbled.
"None of your 'friends' are here are they? No, so fuck off and leave us alone."
Chezwick then comes and sits on the far edge of my bed. It's 2am and I care not for consequences, I'll smack him if he provokes me. Changing his tact, Chezwick then dons the parental authority that he's thrived on to win an upper hand all evening. "Sharon feels guilty about asking you to leave her bed" he greets, again failing to realise that no one wants him in the room. Hold on a minute- Sharon? What the fuck does this have to do with anything I've just said? Leanne then gets agitated at Chezwick's dickish ploy to turn the argument around, and starts on him too. I've never seen this side of her before, but I loved it. Everything Chezwick came up with Leanne crushed to the point where he floundered like a stuttering wreck, completely incapable of an argument-winning retaliation.
Taking a good telling, Chezwick retreats with his tail firmly between his legs. Shunned and outcast from the targets that he's fed off of all night, Chezwick stands in the middle of the empty corridor, unsure what to do. Hearing noises downstairs Chezwick rushes down to find just a few dogs playing. He spends the rest of the night with the dogs, calling them names and pulling their tails to try and provoke a reaction. It's no use. It's just no fun without friends to try and show them up to. Chezwick invents an imaginary friend, and tries to impress him by bullying the defenceless mutts. In the end even his imaginary friend leaves him, and Chezwick sets up his bed for the night in an abandoned coal bunker a broken, contemptable and damned man, devoid of people to call friends and people to bully.
Sorry, I got a bit side-tracked there. So I hear nothing more of the bender-incarnate until daylight breaks and I spy him next to a used Sharon. Sharon's happy- her penchant for neds continues, as she adds an extra tally to the growing list of bedded neds and sets about opening a 'tinnie' for Chezwick's breakfast. Just before closing the door to leave, I hear Chezwick boast about kicking a ten-year-old boy in the groin, the same trick he used on now even tinier Tom last night. Old tricks die hard, they say.
And the rest of the party? Well, quite a lot happened. Umm...
In fact, fuck recounting the rest of the party, all I can think about is Chezwick and his dickish ways. You'll find me constructing a Chezwick-embossed dart board in my garage if you need me.
Betting Exposed
Have you ever wondered how bookmakers make money? I have, and after much deliberation I feel I am ready to lift the lid on this seedy industry.
First of all, any sport that is subject to betting is corrupt (including football, before you ask). The most corrupt however is clearly horseracing, which would be completely unwatchable if it were not for the extensive betting system surrounding it.
The sport itself is a farce. None of the races are measured by anything that can be related to- they're always measured in "furlongs", which is their way of disguising the effort horses put into races. Why do you think they don't take lap times? How many racing sports do you know that doesn't measure lap times? Because if there were records, seasons bests, personal bests etc then the riders couldn't disguise the actual effort their horse is putting into a race. As it is, no one knows what condition any of the horses are in or how fast they are capable of from previous performances. Because the races aren't timed, the horses could be performing at 70% effort and no one can tell how hard they are trying. They're horses- you'll never know if its going eyeballs out, or cruising home.
As such, a horse that would almost certainly win as favourite can put in, say, 60% effort and lose to a horse with more favourable odds that's putting in 100% effort. How can you dispute the result? The horse has no previous time for the course because it's not measured, you can't look at it and say "oh it's not even sweating!" because you'll never be able to tell how hard a horse is trying. The sport is a joke, they put hedges on some races (like the grand national) so that there's no excuse for a horse to lose- if worst comes to worst, make it jump too late and break its legs. The riders know that if their horse is favourite they'll be paid better by coming fourth and accepting the bribes than winning and taking the paltry 1st place prize money.
The exact same applies to Greyhound racing- untimed races where there is no real way to work out a favourite. In this case the bookmakers make all the odds pay out miserly eg 1-5 favourite and there's usually about twelve hounds in the race. The only people who really win are the bookmakers, because greyhounds are just too unpredictable to have a safe bet.
At the core of football there are degrees of corruption, but not on the side of bookmakers. Aberdeen AFC have had the rules changed three times to prevent their relegation in their history- coincidence? I think not, it seems more likely that the sport needs to keep Aberdeen up because of the money they make. Aberdeen have a loyal following, and will fill up an away stand where the likes of Falkirk would only have a handful of travelling supporters. The same happened to my beloved Motherwell this season- should have been relegated, but stayed up. There's something not right here.
And don't even get me started on Wrestling...
A Lasting Legacy
Talking to various people and looking back on a memorable 6th year, it soon becomes clear that our year have single-handedly screwed things up for every year after us.
In fourth year we officially became the smartest year to ever grace Ellon Academy, a mean feat considering its long history and heritage. But with intelligence, they say, comes rebellion. Previously the fight for the role of prefect was hard fought and honoured, and even more so for house captain or sports captain. Not this year.
The 6th year of 2002-2003 didn't give a shit about Ellon Academy's stupid titles and 'responsibilities'. Half way through the year everybody gave up. Everybody. No one did their stupid prefect jobs, nobody turned up for more than one parent's evening and nobody signed themselves in for study. And because nobody was doing it, the authorities in that school couldn't single anyone out and punish them. They soon learned that you can't punish an entire year, so they soon singled out scapegoats like Dabby, Perry and Kayleigh to vent their frustrations on.
It became so bad that even for 6th year PSE they had to start taking a register, because people just weren't showing up. No one wanted to listen to Miss Tomlinson, the original ear drum-grater, drone on about the environment and respecting the elderly. In the words of Beefy, around December everyone just "outgrew school."
Part of the problem was the study issue. I can tell you now that Advanced Higher is easier than higher. Let me explain.
The syllabus for Advanced Higher isn't harder than Higher, just ask anyone who sat Advanced Higher English and compare to a Higher English students perception. One NAB, one dissertation (admittedly hard), two writing pieces, and knowledge of one author to show for an ENTIRE YEARS work. Compare to no talk, no specialist study and every single mark based on your final exam and you have one hard motherfucker of a Higher English exam. That's just one example, and not the only reason why Advanced Higher is easier than Higher.
It's a fact that most 5th year pupils work very hard and long hours, whereas most 6th year pupils do F-all work throughout the year. Therefore the field is more even in Advanced Higher, as a certain percentage of people each year will always get an A. It's easier to get in the top 20% of pupils who sit Advanced Higher than it is for Higher, so you have to work harder to get into the top 20% for Higher. It's not rocket science. And even if the Advanced Higher syllabus was harder, you've got a whole five periods each week available to study! But as most people found out, you can fit all your homework in half an hour each week tops. That leaves a blissful five hours per Advanced Higher to sit about the STA, banter, play cards, go for toasties and basically make a mockery of the whole 6th year work ethic.
Half way through the year my Business Management teacher, Mr Forbes, just gave up. In the end he told us we didn't have to bother turning up, we didn't do any work and we spent each period talking and doing as little work as possible. When it came to the final NAB, he just gave us the questions. He didn't care, and nor did we. He once came into the STA when we were meant to be in class and instead of busting us, sat down beside us and bantered for the rest of the period. "Who's left in the class?" I asked him. "Oh, all the boring people like Lee Christie." I had to laugh.
Most people had thirteen study periods per week. Some, like Sharon, spent all thirteen (ab)using the schools internet. Most, like me, sat without opening any books and just talked, tried to catch up on sleep or went for a driving lesson- anything but studying. Even had I work to do I'd just not do it, to me study was no place for working. At twelve most days my group would simply leave the STA prematurely and go for an early lunch, that's what 4th period study was good for and nothing else. People stopped caring about the stupid committees and simply didn't show up for meetings and told the teachers to shove it. My committee, the Magazine committee, had one meeting with our head teacher and decided to do our own thing. How many planned meetings did we have? One, to which three people showed up. The same applied to almost every committee, bar the young enterprise.
They even gave us "self certificates", which was an initiative used to give us some freedom. Of course this was abused to its fullest, people requesting extra sheets and almost everyone signing themselves out into double figures. Laughably, they had a system where you could sign out of three non-timetabled periods (eg study) each week. The only person who actually used this was Martin Cumming, the rest of us just walked out and neglected to jump through their ridiculous hoops.
Ours was the most rebellious year ever seen at Ellon Academy. Gimmicks that had worked in the past like being Sports Captain (entailing walking around registration classes almost every week) didn't appeal to our year. Not many people bothered with Community Involvement, citing this as a waste of an otherwise welcome study period. To put a point on it- anything that was considered voluntary found no volunteers. Compulsory things like 6th year PSE and even class weren't considered a priority, people just staying in study or not bothering to turn up instead. These were the days of our lives, and it's only now that I'm realising what a good thing we had. On a wednesday and friday I had just two periods of work. Oh how I yearn for days like that, sitting in the STA for three hours, knowing there's still lunch time and then an early retreat home 6th period afterwards.
Where does this leave our new 6th year? From what I've heard, it's compulsory for them to take four subjects. This, to me, is no different to fifth year, and the new fourth subject is being used to burn five study periods where they'd do what we were doing- nothing. Did it seem unfair to you in fourth year that you had to work every single period with no studies? Of course not, because you didn't know any better. They're trying to use this approach to keep motivation up in the new 6th year- if they can't taste freedom, they don't realise how bad they have it. No more self-certificates, every study period being supervised and compulsory signing-in. Imagine there was a "7th year", and we had to stick to this. I can guarantee that absolutely no one could last a year under these circumstances, not after the luxury we had. I almost feel sorry for them.
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Me: "Hypothetically, how many wickets would it take Tiger Woods to win the US open?"
Beefy: "None."
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