Freshers- To Date
Continued from Saturday...
My first eyeful of Loughborough struck home the sporting paradise that lay within, where fields of hockey, rugby, football, and all manner of indoor facilities stood proud and with purpose; to nurture the nation's most exciting talents. I could see countless buildings and people walking in the designated perimeter of the campus, an area so wide in expanse it could be a town in its own right if it weren't in the heart of a city as good as Aberdeen "and some".
As the car crawled into the Butler Court parking area, I spied a queue stretching way outside a door that I knew I would be destined to stay in for, ooh, at least an hour. So it was without further complication that I bode farewell to David and stood at the very back of the line. Exciting stuff, I know, but bare with me- I'm getting there, albeit slowly.
After registering and forking out money for a Fresher's ticket (11 days of free entry's etc), I was escorted to my chambers. Just my luck, I thought, as I scaled the very peak of one of Butler Court's six blocks that I should be given the most tiresome room-journey in the vicinity. When I (finally) arrived at my room I found a room spacious, comfortable and modern- pretty standard University Hall, in actual fact, and therefore not necessary to describe. After settling in my room mate finally showed up and... (drum roll please)... he couldn't be further from Gaz Batterson.
Born in Zambia, Cletus (of the Simpsons "some folk'll never lose a toe, and then some folk'll- like Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel!" fame) is a reserved individual, more passive than in-your-face like Gaz so memorably was. Softly spoken and without disagreeable opinion, Cletus is faultless as a room mate. He keeps his side of the room clean and hasn't done anything to cause friction, as yet, and a generally decent bloke. Venturing into the kitchen, I met up with my (admittedly more out-going) flat mates.
James is your casual fresher; goes out all the time, but won't be the first to the dance floor. He's a thoroughly decent bloke and someone who I get on well with, always good for a night out. His room mate Tom vaguely resembles Noel Galagher and is also a decent bloke, and goes out often. Matt shares a room with Dan; they don't go out as often but I'll often find myself wandering through to their room for a bit of banter. Matt is a wannabe magician, who has a few tricks up his sleeve (if you'll pardon the expression) that both astound and entertain, as well as being a useful diversion from study. Also Jonathan, who doesn't actually live with us, is the one that I banter with the most.
Jonathan is, in actual fact, Gaz Batterson. He told me how he loves to "extrain" his shits to piss off his room mate. "Ahhh, that's a good shit" he'll cry, flicking the page of the Sunday times (he's finished two books on his time on the loo), "come through brown... ohh, that's the good shit". If he sees anyone with a kebab he'll just say "bastards", which you can imagine happens often. Jonathan is a large bloke, and the other night I had the pleasure of watching him pack away a 12-inch pizza in an incomprehensibly short space of time. The first thing he'll say when he sees me is "I've had three shits today, the first flowed through quite nicely but the second one..."(!) A very sound bloke, and always great for the banter; best described as merging Dabby and Beefy's personality to form something quite unique.
That evening we all went to the Union to get most profusely drunk, and I made some new friends on the way. The Union- for those not in the know- is a colossal building where just about everything is under one roof from a computer shop, grocery store, to ten separate bars. The Union is officially "the biggest Student Union in England", and I wouldn't put it past it to be the biggest in Britain either. There are six rooms, and with over 2,000 freshers on campus things can get very rowdy very quickly. Throw into the equation about 10,000 returners and nights out at the Union are something you won't see elsewhere.
Deals stand at Ł1/pint of Carling and... well, the rest doesn't matter; it's the Carling that gets consumed en mass when we hit the Union. That night Cletus bought me two pints of Carling and I returned the favour with a pint of Stella. However, I'd later learn that Cletus has developed a liver problem and can't drink for 3 months... which begs the question: was it my pint that pushed him over the edge? If I wasn't condemned already, I can say with confidence that I am now.
The following night was the indescribably incredible Beer Keller, which I believe I've already explained. What I neglected to say was the state of one certain Jonathan- who threw up on the seat immediately in front of him and incurred a Ł50 fine. Ouch.
"Bastards", is what Jonathan said first thing I met him the next morning. Irate at being woken up at 10pm, my (heavily hungover) flatmates and myself dragged our ailing bodies to the annual Butler Court photograph. Nothing to beat yourself over, just a routine photo for 500-odd freshers. That evening was another brilliant event- the school boy/girl themed night!
Meeting in the common room dressed like we were just three months ago (feels like so much longer), we showed up to a packed common room full of sexy school girls and boys. We were all handed out a "school report card", which was a means of measuring how much everyone had drunk that night! Taking up the challenge, I set out to get wasted in the quickest time that I've ever thrown up in. The boys went a separate pub crawl and would meet up with the girls later. Sadly, I was far too drunk and by the time the guys had met the girls in Vice Versa I was stumbling home.
That night I had six Guinness's (worth 7 points), one lager (worth 4 points) and four straight tequilas (worth four points), and won bonus points for downing two of my Guinness's (extra 10 points) in the space of an hour and a half. I can't remember much, but I remember falling asleep in someone's garden (in their soil, no less) and only getting up for fear of having my mobile nicked. I then stumbled home, grabbing onto every lamppost and retching. Brilliant night.
The next morning I was meant to sign up for the medical center but just couldn't move my legs. Time passed, my opportunity to sign up in case of emergencies passed, and I looked at the bin with disgust. If only I had thought to throw up in it, I pondered. The less said the better, methinks.
In the evening we all went to James' brother's house warming party, which was just an excuse to get drunk for free. The banter was quite good and we watched the grand prix, and later tucked off to sample one of many kebab shops in the area. The kebab was mediocre, and put me in a foul mood for the rest of the night. But with more than ten other kebab shops in walking distance from the University, there is still time.
However, the grandest of Loughborough piss-ups was still to come! Last night a legion of sixteen double decker buses (count them!) escorted our merry troupe to Jumpin Jaks to invade and cause carnage in Nottingham! The night was really good, and it should be with all drinks Ł1 and about 2000 freshers. I danced like a motherfucker and met up with a few good runners and talked to them. I told them about this fantastic remote place about 2 miles out of Loughborough where I've been going for long runs. It's beautiful, it really is. There are endless country paths, hills, bridges and forest trails to take and on Saturday I ran down a beautifully secluded valley, where there was no sight of civilisation for miles. Hugely satisfying.
I've only written about nights out so far, but unlike everyone else I'm not finding the days long or boring. I haven't had a moment to myself since being here, but today I've got no lectures so I've finally had time to catch up with this long overdue blog. I've had to go for groceries, set up my computer for the internet, go to various places on campus, train, wash my clothes, make food... all manner of things to keep me occupied. I'm sure things will settle soon, but there are still 8 days of freshers 'week' left to ride the tide on (not a euphemism), party, and forget work. The time for being bored will come later. Tonight is a cross dressing night at Vice Versa, but I get a sneaking suspicion I won't be doing that. Don't ask me how I know, I just get that feeling somehow.
Yesterday I attended my first lecture in the well-hidden "Cope Auditorium", which everyone seemed to find ok except me. The lecturer went too fast for my fragile mind and as a result I missed half of what he said, resorting to doodling on my folder instead. I can't get my head round the lecture way of learning, I mean- how are you supposed to know what will be in the exam? Surely you can't be expected to write down and learn everything the Janet Swan-alike lecturer rattles off at the speed of sound? I don't get in, and will probably fail. Thankfully, I only have about 10 hours of lectures per week, which opens up ample time to get drunk and socialise. Which is what Uni is all about, and as one police officer told us, "Loughborough is a drinking University with a sport and academic problem." I'll drink to that.
The Beer Keller
I want to tell you about one of the most memorable and utterly fantastic nights I've ever had: The Beer Keller, in Birmingham.
The event was organised by the Butler Court Fresher committee, where they arranged to have three double-decker bus loads of freshers from Butler Court and Telford to cause mayhem at the renowned German-styled piss-up.
Leaving Loughborough at 7pm with more freshers than you can shake a yard of ale at, I sat at the back with friends from my flat and a hoard of women they befriended earlier. The banter, as Beefy would approve of, was flowing as the excitement of going to a Beer festival reached fever pitch. An hour later, and Birmingham (pronounced Bur-ming-'am) eased its way from the horizon and into our view. A few minutes later and we were there, as the bus doors flung open so the crowds of restless freshers could disembark and start the getting fuck-faced process with immediate effect.
The place itself was not what I was expecting- it was more like a homely bar with loads of park benches in place of the more traditional cushioned seating arrangements. This alteration is in place for a reason, as you'll soon find out. Even from outside the venue we could hear maddening, drunken slurs along to ageless classics. When we got in the place was already half-full, and only one coach had been emptied! I headed straight for the bar to order a Carlsberg export (NB any place that has Export on tap gets my seal of approval), and sat at a bench with my new pals to get merry and most fit-buckled.
Soon everyone was walking round with giant beer jugs filled with 2 litres of beer! Muckling juice, if ever there was. The man playing the accordion cajoled the crowd to sing along with timeless greats like Knees Up Mother Brown, You Are My Sunshine, She'll Be Coming Round The Mountains and anything he could put a drunken spin on.
As the night went on everyone was on their second bumper jug of beer, and singing (read: shouting) to the increasingly drunk musician. Before long everyone had mounted the benches and were swaying, putting their arms round each other and dancing on the benches. The whole floor was absolutely packed, with almost 500 wasted Butler Court and Telford residents dancing and shouting along to the songs. It was a fantastic atmosphere, with everyone arm in arm and creating the loudest musical score I've ever heard. One of the favourites went
"To the left, and the right, and the front and the back
Stand up, sit down, to the left to the right"
Which progressively got faster as the entire congregation swayed to the beat and swilled beer. In the corner there were downing competitions (the musician, completely out of his face himself, would sing "down in one, down in one, down in one!"), the benches were packed with people dancing, and you couldn't see the floor for people dancing with each other.
By 11 everyone was seriously minced, singing their hearts out and clambering on anything that had a surface. The musician gave up trying to sing and would just slurr "Um pah pah, um pah pah, that's how it goes! Um pah pah, um pah pah, everyone knows!" Beefy would have certainly given his approval, as jug after jug of Beer was consumed and the biggest riot I've ever partaken in continued well into the small hours.
The songs later took a Telford vs Butler Court spin, with each trying to out-shout the other to football-related classics, like
"Butler Court, we are here, shag your women and drink your beer
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, Butler Court are big and strong!"
"Telford Hall, barmy army!
Telford Hall, barmy army!
Eventually we all had to leave, but with a fine of Ł50 for whoever threw up on the bus the queues for the in-bus toilet were lengthy. If anything this freshers week I'll always have the enduring image of freshers as far as the eye can see wailing their lungs out, putting their arms round each other, and sinking beer like it was water and there was no tomorrow. Tonight it's a School girl/boy themed night, where the boys and girls are going on separate pub crawls and will meet up later! Long live fresher's week, and the Beer Keller- one of the few places where the spirit of drinking comes alive in an age dominated too often by dance beats, flat dance floors, and neon lights.
Fresher's Week- A Prelude
How I wish I could recap on every individual event that has happened in the last week- and I know you're cursing me for neglecting to write about most of it, really I do- but I won't for two simple reasons: I don't have the time/will/patience to do so, and you wouldn't read it anyway. "Boredom threshold" is what I think they call it. So, without further ado, here is the condensed version of The Week That Was, And Still Is, A New Era In The Life Of Star, Your Much Celebrated Author. Snappy title, eh?
It all begins at the Wales family dinner table where Pa Wales, Ma Wales and myself are having one of our routine arguments. After a lengthy and heated argument, to cut a long story short, it is decided that I'll stay at my relatives in Nottingham from saturday and they'll take me to Loughborough. Pounding my fists on the table I cry "you can't do that! You just can't!" Sobbing, I cover my face with my hands. "It's not fair" I whinge, tears streaming down my face. "There th-" "I DON'T WANT YOUR SYMPATHY", I wail, running out of the door.
Hastily, I get up early the next morning after a grand piss-up in Aberdeen to say goodbye to Leanne and make my merry way to Nottingham en route to Loughborough. It's a long, tiresome journey but one that I'm used to. Afterall, I'm the guy who has gone to London and back by coach in a weekend three years in succession. Long journeys are nothing new to me but even still this was a mind-numbingly boring journey I'll never forget. Armed with nothing but a spooks album (RIP water-water), I stared at country road, city road and motorway for eight never-changing hours. Suffice to say, I'm not relishing the rematch back to Ellon. Unless Dabby does it with me, his suffering always seems to dumb mine. That's what friends are for.
Pulling into their driveway, my gaze changed from 'impassive stare' (you know, the one that makes time go faster; the one you used when looking at the board to try and speed up double maths) to a mildly interested glance. That glance then changed to a look of bewilderment, then awe-struck astonishment. For this country house was not so much a house, but a mansion. To put a fine point on it- it was a huge house, a world apart from both Ellon and my later shared room in Loughborough. It was then that I met the family.
Now, I know you don't give a shit about my second cousin or his equally distant-in-lineage father, but that family creeped the hell out of me. Ever heard of the "all work no play" maxim? This family exercised that to its fullest, beyond what you pitiful wretches could ever hope to understand. Religious through to the very smallest bone, their application put even my good self to shame. I'd say to Owain (14), "hey man... wanna go somewhere? Play football? Computer?" The reply, as per fucking usual, would be "I've gort hoemwork, *clears nasal passage*, and then I have gort viiolin." I swear, he'd turn and mutter "riff-raff", followed by a string of posh obscenities to the tune of "neuveau-riche", "codswallop" or- if he was particularily disgusted- "commoner."
Most days I was at home on my own while the father (a Cambridge medical graduate) worked, the mother (also a doctor) worked, and the kids went to school (school for girls and a school for boys, no distractions). This left me ample time to get acquainted with their video tape collection, which was little more than three Simpson tapes and a plethora of "Bible for Children" specials, Terrestrial TV and Owain's pool table. Needless to say, I became highly proficient in the art of clearing up on a pool table, to the point where nominating a middle pocket is now no longer a "newbie mistake", but an "experts challenge." I forgot just how utterly lamentable channels 1-5 are until I spent the mornings watching Terry&Gabby, This Morning, and The Hoobs. To add to my woes, playing pool on your own for an hour causes unparalled boredom, leaving me the unenviable option of another spell in front of the daily horrors that is Daytime TV. This cycle continued for five solid days... five, days. I was sorely tempted to pick up Owain's goddamned violin and see what the big fuss was all about.
By the end of my five days I reached a level of complete Zen with Owain-san's pool table, and could tell you more about daytime talk shows than you'd ever know what to do with. Leaving their utterly fantastic mansion behind (every bedroom had its own en-suite), the father drove me the necessary miles to Loughborough, where I'd really begin the transition from mummys-boy to fully fledged individual. After an hour, from the depths of a bustling city, appeared the campus that will eventually claim three years of my life.
Continued tomorrow...
Warning-Fascist Blog Started
Just as a warning to all you tender, delicate, easily offended souls out there who find crudity, vulgarity and Fascism hard to stomach, I have to let you know of a new blogger.
One Andrew Muirhead, or Hitler reincarnated if you will, has begun writing about his mundane existance. Obviously Drew's musings are not of the same outrageously good calibre of those of Star, Dabby and my good self. He lacks the sardonic wit and artistic guille of the aforementioned trio but he makes up for it in the way that his writing is passionate, it is crystal clear that Drew feels strongly about his chosen subject matter and I'm sure that despite its lack of punctuation, proper spelling, grammatical correctness and all round panache, you will, if you are of a cynical disposition and have a great loathing of NEDS, enjoy Drew's blog a fair amount and unlike several new bloggers (I won't give names..............OK you've twisted my arm, Yann) Drew posts everyday.
Drew's Blog
But don't forget that despite this enforced intermission due to Freshers week, Starsite won't be going anywhere and Star and myself will soon return with more philosophical musings, madcap antics and tales of fellows such as Stallion McLure. Don't be tempted to let trivial, unimportant things like uni get in the way of your daily perusal of these haloed pages, you can even get this site in shitholes like Dundee you know.
So for now I bid you goodnight and hope you don't forget where you learned everything you know! Adieu.
Concurece
Seeing as Star will jot be posting for a week or so it would make little sense for me to continue blogging beyond tonight. So it brings me great sadness to announce that for the next week I too won't be bringing that little bit of joy that your sad little lives need.
So until later, unless I do something truly blogworthy during Freshers week, you won't be hearing from your favourite starsite writer. Adieu my gracious audience.
Starsite Will Be Back!
Just a quick post to say that although I'm moving to pastures new, Starsite won't be moving an inch. Seeing as I won't have my computer set up to the internet for some time, I'll not be able to post for at least a week. Even then, during Fresher's week, I doubt I'll find much time to post until things settle a little.
So, it is with great sadness, that I say goodbye. Until next week, adeui
The Arab And The Weegie
Town on Monday was, it has to be said, a rather merry and joyous event, however it was somewhat marred by a couple of meetings that the Fascist known as Drew and my good self had with a pair of decidedly dodgy characters.
Let me start at the beginning. After parking my vehicle, I had to drive again, soft drinks all night for me then, baaaahhh, I met up with a large gathering of the Tolbooth crew in the Triple Kirks. The Triple Kirks was not too bad, the banter flowed for a while, we watched a bit of football and I ate the contents of a box that was meant to contain Chinese Noodles but it looked more like very bad Spaghetti Bolognese but it tasted alright and it kept my stomach satisfied for a while at least so I can’t complain too much. Soon those of our number uninterested in the play of Leeds United and Leicester City, otherwise known as the female contingent, began to get bored and took the decision that we were to make our way to a bar by the name of Cul-de-Sac that is famous for its ridiculously cheap drink. Cul-de-Sac was detestable! Upon entering the poky watering hole Drew and myself stopped in our tracks, appalled at what we saw before us. Men in tight fitting white T-shirts and tight fitting dirty effect jeans were cramming themselves against each other at the bar whilst others were bopping, note bopping not dancing, to music that sounded not too far removed from the likes of The Village People and The Pet Shop Boys (Goldie’s personal favourites) and sitting alone in a remote and darkened corner of the establishment a gentleman named Frankie was telling everyone to relax. Alarm bells were now ringing in my head, well more like alarm music as that well-known tune by Electric Six was now running deafeningly through my head, you know the one I mean. Suddenly Drew shouted, “Arses to the wall lads,” as he hastily made his way to the exit. I followed suit and the two of us were soon on our way to The Auld Starrie, a real pub with Guiness and a pool table.
As we walked towards our destination the conversation turned predictably, as Drew has a very limited number of subjects to talk about, to football and in particular the Huns, or Glasgow Rangers supporters to use a more politically correct term. We were only on this topic for a matter of seconds when what should we see in front of us but one of these aforementioned abominable creatures. She was a horrible site. She sported a Rangers top and a grey shell-suit that looked like it had never seen Aerial, Persil, Daz or any other detergent available in its no doubt long lifetime. On her head there sat proudly a Burberry cap with, sticking out at the back, a stereotypical bleached blonde, wet-permed ponytail. In one hand she was carrying a bottle of Govans aqua-vitae, or Buckfast to you and me whilst dangling out of her mouth was a fag. The weegie mink started to menacingly cross the road and head towards us. When she was so close that we could smell her unwashed person, admittedly not very close at all, she addressed us directly and said, “Fuck the IRA! Fuck the fucking Pope! Up wie the UDA, fucking Red Hand an’ aw’ that know what I mean by the way.” We were stunned but not at all surprised but this sudden bigoted outburst. Drew attempted to display disapproval at what poured out of the gob of this soap dodging, giro claiming, slum dwelling low life but we all know that deep down Drew is a pitiful fascist at heart and thus wholeheartedly agreed with everything she said.
We left the disgusting Ibrox mink and eventually arrived at The Auld Starrie for a couple of games of pool before rejoining everyone else at The Ministry. The banter continued at The Ministry for some considerable time before we decreed that we would round off our evening with a visit to the Priory. The place was dead, business no doubt ruined by the pound a drink offers that were on at both The Ministry and Liquid that night. Whilst Drew and my good self stood waiting to be served at the bar an Arab looking gentleman sidled up to us and announced that he was eyeing up one of the female members of our ensemble. The gentleman pointed to the dance floor and then turned to Drew and said in an accent more akin to being heard in downtown Baghdad, “You see her over there; is she with you?”
“Yes,” Drew replied in an inquisitive tone.
“Bonnie lassie. How much do you charge?” came the Arabs reply.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Drew asked.
“You know, for me to have a turn for the night,” retorted the bin Laden look-alike.
“She’s not for sale you filthy bastard. We don’t do that here. It might be alright in your culture but we just don’t practice that kind of thing here!” Drew said firmly putting the Middle Eastern fellow in his place. The Arab trudged off dejectedly and we made a quick exit from the nightclub and after a bit of banter regarding kebabs and the like on Belmont Street we headed homeward.
The night had been good but I must warn you readers, never go near a dirty weegie mink, the odour is just too strong and be on the lookout for a dodgy Arab man who, if you are married, may want to buy your wife!
Driving Test #2
I passed today with just 2 minors, despite only having one lesson since I last failed my test. It seems that solitary lesson has magically brought me from being a failure to an almost perfect driver (0 minors being perfection). If you ask me, there's a conspiracy afoot. Anyhow, time to burn some rubber methinks, proper blog in the near future.
Lager Tops
Have any of you ever stopped to marvel at what a brilliant creation alcohol really is. It is one of natures greatest achievements when all is said and done, some may well say that there are countless other natural substances whose wondrousness extends fathoms beyond that of ethanol but I beg to differ. Take blood for example; sure it’s vital for bodily function but does it bring the same joy to the same amount of people as alcohol does? When you see blood it more often than not means that pain has been felt prior to it being split whereas the site of alcohol on the other hand, is not associated with pain but with joyous, happy events like raucous parties and other such social soirees. Some may argue that water is nature’s greatest liquid achievement citing that you need water to live. Indeed you do but would this life be worth living at all if it weren’t for alcohol; I think not. What’s more if water is so great and glorious why is it so fucking boring? I mean it tastes of nothing does it, whereas alcohol comes in several different, delightful flavours. It doesn’t have any particularly aesthetically pleasing qualities either, it has no colour, no interesting packaging, no eye-catching design on the bottle, no, it comes out of a plain, metallic tap.
However good readers, alcohol is being blighted by a scourge that is taking its once good name and using it to wipe its arse. An incomprehensible disease, more contagious than SARS, is spreading through Britain at an alarming rate. This problem my friends is what I can only class as homosexual drinks.
The infestation of these liquid abominations began about ten years ago when beverage companies decided in their bountiful wisdom that it would be a good idea to mix fruit juice with alcohol and bottle it and sell it. And so Hooch was born and started a steady decline in the tastes of the British public. Hooch was not too bad, you could taste that there was alcohol in it and at least the cartoon lemon on the bottle looked a little bit hard, but what followed this chemical based beverage can only be classed as scandalous for Hooch was the beginning of the end as far as the drinking of good, proper alcoholic drinks was concerned as the alcopop, later to be referred to as the alcopoof, was born.
Alcopop sales went from strength to strength and soon several new brands could be seen rearing their ugly heads on supermarket shelves, Bacardi Breezer, Smirnoff Ice and the worst offender of them all, Reef, were now all big hits in every UK gay bar (can’t you just picture Goldie bopping along to the Pet Shop Boys with a Reef in his hand in a few years time). What was worrying about this new breed of alcopop however, was that unlike Hooch, to taste them you would have been hard pushed to tell that there was even any alcohol in them. Alcohol was no longer something that only an adult palate could enjoy but a thing that even a little child could handle.
I pity people who drink alcopoofs, I really do. There’s nothing that looks more wrong than seeing a bloke sitting in a pub with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice clasped camply in his hand. He should have a pint for fucks sake! I mean he doesn’t have to go straight for the Guiness, he could build it up slowly, I’d even tolerate him drinking that watery American pish, at least it’s a real alcoholic drink unlike that fruity shite. A new law should be introduced to eliminate the scourge of alcopoof drinking among men; each father will be forced to introduce their son to the wonders of beer from a young age. Fathers have a moral obligation to eradicate the sipping of alcopoofs and rear their sons to be fine up-standing beer drinkers. What’s more, what really is the point of alcopoofs? If you don’t like beer or spirits then I can understand, barely mind you but I can, just. By all means have a coke or an orange juice but what really is the point of spending two quid more for an alcopoof when it tastes exactly the same. I just can’t fathom out the logic!
No matter how bad alcopoofs are, they are not however, the most homosexual of drinks, this unwanted accolade belongs to lager tops. People who drink lager tops are kidding themselves. They like to think that they’re real, beer drinking men but the dash of lemonade prevents them from even coming close to this. Men who drink lager tops are fully worse than those who drink alcopoofs for at least the alcopoof swilling ones are man enough to admit that they’re pathetic, the ones who drink lager tops try in vain to hide it and shield themselves from embarrassment. Think about this, you could be sitting in the Booth with a group of your pals who all have a pint of what looks like beer but for all you know, one of your number could well be trying to hide their yearning to consume alcopoofs by failing to fill the pint glass to the brim with lager but instead disguising the alcoholic flavour of the pint with a dash of lemonade. These piners are the most pathetic of them all. They’d dearly love for you all to believe that they can handle their beer; but they can’t, they’re merely alocpoof drinkers who haven’t yet “come out”.
So I call to all you true lads left out there to root out the drinkers of lager tops and ridicule them most profusely for they are no better than Martin Lewis with his bottle of tropical flavoured Reef.
Ability
I've been thrown into the fray to talk about a highly sensitive subject: Ability.
Ability, for those who are not in the know, is a synonym for "boy racer," the art of driving fast and getting away with it. That is, it is for all the best drivers in Ellon. For others "ability" represents being in control of the car and not necessarily speeding. It doesn't matter what your personal definition is, mine roughly follows the lines of all the top drivers. To me, speeding is not a problem. Call me foolish (and you will), but doing a ton in Cheesy's car isn't a problem for me. In fact, I love it. I love the thrill you get. So what's my point?
Well it seems that, once again, my views in a previous blog have not only been misinterpreted, but actually distorted. Sigh. Read, people! Here's what I wrote:
"Being tamed by Yann, Beefy, Graester and Tubby Wigg, he will not be, if he can be arsed. For you see his 1.9 Skoda Fabia rapes once it gets up to speed, and Tete knows how to handle it. Goes to show what a farce "ability" is, if someone who's only driven their car twice can- by my estimation- be as good as the aforementioned drivers."
The operative words were "by my estimation" and "as good as." So it comes as a surprise when Yann texts me (angrily) asking why I seem to think him, Tete and Beefy are as good as each other. It's here that I point out that the last time I've been in his car was about 6 months ago, and that Beefy is a good driver, as is Tete.
Yann then tells me how Cheesy said Yann is a better driver than Snail, which I beg to differ. I tell Yann that I don't follow Cheesy's every word and, as a consequence, our views differ. Ask Dabby who's the best driver out of Amy and Cheesy, and he'd say Amy. So that's been established, so what?
So Yann hasn't been in Tete's car, and I have no idea how this has pissed him off so much. In fact, the only reason I'm writing this is because, according to Yann, everyone disagrees with me. I say that Tete has as much driving ability as (quote) "Yann, Beefy, Graester and Tubby Wigg." In my opinion (my exact words were "by my estimation") he is, and who's to disagree? Now this will make you laugh- "everyone." Everyone? Hold on, I don't think that Tete's given Yann, Snail, Cheesy, Beefy, Graeme, Noddy or anyone else that comes under "everyone" a lift. So, I think it makes sense when I say this: don't judge him until you've given him a shot! That's all I ask. Don't villanise me because I've given my opinion based on what I've seen, do that once you've been in his car, then give me shit.
One last point, I says to Yann that Tete is no boy racer. Sure, he's done a ton-ten, but he's not going to put his life- or his friends- on the line for the sake of proving a point. Maybe once he's had more practice he'll become more like Snail, Cheesy et al, but for right now he's quite content with what he's got. As Graeme once said "I don't give a shit about ability, I'll drive as I like." Tete, it seems, is doing exactly that.
Monday Night In Town
Walking up Union street from the Chicago Rock Cafe to Beefy's car, a merry trio of friends are talking. One of them, Kayleigh Bain, is talking to her boyfriend over the phone. The other two, Dabby and Star, are discussing how highly anti-social this is. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Kayleigh hangs up the phone. There is an awkward silence. Then, as a means of breaking the deadlock and creating conversation, Star says:
Star: "I have just two words for you Kayleigh: Dump him."
Dabby: "I have three words for you: Dump him now."
Star: "I have five words for you: Dump him now, you bitch."
Dabby: "I have six words for you: Dump him now, you bitch whore."
Star: "I have seven words for you: Dump him now, you filthy bitch whore."
Dabby: "I have eight words for you: Dump him now, you filthy slag bitch whore."
Star: "I have nine words for you: Dump him now, you ugly, filthy slag bitch whore."
Kayleigh: "Oi!"
To Udny And Back
Over the past three days I've been spending an unhealthy amount of time in the country dwelling of Udny Station.
Barely destinguishable on the map, Udny Station is the kind of place you'll never hear about unless you specifically know someone who lives there. I doubt even if you were to drive through it you'd notice it, such is it but one big street and two estates. What is noticeable, however, is that there is a minimal police force in the area. This results in three quarters of its youthful inhabitants being either neds or crack whores, with the other quarter being fearful recluses. The local pub (how quaint!) is therefore akin to the Tolbooth, harbouring a legion of underage drinkers who frequent the pub on a near daily basis.
On friday, after a birthday meal in Aberdeen and a quick stop by the Booth (no friday is complete without a little bit o'the Booth), Beefy drove me to Udny Station with a couple of following cars to double the capacity of Dabby's gathering. To liven the party a little, I took the liberty to put some Darkness on in the background. This, somehow, was a personal insult to Tom who- it has been well documented- has as good taste in music as he has fashion sense. In otherwords: nil. So while Tom was systematically going round everyone to diss the Darkness I conducted my own little survey. The result? One person in the whole gathering would rather listen to 10 Easy Wishes than the Darkness. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you who the ever self-promoting individual was. Here's a clue: looks identical to Adam Morrice.
As is customary, we then set off on a few Capades, with this week's target being the hapless Morna. Her crime? Leaving Dabby's gathering early. Tisk Tisk.
So four cars dropped off about two to three bootloads each of materials onto Sleeze's west-facing (hey, she's rich) driveway, including, quite hilariously, Tete's sign! Richard, in his infinite wisdom, managed to persuade his driver to go all the way to Tete's to steal this one sign! Sadly for Tete, it is now resident in the local Police department, property of Thomas H E Taxpayer.
It was at this point that Cheesy gave Dabby a driving masterclass, hitting a Ton along winding country roads, reaffirming his status as the premier driver in the Tolbooth-going crew. I bore witness to a wry grin emanating from Dabby's face, a short lived one, but one that proved irrespectively that he was appreciating. As I said to Dabby at the time, "you can't do capades at 30mph." I'll stick by that.
After that Cheesy took us all home, and that was the end of a splendid gathering. But if I thought that was the end of my trips to Dabby's, I was about to proven conclusively wrong.
Tete phones me on Saturday asking if I wanted to go to Dabby's and then Tom's. Initially turning the generous offer down, I then accepted, deriving that a night at Tom's is (only marginally) preferable to watching the Egyptian night on Discovery. So Tete drives us there, and I deduce two things: Tete is a good driver, and Tete has a munkable car. Being tamed by Yann, Beefy, Graester and Tubby Wigg, he will not be, if he can be arsed. For you see his 1.9 Skoda Fabia rapes once it gets up to speed, and Tete knows how to handle it. Goes to show what a farce "ability" is, if someone who's only driven their car twice can- by my estimation- be as good as the aforementioned drivers.
At Tom's we chilled, watched Scary Movie, had curry and played Halo. Standard lad's night in basically. Tete then takes us for a cruise round Aberdeen, which I won't go into detail for, because you all know what it's like to be in a car. We met Johnny, Dominic and Nick the Yokel in the 24hr Tesco and noticed a marked change in Nick's voice. More husky, more Yokel-like- if such a thing is possible.
After staying the night at Tete's, we then head back to Udny to Dabby's house for a sort of Parents and University leavers/Band Members luncheon. My parents were the only people who didn't show up, them having other commitments. All in all it was quite pleasant, very sociable and a nice way to end terms with until Christmas. With an hour left, we retreated to Dabby's room for some quality Mario Kart. Using my patented "stick in third until the last lap" tactic, I swept the board, flexing muscles made sore by masterful Mario Kart gaming perfection.
And on that happy note, this blog is adjourned.
The Flowers Of Scotland And The Thorns Of The English Rose
Last week was an international week in the world football calendar and both Scotland and England were in action. Before you switch off entirely and neglect to read this blog for the simple reason that you don’t want to spend your time reading about fucking football, do not despair. I’m not about to go on about the football itself but what I am going to do is write about a couple of things that I saw on the TV the other day.
First of all I saw a report about the Tartan Army and what they were up to in Germany. It was most profusely amusing. There was, as is customary when the Scots come to town, much joviality and hilarity. The opening camera shot of the article was of a rather inebriated looking gentleman in full highland regalia who was hitching a ride around Dortmund by clinging onto the back of a bin-lorry whilst clasping a beer bottle tightly in the other hand. When the cheery chappy arrived at his destination he attempted to get off the lorry and in doing so he fell to the ground giving a German photographer a rather graphic shot of what he kept under his kilt but he did however, succeed in managing to fall off of the lorry without losing so much as a drop of his beer in the process, well done sir! The news report went on about how there was a party atmosphere in the city and you were shown shots of Scottish and German fans bantering and singing along together. The closing shot of the article was of the main square in Dortmund and in the large centrepiece fountain several members of the Tartan Army were splashing about, swimming or simply just lying in a drunken and comatose state.
The other newspiece I happened to see was also related to football but this time it was not about all that is good about the game and how it can cross cultural divides to unite the world for the good of all humanity, no, how could it for this article involved England fans. England fans are the worst football supporters in the world by far. Where the Scots while away on their travels befriend the locals, get most thoroughly intoxicated, engage in harmless capading, banter with the local police and generally have an exceptionally good time those from south of the border go to great lengths to preserve their reputation as yobs by shouting obscenities at innocent bystanders, rioting with the police, locals or whoever else will take them on, trash local businesses and generally engage in un-gentlemanly, loutish behaviour. The problem is so bad that the English have been threatened with expulsion from Euro 2004 if there is any more behaviour of this nature.
Recent major tournaments in France and Holland have been marred by the behaviour of a number of small minded English hooligans who have assaulted locals whilst bricking their windows and torching their shops and cafes. The rioting in Holland a couple of years ago was so bad in fact, that the local police had to use high pressure water cannons to disperse the loutish crowds. While all of this was going on, in other cities belonging to the same aforementioned host countries, the Scottish supporters were winning awards for being the best fans at the tournament.
As I mentioned before, Scotland were in Germany the other week and were their usual boisterously merry selves, getting most inebriated and singing silly songs about female deer from The Sound of Music whilst the locals were lapping it all up and enjoying the banter as much as their visitors. England have also been to Germany but the scenes when they paid a visit were very different indeed. The racist chanting that emanated from the English end of the ground marred the match that followed the now customary rioting and brawling out in the streets of Munich. The Dambusters March was preferred to The Sound of Music that evening.
Next month England visits Turkey, a country whose fans have a reputation for not putting up with any crap from poorly behaved foreign supporters. Because of this, the English FA have turned down their ticket allocation for fear of there being rioting and fighting like there has never been before but there is no doubt, however, that a relatively small number of English hooligans will go across to the match and I hope that if it is their intention to cause trouble, the Turks wipe the floor with them.
So, if like me, you are planning to go to Portugal next summer you have a clear choice as to which British nation you follow, you can either pledge allegiance to the English and be branded a yob and risk being murdered by an irate local or you can support the Scots and have a great party, get extremely buckled and perhaps even partake in a few capades. I certainly know who I’ll be supporting.
Sorry if this is quite a poor blog but I really detest England fans with a vengeance, there's nothing I like more, sadistic as it may sound, than seeing a mouthy English bastard getting nailed off a concrete post by a water cannon or getting smacked over the head by a zealous foreign policeman's baton. I'll do a better blog soon, of that you can be sure.
Ebay
Of late I've been enthralled by a binary-driven auction wonderworld, where millions of people buy and sell all manner of goods with no strings attached. You've undoubtedly heard about it, and if you haven't... well... go there now and get yourself acquainted with the greatest second-hand market ever created.
What ebay has above newspapers, Scotads and the Thainstone Market is it's audience- to use an anecdote, if the Thainstone market was a drab school play, ebay would be a giant Roman Amphitheatre, packed to the gunwales with maddening masses. Where Thainstone involves expenditure and effort, ebay eliminates all of this and grabs Thainstones metaphorical arm and cries "why are you hitting yourself, eh, why are you hitting yourself?"
Enough comparisons because, to be frank, nothing compares with the unconquerable ebay- giver and taker of money but, unlike Vegas, the house isn't the winner- the consumer is. Got junk? Sell it. You'd be astounded to find the price it can fetch. Want to see how much you can pick up a sofa for? You got it, type in "sofa" and you're laughing.
Like a certain Guns N Roses song, "it's so easy." So long as you've got credit, you're ready to be sucked into ebay's unparalleled charm and appeal, to be whisked away to places you never thought imaginable. Just the other day I saw a first edition book sell for a jaw-dropping ?900, and then, in the same afternoon, I saw someone sell a Gamecube with eight games for a mind-boggling 70 quid.
If Cheesy demonstrates driving ability, then ebay demonstrates online accessability. See what I did there? And, because Cheesy uses it frequently you're in good company, cos if the Big Cheese says it's good- you can be sure it's good. No inferior products pass his eyes- fast cars, good beer, Tolbooth and ebay, what else could a thoroughbred Capader ask for?
Much like Cash Converters, my old school second-hand shop, most of the goods will be of the stolen variety. No biggy, if someone else is putting their arse on the line who gives if Little Johnny's Gamecube and games sets you back ?70 and a chunk of your morality? It's not like you go to church is it? You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. Live by this, and you will go far.
What are you waiting for? Go now you lose! And watch your addiction grow like mine has... ebay... EBAY!!!
New Blogger!
Is it Kayleigh, back from the dead? Or is it that ridiculous Poulet Tete trying to relieve boredom once again? Or is it Tom even, returning with a much-anticipated sequel to the critcally acclaimed "Tom's 2 cents"? Sadly (or gladly, depending on your viewpoint), it is none of the above.
For you see our new Blogger is in fact an ex-blogger, who started a blog even before the mighty Starsite. The new blogger is (drum roll please)... Wee Yann!
Now I read his blog with an open mind and, well, it's not my place to judge. But fuck it, I will. I like to ruffle a few feathers on Starsite.
As has always been the case when Yann writes, his first blog is well written, imaginitive and certainly enjoyable. In fact, it will make a darn good read if it's posted on regularily. But what I will say, and I know Yann reads this blog, is that it's very kiss-ass. Very "I'll suck your bell if you suck mine", if you pardon the expression. A minor gripe, but one I'd like to point out now before such a worthy writer falls down the major pitfall many previous blogs have fallen down- diplomacy. Say your mind, not what you think your subject matter wants to read (read this paragraph before accusations of hypocracy flood my beloved tagboard).
Will this blog blossom, and become a 50-hit per day success? Or will it fall by wayside, like many other well-intended blogs have? The answer to that, my dear friends, will come with the passing time. Place your bets now!
Wee Yann's Blog
Temple Of Fiddes
Sitting in the Bridge Bar, an unusual place to be of a Wednesday, was a group of the lads comprising my good self, Cheesy, Drew, the Darkness detester Noble, the honourable Mr Fraser, the married Steven Shaa’ and the child molester known only as Tina. You may be wondering to yourself, well those of you out there capable of rational thought might be, what in the name of the wee man we were doing forsaking the Booth and jumping ship to give our patronage to the Bridge Bar. Well do not despair there was one simple reason for being at the Bridge that night; there is no TV in the Tolbooth and since Scotland were playing in a vital match against those Teutonic play-actors who we thumped in the war, a visit to the Booth, good bar that it is, would have been at the expense of cheering on the Tartan Army. Bearing this fact in mind our choice of watering hole for the evening was easy and the Bridge to watch the game it was.
To the match then and we started well enough even if we didn’t really threaten the German goal in the early exchanges but then a lapse from our normally safe goalkeeper and the Huns were ahead. Things got worse in the second half as Germany were given a penalty, which they duly despatched. Scotland did rally in the last half hour when they were awarded for their efforts with a goal of the highest quality from Neil McCann but a worrying trend was starting to creep into the Krauts play as any time a Scottish player got near to them then they would just fall to the ground in a heap and roll around melodramatically as if they had just been struck on the side of the head with a frying pan. The referee fell for it hook, line and sinker and it culminated in Scotland defender Mo Ross being sent for an early bath. This pissed of the Scottish boys and Christian Dailly even made the familiar “wanker” gesture at Germany’s worst offender. Dailly was not finished however, as after the match Scotland manager Berti Vogts was giving an interview when suddenly you heard from the German dressing room, “Cheats! Fucking cheats, the fucking lot of you! Fucking pricks!” It was Christian Dailly voicing his anger at the Germans for what he rightly described as cheating.
With Scotland beaten, we headed for the Booth to drown our sorrows and soon started to cheer up as slowly but surely the banter began to flow and Feesh and JT soon joined us. JT did not stay long and we bantered for a while longer and then, all of a sudden the conversation turns to a trip to Dundee that Mr Fraser and I are soon to go on and we soon got onto the topic of Temple Of Fiddes. Temple Of Fiddes is a random place that we intended paying a visit to during our impending trip but Cheesy, in his great wisdom, could not wait that long and so it was decided that we would leave right away for the unknown hamlet.
I called shotgun in Cheesy’s car and Snail and Yann, who were travelling in the back of JT’s vehicle when we vacated the Tolbooth, joined us in the Peugeot. The journey to Aberdeen was great. When we reached the village of Foveran three slow moving vehicles were getting in the way in front of us but slow moving vehicles are no obstacles to Cheesy and he effortlessly breezed past only to be followed by a BMW. The BMW was up for it and tailed Cheesy at high speed all the way to the dual carriageway where it tucked past us. We graciously acknowledged his ability and he courteously returned the compliment with a little wave. Our races with the BMW were not yet at an end however, as Cheesy’s superior ability at roundabouts paid dividends as we raped him at B&Q. The Beamer banter continued until we parted company at the turn off for the beach.
After a quick stop for petrol we were on our way with none of the three automobiles dropping below ninety all the way down the road. At one point Cheesy let Feesh and Mr Fraser pass him so that he could rape past them later but Feesh and Mr Fraser had other plans. They each sat in a different lane, all but blocking Cheesy’s path through, or so you would have thought but they left a gap between their respective cars that was ample wide enough for a driver of Cheesy’s calibre to get through.
Finally, after several exchanges of position on the road, we arrived at our planned destination as we turned into the Temple Of Fiddes road. We did not however know exactly how far away we were from Fiddes as there was no indication on the sign so we went in convoy fashion along a road similar in character to the infamous Rally Track for a few miles until we came to the unanimous conclusion that we had gone too far. We halted at a farm in the middle of nowhere whilst Mr Fraser looked at a map to ascertain where the fuck we were meant to go, we didn’t have a clue, well put it this way, do you all remember that classic song that was popular at primary school discos that the DJ would always put on towards the end of the night merely to piss of the anally retentive, poe-faced teachers when the pre-pubescent little scrotes assembled in the gym hall would burst into a high pitched rendition of “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice?” Well at this point we were beginning to think “Fiddes, Fiddes, where the fuck is Fiddes?”
It transpired that Temple Of Fiddes was the two houses that were stationed just after the dual carriageway, only about fifty yards from the turn off. So we did the good thing and headed there, passing some random bloke who had a can of Tennents Special Ale in his hand as we went. Upon our arrival Snail announced that he had a piss brewing so he left the car and pissed in a bottle before launching it at the properties that made up Temple Of Fiddes, splattering urine all over one of their cars. We all hurriedly piled back into the vehicles and sped off sounding the horns as we left.
The journey back to Ellon was quite uneventful. We lost Feesh and Mr Fraser at the Brig o’ Dee. The only other thing of note that happened on the way home was paying a fruitless visit to Newburgh in the search of a 206 GTI that Snail was going on about but alas, our search was in vain.
Upon our arrival back in Ellon we sat in the library car park and waited for Feesh and Mr Fraser to return. When they did they set off on their way to deliver their passengers home so naturally Cheesy followed on behind. It was when we arrived at Shaa’s house that Cheesy took the decision to repeat Friday’s hilarious antic of hubcap nicking, so he took Mr Fraser’s wheel trim and we sped off to his house. I was pissed off myself moments later as when I left the car to put the stolen hubcap on Mr Fraser’s doorstep, Cheesy drove away leaving me to chase after him. When I finally caught up he about turned and headed back to Mr Fraser’s, the bastard!
We left Mr Fraser to retire for the evening and were just about to do likewise when Feesh phoned to say that he had seen Horny and an assortment of other random Hattoners, walking along the Tarves road. So it came to pass that we headed for Horn and when we drove past the intrepid ramblers we wound down the windows and burst into singing “I’m horny, horny, horny, horny.” We turned around and did this repeatedly for a while until Horny and his cronies were utterly pissed off, but really until we heard from Feesh who had been off in search of capade materials. Feesh came up trumps and after meeting him in the library car park we headed for the haome of PG Tips and built a small roadblock out of the cones and signs that Feesh had collected.
We were all up for doing more capades but circumstances dictated otherwise as Feesh had to go to town to pick up his inebriated mother and Yann wished to return home to read this very web page. The night had been fun, even though it ended somewhat prematurely, it’s been a long time since I was home before four on a night of capades, so until Dabby’s on Friday and whatever capades it brings, adieu.
One Last Unforgettable Capade
So I opens the door this morning to see a well dressed member of the Parcel Force delivery team glaring back at me with a sizeable package in his hands. Wheezing, he nearly drops the heavy load on my feet and thrusts a sheet in my face.
"Sign this" he says like he's been saying it all day, and shows a modicum of interest in whether I sign it, like any law abiding citizen, or use it to wipe faecal matter from my arse crevice. Taking my move in hand, I say "have you got a pen?"
He stares at me. Hard. He knows it's his duty to supply the pen, and after a lengthy stare out he plods over to his van. It's at this moment that I look down at the sheet I'm supposed to sign-but-have-no-legal-obligation-to. There are many names of people, some signed and some not, but it's one name in particular that catches my eye:
"Dr Brian Wilkins,
Firlee,
Hay Hillock,
Ellon
There was a postcode too, but by the time I'd signed for it and walked through to my bedroom it was but a distant memory. It began with an "A", if I'm not mistaken. This is all, however, beside the point. The point is many people I know have a "beef" with the benevolent Doctor, and it's time, one feels, for a little payback. Capade payback, to be precise.
I've been thinking long and hard about this and there's only one proper means of conduct- this friday, our hard-working Doctor is going to be Bogulled, in style. Rest assured, there will be no inch of lawn untouched by the vengeful Boguls, and by the end of it the Doctor will wish he'd never been born. Or met us. One of the two.
I want to have as many cars out on friday as possible, it will be the showcase of Dabby's forthcoming gathering. If there aren't enough tatties to go around, well, there are about a million cones I know of a mere 2 miles outside of Udny. And those that can't make it to Dabby's gathering, I'm sure, will drop off a load of materials at the Wilk's in earnest.
I'll have the blueprints of this, perhaps the last big capade in the summer known simply as "The Summer Of Capades" up by tomorrow. It'll be huge, organised, and executed with masterful precision.
This may prove to be the closing chapter in a summer dominated by Tattie Bogul exploits, and you know where it all started- right here on Starsite with my partners in crime Beefy and Cheesy. We stood beside the mound at 2am on a Friday with a just handful of tatties (hand delivered to local business' in Ellon). Come Friday, a full 3 months later, we hope to have a convoy of cars at the mound, and the full force of the Tolbooth massive out to strike our most worthy target yet. What a climax that will be to a brilliant and memorable summer.
Family Fun Day.......Lads Fun Night!!!
Friday was quite a strange night for me as it was the first time in a long while that the lads took part in an epic capade of which I was not party to,………..at first anyway.
The evening began in familiar enough a fashion, down at the Booth with a smaller than normal gathering of young gentlemen. The banter flowed for a while and me and Star finally laid to rest the TV argument that had been brewing for a few days, concluding that on several counts we whole-heartedly agreed while on others we agreed that it was all a matter of opinion. With the TV argument settled at last our attentions turned to a most bizarre and alarming statement made by one Scot Noble the week prior in which he made the ill-judged remark that Scooter, with their blend of Ned beats and sounds similar to those produced by many a domestic appliance were better than the sensational foursome that make up The Darkness. Everyone was appalled the week previous when Mr Noble first made his outrageous comment, we thought that we had put him in his place that evening with our lambastation of his favoured “dance music” (it pains me to even refer to it as music for it’s as melodically challenged as a two year old with one of those multi-coloured xylophones and a stick), I even took the boy out to the car to educate him in the ways of good music by playing The Darkness on the car stereo but alas when the Booth’s never-changing soundtrack inevitably reached the point in the night where our eardrums would be attacked by the strains of Scooter, our good friend No-balls was quick to rekindle the debate. We argued for a short while before Noble gave in feebly when it became apparent that he was significantly outnumbered (significantly being an understatement when you consider that it was him against every other patron of the Booth). While all of this was going on Drew was, as is always the case, rabbiting on about Socialist Bastards and how much he’d love to jump in the sack for a passionate night with Maggie Thatcher. Nobody paid him the blindest bit of attention, which is also always the case, none of the rest of us having a penchant for politics of a Friday or sex with the Iron Lady herself.
So it came to pass that I left with Breezer to attend a birthday soiree in Newburgh. After racing the venerable Mr Fraser there we arrived and joined in the banter. It was refreshing to see that the Udny Arms had better taste in music than the aforementioned Scot Noble as The Darkness were played with welcome regularity until the party ceased at around half past the hour of midnight.
After taking a carload of drunks home I started to head homeward myself only to be closely followed by a car with its full beam headlights blinding me from the rear. The car even followed me up my driveway through the woods and I was in two minds to whether or not just continue through the castle ground and try to loose the tailgating vagabond somewhere near the school but I pulled into my own garden after coming to the conclusion that I could get into my house and secure the door before the tailgaters got out of their own vehicle. When I got out of my car however, it became apparent that the tailgaters were not Neds looking for a fight but merely Cheesy and Mr Fraser.
Soon joining us were Snail and Yann, closely followed by Feesh, Star and Shaa’. Oh the capade I was told of next!! This hardy band had done the decent thing and scoured the countryside for capade materials and they had come up trumps in their search for stuff to dump at Mrs Razzzzz’s house. Not only had they dumped at her gate an assortment of standard for this type of capade, cones and signs, but they had also taken from a well known country pub famous for its lock-ins, a tarpaulin bearing the words “family fun day this Sunday, bouncy castle available”, this they had put up along the length of her fence. I guffawed profusely and decreed that more should be done and so we set off in Feesh’s car to get more stuff. The more stuff came to be another tarpaulin with “factory meat shop” and pictures of cows on it, a sign advertising “fresh eggs” and another “hay for sale”. This ensemble was taken gaily to Mrs Razzzz’s and positioned alongside the previously dumped materials thus completing a capade well done. We were not however finished for the night!!!
After departing Drumwhindle and returning to Ellon we met our sister capade chariot containing Snail and Yann. Now here comes the funniest bit of that evening’s high jinx. Cheesy began muttering something under his breath as we approached Snail’s car and just as Feesh was about to reverse beside Snail, Cheesy exclaims from the rear, “I’ll guide you back.” Well Cheesy certainly did guide him back but he did it so that the wing mirrors of the respective automobiles were almost scraping and then, whilst we were in the midst of conversation with the duo in the other vehicle, Cheesy slyly opened his door and removed Snail’s rear hubcap! He then proceeded to wave it at Snail and Yann before Feesh sped off.
A car chase ensued and we lost Snail somewhere around the industrial estate for Snail cannot speed and after lying to Yann on the phone that we were now on the bypass, we headed back for Snail’s house and Cheesy raced out of the car and placed the wheel trim precariously on Snail’s basketball hoop. Snail and Yann however were oblivious to this and were continuing with the, in Snail’s case furious and Yann’s hilarious, car chase. We encountered Snail halfway along Castle Road and so Feesh put the foot to the floor in an effort to evade our followers. It worked and as we were hiding in a side street of Castle Park we witnessed Snail’s vehicle speeding off up the main avenue and so we headed for the industrial estate where we could head him off and laugh profusely at him. Feesh foolishly passed Snail and drove up a dead-end road where Snail could block him off. Well Snail tried but failed as Feesh expertly, or luckily whichever the case may be, out-manoeuvred Snail when he tried to straddle the road. Feesh drove onwards and some ten minutes later I received a phonecall from Yann informing me that if Snail didn’t get his hubcap back then he was going to attempt to knick Cheesy’s alloys. I told Yann that Snail’s hubcap had been at his house for the last twenty minutes or so and when I uttered these words all I could hear on the other end of the line was Yann laughing uncontrollably.
Feesh returned Star and my good self home and then set off for Pitmedden, the home of Cheesy and himself but after conversing with Yann in the Booth the next evening I ascertained that the evenings Tom-foolery was not yet at an end. Snail and Yann had followed Feesh back to Pitmedden but unlike any normal human being Feesh did not retire to his bed for the night, no, don’t be foolish, what else do you do at four in the morning but take your canine friend for a walk. Snail and Yann followed Feesh and his slobbering chum before Yann jumped out of the motor and stole the pet pooch. The dog was put on the roof of Snail’s car before being driven around for a while and then returned to an animated Feesh, well as animated as his dour character will allow anyway, and Snail and Yann headed home no doubt to continue drinking beer and plot another capade.
Texting Turned Competitive
Right now I'm absolutely livid.
Some joker from Australia claims to be "the world's faster texter." I don't think so- and I'm going to steal his record.
He had to type this paragraph in as fast a time as he could:
"The razor-toothed piranhas of the genera Serrasalmus and Pygocentrus are the most ferocious freshwater fish in the world. In reality they seldom attack a human." (source: Guinness World Records)
He took a sluggish 2 minutes and 6 seconds to do this. I, on my first attempt, took 1 minute 20 seconds, with a plethora of changes. Doing a flawless run through, I believe I can duck under the one minute barrier. I even checked out his website, and couldn't believe what I was seeing!
This guys like a minor celebrity! He's been on tv, radio- you name it, he's made a guest appearance. I've made it my target to beat this guy and show him how someone really texts. It's going to be a clash of the Old Guard vs The Young Pretender. I'm so hyped about this, but I know I'm not the fastest texter out there. But, despite not being the fastest, I know this James character isn't.
Guinness will get back to me in 6-8 weeks, and then... and then, my friends, we will see. Oh yes, we will see...
Much Ado About Nothing
I read with disgust and trepidation in the paper this morning of a young man from the states- David Blaine, to be exact- who's performing a "miracle feat." Intrigued, I feverishly scanned the article to know what jaw-dropping stunt he would pull off this time. By the end of it, however, I had a bitter taste in my mouth. And it wasn't the guy I was sucking off at the time.
You see, once you've seen about a million "Breaking The Magicians Code", "Secrets Of Psychics Revealed" and "Street Magicians Exposed" programmes on sky (American, I'll add) you begin to become a little more sceptical of these entertaining but fraudulent people. I enjoy watching magic more these days after seeing these programmes, it's more fun wondering "how the fuck did they do that?!" than have the defeatist, unsolvable attitude that I had before. Unlike Tom, I never thought magic was real- not for one minute- but these shows have inspired me to dust off my long coat, magnifying glass and pipe and snuff out the fact from the fiction.
What Blaine is attempting to do is nothing new, and, unfortunately, is nothing even remotely magical. He's going to starve himself for 44 consecutive days. Big whoop. People in the Middle East do this all the time for religious reasons, and more often than not exceed the paltry 44 days Blaine has thrown the gauntlet to. Let's ship over an old Tibetan, put him in the cage with Blaine, and see who can outlast each other. I can tell you that Blaine would crumple in a heap after a week, while the Tibetan would still be running laps round his cold, stiff corpse.
So we've established that it isn't a particularly interesting or noteworthy stunt, why the beef? Two reasons:
This stunt is going to be shown around the clock on Sky, much like Big Brother was shown all the time on E4, according to the Daily Record. Back up a minute, who the hell wants to see Blaine sit in a glass chamber above the Themes for 44 straight days? The same people, I'd wager, who sat up all night to watch the BB contestants sleep. If Blaine was doing a 44-day stand-up comedy stint then it might be passable, but the fact that he'll be sitting there on his own makes it as television worthy as Loose Women.
Secondly, he won't even be going the full 44 days without food. Not by a long shot. You see, there are many, many avenues for cheating open to him. When you see magic you have to ask yourself "is that really necessary?" More often than not the answer is no, and there's your solution. Let's take Blaine's act apart piece by piece:
Is it necessary to be suspended 20 feet above the Thames? Not really, it just lends itself to kids shooting their paint balls at him (that would be funny!) Being so high it's impossible to look down on what he's doing, and restricts view; that's the crux of many magic tricks, restricting audience view. Also, why is he drinking his water through an intravenous drip? Simple, because it's not water. It could be a highly potent carbohydrate fluid, not dissimilar to what astronaughts drink to keep them alive. The liquid food would go straight into his blood system et voila. Problem solved.
Needless to say, there could be countless other solutions. What's important is that you're not fooled, and even if you were, it's not a big deal anyway. Nothing new, big or smart. Too much time spent in ice cubes have clearly worn away the inspiration nodes in Blaines cranium.
Eating Goldfish
Seems the Wee Issue crew weren't the first people to have the idea of swallowing a live goldfish in front of many High School-aged kids. It was a popular fad in 1939, to the point where it was considered a sport. The similarities between the incidents are eerie, and scared the hell out of me. I'm supposed to be working right now, so I'll leave the link for you to read in your own time:
Fish Eating
Bon appetite!
Righting Many Wrongs, Lies, And False Evidences
I was going to leave Beefy's article alone, but I feel it my moral obligation to put him back in his place. It's time, methinks, to take the gloves off:
"What Star has commented on in his writings is not American TV, as he’s never even seen real American TV, but merely American programmes on British television." Couldn't have said it better myself, except Beefy goes on to say "if you ever try to watch a film in America your viewing is rudely interrupted every three minutes by a commercial break." Without insulting your intelligence, my original article never set out to condemn British broadcast schedules- they're fine as they are. And, not having been to America I'd be a hypocrite to judge. A valid point Beefy, but sadly appears more "filler" to your article because that's not what we're arguing.
What we are arguing- and I want to make this very clear, because you seem to have missed the point entirely (almost, one might say, deliberately)- is that American programmes out-entertain, out-perform and out-spectacle every British counterpart. Remember the word "every", because it applies to every show mentioned from this point forward.
One of the first programmes you attack is the Lottery, an odd choice, by one that I'll put up with for the sake of argument. Is it really preferable to have Dale Winton spread out the inevitable with his characterless jibes and typical British (note: unfunny) humour, than have a programme dedicated to giving the results (which is what, suprise, you are there to see)? People don't want to sit for a half hour as an ageing idiot like Winton attempts to add "fun" to an otherwise drab affair by slinging questions at similarly disinterested contestants, who don't really give a shit and are only in it to be on TV. Gameshows are not, in the strongest way I can emphasise, a necessary addition to British viewing. You can have your half hour borefest- I'll be watching sky, thank you very much, and reading the result on teletext.
"Next on the agenda is Star’s barracking of British comedy, saying that American comedy is a lot better." Now this is what had me laughing at you, Beefy, our resident harlequin. Everyone who has their funny bone firmly in place with laugh at Men Behaving Badly, Blackadder, Not The Nine o Clock News, Porridge and Chewin' the Fat because of their unbelievably shoddy, poorly written and basic humour. This, unknown to Beefy, is all down to opinion- and I accept that. But what I don't accept is misuse of facts:
"When did we last have a saying that absolutely everybody mimicked such as "gonae no dae that" or "wank, wank, wank, good guy, wank, wank" that came from an American programme?" I'll tell you now- never. Because, unlike your sheltered self, no one I've heard has ever mimicked those "hilarious" one-liners. And the fact that everyone in Britain was crying "wazzaaaa!" after a speight of awful television adverts should alert you to the nerdiness and stupidity of the British audience. So much so that no one copies what they see off TV, lest, it must be said, the nerds- who thrive on god-awful Monty Python sketches (see TK's yearbook quote for confirmation).
Where did the Simpson's come from, you cry. America? Why... yes, I think I managed to detect some Americanisms inherent in the aforementioned show. But to say that "The Tracy Ulman Show", a show that not one of my readers can identify with, was the inspiration for this- I think not. Even if, hypothetically, it was- Britain has been playing catch up to America for years. The Simpsons were voted by a British audience to be the greatest children's tv show of all time. The Tracy Ulman Show? Well, let's just say it's as memorable as Rab C Nesbit, Blackadder, Porridge and the others on your list of "British comedies that dived." While we are here, I defy anyone but yourself to find a link between adult presented sketch show Monty Python and the swearing cartoon kids of South Park. Your logic behind this must have gone "eenie meanie miney moe."
"If you want unbiased truth then watch the UK bulletins." That's exactly why I don't watch them- the BBC are clearly trying to portray Britain in the best light it can, and it's unwatchable (read the local news article). Another matter of opinion and not one I'm going to argue- you're all able to make your own mind up.
"The other "good American shows" Star has mentioned, may I add, are not actually American. Weakest Link is British and Big Brother is Dutch!" This is the line that persuaded me to argue my case. This is blatant falsification of the truth, I implore you- don your reading glasses, and re-read what I wrote. I was careful not to claim either of these shows were American because they're clearly not. If you feel so inclined, quote me. I think you'll find "In America however, their Big Brother" and "In the American show" do not mean they were created in America. Like much of your article, your argument is based on wild exaggerations or, in this case, blatant lies to win over affection.
One last point, "sex is also very much taboo in mainstream American comedy but here in Britain it’s commonplace." Well, I don't need to tell you how absolutely ridiculous that is, especially seeing as Britain has built up a healthy reputation for being the biggest prudes in the civilised world. But what I will say is once again you create an image for Britain that is lacking in base and substance. You can call us Brits "sex mad" if you like, but like all of star-site's knowledgeable readers know, this never was and never is the case. Lies, lies, and more lies- but it makes good reading. You're entitled to your opinions but when it actually changes the words I so lovingly wrote, and makes up false information to back them up, I'll have to step in, as any self-respecting man would.
+ This is my final word on the argument. No more will be written on it, I just felt I had to respond to clarify not only what I meant, but exactly what I said and (in Beefy's article) what I didn't say. Proper blog on Saturday :-)
The Real State of American TV
Good evening discerning star-site readers, I trust that you all read Star’s ridiculous blog about American TV the other day. And I trust that your estimation of this fine young fellows intellect went down a few notches after trawling through that absolute dross. For someone who has the divine right he, based on this evidence anyway, seems quite unwilling to show it. American television is utter shite, there simply are no other words for it!! What Star has commented on in his writings is not American TV, as he’s never even seen real American TV, but merely American programmes on British television. My good self on the other hand, have been witness to the terrible televisual broadcasting that’s passed off as entertainment across the pond and thus I feel qualified to comment on its awfulness.
For a start the vast majority of American TV is extremely amateurish. It makes the news team on “North Tonight” look like hardened pros and the actors of shows such as “High Road” resemble classically trained Shakespearean actors. Take the lottery programme for example, here it is very tacky I’ll admit but at least it looks like at least a couple of million has been spent on it, it at least befits the giving away of such a large sum of cash but over in Florida however it’s a very different story. The programme consists of a bloke in a suit standing in front of an old, bottle green curtain with a table in front of him on which stands a manually operated child’s bingo machine that looks very much like he’s just bought it down at Toys R Us for $12.99. No glitz, no glamour, no thirty minute gameshow of some kind to build up the suspense, just a bloke in a suit with a bingo machine. The whole programme only lasts about five minutes, looks like it cost no more than a couple of hundred dollars to produce at most, and could easily be reproduced to the same (or indeed higher) standards of professionalism in your own front room.
Next on the agenda is Star’s barracking of British comedy, saying that American comedy is a lot better. For a man of his undoubted intellectual prowess I am completely and utterly appalled. For a start American comedies have little variety as they all follow one of two formats, sitcom (Friend, Cheers etc) or slapstick (Jackass etc). There is no clever humour in either of these genres, no sarcasm, no subtle things that only a few of us pick up on, no clever wit (well occasionally you do get a bit of it in Friends but its never subtly dropped into a conversation, it’s just blatantly blurted out to make sure that it can’t be missed which only serves to insult the viewers intellect). I’ve just finished watching one of the funniest British comedy films around, The Full Monty, and do you know why it’s funny? It’s funny because it shows the harsh realities of real life, we laugh because either we know someone who faces the same problems as the characters in the film or we face them ourselves. American comedy on the other hand is all about escapism and idealism, everything is always rosy and they all end up friends in the end. Sex is also very much taboo in mainstream American comedy but here in Britain it’s commonplace. In Friends for example sex is often hinted at but never gone into in great detail whereas in shows like Coupling, a British piss take of Friends, it forms the backbone of most storylines. This is one area where Britcom excels well beyond its American counterpart, storylines. In programmes like Friends hundreds of writers are employed to come up with jokes and then paper thin storylines are drawn up around these whereas in the UK only one or two writers work on the script where they write a good plot and then construct the jokes around that. American humour is not cleverly constructed either, everyone no mater how mentally retarded can get every joke but in UK shows like The League of Gentlemen, only a select few can appreciate every joke. What’s more how dare Star say that there are no good British comedies around, let’s see there’s Men Behaving Badly, Blackadder, Not The Nine o Clock News, Porridge, Chewin the Fat etc etc etc etc etc, the list is endless. Chewin the Fat reminds me, when did we last have a saying that absolutely everybody mimicked such as “gonae no dae that” or “wank, wank, wank, good guy, wank, wank” that came from an American programme?
There are a few good American comedies I’ll admit, Star mentioned many of them, but wait till you read what I have to say about them and then decide how American they really are. Take The Simpsons for example, irrefutably the best comedy programme to cross the pond, all agreed? Yes, good, let us proceed. Tell me where did the Simpsons first appear? Let me see, ah yes The Tracy Ulman show. And where is Tracy Ulman from? Oh yes, that’s right, Liverpool, that’s Liverpool, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland not Liverpool, Massachusetts. The creators of South Park drew their inspiration from Star’s personal favourite, Monty Python, (bet that’s pissed you off to find out that something you find so funny was spawned from something you loath so much).
Next up, the news. Star says he likes CNN, that’s fine mate, nothing wrong with that but the CNN that you see here in the UK is CNN Europe, made by Europeans for Europeans, very different to American CNN. American news is crap!! There is no such thing as a world wide news programme like BBC ten o clock news in the states, the only thing you get is what’s happening in the good ol’ US of A and even this is more often than not made up and sensationalised, The Hutton Enquiry would happen everyday out there, every story’s “sexed up”. It’s no wonder that your average American knows fuck all about the rest of the world. Last time I was in the states the Washington Sniper was busy perpetrating his crimes but even though it was happening right on their doorstep, the coverage was much better back in Blighty on good old auntie beeb. Another major event that took place when I was last out there was the Bali bombing; this is how it was reported in America; “American Football Star Killed in Far East Blast”. This was a major world event where dozens of people died and all the yanks cared about was the fact that a major league footballer had been killed, I had to buy a copy of the Daily Mail, a British newspaper, to find what had actually happened. If you want made up, sensationalised, slanderous local news then watch American TV but if you want unbiased truth then watch the UK bulletins.
To make American TV worse than it already is, if it could get any worse, there are far too many adverts on it. If you ever try to watch a film in America your viewing is rudely interrupted every three minutes by a commercial break. Watching sport is equally, if not more, impossible as they have advert breaks during the play.
The other “good American shows” Star has mentioned, may I add, are not actually American. Weakest Link is British and Big Brother is Dutch!
A good thing on American TV though is the Mexican football, not for the football itself but the commentators are hilarious and it’s sponsored by Viagara, “numero uno medicanto por impotenza.”
I could carry on telling you how and why British television is so much better than its American counterpart, even just how and why Britain in general is so much better than its American counterpart (the Great is there for a reason you know) but I’m sure that you would all get bored quite quickly so I’ll quit while I’m ahead and bid you all goodnight. Oh and Star we’ll have this TV argument down the Booth some night!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Fly
Wistfully drifting away into a catatonic slumber my eyes gently close, my grip on my pillow loosens and my body submits to my impending dream state. All is still as I gradually fall asleep and leave the material world behind to a world populated by flying iguanas, dancing bunnies and locations beyond intelligible reasoning.
By now my mind is almost asleep, where noises once distinguishable dissipate and my subconscious takes hold on what I'll hear and see. It's formulating a dream- tonight, it decides without consent, I'll be in the middle of my first lecture at Loughborough. Naked. At this point my body is numb and incapable of moving, my mind telling it resistance is futile, and just to give up. Give up now, it says, go to sleep... go to... sleep...
BUZZZ!!!! BUZZZZZZZ!!!!
Startled, I leap out of my bed. Glancing at the glowing clock the strong outline of 3:20 protrudes out of the darkness. One light switch later and my pupils shrink to the diameter of a pinhead, as the light overpowers me and dazzles my vision. "Where are you punk" I cry, circling the room looking for the offending fly. Chucking my belongings around the room I swear he's hiding from me, but where...? An echo rings in my ear and a picture of my old Boys Brigade leader appears in a box to the top right of my vision. "Remember son" his sage words flow, "think not the enemy, but be the enemy. This, and you will go far."
Yes, be the enemy. I contemplate dipping my hands in super glue, dunking my face in sulphuric acid and taking to the ceiling, but it's 3:20- and my warm bed is cooling rapidly. One dash to the kitchen later and I return armed with a fearsome spatula. Thinking like a fly, I lay a cupcake in the centre of the room as bait and wait in ambush.
Squatting next to it, staying completely still, I await the foolish fly to sink its feet into it and take its final meal. To add to the stealth, I cover myself in my bedsheets and spray myself with Mr Muscle Bathroom Cleaner to remove that noticeable "human smell" that I've been cursed with. Five minutes later, and the fly is still out-thinking me. A light comes on in the corridor, and my retarded sister walks in.
Looking at me sitting in the corner of my room, smelling of detergent and watching a cupcake directly in front of me she is lost for words. "Go to bed" is all she says, before heading back to the basement, dragging her knuckles against the floor. Returning to the cupcake, I spy a black dot flying away from it. "Bastard!!" I scream, and launch a full attack on the fast moving fly. Smacking all round me, turning furiously and swatting at a rate of noughts I'm satisfied that the fly has breathed its last. Wiping the sweat from my brow I retreat to my warm, loving bed, ready to be cocooned by its ever-loving and forgiving sheets. Ahhhhh.
My mind rests, and I fall asleep before long, to a place of happiness and divinity. A place where no one can enter but me, and all my thoughts are protected. It's as if
BUZZZZZZ!!
Shit!!! My body has instinctively leapt to the floor, and already gazing at the time. 10:43 it says, almost grinning at me. Grinning, because it knows that I'm at the point of no return, whereby trying to sleep will only result in frustration and anger on behalf of my non-complying brain. An image of my old Boys Brigade leader appears, whispering "kill the fucker..." and a red rage drains my eyes. Fury sets and I begin constructing an elaborate torture device for the bastard fly who robbed me of a long lie. Psychotically, I gleefully laugh as each piece is meticulously placed and glued together with careful precision.
It sits where my head would rest on my bed, a balloon covered with glue and pins. I'll leave it there, waiting for the dopey fly to try and pester me again, where it will meet with the reaper- me! And then we will see who has a lack of sleep, and who has to live without wings, and who will spend the rest of their days eating glue and repenting. Oh yes, it will be a glorious day indeed...
Awkward Times
How many times have you seen someone that you distinctly recognise in the distance, completely oblivious to your presence, and not known what the hell to do? Well, as of this moment I can say that this is an almost daily occurrence for me; an awkward, inescapable part of my day that leaves me floundering, urging the earth to swallow me whole.
As I stood in front of the teller, yelling my lungs out at her ineptitude I had no idea that someone from my year was standing in queue astonished at my lack of vigilance. Going blue in the face I pounded my fists against the glass, screaming "I want my fucking money you whore", swiping my arm across the desk, clearing it entirely of its propaganda and Howard-laden leaflets.
Five months down the line, and the Inland Revenue still haven't paid me back my tax I lost from my only paid fortnight at Pizza Hut. Every day I meander into my local branch of the Halifax and cause a scene, blaming each unsuspecting worker for Inland Revenue's mistakes.
"And you!" I bellowed, pointing my finger in the direction of an innocent office clerk, rampaging over to her desk in a whirlwind of fury. Placing both arms firmly on her desk, I tip it over onto her, as her expensive laptop crashes to the ground in Hulkesque fashion. "You better not be laughing, or I'll kill you, your children, your children’s children, and my son will kill your great grandchildren after that" I threaten to the quivering clerk, looking her squarely in the eye.
Standing directly in the middle of the bank, I yell "GIMME MY MONEY" and storm back towards the teller, who's on the phone to someone, looking markedly tense. Clasping a nearby lamp, I smash it off the glass, and soon throw chairs, desks and pens at the impenetrable glass. "When this glass breaks" I tell her, metal stand in hand. "I'll smash your skull in until there's nothing left but fine dust." On that, I then turn towards the exit to go home and have lunch. But, who should I see cowering in a corner, face streaming with hot tears but Kate Templeton.
This is where the awkward and daily part comes in (although I do terrorise the bank each day, demanding my "motherfucking" money to the victimised staff). I have no idea whether I'm supposed to look at her, engage in conversation, say hi or any other social interaction. I haven't spoken to Kate for three years, yet I feel a strange bond with her, as I do with everyone in our year. I feel an almost necessity to say hi, as though we were a brethren and "sixth years stick together." I flounder, my arms flail wildly and my upper lip seems to have taken a life of its own. It's at this point that I look at my shoes, avoiding all eye contact. I'll pretend I hadn't seen her, and if she says hi I'll automatically respond "oh hey Kate! Didn't see you begging for your dear life over there! How's things been for you? Excited about Uni?"
But, as it turns out, she's midway through a prayer. Best not disturb her. I exit the bank, issue one last ransom demand, and fling a nearby bin straight through the window, smashing it into millions of glass shards. Tomorrow I'll probably see the likes of Mark Mitchell, Nicola Donald or Michael Cordiner and freeze, look around nervously unsure what to do, and probably extend my ever-growing interest in my shoes.
Stallion McLure
I take it that the vast majority of you discerning readers have seen the kids programme Bananaman but for those of you who haven't let me explain. Bananaman was a cartoon about a small, innocent, unsuspecting little average ten-year-old boy, enjoyed making fart noises and the like, who every time he ate a banana, turned into a muscular superhero dressed in a ridiculous blue and yellow banana costume. I know what you're thinking; why the fuck is Beefy writing about a children's cartoon? Does he need help with his problems? Perhaps a spell in Cornhill would be of benefit to him. But it's all right I don't require sectioning under the mental health act. I am in perfect control of my faculties. I'm writing about Bananaman because right here in our humble town an unnerving parody to this somewhat unbelievable tale is taking place and it involves the most unlikely of candidates. Let me use the same sort of beginning as the afore-mentioned children's show to extrapolate.
Living in Castle Park is this fellow, a geek or social outcast if you will, by the name of Lee Christie who, when he takes a sip of Carlsberg Export an amazing transformation occurs, Lee Christie becomes Stallion McLure. His body changes from the hunched contortion that it is now to a toned, muscular, broad shouldered job, his acne disappears in an instant and he takes on striking Latino features. The Stephen Hawking-esq voice is replaced by a low, alluring droll, the pens shoot out of his top pocket and the school tie restricting the flow of beer to stomach spontaneously combusts and disappears into thin air. Where the over sensitive, wee sleekit cow'rin timorous beastie of a geek once stood there know stands an attractive young gentleman who says, "Hi, I'm Stallion McLure, you may remember me from such amazing transformation programmes as 'When Granny Became an Evil Man Eating Zombie' and 'When Harry Became Sally; a Sex Change Story'".
For you to fully comprehend just who Stallion McLure is you must first know a bit about his alter ego. Christie is the anti-lad, the ultimate in stereotypical geekiness. He spends his day sitting in a darkened room programming his computer, doing Maths homework and coming up with some new kind of Physics equation. One day in Maths Christie brought in some graphs of some 'what the fuck is this all about' equations that he had done on his computer the night before. Needless to say everyone in the class guffawed with laughter, even the teacher had a sly wee titter to herself. What kind of sad bastard does something like this I hear you ask, well I'll tell you what kind, the kind who when asked what he does of a Friday evening replies, "well first I do some maths homework and then I go on the internet". "Wouldn't you rather have a pint down the Booth?" Star and I enquire. "No I don’t think I'd enjoy that," comes the pale-faced ones reply. What's more, when asked by a pair of attractive young ladies who shall remain nameless that if offered unconditional sex with them both at once in a menage a trios would he do it he replied, "No I don't think I'd enjoy that." What sort of red-blooded male says something like that? No true lad in his right mind would turn down an offer of that nature, not even his Eminence Pope John Paul II could say no to that. Can you also believe that alcohol has never passed the lips of this poor, misguided soul?
If Christie is the anti-lad then Stallion McLure is the anti-Christie. When he has gone through his metamorphosis and surveyed Christie's room he kicks over the computer in disgust before picking it up again and downloading some porn. He then proceeds to burn all the Physics and Mathematics journals that line the walls of Christie's den before he storms out with a tin of Carlsberg in his hand and goes out on the pull. Before you know it McLure returns with a couple of really hot girls on each arm and proceeds to make love to each of them in turn, while its not their turn they form an orderly queue outside his room which stretches all the way down Castle Road to the war memorial, it's a bitch getting out of my drive when Stallion McLure's in town.
McLure eventually gets bored with fucking and jumps in his Ferrari to go for a capade. McLure is the king of capading (well he would be if it weren't for Star and I), its not unusual for the government to be involved when trying to sort out the chaos he causes. He's great at tattie boguling as well, Buckingham Palace and the Taj Mahal are part of his impressive hit list to name but a few.
But alas, the powers of Carlsberg Export don't last long and Stallion McLure starts to slip away and Christie begins to return. When Christie is restored to his usual geeky, self-conscious, obsessive compulsive disorder suffering self he has no recollection whatsoever of Stallion McLure and is left bemused as to why there is porn on his computer and empty Carlsberg tins littering his bedroom floor.
|
