Behind The Blog
Freud would have loved the blog.
Had he not died 65 years ago, and time related problems permitting, Freud would have been a blogger aficionado, rummaging around the million-or-so personal accounts written daily with savage enthusiasm. Psychology's most heralded and influential thinker would have lapped up the blogger goodness’s and penned notes ferociously, frothing at the mouth no doubt, eyes ensnared in a daring world so personal yet beautifully distanced and anonymous.
Freud is universally regarded as being the father of psychoanalysis, the talking cure if you will, a method whereby clients release their inner-most secrets to consciousness through talking about their past. He discovered that there's nothing better than talking for good mental health; people with emotional problems need someone to listen and be there for them, to feel valued. Increasing amounts of people are finding refuge in the humble blog; a secret place where they can offload all their emotional baggage.
It is these blogs that are of interest to me. For a while I would read JJ's blog purely for the conflict between him and his girlfriend- a relationship based on dependence on his behalf, and necessity on hers. It was compelling stuff, until they broke up. I haven't visited it since.
Sharon, who to (some people) may appear as shallow as a frying pan but whose hidden, perceptive side was touted by Dabby in a distant blog, decided to pack up her long-standing anti-ned website to concentrate on a more honest and open side on her teenage diary blog. Lately, a post entitled "Slump, sulk, sulk..." caught my eye. For once, here was a savage writing on a personal, unrestricted level that was engaging and interesting. Sometimes we take comfort in the troubles of others, a human characteristic exploited by celebrity magazines and most tabloid newspapers.
Freud was a great believer in the 'manifest and latent' meanings of dreams- that is to say, the face-value meaning and the hidden meaning to do with a conflict between your unconscious basic instincts and your conscious morality. No doubt Freud would have made some connection between the manifest content of blogs, and their hidden meanings. Even the volume at which you post per week could say something about your state of mind. Of late, I've been posting far in excess of what I usually do. Can a blog be, in effect, a way of distracting your mind from important issues or worries?
I'd say this blog is reasonably distanced from becoming personal, barring a few lapses of judgement. I like it that way, I'm not one to put my dirty laundry out in public. I did that once on the Savage Central website... boy did that kick up a fuss. There's a lot I could write about my situation right now and since this website's inception, if you're up to date with the gossip or have Michael Cordiner on your msn list you might even be slowly beginning to catch on. If you're a long-time reader of Starsite, you might have wondered to yourself why I wrote probably four lines in total about my girlfriend of one year, Leanne. Freud would likely fall off his chair, aghast with confusion, throw his arms up in the air and cry "les Ecossais!" if he were here.
I can feel a 3rd year project on the psychology of weblogs coming on...
Police Baffled
Grampian police were today left baffled when they made a rather unexpected discovery during an attempted raid on the suspected lair of "The Stallion".
Following a tip off from a local resident police stormed a house in the Castle Park area of the town armed with assult rifles, stun grenades and several cans of pepper spray. After a three hour stand off outside the house (the boys in blue were simply too scared to confront "The Stallion" and merely stood outside drinking tea and scratching their balls), they were stung into action when Cheif Inspector Archibald was struck on the head by an errant can which unconfirmed reports claim contained Carlsberg export, the signature beverage of "The Stallion".
Police then surrounded the abode and quickley burst into the house from all angles. They were left bemused however as upon entering the room suspected of being the site of "The Stallion's" many reputed "date rape" attacks, they were met with nothing more than a confused geek by the name of Lee Christie. "The Stallion" was nowhere to be seen and Mr Christie had no idea where or when he actually was so he therefore had no recollection of the "Stallion" ever having been there. Scrawled across the wall in red paint was the phrase, "god made arseholes big and small, Grampian police employed them all," making it clear to investigators that "The Stallion" had disabled Mr Christie before sprawling his message on the wall and fleeing before police could enter the building. It is hoped that Mr Christies amnesia clears soon so that an e-fit of "The Stallion" can be made up. Police later apologised to Mr Christie for the emotional stress they put him under and left him alone to partake in his beloved past time of making up new Physics equations.
After the failed raid Chief Inspector Archibald had this to say: "Some people have suggested that it is in fact Mr Christie who has carried out the crime spree accredited to "The Stallion" however I do not believe that a geek of this magnitude could manage such things." He went on: "Not even my son is as geeky as that!"
Upon returning to the station, police were met with a twenty five tonne mound of tatties and an assortment of stolen council property strewn outside their headquarters. It is believed that this too is the work of "The Stallion".
"The Stallion" is still at large and is believed to be around six feet tall with dark hair and a tanned complexion, it is also reported that he drives a british racing green Jaguar XKRR. Anyone with any information about either someone matching this description or the car are urged to contact the local constabulary immediately.
Star's Personal Vendetta
A civil war has erupted in the Cletus-Star shared room, where two mighty combatants are locked in auditory combat. The battle rages across the 24 hour clock, night and day, where only the most proud will survive- the ante is upping, and in these times of darkness only one thing is certain- someone's gonna get hurt.
Those who know me well will know the rich history of Star's Personal Vendetta- an ideology that stemmed from the a game called Planetarion, a simple game of power. In this game any aggressor would be severely aggressed against, even if it entailed suicide to do so- resulting in the poor bastard learning the hard way that Star knows how to keep a grudge, and will execute revenge to any degree necessary. "Do onto others what's been done onto you" is the mantra I'll live by, if it means not being taken advantage of by foreigners intent on waging war with the wrong people.
It all began when Cletus, the heroic ironman, struck a stinging and un-called for blow to an unwitting Star, who was trying to sleep (it being 2am and all). Cletus turned the volume up on his speakers with the direct intent to unhinge any plans of slumber on my behalf, an underhand move frowned upon in most Univeristy social circles and ambiguously detailed in the International Human Rights Charter.
"Cletus" I said, clearly not impressed. "Turn that down."
It was no use, he wouldn't budge- which left me no option but to start issuing the threats.
"Turn that up and I'll tear pages out of your bible" I calmly told him, turning in my bed. To my amusement, he turned it up, trying to be the big man, pushing me. Smug and content with himself, Cletus was so self-assured that my threat was as empty as his African wallet that he neglected to protect his beloved bibles. Rising out of bed, I cooly meandered over to his prized bible and tore out a good few pages from Kings, before placing them in a crumpled pile next to my bed.
"Go on Cletus- try it again" I said, forewarning that I might accidentally spill water on his laptop if he persisted. Sure, the punishment would be overly harsh, but I stress- it was 2am- and I cared not for proud old Cletus and his proud ways.
Hastily, Cletus returned the volume to its original level, careful not to tread the line. "For this outrage, I'm going to play Guns N' Roses all of tomorrow" I warned, relishing the idea of the ironic deserved-punishment slant. Still he persisted, but I ignored the sounds of tribal drums and prehistoric group "oohh-ming" and "eminawa! eminawananana!" to attend to more important business- sleep.
The morning came, and after a quick one hour lecture it was back to my place for pay-back time. Enter Cletus- eager to get stuck into some much needed revision. "Oohhh Cletusssss" I jibed in my head, "take a load of this punk", turning the volume to high and blaring "Get In The Ring" as a sonic wave of pure noise beamed out of the unassuming speakers.
Cletus' moans of agony (presumably the noise broke his auditory pain threshold) were drowned out by "fuck you, suck my fucking dick" and such other gleeful lyrics from the esteemed track, along with "I don't like you, I just hate you, I'm gonna, kick your ass!"
An argument ensued and Cletus finally accepted (I think) that he had a punishment to serve, and would do so with as least dignity as possibly. To wit: he retreated to the library, not knowing that I'm not through with his heretical, rebellious ass.
Leaving the room he turned about and began forewarning of a retaliation. Of course I couldn't make out much of what he said because of the music, but from what I could make out tonight is going to be very long indeed. Just before he left I gave him this thought that will surely haunt the rest of his Uni days- "you've made a very powerful enemy Cletus, a very powerful enemy indeed."
Until round two, I wait with bated breath.
Trains And, Erm, Football
Today I have a lot- and I stress, a lot- to rant about.
First things first- the railways. Scourge of the modern world, the Railway system we have in Britain is not only 50 years behind its Japanese counterpart (which reached 247 mph last week, while our trains chugg along at a wholesome 90 mph), but its pricing is also what you'd expect to have paid half a century ago. Example: Ł65 to take the train from Loughborough to Aberdeen one way at the crack of dawn, the time where all travel fares are supposed to be greatly reduced. For that price, I can fly from Loughborough to Aberdeen, and back, and then back again, and back again for good measure and still have Ł15 to my name. You know what else is funny? The way that the aforementioned flights would take 6 hours in total, 2 hours less than the time I'll spend staring out the window of that loathsome train.
Everyone knows that I'm not sexist, but I had to have a chuckle to myself when I walked past a girls football game on my way to a lecture. Football should be a beautiful game, played with certain finesse and degree of touch- from a deft pass, to a searching ball up the wing, football should be played with purpose. Not women's football.
I watched in horror as 22 girls tarnished the name of the beautiful game with such a ghastly display that made me cringe and wonder if equality was really worth it to have this abomination of what is predominantly a male game. There was no formation to speak of, the girls followed the ball around the park and would swing their leg a full 180 degrees when they came within a one metre proximity of it. Passing was an equally shambolic affair, whereby the player in possession would belt the ball towards a general area and hope that someone of the same shirt would pick it up. Don't even get me started on the goalkeeping, you can imagine how stainless her shirt was at the end of the match- the very hallmark of bad goalkeeping.
When I got back from my lecture I saw a sign advertising a women's volleyball match. "Want to see 14 girls play with themselves?" it said. This is the way women in sport should be treated.
On the subject of football, fellow Scots, I know you'll sympathise with me when I mention the year "1966."
Being resident in England, I have witnessed first-hand the national obsession with that fateful world cup final that would be repeated and mentioned at every sporting turn for years thereafter. The Hun on friday had the (rather presumptuous) headline "Arise, Sir Jonny!" to accompany the Hun's outrageous campaign to give England's fly-half a knighthood at the tender age of 24. I would ask you what else he's won, but I'll tell you now- nothing. Not to detract from his awesome performance, I just think giving the one-tournament wonder a knighthood devalues what others before him have gone through to achieve the same accolade.
Then, I bought the Hun on monday too, where a giant photo of that world cup final shared the page with Wilko kicking his nation to glory. I wouldn't mind normally, but opening the paper I read at least 20 different references to the match that is replayed every single world cup. "England are through to the quater finals" you'll have likely heard, "can they do another '66?" Repeat till exhausted, then repeat another 10,000 times for the next forty years.
I'm happy for England and if anything this victory will provide (some, albeit minimal) relief from the "they think it's all over" brigade. Just don't expect to hear about anything else for the next forty years...
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Me: "Ok Jibba, tell me what you did this weekend without mentioning the rugby."
Jibba: "I arrived in Whitby on Thursday at 8pm. And I came home 6pm Monday."
Quickly Now
Ah, a famous quote from my esteemed English teacher Mr Mrokczheck (whatever, I was a first year) who would repeat this several- if not hundreds- of times per lesson. What better way to start a blog?
And what worse way to end a blog on the note that I'll be drunk in 20 minutes, and as a consequence I'll post these links to keep you occupied while the alcohol seeps into my Cerebral Cortex and then onto my unwitting Cerebellum, rendering my speech and motor neuron responses almost completely useless:
Mr Bob Hates You- The funniest blog this side of Starsite and Dabby's blog
Lyrics To Breakdown (Guns N Roses)- What a song, these lyrics are timeless.
Erm, that's about it. Please don't hurt me.
Spyware
What gives Spyware companies the right to install malicious software on your computer system without permission? Software that systematically monitors and reports all your internet actions to third-party companies who then badger you with emails, pop ups, and actually change your system to make "zestyfind" your homepage. I'm sick to fucking death of unscrupulous companies like these who take advantage of "average computer-illiterate Joe" who has no idea what Spyware is, and doesn't know that these seemingly inconsequential happenings are.
Gator.com- you're all assholes, and if I were a barrister I'd take you to court in a second, along with the countless others who follow suit and hide obscurely named "Data Miners" in your critical system files. These files are so well hidden that you need to pay for software to remove them. Let me reiterate a point- you never agreed to be hounded by these malicious files, they were installed without you even knowing while you were browsing the web. And you have to pay to buy a program to get rid of all these files, which, you can bet your house on it, will only come back in a stronger harder-to-find-guise requiring you to update your Spyware remover in the near future.
Problem is, Average Joe isn't one of our country's leading legal authorities, nor does he have the time or money to fight these companies in court. Damages are minimal anyway, so any cash payout to the accuser will hardly compensate for time lost in court and with consultation with lawyers. It's a no win situation, where the Spyware bullies rake in millions each year by infiltrating your home system and ruining what could otherwise be a reasonably enjoyable online venture.
Last year I created the email address alanwales@hotmail.com to try and abandon the spam-infested wreck that was my old email address. After one day (just one fucking day) later, and I had numerous offers to see a white girl choke on black cock, to be freed from mortgage-repayment hell (I'm 18 for crying out loud), and to donate to the Salvation Army (even the supposed 'good guys' are in on it). This viscous email bombardment has continued ever since, to the point where I don't use that email address anymore from sheer disgust at the entire situation.
Someone is to blame, and if any lawyers out there are reading I'll be happy to contribute hours into the hundreds to take down these corporate money-spinning bastards. I consider myself fairly competent at using I.T, but I couldn't for the life of me remove any of these programs or files. In the end I downloaded SpyKiller, which told me that I had "247 different Spyware actions" on my computer, and to remove them I'd only have to hand over $30 for the privilege.
It might be useful to point out here that I've only had this PC for 6 weeks, which started with a brand new registry untouched by Internet-related nuisances.
Enough is enough, it's time people were exposed to what is really going on behind the scenes in their own PCs. Part of the reason there hasn't been a massive backlash (as with viruses) is because it's all done so calculated, to the point where an ad popping up could just be because of the page you are reading, or that zestyfind is what you actually typed into the address bar and not bbc.com. Because it's merely an inconvenience and not a threat to valuable documents and data people are "living with it", instead of fighting back like they should.
This student is laden with time, but not power. In numbers we can march forth and take the power back, for our sake and our children's, and our children's children. All this wrong doing must end now, lest we become the victim of the corporate bully.
One Moment
Sweet repression. Without it, we'd all be mentally healthy and psychoanalysts would be out of a job.
Here's to one of life's most useful short-term defence mechanisms, and also to one of life's most damaging long-term solutions- wonderful repression.
Cheers.
Have You Seen This Man?
Police in the Aberdeenshire area have released artist-impression pictures of a man they believe to be involved in a string of crimes in the surrounding region. The pictures depict an actor swilling Carlsberg Export in a trashed room, similar to the hotel room the suspect wrecked after a group orgie that had been hosted in the very same room.
The man is believed to be between 6'0" and 6'3" feet in height, tanned and talks with a seductive musky accent. The serial womaniser, known by locals as "Stallion McClure", has been spotted driving a black Jaguar XR and has been sighted in the Tolbooth, amongst other liquor-serving premises in the Ellon district.
One elderly woman was quoted as being "distraught" after finding "hundreds" of potatoes in her garden; a heinous crime that has marred what has been an otherwise peaceful summer, although this worrying trend seems to be set to continue all through the winter. It is not known yet whether the suspect is connected to the "Tattie Boguls."
The owner of Jaxx, Mister Jack Jaxx, had these words to say:
"Een minute ah wis' gieen chips tae this wee laddie an' the next minute WHAP, ah wis on the flair. Ah kidnae telt fit 'ad 'appened, but ah saw a man, auch he wis a fair size, leavin' wi' ma menu! It's a blimmin' affront!"
The sign was later found in a garden in Tarves, along with a pile of other stolen signs and council property.
Police are appealing to all local residents to come forward with any information regarding the case of the mysterious visitor. Police cameras caught the Jaguar speeding up the Tarves-Ellon route and traced the owner as a Mr Thoirs, who is currently being detained in custody for further questioning.
As well as dropping council roadwork signs off into people's gardens, "Stallion" is reputed to have used the date-rape drug Rohypnol. Police investigators cannot explain how he managed to bed as many women in one night, "it's amazing", Grampian Chief Inspector Archibald said in a press conference, "he must have went through at least twenty women in one night, based on surveillance footage from the New Inn."
Even the local ned contingent have written into the Grampian Police to complain about this newcomer to Ellon's nightlife. In a heart-felt hand-written letter Jack Chapman, 18, said he was "bitterly disappointed" in the way the Ellon Police Department handled the situation. "We have wasted all our lives to be known as the baddest small-time criminals in Ellon" he sobbed, "on this occasion, the police really let us down."
That evening, however, the Tolbooth recorded record sales. Owner Bill said:
"Usually we can expect half our nightly takings to be from underage drinkers, but on this occasion we almost doubled our projected Friday night sales thanks to this unknown! After buying a round for everyone in the bar, and leaving immediately after, there was a sudden craving for Carlsberg Export! The tap was dry within the hour, I've never seen anything like during my 30 years in the industry."
Police are currently doing door-to-door inquests in the nearby area, but with little success. Fragments of information are still appearing but no complete picture can be established, the man known simply as "Stallion" seems to have disappeared back into obscurity leaving no clues behind. Will he return? Nobody knows, but until then please take time to look at our mock-up pictures and ask yourself where you were on that Friday night. This rogue needs to be taken off our streets, and with your help we can track him down and bring him to justice.
The Ellon Tales- Christie's Tale
It was the morning of 14th November, and young nerd-in-acceptance Lee Christie has awoken from a powerful slumber. His head is unusually sore, as he crawls out of bed to see tens of empty Carlsberg Export cans scattered from wall to wall and all his Monty Python posters slashed and crumpled on the floor. To his disgust, he spies an opened condom wrapper next to his bin along with, he can't be exactly sure, but what appears to be a smutty lad-mag under his bed. Beside his alarm clock is a post-it note, a curious occurrence as Christie communicates only through electronic 1s and 0s or low, indecipherable murmurs.
Holding the post-it note up to the light Christie is astonished to read the words "thanks for the great night Stallion, love Sindie, Anissia and Alex Hewitt xxx."
For several minutes Christie's entire body ceases to function as he freezes on the spot, lost for direction. He knows he should put the offending note into the bin without haste, but its mere presence in his room makes as much sense to him as the root of minus one, or how anyone could derive pleasure from 'doing that to themselves' (he shivers, just the mere thought of that act disgusts him to the very core of his being).
He sits down at his desk, and furiously scribbles down complex formulae. "If the derivative of x to the power of four is 4x cubed, and if nine cats out of ten can't tell the difference between Whiskers and Good Kitty's, then the post-it must be a subliminal warning from Klingons of a Gargon invasion!"
Lost in his own imagination, Christie begins constructing a Courtyear Clock to countdown the days until invasion using blueprints provided by the aforementioned goon. He plots graphs of projected destruction, colouring each line differently and then emailing them to Miss Marioni, who- he is completely confident- will then put them on her classroom wall to masturbate furiously over at lunchtime.
But still, despite his startling discovery, Christie is unnerved by the stockpile of empty tins of beer in his room. It's pungent aroma has filled the room with it's sweet, almost inviting smell; one that fills the nostrils with ambivalent emotions of joy and excitement. He knows that beer is prohibited by the pact he signed with his online chums, who each swore allegiance to "PKing N00bs" and no ulterior pleasures... but it taunts him, lying there forbidden, so close yet so far.
Clasping one of the cans he can just about see the lonely dregs of their departed liquid brothers at the very bottom. The dregs call his name, "Lee" they say, "surely one sip can't hurt...?"
"No, Carlsberg can, I made a promise..."
"Ooohhh Lee... one eencie-weencie little sip isn't going to undo the thousands of hours you've spent accumulating experience and wealth now, is it?"
"I don't even like beer! Why don't you just leave me alone?!"
"Suit yourself, I'll just sit here and lose more carbon dioxide than I already have, oh woe is me..."
"Stop it!! If I drink you, will you shut up?"
"By default: yes."
"Fine."
It was at that moment that he grabbed the specially imported can and put it to his lips. Watching the room spiral into a multicoloured haze the soft Carlsberg Export slithered down his tongue and hit the back of his throat, eliciting Christie's taste receptors and plunging the dullard into a brave new world of confidence and unchained inhibition.
Christie's clothes ripped at the seams and flew off, as the multicoloured room dumbed down into darkness with a bright light emerging from the front door of his house. From the light an esthetic figure emerged and walked towards the bemused boy, and stopped at the doorstep.
"Come closer."
Christie was about ready to drop his load in his underwear, but the power of the Carsberg held back his instinctive response. Somehow, from the depths of the can, a newfound confidence had arisen in Christie's heart. Finding the courage to talk, Christie boldly replied to the stranger.
"But, I've never been past this door!"
"Lee, there is a whole world out here for you that you've never seen, open the curtains... look!"
"B... but, I don't want to... I like it better behind this screen."
"Do it!"
Thunder shot from the grey skies, before a beautiful sunlight shone through the hastil-opened curtains.
"It's... beautiful..."
"Yes, now it's your time to reign, if you harness the power of the Carslberg."
Before he could reply the figure had vanished, and the front door was somehow open. Puzzled, Christie picked up one of the unopened cans.
"Well, here goes nothing" he murmured, sinking the can in one. As soon as Christie had downed the 500ml can, an amazing transformation occurred! For now he was no longer Lee Christie- shy, impassive nerd, but he was Stallion McClure- international womaniser and gentleman extraordinaire.
"It is time", he thought, not noticing his new swanky clothes, change of hair style or brushed teeth as he took that first step into the unknown- out of the front door.
Jaywalking across the road, Stallion flagged down a passing Jaguar XR and went to talk to the driver.
"I'm Stallion McClure, and you're going to"- before he could finish his sentence, the driver was a bloody mess on the floor, battered and unconscious. Stallion took the wheel and roared into the distance- destination, the Tolbooth!
The door of the Tolbooth flew open, Stallion strutted in as the entire contingent turned and gasped at the handsome stranger. Putting his Platinum credit card on the bar top, Stallion ordered a round of Carlsberg Export (thankfully Bill had taken the initiative to install the tap the week previously) for everyone.
Instantly a group of horny Anne Summer executives, who were having their work's night out in Ellon, had latched onto the irresistible stud and had undone their flexi wonder bras to "maximum cleavage." After telling a set of hilarious and witty anecdotes, Stallion invited them back to his pad between the hours of 10 and 11, leaving space in his schedule for more loose women he was guaranteed to come by.
"I'll see you at ten then" he added, slapping one of the girls on the ass and taking a pint to his car to have on the way to the Bridge. Appetite For Destruction was blaring out of the cars in-build CD player, when he screeched outside of the Mace to stock up on 24-pack crates of Carlsberg Export. The muscle-clad hunk carried four 24-packs on each arm, causing a traffic standstill as the local neds watched the spectacular display of manliness.
McClure picked up four Hos on his way to the Bridge, and banged them all while driving round the roundabout just for good measure. Looking at his Nike sports watch, he saw the hour of 9 beaming back from his wrist.
"Sorry Honeys, I've got a date" he said, dropping them off at the Faisal and tearing back to his pad. When he arrived, approximately fifteen seconds later thanks to a masterful display of driving skills, a stunning long-legged blonde called Maxi was lying naked on the grass.
"Come here big boy" she invited, as Stallion sexed her raw and poured Carlsberg all over her model body. He spent the rest of the night making love to all the hottest women in Aberdeenshire, until 4am where he set out for a capade.
Returning from his Capade in Glasgow, Stallion had one more errand to do before going to bed- he ransacked his geeky alter-egos room, setting fire to his collection of Monty Python videos and throwing his prized PC out of the window. He then started punching holes in the walls with his bare fists and trashing his room, before crashing out on the floor in a drunken stupor and throwing up on Christie's homework.
That morning Christie woke up with a terrible headache to find his room had been trashed from top to bottom, and his collection of Carol Voderman's Maths For Nerds gently smouldering away atop a crackling bonfire where his PC used to be...
Spelling B's
There’s a lot to be said for good old Blighty don’t you agree, particularily when in direct competition with our cousins across the pond in that cultural backwater known as the USA. Star seems to think that the Americans are far superior to us Europeans but then again Star has never seen the real America, the America he knows is merely two cities, LA and New York where the inhabitants have all realised that American stuff is crap and accordingly they all drive BMW’s and Audi’s (German), drink French wine and European beer, have entertainment systems made by Sony and Hitachi (Japanese) and send their kids to a British boarding school because they realise the simple truth that the US education system is crap.
America is on the whole a very backward country. Imagine a timeshot of nineteen fifties Britain with a splash of modern technology added and basically you will have a truer picture of what “modern” day America is like. There are parts of the states where the people still live in a way not to dissimilar to that of the Hillbillies, these parts are known in civilised parts like New York as the fourth world.
Let’s be proud to admit the truth; we, the British, the Europeans are simply better, more advanced peoples than the Yanks. Our cars are better, our TV is better (we’ve argued this one already, I won, end of discussion), our beer is better, our schools are better, our law is better and even our people are cleverer, what is considered a gifted child in America would only be considered average in Belgium and ask an average American to pick out the states on a world map and nine times out of ten they’ll point to Russia citing that they must be the biggest one.
America markets itself as “the land of the free,” but this is clearly a very misguided statement. No other country on earth bar maybe Iraq pre war and Cambodia in the days of Pol Pot is as restrictive as the US, there’s fuck all that you can’t get done for. The road laws are more restrictive, if you do anything that goes wrong you can be sued for ridiculous sums of money but most of all you can’t drink until you’re twenty-one and this my friends is what I’m getting at! Europe is so much better than America simply because over here the governments of the respective countries realise that you need a pint down the Booth on a Friday evening and this point was highlighted to me in great detail the other night when I watched a programme about a great American tradition, the “Spelling B.” For those of you not in the know a Spelling B is in simple terms a spelling competition where the entrants have to spell out words like antidisestablishmentarianism and floxinoxifulification despite the fact that Americans can spell fuck all anyway, have you ever heard of “draft” beer I ask you. These competitions are entered by kids not at all dissimilar to the alter ego of one Stallion McLure. The programme (aye, programme not program you lazy, ignorant American twat) in question was about a Spelling B for people of our age, yes, that’s right OUR AGE. I mean for fuck sake how many British eighteen year olds do you know who would be interested in a fucking spelling competition? If someone tried to organise one here, all the eighteen year olds I know would point at him and guffaw profusely before coming back later to Tattie Bogul his house, just to show him where he can stick his fucking spellings!
The programme shocked me as to just how big a thing Spelling B’s are out in America and also that there were so many fucking Lee Christie characters over there to enter them. I began to wonder why they weren’t big over here as well. Why do we not partake in a Spelling B from time to time? Why do we not have them at the Booth like pub quizzes? The answer is simple; American kids can’t drink! If American teens were allowed their god given right to enjoy alcohol, do you really think that they would give a fuck about Spelling B’s?
So a useful piece of advice Mr Bush: lower the drinking age over your way and arrest the sad trend of Spelling B geeks in your country! Show that you really are “the land of the free” by giving the youth their right to alcoholic beverages, for the good of all mankind, there are more than enough Lee Christies in this worlds already without you worsening the problem. I’m sure that your daughter will agree with me wholeheartedly!
So my friends I call upon you all to fill your livers with intoxicating spirits and your bellies with amber nectar because if you don’t the Christie’s will get their way and we’ll all be forced to enter Spelling B’s when we could be at the pub! NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Paul Archibald, now 42, is having sex for the first time with his arranged-marriage bride on their honeymoon
Goldie: "I can't believe we're actually doing this! It feels so good!"
Wife: "We are so bad."
*long pause*
Goldie: "Erm..."
*Goldie begins to panic*
Goldie: "Darling... you're bleeding! Oh my God! You stay there, I'll call the ambulence right away!"
Wife: "No Paul, you don't under-"
Goldie: "Hi, is this the Emergency Services?"
Friday Night Disco
What's better than going to the FND?
Going to the FND and coming back with a free DVD, that's what!
The competition was simply to name one of the characters from forthcoming release Xmen 2 correctly and bobs-your-uncle you're a DVD the richer. Considering maybe, ooh, I dunno, 20 people entered it wasn't exactly a 'high-risk gamble', especially when the text in question was one of 300 free ones that I get each month thanks to a generous contract. Standing amongst the masses on the dance floor, phone in hand, I asked the girl next to me the name of the character from the Xmen on the big screen in order to take part in a competition.
"That's Night Crawler", was her reply. She knew my game, so we came to an agreement: if I win then I'd copy her the DVD, if I lost then the matter was never to be spoken of again. One handshake and the deal was sealed, text sent and the matter done and dusted.
Mere minutes later my name (it's always satisfying hearing your name on a loudspeaker) was called out as one of the three lucky winners. Without dragging this out for yet another paragraph, I went to the DJ Booth to collect my booty, and returned to the dancefloor to finish off what I had begun- making a fool of my rhythm-less self under the influence of intoxicating liquor.
The FND in question was odd for there was hardly anyone there until half ten, when an influx of people swarmed the premises and turned the lifeless let-down into the usual vibrant friday night spectacular that Loughborough students know and love. I was out with 5 of my friends (Tom, James, Jibber, Juan and Ben), the latter who "pulled an absolute munter" last Friday and took her back for a raunchy sex session but got bored half way through and went home to make Waffles.
The resident DJ played the usual mix of Sean Paul and trance mixes, more suited to Fandangos than a respected Student Union but hey, I don't make the playlists. Also to piss me off the offer of Ł1/pint of Carling has ended and been replaced by a -gasp!- 3 bottles of Grolsh for Ł5 'promotion'! Which is a rip-off, suffice to say, when you can get three pints of Coors Light (5%) for roughly the same price, and don't have to carry three drinks at a time either.
I met Rich again at the FND, although I seem to bump into him every time I'm out. For the uninformed, Rich is Tom's (Banks) buddy from Qatar (don't ask) who I met once a year ago and then again in the Tolbooth a month before coming to Loughborough. At the Booth he wasn't with Tom but Angus (it really, really is a small world) and he came over to talk to me. "Where you going for Uni?" he asked me. "Loughborough", I replied, "that's in England." "Yeah I know- I'm going there too!" he says, face genuinely covered in astonishment. "Erm yeah, where you staying?" I asked cynically, half expecting an ambiguous clearly made up location, like 1 Fakestreet. "Butler Court", he tells me, taking a sip of his beer. "No way...!" I splurted, putting my pint firmly on the table in case he told me another revelation, like he was pregnant with Nancy Drew's kid or something. So we bantered for a while, swapped numbers and I never saw the likeable Qatari until Fresher's week, where I've formed quite a good friendship with him.
On another subject I'm now into double figures for Direct Connect downloads, over 10GB to be precise. This comprises of The Ring, The Shining, hundreds of MP3s, twenty or so South Park episodes, Futurama episodes and others (translation: porn). Also the Matrix Revolutions is now on, so it's time to see what the fuss is about and rub it in poor Dan's face.
I sure hope my pa doesn't read this, but I'm now about Ł300 in debt. Well, what do you expect, having to pay Ł60 to join the athletics team, Ł10 a massage, books, computer products, laundry etc. If he asks I'll tell him the situations under control and that it will "all pan out in the fourth quarter." Failing that I'm going to have to work my skinny Scottish ass off during the summer, probably having to work on Nick Marr's farm and artificially inseminate pigs or- worse still- work at the Nosheen *shudders*
Finally I'd like to mention the poster of Jibber that's doing the rounds in Butler Court and has been plastered on every block entrance in a half-mile radius. Last week when Jordan was at the FND there was a text vote to see who'd come- Jordan or Gary Lucy. The male contingent voted en masse to secure Jordan's tight ass on stage with what could only have been a landslide victory, much to no-one's disappointment, save some Catholic school girls- you all know how randy those little [censored by Blogger]. One of Jibber's flatmates have copied the picture I showed last week of Jordan thrusting her ass onto Jibber's crotch and Jibber grinning like the Cheshire cat, but with a minor alteration- there's a caption.
Above Jibber's head there's floating thought bubbles with the thought:
"I wish Gary Lucy was here."
A Reminder to a Lost Little Boy
Having just had my dull and decidedly boring day very much enlightened by Star’s post about a certain alter-ego named Bernard, you know Dabby it really is much better if you just admit your illness, it truly would be for the best, I’ll even take the liberty of booking you into Cornhill for Christmas if you like, really it would be no trouble, no trouble at all. I’m getting sidetracked here, lets get back to the point; what in the name of god almighty himself are you talking about Star? How can you of all people speak the words that are forfeiting your membership of the most exclusive fraternity known to mankind? How can you concede failure when your path to glory is staring you in the face like a schizophrenic ned who “disnae like the look o’ yer face, ye ken min!”? What are you playing at by claiming that you’re going to fail an exam? Why do you give a fuck that you’ve never had the displeasure of doing Biology before? I’ve never done Biology before but I would have every confidence in myself that I would pass the very same exam that you sat today! You are forgetting two important and universally recognised words that no matter what your race, colour or creed are known and respected the world over! These two words my son………’Divine Right.’
For those of you not party to this unique club let me explain. Divine Right is a brotherhood like no other, more exclusive than the masons, more celebrated than the ‘curry and a pint crew’, even, though it beggars belief, more respected than the ‘Tolbooth Mafia’ and the ‘Crack Capade Squad’. Divine Right is a desirable label that not unlike embarrassing incidents involving hoover’s (enough said on that one) and third degree burns remains with you for your entire lifetime. Divine Right is a simple rule that entitles the holder to a number of perks and privelages, the main one being the ability never to fail an exam of any kind ever after the state of Divine Right, somewhat like the Buddhist state of enlightenment, has been reached. How do you reach this state I hear you cry? How can I become a member of this great and glorious sect? Well I’m afraid you can’t! Your chance is gone for the stipulation of gaining Divine Right is simple to understand but yet for feeble mortals such as yourselves, hard to achieve. The stipulation is that you achieve five higher A’s in fifth year. Not just any A’s either, oh no, they must be achieved in real bona-fide hardcore subjects like Maths and English, not pissy, pathetic ones like Art, Drama or Accounts and Finance, and of course you must not be, like Feesh or Fin McCoull, a supporter of Glasgow Celtic FC (a fenion) because you may remember from a previous blog that no matter what the circumstances, no matter what predicament you may find yourself in, even if the IRA have a blowtorch situated precariously close to your manhood and are threatening to remove your chance of fatherhood unless you tell them the antidote (it’s a pint of cider incase you don’t know…………..bemused? Ask Tom!) always remember that fenions don’t get!
So Star, I take this opportunity to remind you that you have been blessed with this most sought after of gifts, you possess this true “ability”. So instead of behaving like a mere mortal or fenion and doing the exam that you don’t have a hope in hell’s chance of passing this way, the scene in the exam room today should have been more akin to the following;
Star: Hey bitch! Yeah you in the corner with the moth eaten cardigan and the stick, what the fuck do you call this ay?
Invigilator: I beg your pardon young man but what did you say?
Star: You heard you stupid bender, what the fuck is this?
Star melodramatically waves the exam paper disdainfully in the air as if it were the paper you would normally use to remove faecal matter from a sodomites favoured port of entry.
Invigilator: It’s an exam you foolish boy, haven’t you seen one before?
Star: Aye, but don’t you know who I am?
Invigilator: Surprise me?
Star: Alan Wales HODR(Holder Of Divine Right)!
Invigilator: The Alan Wales! I’m so sorry sir. My most humble apologies. Give me that paper right away and I’ll dispose of it for you. Effie (shouts to fellow invigilator), give this chap first class and don’t forget the honours! You’re free to go Mr Wales and here’s a crate of Carlsberg Export for my silly, silly error I’m just as silly as that silly, silly man with no foreskin (remember him) and I need mocking most profusely.
Star takes a second to point and laugh at the pathetic excuse for a human in front of him before vacating the exam room with his crate tucked under his left arm while he sips merrily from a can in the opposite hand.
So next time you have an exam Star, remember to put the stupid fucking invigilators in their place and tell them about the wonder that is “Divine Right”.
Bernard
Just the other week I paid a visit to the sad remains of the various deceased blogs in a vain effort to elude the plethora of "Psychology for Dummies" books lying in the corner that I should have read by now, just over there. They're all in meticulous condition with not a crease or corner out of place. And so they should be- they've never been opened, and won't be opened until I exhaust every other conceivable distraction, like the aforementioned blogs.
Reading the backlogs of bygone eras, one thing stuck out: the writing style. Every blog was written more as a "diary", a jumbled collection of unrelated observations and opinions strung together by one similarity- they were crafted by one author. Pure, disorganised ramblings. To cut a long story short, this blog will follow a simliar uncoordinated multi-tiered style, to pay homage to the primitive ways of the past, and to simulate Drew's modern day blog.
Today I sat the hardest multiple choice test of my short life. "Multiple choice" used to be byword for "skive" in my pre-University years, a test where if the answer wasn't immediately obvious then the process of elimination would surely take care of even the most devious of questions. To wit: multiple choice was always an open invitation to neglect studying at any level, and merely a formality.
Thinking "better safe than sorry" I did actually learn the material, a wise move considering Biology is to me what the Calcaneus was to Achilles (see what I did there?). So I entered the exam with a little apprehension and- dare I say- a slight arrogance. Taking my seat at 2pm on the dot, I opened the paper... and nearly cried.
"Where's all the frickin' shit I learned" I thought- nay, panicked- flicking the pages frantically looking for an inviting, easy question to open with. None materialised as I buried my head in my hands, peeking through the gaps of my fingers at the Biology students lapping up the "piss easy" exam.
"This is going to be a long exam", I sighed, glancing down at the seemingly endless list of anatomical definitions, insertions, dorsiflexions, synathrotic joints, olecranon processes, extensor carpi ulnari, coccyx... integumatory systems, posterior cruciate ligaments... deltoid tuberosities, median scaral crests, zygomatic bones...
If I fail a multiple choice exam, I give you my full consent to take my life in the least humane way possible.
Elsewhere, I've been worrying for Dabby's health. I never realised it until the other week, but I swear blind that Dabby's a schizophrenic, as alarming as that may sound. Having a dual personality can be dangerous and especially hard if the patient is in denial- as poor Dabby is. For the past few weeks I've been receiving texts from both sides of Dabby's personality.
Because I'm a close friend of Dabby's, I won't reveal what was said in these texts.
But what I can say is that the very next day Dabby will call me a "cunt" for making up stuff that he's supposedly said, absolutely certain in his own mind that all these texts are fabrications. "You're just trying to wind me up", he'll claim, texting with impeccable English, befitting of a Journalism student. But 12 hours earlier, and it's a very different story indeed:
"U gt 2c the grls hre star! pure treacle-tofe pssy" is an example of the sort of text I'll receive from Dabby's alterago, who I'll call Bernard for the sake of repetition. Bernard is the quintessential Edinburgh womaniser- dancing with Ho's to S Club 8, drinking beers heavily and sending texts to numerous people on Dabby's phonelist. If you're on the said list, I can almost guarantee you've received such a text from Bernard.
There's nothing Bernard loves doing more than stealing (a popular past time in Edinburgh), searching the clubs for "booty" and getting most profusely drunk. Worse still, Bernard is quite an aggressive chap. Along with changes in texting style, Bernard will forget all social confinements and adopt an entirely different persona. I've often been taken aback at the foul language Bernard uses, most unlike Dabby it has to be said.
Also, Bernard has an intense racial intolerance. In these cases it's an integration of both sides of Dabby's split personality- intensifying Dabby's usual intolerance of Christians and Midgets, and mildy diffusing Bernard's hate of Bums and Charity workers. For a documented account of this, please read this journal.
Whispers on the grapevine suggest that Bernard has hit on many females in the Savages of late, but as yet these reports are unconfirmed. Bernard is also quite sentimental despite his rough exterior, reducing the usually cynical and superficial Dabby to a caring individual. This phenomena is nothing new, but as it's the first case in the Savages I implore you- please be considerate, and respect Dabby's condition. Bernard only seems to appear in the early hours of the morning, so research is now underway to determine the cause. Early reports suggest a full moon could bring about Bernard, but I must stress- these are simply preliminary results.
If anyone would be kind enough to come forward with first-hand reports, you can use the Tagboard or send me an email in confidence. I've taken it upon myself to help my good friend out, but like the Chinese say- every journey begins with just one step. That first step to recovery, Dabby, is acceptance.
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