Life In Loughborough
Ok, so somewhere along the line someone described the humble blog as being "a voyage of self discovery... a tableau rosa where the world can learn about you, and you can learn about yourself." This philosopher was none other than I, and where I feel I have covered two of those bases, there is still one I feel I neglect. I often depersonalise blogs for several reasons, none of which I feel like getting into right now. But let me allow you to gaze at my life like the channel three production "Through The Keyhole" and learn more about this fabulous life in Loughborough. Perhaps this is just inflated egotistical self-reflections from someone who dares to write about themselves, in which case I suggest strongly you visit another website, because you aren't going to like the rest. No siree, the rest is purely for my own gratification, and there is absolutely no obligation to venture any further forth. So I begin.
Loughborough is a market town situated in the East Midlands of England, far removed from Scotland or indeed any costal region for a one hundred mile radius. You won't have heard of it; having seen life from both sides of the border, it is as fair to compare Scotland to haggis, kilts and Edinburgh as it is to compare England to tea, stiff upper lips and London. Both are gross misinterpretations of countries rich in heritage, and although Loughborough may lie in London, or Manchester, or Liverpool's shadow, it is certainly no second-rate city to live in. Much like Aberdeen possesses its own charm and admiralty, Loughborough is a city steeped in tradition and is synonymous with only one thing- sporting perfection.
But don't let that put you off, I chose not to come to Loughborough to further my athletics non-career, but to further my academic prospects. There are few who would travel the distance I have for a University inferior to anything I could have found in Scotland, which is why I haven't. I may sound like an intolerable boast, but I genuinely think I could have studied in almost all, if not all, of Britain's leading Universities. The reason I chose Loughborough is because of its all-round appeal to me. Socially, it had the biggest student Union in England, academically it placed in the top ten for Psychology (my chosen course), and it is a large but not intimidatingly large city. I couldn't have lived in a bustling city like Birmingham, nor could I have lived in a deadbeat 'city' like Dundee, where the idea of a night out is to pilfer electonic goods and pawn them the following morning at Cash Converters.
The crowd I have fallen in with has been nothing but a stroke of luck on my behalf, and I don't deny that I couldn't have found such a great bunch of guys to befriend in any other city. But the fact that I have befriended such a great group is decidedly convenient to me, and has made life living here a walk in the park. To start, my flatmates are a like-minded bunch, and if there is any friction its over the most trivial of matters, like who has the thickest pubic hair. I didn't talk to Mark for over a week on that one. There is a general casualness about living in this wonderful house that has made living here so enjoyable, as it was in Butler Court. Even Cletus, who by all intents and purposes should hate me like a Nazi who sanctioned the murder of a whole household, still (infrequently) phones me, which is testament to how good things were back then and still are. Nilesh, my landlord, came round today and didn't even say anything about me having a pet hedgehog, which was reassuring. Some nights I could almost fall asleep in the black couches in the living room, watching tv on one screen and playing FIFA on the other. The fridge in the living room tops it all off, and I'm sure it accounts for me taking about 60% of our overall household alcoholic consumption. It's just perfect for relaxing, and although the banter isn't as good as back home, it's still what you would plan in your fantasy (or ideal) home. I never rue the day I left hall, and nine times out of ten its purely down to the amazing living room, double beds, multiple fridges and freezers, and the incomparable sense of independence. There's nothing like being 500-odd miles away from your parents, with a bunch of people you'd never met since a year and a half ago, sitting drinking brews in front of your own tv in your own living room only 5 minutes walk from campus and arguably the greatest student union in the country.
I also owe a lot of this melancholy to the fantastic running clique I often meet up with, who have to be simply the most fantastic group of lads (and girls!) I've met since leaving my cosy home. They epitomise everything that makes me love my Scottish Boozing pals, but with the quantity to make any serious night out a roaring success. Even when I've not explicitly arranged to meet any of them on a night out I invariably stumple across at least a half dozen, just because of the sheer quantity of people I have become to know through association of the athletic's union. As a regular training partner I often meet up with Comedy Williamson, perhaps one of the most genuine people you are likely to ever meet. I may be stifled with emotion, but I can say that Ian is as reliable a friend as anyone could ask for. One day I might detail the whole gang further, but for now I'll leave you on the note that the running crew are simply outrageous, and almost every night out reminds me of being back home.
My course, on the other hand, is an altogether more depressing account. I have befriended many people on my course, but of the main four I hang about with, three are leaving next year to do a placement. My best friend on my course, Richard, is going too which is a major bummer. Next year it is likely to be just me and Andrea, and I don't fancy leaving the other three behind very much at all. Besides Andrea, there are others, who of course have formed strong bonds with different people. I might emit a long sigh right now, reasoning "that's life", taking another swill on my Carlsberg. Instead, I think I will just remain silent. Next year will be very difficult, especially being my final year, and with the dwindling amount of cohorts at my disposal it will really be a test of coping ability.
Loughborough, on the whole, is a very surreal place if you have even a passing interest in sport. During my first weeks I saw the likes of Chris Rawlinson and co running through the outwoods (of all the places!) and have since seen a mirriage of people I'd normally only associate with athletic superstardom out on routine runs. Even last week I saw Radcliffe out on a run, mere days before she won her inaugural title at the New York Marathon. One time in echos I saw Anthony Whiteman, Chris Thompson, Spencer Barden and others out clubbing... it was peculiar, but shouldn't have been, afterall this is the premier sporting establishment in the country. You get used to it in a sense, but there are times when training with an Olympian (Soos) seems a little too over the top, especially for a boy raised in the quiet and uneventful city of Aberdeen.
So there we have it: Loughborough. A place not much heard of north of the border, but has an unassailable reputation in England. Come visit the student aristocracy sometime, and enjoy the top notch house we live in, and sample the incredible student life I'm living here. Leanne's been down already, and so will Dabby come friday... what's stopping you? Head down to nine Chester Close, we'll crack open the brews, and really live it up like it were the first week of summer.
Scottish Boozing #3
Yes, once again Scottish Boozing has been relaunched. My complete disregard for this blog has been the result of coding Scottish Boozing solidly for the past week. So long have I been locked in my room coding, in fact, that I've taken to using my own bin as a makeshift toilet. Lovely.
For those of you unaquianted with the finer points of coding a website like Scottish Boozing, it is laborious, and difficult.
And you know what all this lovely code amounts to? The results are pictured below:
 So go wild kids, and check out the new www.scottishboozing.com and see what all the fuss is about.
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
What do you get if you cross David Beckham, a US army recruit, and a sphynx cat?
ME!
This is a harrowing tale of one man's disillusionment with his stubborn top hair, one that should be read with caution; for the contents are extremely disturbing, and those of a faint inclination should read no further. It portrays his desperation, his feeling of entrapment in a predicament that lent itself no consolidation. For years he has silently harboured a deep resentment to his parents for burdening him with such undoing genes; genes that have made his life a daily hell. Now you will have unrestricted access to his innermost thoughts, and hold the key to a greater understanding of those less privileged. For now the veil has been torn open, and you must face what I am about to tell you- you must fight the urge to withdraw. What I am about to say will disturb you to the very core of your being, but I must stress- this is no easier for I to report as it is for you to read. Read on, and being enlightened, for I compel you so.
The man I speak of is in fact myself, the change in tense being used for dramatic effect. Long now have I suffered the indignity of a hair type so inflexible and unmanageable that it has created almost incalculable neuroses to appear. Until lately I have not been able to pinpoint the exact cause of these neuroses, but a chance encounter with a wandering psychologist outside Costco opened up the grandest secret.
"Get a haircut, you fucking hippie" he cried from across the street. For a moment I was stunned. My mouth lay open but the words wouldn't form: it had taken this much courage to finally leave the house, but his words cut through me like a serial murderer brandishing a longsword. Aghast, and unable to respond, I left the scene. That night was the most sleepless night I've had in years. His words echoed through my ears, all this time I had managed to repress my deep loathing of my hair, yet now it felt like everyone knew. They were all watching me, all along, judging me, sniggering, pointing... looking at not me, but my hair. Had mine eyes seen this I could have coped, I could have adjusted. It was like a hammerblow to my fragile mentality, and one that left me reeling.
His face followed me for weeks as my hair naturally grew longer. I learned to hate him and made silly vows for revenge, ones that I knew would never come to fruition. I think the intense dislike I had for the man got me through the initial weeks, he was almost like a scapegoat. If I saw him, I convinced myself, I'd demand an apology with backup threats and claims to have links with the mafia. He would have to take his words back and I could live again, I assured myself. As the days went by my disgust of my hair grew to the point where I avoided all reflective surfaces. I couldn't even look my flatmates in the eye for fear of seeing my own reflection, however small, and their looks of disappointment.
I eventually resolved to do something about it. I scoured the internet far and wide to find a cure, even trying out the yahoo search engine after exhausting google of all possible combinations of hair, bad, treatment, just for men, style and closet homosexual. It seemed that nowhere had the answer for such latently unlike able hair. I even confided in my sister, which I hadn't done since we were infants and all I felt was her scorn. "Get a life" she finished, just before hanging up. I was devastated. Her words followed me around the next day, I couldn't sleep at night. It felt like deja vu. Was I really a loser?
In the end I sought solace in the house of god. Sitting at a pew in the empty church, I looked up at the Christ's blood stained face and prayed out loud. It felt like a scene from a hollywood blockbuster, but I knew deep down it couldn't have been. No style department would ever let me past with hair this disorganised and repulsive. I wept at the pew and mumbled "why god... why?" I would have liked to have imagined a bright light breaking through the old building, but alas, none materialised. I made the executive decision to leave the church and all its corruption behind reasoning that if there were a god he would be called Stan and would still live with his mother.
After turning to Buddhism I was inspired by the notion of the circle of life. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could lop off all my hair and start anew. I toyed with the idea for a length of time before sticking with it. That night I sought the help of a man who knew ways of doing this, back alley ways that would necessitate risk, but also, I prayed- hope.
"Jibba" I sighed, kicking my heels and fidgeting with my cuff. "I need your help."
"One moment he cried", flushing the toilet. "What?"
"This hair" I mumbled, "I need rid of it."
Jibba paused for a moment. He knew this would be a risky assignment, although he knew just the people who could help me.
"It won't be cheap" he exclaimed, "I haven't done a job like this for a while. Listen!" he snapped, edging closer to my face. "Meet me outback in ten minutes. Bring no one."
I nodded approvingly. He was a good friend, I couldn't rely on anyone else for a job this risky. If anyone could pull strings, it was him, I mulled. Those ten minutes were the longest of my life. I spent the whole time checking and rechecking my tax return form nervously, willing the clock on. At the end of those ten minutes I stood in the bathroom, wondering if he would fulfil his half of the bargain. Then the light dimmed and a monstrous figure appeared: it was Jibba, armed with a razor. Stepping forth from the shadows he shoved me back into the chair and a gleam emerged from his smile. "This, my friend, is the point of no return."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~After the ordeal I looked myself in the mirror- what a transformation! It may not have brought out my best features, but it removed my worst- and I felt like a free man. I felt like the shackles had been cut and I could return to normal society again. "Thank you!" I cried, turning to warmly shake his hand. He had gone. Slightly puzzled, I looked at the mass of hair on the floor and emitted a long sigh. After all these years I could finally begin again and start to rebuild myself. I looked up at the sky from the window and held up a single finger salute. "This one's for you god" I cried, suddenly overcome with anger at the omnipotent entity that had marred my life with less than adequate genes. It was at that time that I realised that God and L'Oreal were in collaboration, in it together to make my hair look terrible. "This one's for you, L'Oreal!" I cried valiantly sticking my arse out the window, before Mark came up the stairs to ask what all the commotion was about. He called the police and they came to snuff out the supposed intruder. "It's me officer! Alan Wales!" I told them, showing them my driving licence. "That's not you" he replied, before handcuffing me. He then seemed to remove his face, which transpired to be a mask, and shrieked "only kidding! It's me, Tom!" We all laughed as he removed the handcuffs (taken from his private porn collection) and we all went to the living room. That night his face followed me, I had the worst nights sleep since coming to Loughborough. I vowed to kill him, but stopped that thought there to run my hands over my baldhead, and suddenly all the rage subsided. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world, even if it looks like I've had chemo" I said to myself in a soliloquy, unknowing the irony that would soon befall me. Additional: While I'm uploading photos I thought I'd put this one up of Axl, for people who have never seen him:  *Legend*
Things That Are Wrong With Today's Society
Even on panoramic Tom just couldn't find a way to photograph
Tete's ass without Molly's knockers filling two-thirds of the frame.
The Plight Of The Ho
Again apologies for the lack of posts, I never realised the whole fabric of space-time would collapse if I neglected to blog on a frequent basis. But because I sympathise with you worthless, wretched creeps I'll post, so you can put that pocket knife back. Self harm should only be reserved for serious injustices, like when your mum makes you eat broccoli.
Of late I've been fuming at something I never thought I'd really care about but surprised myself at how much I do- ho's.
Yes, damned ho's. For those who are not "wit'it" or down with the white take on black culture (make up your mind people, do we hate them, or want to be them?) a ho is an Americanism for what could also be described as a slapper who doesn't sell sex. A wannabe whore. I like whores, mainly because the pimps do a sterling job of keeping them under control, and they provide an invaluable service. But when you remove the pimp from the whore you get a ho- a slutty, unreserved manipulating temptress- the likes of whom have plagued mankind as far back as we can trace. Eve was a ho, and look at what happened when that vile temptress pitted us against the lord.
So it continues down the line- same ho, different age. And when they're not bent on containing mankind or looking provocatively with no intention of following up, they're at FND, flouting the rules and irritating you like sandpaper pants. Just the other week- and this isn't an isolated incident either- I went for a piss in the male urinals (ignorance is NO defence) and queued behind a group of giggling ho's.
I queued behind a group of ho's, to get into the male urinal. Of course when they got in they were like "hey there boys!", as if they'd just walked onto the dance floor or onto the set of Where The Boys Are 7. It made me see red. How dare they! I suspect, in fact I'm almost 100% sure, that this has some legal ramifications. Let's see the flipside- how would people react if I, and a trio of friends, entered the female cubicles laughing and making jibes? Now what if the girls had to squat to take a piss, like they do in France, exposing their cunts to our view while they leak into a hole? And we just casually stand there observing, throwing in remarks and laughing it off, before taking our individual turn to piss and then exit, still in full view of the squatting girls?
It makes me so mad I want to shit myself. That those disgusting ho's, who have no shred of morality between them, believe it is ok to just walk in on me taking a whizz is outrageous. And it's not just this, it's their whole mentality. Their "I'm a slag but actually hard to get" leading-on attitude and shallow personalities that makes me- a reasonably well adjusted individual- feel like some social inferiority. Someone who wishes he could just throw away all traces of education and become a 'popular'. I think this is the root of my hatred of ho's, knowing that at University you shouldn't have to be confronted with these superficial layabout slackers, who still have the vestiges of high school firmly instilled in themselves. Anyone can get into Uni these days, and the plight of the ho's is just peripheral evidence that image-conscious idiots can still get through on joke courses like Geography And Sport And Leisure (an actual course you can study at Loughborough). It used to be an honour to study at University, where only the most gifted scholars could succeed, but now it's like a given, the Government desperate to pack as many people off to Uni as they can to make their term in power seem less lax than it actually was. The result- ho's. Girls who dress like slappers, act like slappers, but don't have the discipline of a good pimp. God I wish pimps were mandatory at the Union, the bouncers are too soft on women, their "hands-off" policy leading to the outrage in the male toilets described above.
Staff training days would consist mainly of backhander practice on dummy women, with a microphone nearby to measure decibel stingage. It would be compulsary to have some teeth knocked out, just for dramatic effect, and gang tatoos marked on every pimp with the Loughborough crest and logo across the chest. Official uniform would be dished out in a big bin, filled to the brim with bling bling paraphernalia like heavy gold chains and rings. The trousers would be baggy to resemble prison uniform but the pimp can wear his own choice of basketball vest, torn t-shirt or kappa tracksuit top. Linguistic class would be taken by a real-life pimp, with the aim to sounding like an American deviant with choice repetitions of "I thought I told you to shut up bitch?" and "you messin' wit' my ho's I'm gonna slap you up so you look like Michael Jackson". Any ho found to be flirting or giving hand jobs for free will have their face swiftly thrust onto a hot stove, and then some follow-up bitch slaps on the bleeding cheek to make sure she never insinuates anything mildly sexual without an advance payment. Oh, and if they ever step foot in a male urinal, a legion of pimps will wade their way through the FND crowd on radio alert and smack them up before dragging them by the hair to the pimpmobile for some more pimp brutality.
The bouncers at Loughborough really are a soft bunch of cunts.
Elsewhere I had a pretty good housewarming party, spend most of it getting muckled and accepting applause from my house mates for having the frost twins come round. I lapped up their jubilant cries and "praise Allahs" for a large portion of the night before showing the Lufbra massive Axl. He's a bit of a legend like, and proves the old adage that "Quills bring Girls" (coined by me). There's a girl who I'll call The Boner because that's what Ali gets every time I mention her who I continually seem to piss off and/or aggrivate. I called The Boner twice that night, against Ali's will (even though it was a favour on my behalf), and she still didn't come. So the only two girls I brought, out of a promised 30, where the Frosties. Which means a nice 100% ratio of hotties to mingers, which is quite respectable for any party, even if the results are highly unrepresentative. It's a shame because I'm not a horrible guy per se, it's just she's only ever seen the worst parts of me (when I've been muckle fit buckled). And I don't think calling her The Boner will help either, but there you have it. I don't make up the rules.
The party blasted off and we tucked into town after, and then the memory goes blank again. All I remember is waking up with terrible, terrible heartburn at 5am with an empty pizza box and a kebab box beside my bed. I could still taste the straight gin I'd been nailing that night, and it took a good many pints of water before the burning pain finally subsided. I have some photos of the night, but they're mostly blurred and focused on places they shouldn't be. Places I'm too afraid and embarrassed to detail any further. But rest assured, the delete function came in dab handy in the morning, which made me realise something. How wonderful it is to have a biological delete function that auto blocks out memories of when you're wasted, because you can be sure that at least somewhere along the line you annoyed/offended or just pissed someone right off while in a paralytic state of intoxication. That morning I woke up with the circumstantial evidence that I'd called The Boner a second time that night, which needless to say was news to me. No doubt the conversation got ugly, but without any memories, I refuse to believe anything anyone tells me.
And no, planted 'evidence' of a used condom on my bed won't work either, and whoever the sick bastard is that put it there can reclaim it before my fist reclaims their face.
Yeah you heard me. I own you, and your face.
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