Pimp My Ride!
Jesus Tapdancing Christ, this programme is immense! I implore you- even if you have a deep inherited phobia of cars and seeing them makes your eyes melt and shrivell- watch this show. What they do is take the most untrustworthy, battered, bashed up hunks of shite imaginable and turn them into fully pimpin', fully systematic beefed up pussy wagons of the highest order!
This show pushes the envelope in every respect, pimpin' up cars that by right shouldn't be on the road to make them glorious shining pulling machines too cool for words! At the start of every show Xzibit visits a lucky teenager and checks out their invariably decrepit "vehicles" and takes the utter piss out of them! On guy couldn't get his car to go into reverse it was so battered, and most cars look like Isla's shaggin wagon gone through a blender backwards! They wouldn't get any money at the yard and would be useless for spares or repairs, until, that is, West Coast Customs get their hands on it!
These guys are modern miracle workers- a band of righteous people who's occupation it is to take cars, and make 'em up real good! Their expertise is on a par with Michaelangelo and his paintings, doing extraordinary makeovers of cars that are destined to fail their next MOT's.
On one show, they took this girls battered Mustang and put flamethrowers in the fucking exhausts!! At a press of a button flames roared out of the four (yes- four) exhausts that couldn't fail to impress even the most hardened automobile hater! They souped up her car big style, installing a tv screen on the roof and making the car look dangerous! They drew flames on the car and it was hot, pimping it up big style!
Another car they custom built an expresso maker ("everything we do here is custom built" the guy quips), while putting some bitch-ass subwoofers in the back of the car ("more wattage than a kid knows what to do with!"). They put a mobile table tennis court in one car with dual-screen dvd/xbox installed into the car, they put a chandelier in another car (bling bling!) and- get this- they souped up a pick up with a mechanically extending camper in the back!
I love this show. It proves that you can make any car a fuel-guzzing, gaze-grabbing alpha-car with mad accessories that look outrageous and stunning. Xzibit does a good job of keeping it gangsta, using his rap roots to give the show a cool edge.
I think I have plugged this show enough for you to give it a go. It's on MTV during various hours so check the listings, and I assure you, you won't be disappointed. See your car outside? It's shite. With help from Pimp My Ride you get to marvel at real cars- cars that go nought-to-wow in no time. Cars that demand respect. Cars, and I hope I'm not overdoing it, that bitch slap your Put It in My Pocket ass where it belongs and reclaim the word "PIMP" for the true players.
"Gangsta, But Without The Pimpin'"
I was sitting in my room the other month, thinking about how great Guns N' Roses are, when the idea struck me- I wonder what people are selling on Ebay to do with the legendary GnR? In a flash I was there, and with the simple key strokes of "Guns N Roses" into the search box dozens of CDs, posters and memorabilia were listed.
Scrolling down the list, I realised the most effective way to search was to remove all CD listings, seeing as the sizeable GnR collection I have amassed contains almost every Guns N Roses song ever penned or put to laser. Surely there were still posters, all "legitmately signed by Slash himself" (uh-huh), as well as the usual wealth of samey T-shirts, postcards and badges that one might expect on an auction website. Nothing unique really stood out, besides the Guns N Roses cufflinks; which are cool but rather impractical for a man of my rogueish demeanour, who only dresses up for the occasional school prom.
Then I saw something no self respecting Guns N Roses fan can do without- a suave, totally kick-ass-your-granny-would-abhorr-it retro Guns N Roses "Bad Apples" bandana! Before I could say "well blow me if it isn't a bandana" the bid had been put through, and the tedius but essential process of sitting and waiting for the auction to end had begun. Suffice to say I won, by keeping the snipers at bay with an inflated bid the likes no sane man would dare match. Costly, yes- but well worth it, I'm sure you'll agree.
Thanks to a timely email scam, which I will elaborate further in a future blog, I had ?20 to spend on my paypal account. At the click of a button it was gone, and my goods had returned the very next day no less. Like a hooker on smack I was addicted, and trawled Ebay further, probing for more memorabilia of a Rock N Roll nature.
Like the Gods of fate had willed it themselves, the perfect Guns N Roses item was up for auction, and bidding had commenced. It was a rare pewter Guns N Roses pendant with metal chain- An item that oozes charm and makes a powerful statement about its owner. Such a chain that makes women weak at the knees and men share glances of admiration, with emotions of ambivalence between jealousy and brotherhood. Such a chain that when presented to neds blinds them and becomes like garlic to vampires, repelling their uncooth bodies and inviting nearby Guns N Roses fans in unity against the evil that is Dance Music (if indeed it is music).
Like I said to Beefy- this chain is "gangsta, but without the pimpin'". It radiates the room with its bold statement, taking obsession to the next level while being fashionably advisable. Hell, even the fags from Queer Eye For A Straight Guy would have trouble finding fault in this delectable eye candy. Really, such a chain is hard to praise without going overboard, and I'm certain there are few who couldn't find more than one superlative to ascribe to it.
When I'm in the car, listening to the epic Locomotive, chain drooped down over my chest, windows down- I know I am doing my part to supress the evil that is Dance. This pendant is both a symbol of hope and of triumph- even twenty years on, and people are still selling Guns N Roses memorabilia round the clock to entirely new generations of fans.
Who can say the same, with any conviction, about Ian Van Dahl, Sonique or Tall Paul?
Back At The Booth
I know that I've vomited in highly inappropriate places, including my own bed, Isla's brother's bed, Dabby's spare bed, and my front garden; but never have I caused actual lasting damage with my unpredictable vomits.
Until last night.
I woke up and saw crusty spew all down my keyboard and onto the carpet in my room. I felt like utter shit and my mouth was drier than an Oscar Wilde witticism, and my room smelt like the sum total of every nursery, school and farmyard in Scotland. The fragmented memories came back to me slowly, and then it came flooding back like the bout of vomiting I'd been subject to mere hours earlier- I remember leaning over the side of my bed and chundering hard onto the floor. Considerate, I thought, as it meant my mum wouldn't have to wash my vomit-stained sheets again, but it also left me frustrated as to why I couldn't walk to the toilet- just a few steps from my room- to donate my vomit to its circular target-like interior.
Also frustrating was knowing that I'd bought a new type of kebab and not had the pleasure of remembering its taste! I asked for a Shish kebab, I'm sure, but Beefy asserted that it was a Skish kebab or something. Either way it looked like two strung out dog shites with lettuce around the sides, and its texture wasn't far off that analogy either. I'm sure I saw a dig scuttle out of Faisals when I walked in too.
I remember being in the New Inn, but that's where the memories end. I think Cheesy, Beef, Graester and Shaw were there but don't quote me on that. The only solid memory I have is walking up to the women's toilet and staring at the icon on the front, trying to work out if it was male or female. Soon I was wandering all around the New Inn looking for a place to throw up but couldn't find the male toilets, despite having worked there for a few months.
Before that there was a sizeable crowd at the booth, comprising of the regulars and Mechie mouse, Tommy, Hardy, and other upstanding persons. Someone told me that McCardie had finally come out of the closet, although this speculation is exactly the sort of thing someone could spread easily due to its plausibility. However, being the ever impartial diplomat that I am, I refuse to believe it until I see him with a shaved head. All shaved-bald men are gay: Fact.
I tried to explain my recent brushes with the law to Mechie Mouse and co but they looked blankly at me, as if to say "yeah okay Grandpa we don't care about your stories of the war." I felt like teaching these young whippersnappers some manners but resolved to bore them further with my uninteresting stories of getting manhandled off a train by the police.
As if the term "goon" couldn't be more appropriately applied to Goldie, he did something that only a true goon could do. I bought him a nice pint of Guinness, and that insufferable ingrate Goldie refused it! On what terms you might cry- "I don't like Guinness" he said. It's not a question of liking it or disliking it- when someone offers you a free pint of Guinness, you damn well accept it!! It’s almost rude not to.
I just remembered a banterous story about Goldie- he was in Fhwondhongos once, totally mauled out of his face, sitting at a table, probably taking a break from dancing. Then he bows his head, and starts chundering all over his shoes!! When the guys go over to see him/laugh at his vomiting efforts, they give him the nickname Legend. So from now on Goldie is now Legend, after his fantastic non-avoidance of vomiting on his own shoes. Legend.
There was quality bantering the likes of which are only really witnessed at the booth, including more World Of Pain tales (see "the patchwork penis"), a certain Sweden v Italy group match, the 'crack' (what everyone’s been up to), and mandatory pub arguments. I'm pretty sure I spent a ridiculously large amount of time arguing the case for Carlsberg Export being better than Stella, even though it's opinion and you can't really articulate an argument about which beers are better without referring to the crunch point "it just is."
I also saw Jenny's pal Felicity, who has a fantastic gaze-welcoming tatoo on her left knocker, who is now driving. She told me that if I ever need a lift to just call her, any time of the day, which I'll keep as a "get out of jail" card next time I'm stuck in Aberdeen and too mauled to get on the bus. Connections are a wonderful thing, if you have them.
And I guess this takes me to the start of the night, which basically involved watching the Sweden v Italy game with Beefy. Odd how this blog has panned out, starting from the end and going progressively to the beginning.
That afternoon I was at Leanne's...
I'll stop right there.
Farewells
From Left: Jibba, Mark, Tom, Dan, James, Myself
Tom Lawrence missed the photo, but is in the albumToday was the perfect send off for what has been a great first year at University. As the sun beat down on the small market town of Loughborough, the seven of us spent the day together making hay of our last day together, visiting our future house and basking under the glorious rays in the Toby Carvery beer garden. Our visit to the house reminded me of what an absolutely fucking awesome year we are going to have next year. The house is the equivalent of the student aristocracy, being the only house nearby to have a balcony, space in the drive for four cars, and location right beside the park and 400m away from campus and town. The kitchen has newly been done up, although many us are bringing fridges anyway (beer!) and other household essentials like tvs and sound systems. Today the rooms were allocated, although in reality it doesn't exactly matter because they all boast double beds and more space than a student can know what to do with. The back garden is pretty sweet also, and ideal for extending party space or just chilling out in the sun. In fact, even if we didn't have a garden we're no more than 50m from the park, so it's all good. I made plans to put up a pen in the garden so little Axl can run about, Mark made plans for a wireless internet (sounds ultra sweet), Jibba made plans for his balcony room, while Tom, James and Lawrence made plans for parties and coming down sometime in the summer. I think that would be a great idea, coming down and staying for a few nights to decorate, have barbeques and chill out in the sun. We left with great ambitions for the house, and I say this now for the record- I bet we will still be living there in our third year. Just you wait and see. After leaving we went to the carvery for a farewell meal and drinks, bantering on an outside bench and tucking into the first veg I've had since Easter (don't laugh- it's true!). When you're a student your well being takes a hiding, and not even the monthly carvery can save you from a diet that even the most lenient of dieticians would call "mediocre." The carvery was awesome, I sure will miss you guys. Then we went to the Orange Tree, or L'Arbe D'Orange as I would say, spicing things up for the England Vs France football match later that evening. I only had one Carling, sadly bypassing the opportunity of a freshly-pulled Staropramen. Our small-scale pub crawl ended at Wetherspoons, where the outrageous promotion of a Gin and Tonic for 99p was the order of the day. Basking in the afternoon sun those chilled 'Tonics, with accompanying lemon, lime and ice, went down a treat. Amidst the G&T's I had a few Coronas- hardly a match for Jibba's Pimms and Lemonade pitcher, but close enough. A well timed game of cards made sure the day's banter flowed on until leaving time. In the evening a feast of Kings was created, where all the food left in the cupboards, fridge and freezer were thrown into different culinary dishes and served in front of the crucial England vs France Euro '04 group match. Mark made a lasagne, Jibba made Pigs In Blankets with Black Bean Sauce, and Tom helped make the peas, chicken, and the rest of the feast. My duty was to wash dishes- something I have a great phobia of doing after being fired from the only three dish-washing jobs I've ever had. I can't cook for shit though, so it all worked out nicely in the end. France gave England a good drubbing, with the sensational Zidane scoring an inch-perfect free kick in injury time before adding a second barely two minutes later. That left France with a 2-1 win; possibly one of the greatest comebacks in European Cup history. What a way to end a priceless day! Because I am going on the wednesday, I watched as my flatmates (less Dan, who's also going on wednesday) began to pack their stuff away. This year has flown by, it's hard to think it's all over! Next year is going to be phenomental, I know it. I'll make sure to keep in touch with everyone and I hope to see you all at Alton Towers in August! Also I'm bringing Leanne down to the house for a week in August/September and if any of the lads from Scotland feel like coming down, although I won't hold my breath, you're all welcome. It's been a fantastic year with many memorable nights out and in, and I genuinely can't wait to get back down to that house and kick it all off again. I can see Chiquitas on speed dial, Carlsberg in the living room fridge, Sky on the box, lazy days on the balcony and football in the park all being regular parts of my life next year. With friends like you guys, University will never seem like hard work. Bring on the second year and let's keep the good times rolling. Until then, have a fantastic summer, and don't work too hard :p Photos of the last day of first year can be found on my photo album
Axl
Apologies for the blur,he wouldn't sit still!What pet eats insects, is native to Africa, can eat cooked meats, is cute as hell and likes to run in a wheel? Answer: The African Pygmy Hedgehog- or Axl, my new pet! Now I know that hedgehogs aren't the most conventional pets but then again I'm not your average guy. It all started as a joke really, when I surfed the internet for pets that no one should own. I can across praying mantises, tarantulas, giant snails, wolf dogs, prairie dogs and even the occasional hermit crab. My quest to find the most ridiculous pet kind of concluded with the midget hermit crab, which lives its life locked inside of its shell mainly. But then I came across an animal which I knew lots about but could never have envisaged as being domesticated- the common hedgehog! Except, there's nothing common about these hedgehogs. They are smaller than their British counterparts, mainly living off a cat food diet and being distinctly "exotic" in colour. As I read further I learned much about these misunderstood creatures, and the more I read, the more certain I was that I'd love one of my own. In particular I wanted one of the salt and pepper variety, and I wanted it by summer. However, as you might have guessed, finding breeders of these rare creatures is not easy to come by. The majority live in America, and when you do find a British breeder they often don't have the colour or type you want, and when they do, they often aren't going to be breeding again for months. Sod's law in full effect. I searched the internet long and it looked like I was to be out of luck. No pet shops in a hundred mile vicinity were selling them, or in fact had heard of them, and my quest was nearing a dismal failure finish. That was until I tried a last gasp attempt to find someone on yahoo's hedgehog_help forum. Within the hour I had a few offers, but none of them were what I was looking for. One was, but naturally, he could only give them during my exams. But then, when it looked like I'd have to settle for a guinea pig or worse, an email came through that would offer my only glimpse of a pre-summer hog on the 20th of April. Within days I was swapping emails periodically with the breeder, Call Leigh, until he finally bore the news on the wednesday that his hedgehog Willow was pregnant! Of course the colour of the offspring would be hard to estimate, but all signs pointed to being dark-quilled offspring almost exactly like the one I wanted. As my hunger for knowledge grew I was reading all sorts of hedgehog articles, pushing the revision aside to know absolutely everything I could before Axl would be ready to leave home six weeks later! Those six weeks seemed to take forever, and I was still in regular contact with the breeder. As the weeks edged closer to six I decided to go out and buy the cage, the carrier and all the food and necessities for his arrival. It isn't cheap at first, but I knew once I had everything it will last all his life (upwards of four years) so I didn't scrimp on the luxuries! I feed him Royal Canin 38 and meal worms, and will give him fruit and vegetables to keep him healthy. The day came where I was to collect Axl... in Cardiff! I knew from the outset that Carl lived in Cardiff but it was well worth the 7 hour round-trip because he's perfect in every way and exactly what it was looking for. Carl gave me care sheets, a wheel (not a luxury but essential for his well being) along with 2 weeks of meal worms, food and toys! I couldn't have found a better breeder and I'd gladly travel the distance again if I ever decide to get another one. At first Axl was a little huffy and went straight into a ball when I tried to pick him up but once he got used to my scent he was running around my lap and being very well behaved! Because Axl is nocturnal it will fit in with my life perfectly as I tend to stay up late and tend to be quite busy during the day. He doesn't make any squeeks and doesn't give off any odour, in a very real sense, he is the ideal pet. He'll be going through the process of "quilling" soon where he'll lose his baby quills and grow his adult quills (the excitement!). Right now he is running on his wheel and checking out his new cage. I gave him one too many mealworms today (5) but after travelling on the train and bus and being apart from his siblings and put into a new home, I think he deserves it! I've put some pictures of little Axl below, and of course you are all welcome to come and see him in summer :-) Axl Picture 1- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 2- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 3- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 4- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 5- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 6- 7 Weeks OldAxl Picture 7- 7 Weeks Old
The Chunder Mile
A Wild Boar Tribute
There was some world class chunder action tonight at the inaugural Loughborough University Chunder Mile 2004. There were representatives from all disciplines, including discus and triathlon, as the hardened competitors fought and chundered for bragging rights and for the sake of doing a solo 4x400m with pint stops interspersed every lap!
The Chunder Mile is an amalgamation of two seemingly unrelated disciplines merged to form one drawn out but highly entertaining spectacle. The maxim "you can't run and drink" is one that is taken to its opposite literally for one night only, whereby good-for-you and bad-for-you activities take place simultaneously. The strain of finishing a Chunder Mile is akin to running a marathon barefoot, so I'm told, and only the bravest dare attack times under these circumstances.
Most competitors squirm at the thought of drinking four pints while running a mile, indeed, many don't make it to the start line such is the overwhelming fear surrounding the event. Due to an important race this weekend most of the club's most prolific milers could not compete. During the hours leading up to the event it seemed like no middle distance athlete was going to take up the challenge and show the fun runners how to grind out a mile out school, until, that is, the renowned Wild Boar stepped up to challenge the Chunder and represent the middle distance massive.
The floodlights were low and about 600 people had gathered to witness the athletics novelty event of the year. Under the cover of minimal light about thiry competitors took to the line, pint in hand. Amongst the more gifted competitors were triathletes, swimmers and cyclists. Standing next to them, was a man in a thong (and nothing else, it was freezing...) and a couple doing the three-legged Chunder Mile. The three-legged Chunder Mile is a particularly gruelling event because it means you have to stand directly beside the person who's throwing up, and being three legged, the ordeal can last over quarter of an hour.
Because the event took place after an established Achilles v Midlands v Loughborough the commentator stayed on the provide some much needed commentary! The gun went, the group downed their pints, the crowd went wild- they were off!
Immediately one of the more able triathletes had stormed into the lead and was eating up the ground down the back straight! He had opened up quite a gap on local legend Wild Boar, who was hanging in third, and pressed the pace with almost certain world leading ferocity. As he came in for his second pint, the Wild Boar looked like he was either conserving his energy or the training was not going to get him through the race with any credibility. The unheralded triathlete powered round the bend once more, opening up a wider gap with every stride.
As early as the second lap and there was chundering! One of the runners further back pulled up and chundered hard into the infield, stopping only briefly before resuming the race. At the sharper end of the field Wild Boar had moved into second place and seemed to be slowly clawing his way back.
The third pit stop looked painful, as all competitors struggled to neck the third pint in less than four minutes. Wild Boar was having none of it though, and being the Necking master that he is managed to tuck the pint away with consummate ease. By now Wild Boar was making minor inroads into the triathletes lead, pulling him back slighty but not making a great indent. As they came into the final drinks station, it looked like all was lost, and the distance boys would be shamed by some unknown triathlete.
Coming into 300m to go and an amazing feat happened: Wild Boar was storming down the back straight like a man possessed, running at speeds unimaginable for a Chunder Mile. With two hundred metres to go he still had a considerable task ahead of him to catch the talented triathlete. Could the Wild Boar possibly recreate his trademark Boar finish and clinch the title of Chunder Champion 2004?
Against all odds, against all adversary, when the Wild Boar had his back up against the wall with seemingly insurmountable work to do; an amazing feat happened. It could only have been written in a fantasy sports novel it was so heroic: The Wild Boar decimated his rival with a stunning final two hundred metres.
He left his beaten rival standing with a turn of speed that would make Michael Johnson proud. The Wild Boar had delivered as he tore up the home straight, gut full of beer, heart full of courage and attaining legendary status forever more. The Wild Boar had clocked a sensational 63s final lap, destroying the previous Chunder record in the process with a mindblowing 5:12.
As the juvelant Boar crossed the finish line he was encompassed by the Loughborough distance running group. The Boar had delivered when all hope was lost, running his final lap in what is quite simpleufor his deserved post-race chunder, and then fielded questions from his adoring fans
"I wasn't letting no triathlete **** beat me!" he quipped, the decisive winner in a thrilling duel. The Wild Boar finish prevailled once again, marking his place in the history books indefinitely. When they speak of the Chunder Mile in years to come there will always be the name of "The Wild Boar" as the basis of comparison, a living legend he will be, talked about only in running circles as a mythical runner with extraordinary talents.
So now the Wild Boar retires the magnaminous champion, excelling even his own reputation as the kick personified. If there is one day the Boar will never forget, it's holding the hopes of an entire (sub)group on a dark floodlight evening, blending both drinking and running in the time-honoured fashion that is The Chunder Mile.
Weekend Web
Oh man, I'm almost crying! I'm going to 'pay tribute' to the style of article written on SomethingAwful.com and show you all just how overpopulated the web is with paranoid, idiotic, delirious nutcases and pitiful nerds
As a joke Dabby and I decided to crash one of the games Yann plays and shake it up a little. If you look closely enough there are always flaws and loopholes in online games, mainly because the coders are poor type-lackeys locked away in darkened rooms with only the rays of light emanating from the lucid screen to nourish their skin. Most online games are shabbily put together, fraught with bugs and inconsistencies and played by only the most minute of percentages of people who have respective access to it.
They get caught up in their own little world, the creators call themselves "GOD" (as you will soon see) and the subordinates bow and beckon under their rule and perceived sovereignty. Most games involve some sort of democracy within game but the role of almighty creator never falters.
You cannot, under any circumstances, confuse someone you meet on the internet to a real life person.
As you might expect, like real life, there is a "chain of command." Even the simple forum has a chain of command these days. The more posts you write, the higher your rank- with some forums even formally rating you e.g. "Forum Master", "Forum Newbie" etc. In most online games you climb the chain of ranks through respect alone. This may entail the accumulation of levels, money, items or fear- but it almost always has a basis in the amount of hours ploughed into the game and/or its forums.
Naturally the more time you spend on something, the more vocal and passionate you become when someone begins to slate it or you or your brethren (as is the case in some guild-based games). As nerds can spend up the three-quarters of their time in "cyberspace", you can imagine how irate they become when some "newbie" wanders in off the street and begins to slate them or better them at their own game. They have coined a term for when nerds go off the boil and embark on a long-winded rant to reassert their authority- they call it "flaming." As most nerds are volatile social misfits channelling their anger at the world onto faceless online nobodies, "flaming" is about as common as a grain of sand on a beach.
So it was with much anticipation that myself and Dabby decided to set about ruining the round of the top guy in a game called Ages Of War. The task would be made significantly easier as he agreed to restart mid-round to prove he was so good he could even restart and finish number one. Without getting into the logistics of it, we succeed, and "won", albeit with underhand tactics.
And then the backlash began. You see, in this game there is something like an unwritten "code of honour" that means you're not allowed to target the same guy. Like its real life counterpart, the code cannot be enforced in any way, and is left for scrupulous players to abide to. The downfall of breaking the code is you'll never be respected hence you'll never climb the chain of command and blah blah you'll forever be remembered as the jerk that broke the code and you'll never be forgiven for it. Honestly, these online societies are exceptionally unforgiving!
But we didn't care, we had no intentions of playing further. This both infuriated and outraged the community, who then had to put up with our unparalled skills at arguing (the nerds, in contrast, have a very basic grasp of the English language).
 This screenshot is taken from the games creator, who aptly calls himself "your God." Now I'm not sure if I should have left him any offerings, or gave him reverence and respect, but all I know is his power is limited to the online world. In the real world however, he's likely some middle-aged dork who has forty cats and spends his hours phoning XXX chat lines. "Your God" Indeed. "Your Pretentiousness" would sound more suitable.  Poor crazypenguin, he may be a "forum veteran" (*Chain Of Command*), but he still doesn't get it. This post is significant because it's the first where the accusing fingers are pointed. It's almost like a group cry- if one person from the group shouts for help, they all come rampaging to his rescue. Remember- the brethren needs to be guarded from unwanted intruders. The rest kind of gets hazy because the forum moderator, a certain Misty (of the spastic elipses), had to delete my post because it was so damning. However, I think you will take great amusement in reading the posts that followed... can you work out what it was I said? I will copy you an excerpt (slightly paraphrased): "First of all Misty- why the overuse of ellipses? 'Rofl' can't you see it makes you look like an unintelligible retard who can't form a coherent sentence without breaking it up into needless pieces? I believe a well placed comma would have been more effective in the above example ;-)"The scathing attack hit a soft spot with the nerd massive, and soon the insults were getting personal: (Tempest, by the way, is Dabby)  Then, for some inexplicable reason, diamonheart writes:  How does he know this? The nerds must be in more personal contact than I'd envisaged. Also, what relevance does this have to anything? Hitting the sympathy vote works not on me. Amusingly, even after I said that I'd categorically never write on this website again, Plunder writes:  Haha, "shut up." Classic! He, like all the people on this forum incidentally, speak as if I intend to continue playing. They cannot comprehend for the life of them why someone would stop playing their game. But my very favourite post was to come from none other than Misty, the only person in the world that could possibly chalk up more than 2000 posts on this dry, lifeless forum.  Somebody help me! Hahaha! "some of us just type fast because we spend hours talking to "platers" (I use that lightly here)"I'm a what now? I can see why you use that term lightly... is it because there's no such thing as a "plater"? Maybe you mean player? Even with editing this post, Misty still can't quite find out where she's gone wrong. "It doesn't not dimish my intelligence"Either that's double negative, or you're telling me it does dimish your intelligence. I'm not too sure, but like most of Misty's arguments, it takes a lof of dechiphering to find out what she's really trying to say. Then, the single greatest line I have ever heard: "I'll be sure to let my doctor know you called me a retard."*Guffaws* Yeah ok, you do that!! "DR, some guy on the forum I write on called me a retard..." "Please Misty, this isn't a psychiatrists" "And then he said..." [Doctor slumps in his chair and buries his head in his hands, getting up to reach for the morphene] "that I should perhaps get out more so I said well in actual..." I can just see it now! Like Dabby said, I think she got a bit confused about the chronology of the argument, because I called her a retard for using an elipsis every three words, not because I later found out (and had stopped posting) she was ill. Like I've asserted before- Online people aren't real people, so I don't feel an ounce of guilt that some nobody has contracted an illness. The sympathy vote is always the basest argument. I'll leave you with Misty's final, and as is characteristic of her, completely illogical and badly spelt argument: "Now I will sink into my meds again, so that the young little whipper sanpper can chew on that one"Erm...
A Welcome Return
Thank fuck thats all over!!
Exams are a right fucking pain in the arse! A greater pain than getting prodded repeatedly in the japs eye with a long and viciously pointed piece of metal that's spent the last few months warming up in the deepest fires of Hell and a greatar pain even than being sat in front of a TV wearing nothing but a Rangers top whilst being forced to watch a video of the 1966 World Cup Final over and over again to a soundtrack of Frank Fucking Skinner and David Bastarding Baddiel! Exams are worse than all these ills, not because they're diffficult or challenging in any way but simply because they're just such a damn inconvenience!
There you are minding your own business, merrily lapping up the joys of student life, copious amounts of alcohol and the like, when WHAM!!!! You're hit with the devastating news that all this banterousnous is about to be rudely halted by a fortnight of the most mind numbing tedium that university has to offer. An acrid mix of revision and studying coupled with the reclusive nature of your one time boozing partners, exams are positively vile conceptions dreamed up not to test your ability in competently making use of the theoretical concepts that your supposed to have learned in lectures but merely the universities means of giving you a bit of a reality check, throwing you back down to earth with a bump if you like and none to subtely reminding your drunken student body that it's still very much a part of the real world, a world dominated by stress, deadlines and mortgages, a far cry from the world you currently reside in where the most you'll ever have to worry about is the best way to get totally wasted on the miserly student loan.
Examinations totally obliterate your social life, there's no two ways about it! Nights in town are all but forgotten about, capades a hazy blur in your brain that your no longer sure if they were only a dream, even the sanctuary of The Tolbooth has become nout but a distant memory as one by one your comrades dissapoint when you make the call to them that usually ends in much mirth and merriment down at a local boozer. "Exams," they cry when you mention social soirees to them, "revision," they utter in a trance like state when you offer to buy them a pint. "Must study! Must stay home! Must do work for exams!" It hurts you deeply to see someone who was once a drunken youth like yourself reduced to not even a shadow of their former selves, utterly consumed by the whole examination gab. They curl up sharply like someone who has just spent a month in a pitch dark room and has just been exposed to light again at the mere mention of beer before quivering hurriedly back to their textbooks for yet more study and thus further removing them from the banterous fellow that they used to be. It makes me sick the way that exams can make Lee Christies out of even the most hardened Scottish Boozers.
My friends, these effects of exams are bad, devasting even but they are not the worst. Stuck inside during the terrible exam fortnight because no one else is up for going out you adopt an "if you cant beat 'em, join 'em" mentality and you yourself begin to do some studying. It soon takes hold and its not long before you too are swept away by the revision wave and start to degenerate into nothing but one of them, a reclusive page turner with an unatural thurst for knowledge.Inevitably this leaves no time for writing reviews for the hallowed and much respected Scottish Boozing. I'm sad to say it but dear old Scottish Boozing has been somewhat neglected over the past few weeks with none of the four of us writing any reviews for quite some time now. Don't worry however as normal service has resumed with a new review by a certain Mr Muirhead posted and plenty more to follow. Also be in the lookout for yet more improvements over the coming weeks as the ever evolving Scottish Boozing grows and grows getting better and more respected all the time.
Go there now by clicking on the Scottish Boozing logo below!!!!
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