Last Saturday I helped out at my Grandmother's Christmas Fair.
Know what you're thinking.
Waaaaow, Rassy! How exciting!
Aaah, simple townie. You underestimate these women's cutthroat approach to Church Fundraising.
So I set foot into the small, bright FREEZING Church Hall and I'm immediately bombarded with 'hasn't she grown?'s and 'your the spit of your mother's. All's normal so far. I shouldn't and don't expect anything different from the once or twice a year I go to my mother's home town.
My Auntie and I are on a stall, and when I heard about it I thought it sounded great. Her idea was to have a Christmas Tree with numbered baubles on it. You choose a bauble, get the present with the same number on it. Simple, no? Not with these old ladies. It appears any idea that is not a) Thought up by a certain clique of old ladies or b) traditional to a Christmas Fair (tombola, bric-a-brac, bookstall) is instantly sabotaged from the inside. By my own grandmother no less. No worries, she'll never read this, I don't think she knows the Internet exists. So, instead of numbering the presents, my Grandma WRITES ON EACH ONE WHAT IT IS!!
Nyaaaaaarrgh!!
Why, Grandma?!
WHY??
So basically we got a lot of people asking what the point of it was. We had to explain unfortunately we had no idea. So that was Cloak and Dagger slightly. These old women commit Fair Attraction murder but get away with it because they pretend to be oblivious. Conniving beasts. What's annoying is they're really good actresses.
My brother was on the Name the Bear stall while my mother was helping out at toys. My brother needed a couple of fifties for change and my mum passed them over. Half an hour later she let slip she committed such a travesty, got a severe telling off from the old crone next to her and was sent to get it back. Territorial much? The cash is all going to the same place and in the end there's NO record of who got the most or suchwhat. These women just want any excuse to show off to their chums at the next Ladies Guild they single-handedly paid for the church roof.
Oh yeah, another thing. Bitchyness never dies out. It grows old with you. An argument broke out about who was on which stall. "I'll do it, Peggy!" "But where's Phillipa?" "I don't know but I'm doing it!!"
Peggy walks away and both woman's faces were mirrors. Nose crinkled up, gums showing, teeth bared. Scary scary. Remind me to keep Peggy sweet.
You also might have noticed I didn't do a currently loving up there. That's cause it's down here. There's two. First off, I was kicking myself I didn't have a camera that day, as I saw the one scene that would probably sum up Christmas Fairs all over the country. Santa, boots, beard and all, hanging round the corner out of sight of any kiddies listening intently to the announcements, raffle tickets clutched in gloved hand. Also, I'm currently ecstatic about the fact a woman my Grandma talks to on the bus has caught herself a toyboy with a boat in the Bahamas. Future me, here's to hoping.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Friday 6 November 2009
The M Word
Currently Loving: My maths teacher's total obliviousness to the youth of today's language. Today we had to explain what LOL, ROFL and LMAO meant. He thought the latter was LAMO, as in, what a lame joke. He seemed to get that alot.
Maybe it's just cause I'm growing up. Maybe everyone thinks the world is ageing with them, that the prospect of something once so well loved is now looked upon as babyish or immature. It causes some to panic - and why shouldn't it? The idea you can never get back to when life was simple, when you took it day by day and never worried about the future. Never worried about war, politics, the environment, illness, death, the terrible things humans can do to each other.
Never worried.
These people have good reason to panic.
I don't know how I've lasted this long.
Perhaps I haven't, and I'm mad already.
Magic - pure, simple wand waving - is never used anymore. JK Rowling got it right in most aspects, and I think the reason she's so popular is that the initial idea of a school for kids with wands, broomsticks, cats and potions, is that is so darn simple nobody thought they'd get away with it. But she did. And how.
But now it's all shady, diluted magic, even those books and programmes about magic itself. Tithe and Ironside, gritty, 18-rated Faerie books, show magic as hazy and uncontrollable, best left alone.
Merlin, of all things, uses long Latin phrases the boy wizard hardly ever gets right first time.
Betwixt, by Tara Bray Smith, doesn't even bother describing the odd, instinctive magic it's characters use. A guy turns into a human Moth. What? How, why?!
Hell if I know.
Then there's the fact most things are entirely disowning magic altogether, and replacing it with it's greatest foe. Science.
Heroes is about a group of people who have certain strands of DNA that generated unique abilities.
Gone, by Michael Grant, features an unanswerable Lost-like conundrum that we know is linked to nuclear fallout.
Even one of the shows I'm the most faithful to, the fantastic Doctor Who, dismisses magic as nonexistent.
Martha: Is it real, though? I mean, witches, black magic, and all that? It’s real?
The Doctor: Course it isn’t!
Maybe it's just cause I'm growing up. Maybe everyone thinks the world is ageing with them, that the prospect of something once so well loved is now looked upon as babyish or immature. It causes some to panic - and why shouldn't it? The idea you can never get back to when life was simple, when you took it day by day and never worried about the future. Never worried about war, politics, the environment, illness, death, the terrible things humans can do to each other.
Never worried.
These people have good reason to panic.
I don't know how I've lasted this long.
Perhaps I haven't, and I'm mad already.
Magic - pure, simple wand waving - is never used anymore. JK Rowling got it right in most aspects, and I think the reason she's so popular is that the initial idea of a school for kids with wands, broomsticks, cats and potions, is that is so darn simple nobody thought they'd get away with it. But she did. And how.
But now it's all shady, diluted magic, even those books and programmes about magic itself. Tithe and Ironside, gritty, 18-rated Faerie books, show magic as hazy and uncontrollable, best left alone.
Merlin, of all things, uses long Latin phrases the boy wizard hardly ever gets right first time.
Betwixt, by Tara Bray Smith, doesn't even bother describing the odd, instinctive magic it's characters use. A guy turns into a human Moth. What? How, why?!
Hell if I know.
Then there's the fact most things are entirely disowning magic altogether, and replacing it with it's greatest foe. Science.
Heroes is about a group of people who have certain strands of DNA that generated unique abilities.
Gone, by Michael Grant, features an unanswerable Lost-like conundrum that we know is linked to nuclear fallout.
Even one of the shows I'm the most faithful to, the fantastic Doctor Who, dismisses magic as nonexistent.
Martha: Is it real, though? I mean, witches, black magic, and all that? It’s real?
The Doctor: Course it isn’t!
Dudes. What's wrong with a couple of choruses of Abracadabra?
Thursday 29 October 2009
By The Power Of Three Let Them See
Currently Loving: Why Should I Worry? from Oliver and Company (it's Billy Joel!! SQUEE!!)
Megan Fox, Keira Knightley, Emma Watson, Beyonce Knowles... the list goes on and on. All these girls are considered the height of everything. They're successful, they're rich and they're beautiful.
Or, as some may say, these girls are glamorous.
glam⋅our /ˈglæmər/ [glam-er] –noun
1. the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting, esp. by a combination of charm and good looks.
2. excitement, adventure, and unusual activity: the glamour of being an explorer.
3. magic or enchantment; spell; witchery.
Yeah, see that last one? A glamour is one of the primal forms of magic, dating back to the beginning of mythology. Essentially, it changes your appearance to anyone looking at you, although some can cast glamours on things around them. It's not particularly offencive in magical battle (what some I know would call "flashy stuff" (I know no Wiccans, unforunately)) but looks a lot of fun if it exists.
Thing is.
Glamour.
Glamourous.
Fake?
Something to show you what some glamours are like, although you'll have to skip to the end, I couldn't cut it, sorry:
Or, as some may say, these girls are glamorous.
glam⋅our /ˈglæmər/ [glam-er] –noun
1. the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting, esp. by a combination of charm and good looks.
2. excitement, adventure, and unusual activity: the glamour of being an explorer.
3. magic or enchantment; spell; witchery.
Yeah, see that last one? A glamour is one of the primal forms of magic, dating back to the beginning of mythology. Essentially, it changes your appearance to anyone looking at you, although some can cast glamours on things around them. It's not particularly offencive in magical battle (what some I know would call "flashy stuff" (I know no Wiccans, unforunately)) but looks a lot of fun if it exists.
Thing is.
Glamour.
Glamourous.
Fake?
Something to show you what some glamours are like, although you'll have to skip to the end, I couldn't cut it, sorry:
Thursday 8 October 2009
It's Happening Again...
Currently Loving: Gone and Hunger by Michael Grant
The phone rang, and Michael Grant reached over to answer the inevitable call he'd been waiting for since that morning.
"Michael!" The publisher's voice boomed through the receiver. "It's time for an update! What have you got for us?"
"Well..." Michael picked up and Biro and began twirling it restlessly, glancing nervously at the bookshelves. "I had this... one idea.."
"Go on!" Once again, Michael held the phone away from his ear in response to the bellow coming from his publisher's throat that was probably setting off earthquakes in Japan.
"Uh, okay. Well, what if I have a load of child characters, all under the age of fifteen, say, and all the adults in their world suddenly disappear and they're forced to fend for themselves?"
"You have read Lord of the Flies, right?"
"Um...?"
"Next!" Michael began speaking before he'd brought the phone back to his mouth and had to repeat the first sentence. "Well, next I thought- I said next I thought of people suddenly discovering these weird weird powers, like supermen, without any explanation. There'd be Healers and people who can run super fast and shoot fire-"
"Have you been keeping up with Heroes? I hear they're showing it across the pond now."
"Yeah, but these would be kids-" Michael was cut off by a cough.
"Xmen."
"Well... wait! Wait!" Michael grasped his desk, an amazing, inexplicable and frankly brilliant idea forming in his mind. "What about all those things... together?"
A silence.
"I like it!"
Okay, so the entire conversation above is fictional (and far too dialogue heavy, I apologise) but you get the jist. The fact that this book has elements from other books, films and television is blown away by the sheer awesome (I use that and actually mean Awe-some. Not just my usual slang, ladies and gentlemen, no way!) quality of these books. Forget all your Wolverines and Peter Patrellis, there's a new hero in town now. Sam Temple is a quiet and reserved surfer going to school in small town Perdido Beach. Then, in the middle of third period history class, his teacher poofs. No. Not poofs.
The phone rang, and Michael Grant reached over to answer the inevitable call he'd been waiting for since that morning.
"Michael!" The publisher's voice boomed through the receiver. "It's time for an update! What have you got for us?"
"Well..." Michael picked up and Biro and began twirling it restlessly, glancing nervously at the bookshelves. "I had this... one idea.."
"Go on!" Once again, Michael held the phone away from his ear in response to the bellow coming from his publisher's throat that was probably setting off earthquakes in Japan.
"Uh, okay. Well, what if I have a load of child characters, all under the age of fifteen, say, and all the adults in their world suddenly disappear and they're forced to fend for themselves?"
"You have read Lord of the Flies, right?"
"Um...?"
"Next!" Michael began speaking before he'd brought the phone back to his mouth and had to repeat the first sentence. "Well, next I thought- I said next I thought of people suddenly discovering these weird weird powers, like supermen, without any explanation. There'd be Healers and people who can run super fast and shoot fire-"
"Have you been keeping up with Heroes? I hear they're showing it across the pond now."
"Yeah, but these would be kids-" Michael was cut off by a cough.
"Xmen."
"Well... wait! Wait!" Michael grasped his desk, an amazing, inexplicable and frankly brilliant idea forming in his mind. "What about all those things... together?"
A silence.
"I like it!"
Okay, so the entire conversation above is fictional (and far too dialogue heavy, I apologise) but you get the jist. The fact that this book has elements from other books, films and television is blown away by the sheer awesome (I use that and actually mean Awe-some. Not just my usual slang, ladies and gentlemen, no way!) quality of these books. Forget all your Wolverines and Peter Patrellis, there's a new hero in town now. Sam Temple is a quiet and reserved surfer going to school in small town Perdido Beach. Then, in the middle of third period history class, his teacher poofs. No. Not poofs.
"One minute, the teacher was talking about the Civil War.
And the next he was gone.
There.
Gone.
No "poof". No flash of light. No explosion."
At first dumbstruck, the full horror of Sam and his friend's predicament soon overwhelms them. Every single person over the age of fifteen has disappeared. No parents, no siblings, no teachers. Great, eh?
Maybe not. No police. No doctors. No pizza delivery guys. The children of Perdido Beach find themselves alone, leaderless, and hemmed in by a strange barrier that burns to the touch. All they have is the town, a small segment of sea and surrounding hills, including a nuclear plant, a hotel, a large portion of forest... and a boarding school; Coates Academy.
Now the book sounds a little less shallow, but just think about these ten things before you write it off as your usual teen flick:
1) The babies and toddlers are still there. Who is going to sacrifice their time to look after all them?
2) Food's going to run out soon, but who has the balls to tell people what to do, what to eat and when?
3)People are beginning to get hurt, who's going to look after them?
4)Cars, guns, drugs, smokes, they're all now available to anyone man enough to claim them.
5) Not everyone likes everyone else. Bullies are ruling the streets. Are kids capable of murder?
6) What are the Coates kids doing up on the hill?
7) Why are some kids noticing strange differences about themselves? "I'm sure I couldn't fly before the FAYZ..." (that's the Fallout Alley Youth Zone; a universal name for the goldfish bowl everyone's found themselves trapped in (and no, that's not a quote from the book))
8) A talking coyote? A flying snake? How come that book just walked away?
9) Kids always quarrel, right? Well now they have guns, powers and desperation. Who's going to sort out the fights?
10) What's that voice...?
Unfortunately, I have history coursework for tomorrow. Sound familiar?
Sunday 20 September 2009
No A!! There is no A to speak of!!
Currently Loving: DERREN BROWN, DERREN BROWN and DERREN BROWN!!
Okay, so this guy is awesome!! In case you're wondering, yes, I did get glued to my chair on Friday night! Woo hoo! I was so happy!! Though a couple of weird things happened.
My dad didn't get stuck, for one. This makes me think that whether or not you were kept in your seat had something to do with how much you "believe" in Derren (Tasha got stuck too!! Yaaaay!!)
Secondly, after the spell, trance, effect, WHATEVER wore off on me and I was able to stand up, I got an amazing load of shivers. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chattering and I couldn't stay in one place too long!
Lastly - and this is the only effect that is still to wear off - I became absolutely hysterical while the hypnosis (or whatever you want to call it). There were tears rolling down my face and I couldn't breathe properly. There was nothing funny about it - for those who didn't see it it was a white background with grey parallel lines spinning round on it. And I was shaking with giggles. I haven't laughed that hard that long for years... and it wasn't even a joke! The reason I say it's still with me is whenever I think back to that film, for some reason I can't help smiling...
Hurrm (yep, Watchmen, sorry ;D) I've just realised that some people may not have a clue what I'm speaking of. Deary me. What deprived people you are.
So if that is soo... seriously, you need to watch it...though the moment has kinda passed. Derren Brown, master mentalist, illusionist and showman, attempted a stunt live on television that, if successful, would glue at least half the population to their chairs. He played a hypnotic film at (apparently) exactly the right pitch and frequency to... I dunno, make the body incredibly heavy or forget it can move. Whatever. It worked on a few people, about two thirds of his live audience which, apparently, got it stronger as they had the film on one whole wall and were all "in the moment" (my words, not his. Derren talks better than me :D).
If you're new to him, I suggest you 4OD some of Derren's stuff (or, if you're like me, 4OD ALL of Derren's stuff). Everyone has their favourites, but they're better spoken about than typed. Go check him out.
Go now.
Why are you still here?
Okay, so this guy is awesome!! In case you're wondering, yes, I did get glued to my chair on Friday night! Woo hoo! I was so happy!! Though a couple of weird things happened.
My dad didn't get stuck, for one. This makes me think that whether or not you were kept in your seat had something to do with how much you "believe" in Derren (Tasha got stuck too!! Yaaaay!!)
Secondly, after the spell, trance, effect, WHATEVER wore off on me and I was able to stand up, I got an amazing load of shivers. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chattering and I couldn't stay in one place too long!
Lastly - and this is the only effect that is still to wear off - I became absolutely hysterical while the hypnosis (or whatever you want to call it). There were tears rolling down my face and I couldn't breathe properly. There was nothing funny about it - for those who didn't see it it was a white background with grey parallel lines spinning round on it. And I was shaking with giggles. I haven't laughed that hard that long for years... and it wasn't even a joke! The reason I say it's still with me is whenever I think back to that film, for some reason I can't help smiling...
Hurrm (yep, Watchmen, sorry ;D) I've just realised that some people may not have a clue what I'm speaking of. Deary me. What deprived people you are.
So if that is soo... seriously, you need to watch it...though the moment has kinda passed. Derren Brown, master mentalist, illusionist and showman, attempted a stunt live on television that, if successful, would glue at least half the population to their chairs. He played a hypnotic film at (apparently) exactly the right pitch and frequency to... I dunno, make the body incredibly heavy or forget it can move. Whatever. It worked on a few people, about two thirds of his live audience which, apparently, got it stronger as they had the film on one whole wall and were all "in the moment" (my words, not his. Derren talks better than me :D).
If you're new to him, I suggest you 4OD some of Derren's stuff (or, if you're like me, 4OD ALL of Derren's stuff). Everyone has their favourites, but they're better spoken about than typed. Go check him out.
Go now.
Why are you still here?
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Don't Let You Mind Wander... It's Far Too Small To Be Let Out On Its Own
Currently Loving: Bradley James, M79 and The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre
"I've been having these... weird thoughts lately."
(First words in Kingdom Hearts video game)
To call them dreams would be a lie and to call them thoughts would suggest I understood why they were in my head, but for some reason whenever I let it slip my mind wanders back to the same scene.
In this scene I betray someone. I don't know who he is, and his face changes every time I go back there. His horror struck expression doesn't though.
We can be in different places, though the most common is a dark stage. There are three of us, standing in a triangle; me and two boys. There seems to have been a standoff and it appears we have won. Two on one, we have the other boy cornered. But then he smiles and I turn.
I tell the boy I'm sorry, using his name, which also changes a lot. Jed, Brian, Arthur, doesn't matter. This part's always the same; the apology.
I don't mean it. In this particular situation, I show no remorse nor mercy. Sometimes it's a gun at his head, others a long blade to the throat. Either way the boy I once helped now has a lethal weapon pointed at him.
I've never seen what happens next save once, when I actually fired a shot. Time slowed down and I saw him being blasted off his feet. We were at school in that version. I think it's the fact now I've seen it so many times I distract my mind by asking myself why I'm even watching this happen.
And every time it draws a blank. I haven't seen this moment in any recent TV, films or books. I certainly don't wish I could shoot anyone and I usually know in my head (in my head o_O) that the real person I should be shooting is the boy with the sudden smile who we appeared to overpower.
But it won't go away. Truth be told it's just plain WEIRD... but what more do you expect of me?
Friday 21 August 2009
From Vigilantes To Creators To... Disney
"The accumulation of their filth will foam up around their waists, and all the whores and politicians will look up as shout, 'SAVE US!' and I'll look down and whisper, 'no.'"
Can you blame him?
Whether you're a disgusted vigilante with no concept of moral greyness, a girl sitting at a computer wondering what to write or God Almighty Himself, you have to admit there is something wrong with our reception of those who help us.
In the graphic novel The Watchmen (from which the quote above is from) there is evidence of our non-existent gratitude to do-gooders. The fictional Keene Act passed in the book's year 1977 forbids any "costumed adventuring" from taking place independently (though two men who worked for the Government were conveniently excepted). All those people were doing were rescuing families from house fires, chasing muggers and rapists and occasionally taking bullets for innocents.
And though the message the above speaker left the makers of the Keene Act was pinned to the corpse of a multiple rapist ("NEVER!"), he was still chased by police for years before being brought down with all the force at their disposal.
Even Disney have touched upon our tendency to hate those who strive to help us. At the beginning of the Pixar film The Incredibles, we see how people suddenly decided they didn't need heroes anymore, and those who fought crime were forced to step down or have people make them. A message so strong as to puncture a children's film, however briefly, should be noticed more often as a major flaw of the human race.
I have no idea what the people responsible for these works believe. It could be they are noting the same similarities of the symbolism as other people, or that they truly didn't see the connection, but the foundations to this human behaviour seem to me to be rooted in religion. Well, there's a surprise; isn't everything?
In a world where political correctness has gone mad, where we have refrained from speaking of beliefs in case they "offend" somebody...
...in a world where we have dismissed God...
In short, we live in a time when we have told God to bugger off.
We can no longer read Bibles in schools, sing hymns where anyone but believers can hear them or (in some cases) wear crosses to work. We hesitate before admitting our beliefs... and we use the word "admitting" as we speak of them.
And then we have people (no names time, but if you've caught me in a ranting mood, you might know to whom I am referring) who, on hearing you are a Christian, turn around and say: "Well where was He on September the 11th, or July the 7th? Where was He when the first troops were sent into the Middle East? Where is He NOW?!"
And amongst things like "Screw you, bitch," I managed to finally say, "did you ever ask Him to do anything about all those things?"
"Of course not, I don't believe in Him."
If you don't believe in Him, how can you expect to see any results by Him?
Sunday 16 August 2009
Confessions Of A Teenage Insomniac
"You've made your bed, so sleep in it..."
Yeah, I bloody wish.
So, here I am, bright eyed and bushy tailed after my first insomnia-related all-nighter: went to bed at 12, gave up and got up at 6:30. Not a wink of sleep between those hours.
It's been getting notably worse since the return from Slovenia; a sleeplessness (real word? Don't know) that used to get me, say, every other- or third- night has now been every singe day I go to bed. Usually it's just a few hours, I end up dead to the world anyway. Not last night.
So I'd been to my mum's friend's boyfriend's (still with me?) party. It wasn't the liveliest of dos and the worst thing I managed was being pressed to try a mouthful of flat Gin and Tonic (simply spontaneous, right?)
Cept that night I go to bed and lie awake for six and a half hours, occasionally breaking the boredom with a chapter of the phenomenal graphic novel The Watchmen (read it.)
However, it wasn't as fun as you might think. In fact it was pretty shit.
There comes a time when you realise, four hours into your reluctant all-nighter, that if you don't fall asleep now you will feel this way for the rest of the day ahead. Feel like what? you ask.
Like you are totally and blissfully asleep every time your eyes shut to blink. Then, as they open again, you're utterly and frustratingly wide awake.
Another terrible stage is when your brain splits. Not literally of course, although by this time of the night you're doing very well not to have a headache of some kind. But I do not know whether it's a human reaction to the solitude, or simply proof that I personally am insane. However, the brain starts talking back to itself.
"Don't be soft," part of your mind says. "You're obviously not tired or you'd be asleep. Logical, no?"
"But I AM tired," another bit of your brain argues. "If you'd just shut up, maybe we'd get some rest."
A third part of your consciousness is wondering vaguely how this is even possible; the brain is one organ designed to control, help (and hinder) it's host body. It shouldn't be sniping at itself and referring to itself in the first person.
A still further bit of the mind is ignoring the other three all together, caught up in a desperate personal struggle to dispel the highly annoying (and insanely catchy) voice of the lead singer of the All American Rejects from looping over and over to only it's tortured ears... while simultaneously wondering if said singer is really Kermit the frog (listen to Her Name Rhymes With Mindy, then listen to the green Muppet’s voice: IDENTICAL).
Later on in the night/morning, you don't know whether it's from the hours and hours you have spend staring into darkness, or the fact the sky is finally beginning to lighten, but forms of you familiar things start to take shape. Then, every time you blink, as well as being ridiculously disappointed when your eyes open, you are somehow always surprised that the room you are in is lighter than the inside of your eyelids.
You think about a lot of things in a tiny amount of time when you're in the same place for hours at a time. A couple of the things flashing through my mind were:
● My Year 11 Media Project ● The difference of the words Glamour and Glamorous ● The fact the Cullen's aren't actually real vampires ● The fact I really need to post a blog soon ● What the bloody hell time is it? ● Oh, only five minutes past the last time I checked ●
Friday 14 August 2009
Stand Back, Hold Your Breath and Close Your Eyes
Yes, that's right, I'm blowing the dust off this poor little blog.
I really am sorry... but summer holidays don't generally inspire any fantastical mind-wanderings or outspoken ideas.
It was only after somebody I didn't even know read this said in passing (in a trans-British Live Messenger conversation)... "You haven't blogged in a while..."
In truth I'd forgotten other people read this - a dangerous thing to do, if I begin mentioning names - so I've decided to post something up, even if its just an explanation of why I haven't been around.
I hate busy summers.I'm going/have been (depends on when you're reading this) away from home three times this summer. Okay, I love a summer holiday away as much as the next person, and I really enjoyed this year's one (Slovenia - nope, nobody's heard of it, you're not alone. Its a tiny country just to the right of Italy).
But then there's a week in Liverpool with my Grandma, who I love but who never lets me sleep in (what are holidays for?!)
And then five days in some CentreParcs place with only a couple of people I know and a bunch of people I don't. No doubt it will be a lot of fun, but the chances of slowing down and (again) messing up my sleeping pattern, are fairly slim.
And then it's school again. And yet another summer gone. Sorry if that sounds depressing, it wasn't meant to be. I generally don't mind school, and I am looking forward (kind of... a little bit) to seeing this multi-million new school building we're being blessed with.
Unfortunately it comes with a compulsory stripy new uniform. Stripy. Will I ever live it down to people outside my own school?
No, I don't think so either.
I really am sorry... but summer holidays don't generally inspire any fantastical mind-wanderings or outspoken ideas.
It was only after somebody I didn't even know read this said in passing (in a trans-British Live Messenger conversation)... "You haven't blogged in a while..."
In truth I'd forgotten other people read this - a dangerous thing to do, if I begin mentioning names - so I've decided to post something up, even if its just an explanation of why I haven't been around.
I hate busy summers.I'm going/have been (depends on when you're reading this) away from home three times this summer. Okay, I love a summer holiday away as much as the next person, and I really enjoyed this year's one (Slovenia - nope, nobody's heard of it, you're not alone. Its a tiny country just to the right of Italy).
But then there's a week in Liverpool with my Grandma, who I love but who never lets me sleep in (what are holidays for?!)
And then five days in some CentreParcs place with only a couple of people I know and a bunch of people I don't. No doubt it will be a lot of fun, but the chances of slowing down and (again) messing up my sleeping pattern, are fairly slim.
And then it's school again. And yet another summer gone. Sorry if that sounds depressing, it wasn't meant to be. I generally don't mind school, and I am looking forward (kind of... a little bit) to seeing this multi-million new school building we're being blessed with.
Unfortunately it comes with a compulsory stripy new uniform. Stripy. Will I ever live it down to people outside my own school?
No, I don't think so either.
Monday 22 June 2009
A Rant On Tossers, Pretty Girls And A Dangerous Touch On Glasgow
It probably says something about you when, on bursting into your maths classroom yelling "You wanker!" at literally the top of your voice, nobody even raises from their own conversations to take notice. But then again why should they? They all know it's me.
So I wear a choker.
For any "goth-phobes" (oh, how I hate that word), anti-jewellery protesters or simply if you're a BOY, this is a close-fitting necklace that is worn high on the neck. Hear that? A piece of jewellery. Not an accessory for your dog.
So for about the fifth time this month I get a call after me: "Why you stealin' your dog's collar?!" Spinning around I see one of the world's champion tossers (ask anyone in my year - even his friends) standing laughing his head off. Anyone within a ten mile radius can hear his laughter's fake. He has, in fact, asked me this question so many times in the last year I can't decide whether to be flattered or freaked by his continual interest in how I decorate my neck.
Next to him, a girl I have never spoken to but looks at me like I'm a piece of shit on her "genuine Uggs!" is also laughing, gazing at me and wondering whether or not I'm going to react. No doubt she's heard a rumour I'm a depressed alcoholic who stabbed her father (there's been worse said about me, trust me there ^^). However the only reason I know her name is the rumours circulating about her, and they're nowhere near as far fetched as mine (so very probably true).
What really pisses me off about this girl, however, is how darn gorgeous she is. WHY IS EVERYONE I DISLIKE PRETTY?????
It's so cliché it's unbearable.
I'm not saying all beautiful people are bitches. No way. But everyone who I have expressed dislike on any level, and vice versa has - with a couple of exceptions - been irritatingly good looking.
Totally unfair.
If the bitch was any taller then her puny 4'10" I'd truly love to try out a Glasgow Kiss (for anyone living south of Northumberland, that's a headbutt) and wipe the lip-linered smirk of her perfectly toned face.
So I wear a choker.
For any "goth-phobes" (oh, how I hate that word), anti-jewellery protesters or simply if you're a BOY, this is a close-fitting necklace that is worn high on the neck. Hear that? A piece of jewellery. Not an accessory for your dog.
So for about the fifth time this month I get a call after me: "Why you stealin' your dog's collar?!" Spinning around I see one of the world's champion tossers (ask anyone in my year - even his friends) standing laughing his head off. Anyone within a ten mile radius can hear his laughter's fake. He has, in fact, asked me this question so many times in the last year I can't decide whether to be flattered or freaked by his continual interest in how I decorate my neck.
Next to him, a girl I have never spoken to but looks at me like I'm a piece of shit on her "genuine Uggs!" is also laughing, gazing at me and wondering whether or not I'm going to react. No doubt she's heard a rumour I'm a depressed alcoholic who stabbed her father (there's been worse said about me, trust me there ^^). However the only reason I know her name is the rumours circulating about her, and they're nowhere near as far fetched as mine (so very probably true).
What really pisses me off about this girl, however, is how darn gorgeous she is. WHY IS EVERYONE I DISLIKE PRETTY?????
It's so cliché it's unbearable.
I'm not saying all beautiful people are bitches. No way. But everyone who I have expressed dislike on any level, and vice versa has - with a couple of exceptions - been irritatingly good looking.
Totally unfair.
If the bitch was any taller then her puny 4'10" I'd truly love to try out a Glasgow Kiss (for anyone living south of Northumberland, that's a headbutt) and wipe the lip-linered smirk of her perfectly toned face.
Saturday 20 June 2009
UGWW (United Gardens of Wet Washing)
The first mention of washing was this morning. I was slumped in bed, half asleep, eyes tight against the dim (but still cruel) daylight (if you can call the light a cloudy British morning emits "day") Mum had let into my room by viciously yanking my blinds up further than I knew they were capable of.
"We're all going out today, so you can do some revision." (Shameless hint. I don't even think it deserves the name "hint")
"Riiight."
"The dog needs walking."
"Okay."
"And keep an eye on the weather, the washing's out."
"You got it."
Two hours later, I was still in bed, Dad and Andrew rattling around downstairs. The phone bleeped, (it not being like any other phone; ringing is nowhere near annoying enough to motivate us to pick it up). Bleep. Bleeeep. BLEEEEEP!!
Someone pick up the -very bad language- phone!! I begged mentally, squashing myself further into the pillows and duvet. It was only when Dad began to climb the stairs my eyes snapped open for the first time that morning.
Bugger. It was for me. And I'm not even going to give you three guesses as to who was on the other end.
"Are you up yet?"
"No, Mum."
"Up. NOW. Walk the dog, do some work and keep an eye on the-"
"Weather, I know. The washings out."
Hanging up, I thought it was probably advisable I did roll out of bed now, for if I followed the lazy thoughts back down to the pillow, the chances are I wouldn't get up till three in the afternoon.
Upon getting downstairs and dragging a brush that has given up crying for mercy through my bird's nest of hair, I met Dad.
"When are you going out?"
"Any minute," which in Dad-speak means sometime in the next two hours. "You need to do some revision."
"I know."
"And keep an eye-"
"I KNOW!!"
It seemed everyone in my family had written me off as a hopeless case, in the way of Washing Collecting, anyway. I junked out in front of the PC for ten minutes, working myself up for the day ahead of Biology, Chemistry and Physics (maybe some English coursework if I was lucky).
Paddy the dog was sitting watching me with his huge accusing stare. That dog is the definition of reproachful** when he's in a mood.
"Okay, okay. I'm eating, getting dressed, then we'll go out."
"..."
"Don't use that tone with me."
It was obvious he didn't believe me.
Sighing, I downed 2 crumpets and hurtled upstairs to get away from my basset's eyes. After pulling on a shirt I certainly wouldn't dream of wearing to church and a pair of black jeans, I began to gallomp (my blog, my word) down the stairs.
Half way down the stairs is a window, leading out to the back garden. Our amazingly odd pond, made out of railway sleepers and currently green from lack of cleaning (we have tadpoles) was moving.
I blinked. No...
Ripples.
Rain drops.
I can't remember if I screamed out loud, maybe it was just in my head. And I want some credit here. I did not dash down the stairs in slow motion yelling: "NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!"
Instead it went something rather more like this:
"FuckshitbollocksshitfuckinghellcrapshitbollocksBALLS!"
If I had stopped to look at Paddy's face, it was probably either astounded at my moving so quickly so early in the morning or totally impassive as he hears that kind of thing every day.
Hopping round on one foot and trying to pull on a Converse boot that has seen many better days but no worse ones, I crashed into the kitchen sink which brought on the cursing again. I did look at Paddy then, and his expression could be summed up something like... "0_0" with his amazingly expressive tan eyebrows high over his head.
Scrambling out of the back door, I didn't bother looking for the washing box I knew I'd never find. Instead I grabbed about five garments and pulled, cursing yet again as the rain somehow got into my eyes and pegs flew everywhere.
All around me I could hear the other residents of neighbouring houses acting the same way, though a couple stopped to laugh as I dashed across my back garden for about the eighth time and was only half done (my back garden's dominantly stones; my steps were much louder than everyone else’s). It wasn't until I was safely back inside (Paddy lying on the sopping grass, looking hilariously sober in the downpour) that I realised that was probably the closest our lot have ever been to a sense of community spirit.
How very incredibly British.
**1: an expression of rebuke or disapproval
2: the act or action of reproaching or disapproving
3 a: a cause or occasion of blame, discredit, or disgrace b: discredit, disgrace 4 obsolete : one subjected to censure or scorn
"We're all going out today, so you can do some revision." (Shameless hint. I don't even think it deserves the name "hint")
"Riiight."
"The dog needs walking."
"Okay."
"And keep an eye on the weather, the washing's out."
"You got it."
Two hours later, I was still in bed, Dad and Andrew rattling around downstairs. The phone bleeped, (it not being like any other phone; ringing is nowhere near annoying enough to motivate us to pick it up). Bleep. Bleeeep. BLEEEEEP!!
Someone pick up the -very bad language- phone!! I begged mentally, squashing myself further into the pillows and duvet. It was only when Dad began to climb the stairs my eyes snapped open for the first time that morning.
Bugger. It was for me. And I'm not even going to give you three guesses as to who was on the other end.
"Are you up yet?"
"No, Mum."
"Up. NOW. Walk the dog, do some work and keep an eye on the-"
"Weather, I know. The washings out."
Hanging up, I thought it was probably advisable I did roll out of bed now, for if I followed the lazy thoughts back down to the pillow, the chances are I wouldn't get up till three in the afternoon.
Upon getting downstairs and dragging a brush that has given up crying for mercy through my bird's nest of hair, I met Dad.
"When are you going out?"
"Any minute," which in Dad-speak means sometime in the next two hours. "You need to do some revision."
"I know."
"And keep an eye-"
"I KNOW!!"
It seemed everyone in my family had written me off as a hopeless case, in the way of Washing Collecting, anyway. I junked out in front of the PC for ten minutes, working myself up for the day ahead of Biology, Chemistry and Physics (maybe some English coursework if I was lucky).
Paddy the dog was sitting watching me with his huge accusing stare. That dog is the definition of reproachful** when he's in a mood.
"Okay, okay. I'm eating, getting dressed, then we'll go out."
"..."
"Don't use that tone with me."
It was obvious he didn't believe me.
Sighing, I downed 2 crumpets and hurtled upstairs to get away from my basset's eyes. After pulling on a shirt I certainly wouldn't dream of wearing to church and a pair of black jeans, I began to gallomp (my blog, my word) down the stairs.
Half way down the stairs is a window, leading out to the back garden. Our amazingly odd pond, made out of railway sleepers and currently green from lack of cleaning (we have tadpoles) was moving.
I blinked. No...
Ripples.
Rain drops.
I can't remember if I screamed out loud, maybe it was just in my head. And I want some credit here. I did not dash down the stairs in slow motion yelling: "NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!"
Instead it went something rather more like this:
"FuckshitbollocksshitfuckinghellcrapshitbollocksBALLS!"
If I had stopped to look at Paddy's face, it was probably either astounded at my moving so quickly so early in the morning or totally impassive as he hears that kind of thing every day.
Hopping round on one foot and trying to pull on a Converse boot that has seen many better days but no worse ones, I crashed into the kitchen sink which brought on the cursing again. I did look at Paddy then, and his expression could be summed up something like... "0_0" with his amazingly expressive tan eyebrows high over his head.
Scrambling out of the back door, I didn't bother looking for the washing box I knew I'd never find. Instead I grabbed about five garments and pulled, cursing yet again as the rain somehow got into my eyes and pegs flew everywhere.
All around me I could hear the other residents of neighbouring houses acting the same way, though a couple stopped to laugh as I dashed across my back garden for about the eighth time and was only half done (my back garden's dominantly stones; my steps were much louder than everyone else’s). It wasn't until I was safely back inside (Paddy lying on the sopping grass, looking hilariously sober in the downpour) that I realised that was probably the closest our lot have ever been to a sense of community spirit.
How very incredibly British.
**1: an expression of rebuke or disapproval
2: the act or action of reproaching or disapproving
3 a: a cause or occasion of blame, discredit, or disgrace b: discredit, disgrace 4 obsolete : one subjected to censure or scorn
Friday 19 June 2009
Not What You'd Call Historically Accurate
History classes rarely go the way they're meant to.
Our history teacher says we all have strong opinions and original ideas.
Know what that means?
We yell at each other.
The question on the board was "What do the Government do for us?" (well I saw the Life Of Brian reference) as a 5 minute starter to think about and then lead on to 1930's Americans choosing Democrats over Republicans.
Thirty minutes later we were all bellowing about the Iraqi war and the chances of terrorism in the UK.
One boy comes up with the statistic that London has the more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. I have no idea if that's true and I'm also totally certain nobody else did either. But we grasped at it for another debate, I myself getting into a furious quickfire match with another girl on whether or not we needed those cameras. (I was arguing for the cameras. Did that surprise you? It certainly did me.)
The thing is, the press hardly ever print the full story, and that was the pivot the argument was teetering on. Yes, I know they said that MI5 were given information to do with the 7/7 bombings in London... well done, you've found another hole to pick at in the spectacle that is Britain. But what on earth makes the press think they know everything??!!
The Secret Services are meant to be just that - SECRET. For all we or the press know, there was an attempted terrorist attack in... I dunno... Cardiff yesterday (ooft, careful, Rachel. English and Welsh relationships do not need your input).
WOULD WE KNOW??
Just think about how often your life or that of someone you love has been saved without any inkling on your part. We like to think we wouldn't judge someone before we knew about them, yet that is exactly what we're doing in saying anything at all about the MIs (5, 6, they're both under scruitiny). The cameras are clearly there for a reason, as people in Government are (though it may surprise a few people) kind of like us. What's to stop a conspiracy theorist getting into politics, or a young rebel joining the police force?
Therefore there WILL be people higher up who have questioned the surveillance of the people not just of London but almost every city in the world have come under - and clearly they ARE helping. With the economy as it is now, would the Government really still be financing unneeded and expensive to maintain toys nobody uses?
At which point our history teacher dragged us back to the present... no, wait... the past.
Our history teacher says we all have strong opinions and original ideas.
Know what that means?
We yell at each other.
The question on the board was "What do the Government do for us?" (well I saw the Life Of Brian reference) as a 5 minute starter to think about and then lead on to 1930's Americans choosing Democrats over Republicans.
Thirty minutes later we were all bellowing about the Iraqi war and the chances of terrorism in the UK.
One boy comes up with the statistic that London has the more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. I have no idea if that's true and I'm also totally certain nobody else did either. But we grasped at it for another debate, I myself getting into a furious quickfire match with another girl on whether or not we needed those cameras. (I was arguing for the cameras. Did that surprise you? It certainly did me.)
The thing is, the press hardly ever print the full story, and that was the pivot the argument was teetering on. Yes, I know they said that MI5 were given information to do with the 7/7 bombings in London... well done, you've found another hole to pick at in the spectacle that is Britain. But what on earth makes the press think they know everything??!!
The Secret Services are meant to be just that - SECRET. For all we or the press know, there was an attempted terrorist attack in... I dunno... Cardiff yesterday (ooft, careful, Rachel. English and Welsh relationships do not need your input).
WOULD WE KNOW??
Just think about how often your life or that of someone you love has been saved without any inkling on your part. We like to think we wouldn't judge someone before we knew about them, yet that is exactly what we're doing in saying anything at all about the MIs (5, 6, they're both under scruitiny). The cameras are clearly there for a reason, as people in Government are (though it may surprise a few people) kind of like us. What's to stop a conspiracy theorist getting into politics, or a young rebel joining the police force?
Therefore there WILL be people higher up who have questioned the surveillance of the people not just of London but almost every city in the world have come under - and clearly they ARE helping. With the economy as it is now, would the Government really still be financing unneeded and expensive to maintain toys nobody uses?
At which point our history teacher dragged us back to the present... no, wait... the past.
Sunday 31 May 2009
Fiction Hangover: My version of Depression
So lately I've been reading too much.
But Rachel, you say, how can you read TOO MUCH? Surely it's better than loosing your brains in TV or PS2 games (*cough* guilty).
Yeah, well, some of your brains may turn to cottage cheese when you stare at a screen, but printed paper does that to me.
So I'm reading about 150 - 180 pages a day. Naturally, I start having favourite characters among the ones I'm meant to like equally, taking sides in fights that get resolved on the next page and actually getting pissed when my character gets overruled at tribunals even when there's a happy ending.
Now as I think I've said before, I'm studying William Blake at school. I have an essay (thanks, Teach) to hand in next Monday (as this week's work experience week - joy!) and I'm about half way through it.
This is where my reading habits are getting dangerous.
I keep thinking... bollocks... essay... write it... oh, never mind, this isn't real anyway.
I then have to mentally punch myself and yell "FOOL!" over and over again until I realise I don't belong in the caves/castle/seedy bar I had been reading about, and that my life is not the dream but the reality.
And the reality of my life at the moment is:
If I don't write about the flea-whispering son of a b*tch I'm in deep sh*t a week tomorrow.
But Rachel, you say, how can you read TOO MUCH? Surely it's better than loosing your brains in TV or PS2 games (*cough* guilty).
Yeah, well, some of your brains may turn to cottage cheese when you stare at a screen, but printed paper does that to me.
So I'm reading about 150 - 180 pages a day. Naturally, I start having favourite characters among the ones I'm meant to like equally, taking sides in fights that get resolved on the next page and actually getting pissed when my character gets overruled at tribunals even when there's a happy ending.
Now as I think I've said before, I'm studying William Blake at school. I have an essay (thanks, Teach) to hand in next Monday (as this week's work experience week - joy!) and I'm about half way through it.
This is where my reading habits are getting dangerous.
I keep thinking... bollocks... essay... write it... oh, never mind, this isn't real anyway.
I then have to mentally punch myself and yell "FOOL!" over and over again until I realise I don't belong in the caves/castle/seedy bar I had been reading about, and that my life is not the dream but the reality.
And the reality of my life at the moment is:
If I don't write about the flea-whispering son of a b*tch I'm in deep sh*t a week tomorrow.
Books I've gotten lost in recently:
Friday 29 May 2009
Crying-Girl-Fans : The definition of piss takes
A trip to the cinema rarely inspires me to write a poem, but after being DRAGGED to see the 'Jonas Brothers 3D Concert Experience' today (don't ask - my friends... yeah, they're suckers for Disney, but they're taking me to Coraline 3D to make up for it :D) well, I couldn't help it.
So after 1.5 hours of staring blankly at sobbing girls and colourful, homemade signs sporting slogans such as "JOE: WILL YOU MARRY ME?" I came home and wrote.
Here's the result.
(N.B: This is not anything to do with the Jonas Brothers. They look pretty nice guys, it's the fans I'm against)
Wear your dress like a belt
And your hair like a ruler
His heart’s gonna melt
And you’ve never been surer
You’ll stand out in the crowd
And draw your babe’s eyes
Say his name loud
And be heard over the cries
Of course he will marry you
Though you’ve never met
You'll give him a view
He won’t ever forget
Wake up, little girl
You’re no different at all
From the thousands who twirl
To his music and fall
Head over heels
For a pretty pin up
Don’t care what he feels
You’re not giving up
Be fair on the boy
What’s he gonna do?
Choose the prettiest toy
Until that’s broken too
Free sex and great praise
From a girl who don’t care
That she’s just a phase
Like some new shoes to wear
He’s not god upon high
Just human, you see
And just think while you cry
How cruel they can be
So excuse him for running
And not stopping to chat
Using all of his cunning
To avoid ‘all of that’
For the truth in my mind
Is that he is a saint
For leaving you girls behind
And putting up with complaint
He don’t want to hurt you
But you’re making it hard
Not to have a one-night screw
With the most easy girl-fan retard
So after 1.5 hours of staring blankly at sobbing girls and colourful, homemade signs sporting slogans such as "JOE: WILL YOU MARRY ME?" I came home and wrote.
Here's the result.
(N.B: This is not anything to do with the Jonas Brothers. They look pretty nice guys, it's the fans I'm against)
Wear your dress like a belt
And your hair like a ruler
His heart’s gonna melt
And you’ve never been surer
You’ll stand out in the crowd
And draw your babe’s eyes
Say his name loud
And be heard over the cries
Of course he will marry you
Though you’ve never met
You'll give him a view
He won’t ever forget
Wake up, little girl
You’re no different at all
From the thousands who twirl
To his music and fall
Head over heels
For a pretty pin up
Don’t care what he feels
You’re not giving up
Be fair on the boy
What’s he gonna do?
Choose the prettiest toy
Until that’s broken too
Free sex and great praise
From a girl who don’t care
That she’s just a phase
Like some new shoes to wear
He’s not god upon high
Just human, you see
And just think while you cry
How cruel they can be
So excuse him for running
And not stopping to chat
Using all of his cunning
To avoid ‘all of that’
For the truth in my mind
Is that he is a saint
For leaving you girls behind
And putting up with complaint
He don’t want to hurt you
But you’re making it hard
Not to have a one-night screw
With the most easy girl-fan retard
Thursday 28 May 2009
Something from School
Just noticed this, made me think of Blogger. Yeah, I love ya ;)
Some key features of a Romantic (poet) include:
An obsession with childhood
A desire for freedom
A love of nature; they link nature with spirituality
An occupation with supernatural elements
The importance of an individual
Feelings are more important than thoughts: one should obey the heart not the head
Support the little man against the system
Seeing time as fleeting, meaning we should seize the day. This idea is often seen through the death of children.
Placing importance on visions; seen as bringing man closer to God.
Some key features of a Romantic (poet) include:
An obsession with childhood
A desire for freedom
A love of nature; they link nature with spirituality
An occupation with supernatural elements
The importance of an individual
Feelings are more important than thoughts: one should obey the heart not the head
Support the little man against the system
Seeing time as fleeting, meaning we should seize the day. This idea is often seen through the death of children.
Placing importance on visions; seen as bringing man closer to God.
Friday 8 May 2009
References of Boredom
I like English, okay?
I'm good at it, I understand it, and I enjoy it.
But sometimes, it gets tedious.
William Blake.
What more do I have to fucking say? The guy had visions, meaningful dreams and regular conversations with Archangels, his dead brother and a flea. Yup. A flea. So, yes, he's a strange guy (although apparently a romantic, so I guess he's welcome here :D). But when you've spent an hour analysing the same eight lines, doesn't time drag?
I don't know what you do when you're bored in class, but my mind tends to wander to the things that I enjoy more then what I'd be doing.
Usually?
Books of course.
A couple of films make it in there too. Here, for example, I found myself using a phrase out of Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord.
I'm good at it, I understand it, and I enjoy it.
But sometimes, it gets tedious.
William Blake.
What more do I have to fucking say? The guy had visions, meaningful dreams and regular conversations with Archangels, his dead brother and a flea. Yup. A flea. So, yes, he's a strange guy (although apparently a romantic, so I guess he's welcome here :D). But when you've spent an hour analysing the same eight lines, doesn't time drag?
I don't know what you do when you're bored in class, but my mind tends to wander to the things that I enjoy more then what I'd be doing.
Usually?
Books of course.
A couple of films make it in there too. Here, for example, I found myself using a phrase out of Cornelia Funke's The Thief Lord.
You know what Scipio says. Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it was like being a caterpillar.
I called the nurse in the poem "a total butterfly" without realising that nobody would know what that meant until my friend asked to see my notes.
Another example of this would be when I quoted a Disney film in an RE assessment.
The world's the same size. There's just less in it.
Yup. Cap'n Jack Sparrow, At World's End. In case you're interested, I got an A :)
Monday 4 May 2009
A Total Filler...
... just til I find something else to write about, I thought I'd grace you all with some words of wisdom from the most quoteable man in fiction: DCI Gene Hunt (seen on Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes (thank God he's back, life had begun to sound too sweet)).
- Anything happens to this motor, I'll come around your houses and stamp on all your toys. Got it? Good kids.
- Sam Tyler: This place is like Guantanamo Bay.
Gene Hunt: Keep off, it's nothing like Spain.
- Sam Tyler: If it was to do with football, he'd have serious injuries.
Gene Hunt: He's dead. That's quite serious.
- Y'know, I'd listen to the snot in my hankie before I'd listen to you.
- Gene Hunt: I think you've forgotten who you're talking to.
Sam Tyler: An overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline-alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding?
Gene Hunt: You make that sound like a bad thing.
- Good work, Raymondo. I'm bumping you back up to DS... only this time make it stand for Detective Sergeant and not Dog Shit!
- Sam Tyler: Woman in her twenties, dead.
Gene Hunt: Well I didn't think she was sunbathing, did I?!!!
- Drugs eh? What's the point. They make you forget, make you talk funny, make you see things that aren't there. My old grandma got all of that for free when she had a stroke.
- You great... soft... sissy... girlie... nancy... french... bender... Man-United supporting POOF!!
- He's got fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course .
- This case is going like a spastic in a magnet factory.
- She's as nervous as a very small nun at a penguin shoot.
- I think she’s as fake as a tranny’s fanny
- You are surrounded by armed bastards!
- Mrs. Tyler: I've got a son called Sam.
Gene Hunt: I've got a pain in the arse called Sam.
- Your so paranoid, Sam, that you don't fart out of fear of crapping yourself!
- I'm not a religious man Mr Warren - but isn't there something in the Bible that says, thou shalt not suck off rent boys?
-Sam:I should be driving y'know
Gene: You drive like my aunt Mable.
Sam: If you injure somebody in this car, it's technically a criminal offence.
Gene: Oh Shut up, you noncy arsed fairy-boy.
Sam: Such elegant banter.
Well said, Sam. But would we love Gene Hunt if he didn't swear at little kids who only want an ice cream?
He's totally my hero.
- Anything happens to this motor, I'll come around your houses and stamp on all your toys. Got it? Good kids.
- Sam Tyler: This place is like Guantanamo Bay.
Gene Hunt: Keep off, it's nothing like Spain.
- Sam Tyler: If it was to do with football, he'd have serious injuries.
Gene Hunt: He's dead. That's quite serious.
- Y'know, I'd listen to the snot in my hankie before I'd listen to you.
- Gene Hunt: I think you've forgotten who you're talking to.
Sam Tyler: An overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline-alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding?
Gene Hunt: You make that sound like a bad thing.
- Good work, Raymondo. I'm bumping you back up to DS... only this time make it stand for Detective Sergeant and not Dog Shit!
- Sam Tyler: Woman in her twenties, dead.
Gene Hunt: Well I didn't think she was sunbathing, did I?!!!
- Drugs eh? What's the point. They make you forget, make you talk funny, make you see things that aren't there. My old grandma got all of that for free when she had a stroke.
- You great... soft... sissy... girlie... nancy... french... bender... Man-United supporting POOF!!
- He's got fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course .
- This case is going like a spastic in a magnet factory.
- She's as nervous as a very small nun at a penguin shoot.
- I think she’s as fake as a tranny’s fanny
- You are surrounded by armed bastards!
- Mrs. Tyler: I've got a son called Sam.
Gene Hunt: I've got a pain in the arse called Sam.
- Your so paranoid, Sam, that you don't fart out of fear of crapping yourself!
- I'm not a religious man Mr Warren - but isn't there something in the Bible that says, thou shalt not suck off rent boys?
-Sam:I should be driving y'know
Gene: You drive like my aunt Mable.
Sam: If you injure somebody in this car, it's technically a criminal offence.
Gene: Oh Shut up, you noncy arsed fairy-boy.
Sam: Such elegant banter.
Well said, Sam. But would we love Gene Hunt if he didn't swear at little kids who only want an ice cream?
He's totally my hero.
Thursday 30 April 2009
Dangerously Close To Being Deep, Here
I actually caught myself saying "Everyone dies" today.
The good Lord help me.
Am I turning into a fucking philosopher?!
I hate saying "Everyone Dies."
I mean, I know it's true. But. Yeah. It's a taboo for me. *shudder*. Why the HELL did I say that?? It's so damn depressing, even though it's true. I don't know what I believe in terms of immortals. I guess anything's possible, right?
Granted - all these vampires, Lestat, Angel, Edward, are pretty convincingly un-true (well... maybe Lestat ^^) , but what about other kinds of long-livers, like Nostradamus, Rasputin or Elijah? From a girl that believes the human race isn't anywhere near as smart as we think we are, the idea there are people who can live for hundreds of years isn't that astounding.
Mull that over while a rant about something a little related.
Vampires.
Oh. My. God. What a depressing bunch!!!
Louis. Lestat. Michell. Angel. Edward. (If you know who ALL of them are, you're awesome.) If I was immortal, sure there would be bouts of depression, but they come to me now. My game plan for immortality would be to not stay still long enough for the bad moods to catch me.
The things I would do if I had all the time in the world. I mean, I guess I might not CHOOSE to become a vampire, but according to legend not many people have a choice there :)
For starters, I'd learn to draw. Properly. Also, I'd learn at least twenty different musical instruments to perfection (and one of those would HAVE to be the harmonica). I would spin round the world at least four times, living for the tiny bars nobody but the natives and the lost people find, the side streets that have a hidden gem like a statue or fountain, and the amazing people you meet over a pint. Learning every language I could would be something I'd love to do (although I would hope me becoming a vamp would mean I'm a better linguist than I am now).
I mean God, guys, lighten up!!
Oh, I've done terrible things! Haven't we all, Angel?
Everyone leaves me! Then screw them and go party, Lestat.
You're too pure for me! Edward Cullen get over yourself!
...and finally the most tedious: What does it all mean?! Louis, who gives a FLYING FUCK?!
The good Lord help me.
Am I turning into a fucking philosopher?!
I hate saying "Everyone Dies."
I mean, I know it's true. But. Yeah. It's a taboo for me. *shudder*. Why the HELL did I say that?? It's so damn depressing, even though it's true. I don't know what I believe in terms of immortals. I guess anything's possible, right?
Granted - all these vampires, Lestat, Angel, Edward, are pretty convincingly un-true (well... maybe Lestat ^^) , but what about other kinds of long-livers, like Nostradamus, Rasputin or Elijah? From a girl that believes the human race isn't anywhere near as smart as we think we are, the idea there are people who can live for hundreds of years isn't that astounding.
Mull that over while a rant about something a little related.
Vampires.
Oh. My. God. What a depressing bunch!!!
Louis. Lestat. Michell. Angel. Edward. (If you know who ALL of them are, you're awesome.) If I was immortal, sure there would be bouts of depression, but they come to me now. My game plan for immortality would be to not stay still long enough for the bad moods to catch me.
The things I would do if I had all the time in the world. I mean, I guess I might not CHOOSE to become a vampire, but according to legend not many people have a choice there :)
For starters, I'd learn to draw. Properly. Also, I'd learn at least twenty different musical instruments to perfection (and one of those would HAVE to be the harmonica). I would spin round the world at least four times, living for the tiny bars nobody but the natives and the lost people find, the side streets that have a hidden gem like a statue or fountain, and the amazing people you meet over a pint. Learning every language I could would be something I'd love to do (although I would hope me becoming a vamp would mean I'm a better linguist than I am now).
I mean God, guys, lighten up!!
Oh, I've done terrible things! Haven't we all, Angel?
Everyone leaves me! Then screw them and go party, Lestat.
You're too pure for me! Edward Cullen get over yourself!
...and finally the most tedious: What does it all mean?! Louis, who gives a FLYING FUCK?!
Tuesday 21 April 2009
A True Shakespeare Geek
Found this while wandering the web and thought I'd post up. I didn't write this and want abosolutely no credit :)
Enjoy:
If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise - why, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I were dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the dickens! but me no buts - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare. (Bernard Levin. From The Story of English. Robert McCrum, William Cran and Robert MacNeil. Viking: 1986).
Enjoy:
If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise - why, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I were dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the dickens! but me no buts - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare. (Bernard Levin. From The Story of English. Robert McCrum, William Cran and Robert MacNeil. Viking: 1986).
Monday 20 April 2009
Today I Made A Discovery
Check these out, people!!
Watch them through to the end...
...they just get better and better...
...more on youtube, search something like "animusic" or "amazing instument"
Thats all folks, just thought I'd share these x x
Watch them through to the end...
...they just get better and better...
...more on youtube, search something like "animusic" or "amazing instument"
Thats all folks, just thought I'd share these x x
Sunday 19 April 2009
If you go down to the woods today
Paddy, being Paddy decided he didn't want a walk today.
That's so typical.
Through rain, hail and snow I have walked that ungrateful mutt, the least he could do would be to grant me a walk in the woods when the weather is actually nice (touch wood).
So screw him. I went on my own.
After messing around jumping over water several times and somehow escaping a bog with my trainers the same colour they were before they sank into it (doesn't say much; my trainers have been through a lot with me and I keep refusing to give them up), I found an old tree.
Isn't it amazing when nature seems to take over a part of civilisation? There was a huge piece of concrete that could only have been a wall caught up in its roots, slanting down to the river and providing a brilliant excuse for a climb.
I was in no hurry and it wasn't as if I was actually going anywhere, so I took the bait.
Two minutes later I was sitting in the best place in the whole woods. I was under a complete overhang, so the only way somebody would see me was if they were walking along the very edge of path above me and craned their neck right over the drop.
Have you noticed that people walking on a path usually have a place to go?
Needless to say, nobody saw a teenage girl with a navy hoodie perched like a pixie on a tree root staring at the stream 10ft below (I was a little out of it, ok? Ripples are hypnotising @_@ ).
But then, the only people who would actually have a chance of seeing me were the ones I didn't mind looking. Dog walkers, people going in a loop or simply someone putting off going where they were going, in short, anyone curious enough to look right over the edge of the path. If they are that curious, I'm pretty positive they would have sat where I did for twenty minutes, throwing stones in the stream and watching the squirrel 20 ft above hang upside down and shriek (yeah, it was a weird little thing).
I'm just saying, I'm a little impatient. My walking pace should be enough proof of that. But if I could just sit for a quarter of an hour, why don't other people try it more often?
It works.
Works for what?
Whatever you want it to.
That's so typical.
Through rain, hail and snow I have walked that ungrateful mutt, the least he could do would be to grant me a walk in the woods when the weather is actually nice (touch wood).
So screw him. I went on my own.
After messing around jumping over water several times and somehow escaping a bog with my trainers the same colour they were before they sank into it (doesn't say much; my trainers have been through a lot with me and I keep refusing to give them up), I found an old tree.
Isn't it amazing when nature seems to take over a part of civilisation? There was a huge piece of concrete that could only have been a wall caught up in its roots, slanting down to the river and providing a brilliant excuse for a climb.
I was in no hurry and it wasn't as if I was actually going anywhere, so I took the bait.
Two minutes later I was sitting in the best place in the whole woods. I was under a complete overhang, so the only way somebody would see me was if they were walking along the very edge of path above me and craned their neck right over the drop.
Have you noticed that people walking on a path usually have a place to go?
Needless to say, nobody saw a teenage girl with a navy hoodie perched like a pixie on a tree root staring at the stream 10ft below (I was a little out of it, ok? Ripples are hypnotising @_@ ).
But then, the only people who would actually have a chance of seeing me were the ones I didn't mind looking. Dog walkers, people going in a loop or simply someone putting off going where they were going, in short, anyone curious enough to look right over the edge of the path. If they are that curious, I'm pretty positive they would have sat where I did for twenty minutes, throwing stones in the stream and watching the squirrel 20 ft above hang upside down and shriek (yeah, it was a weird little thing).
I'm just saying, I'm a little impatient. My walking pace should be enough proof of that. But if I could just sit for a quarter of an hour, why don't other people try it more often?
It works.
Works for what?
Whatever you want it to.
Thursday 16 April 2009
Careful not to Blink
All the small things True care, truth brings
I doubt Blink 182 ever guessed a quaint little english drama about church choirs would steal the name of one of their most famous songs, then have the main cast re-sing it at a chior contes
t with Corrie's prettyboy popstar Richard Fleeshman as the main vocalist.And yet the BBC have done just that, bringing to our screens a new drama about church, divorce and "shit hot cranberry muffins".
The troubled teen singer (right) isn't the only reason to watch the drama that blows things like PA Meetings into huge proportion, however.
Meet Jake, the cute, foul-mouthed curate with big ideas and a not-so classical view of church life and my main motivation for watching All The Small Things (tuesdays 9.00 BBC1). A hoodie, skater and chronic swearer (his favourite phrase seems to be "shit hot"), there's nothing quite like him in the Church of England. Though I wish St Ed's would have a little more of his spirit.
"Pink squishy sofas", "shit hot lattes" and a place to "check your Facebooks" doesn't seem to be on the top of many church's lists, though as Jake says the place should be open to everyone, whatever they like.
Not too sure about your colour choice of furniture, Sweet, but apart from that you have my vote.
Apart from that, All The Small Things is a funny cliché with characters you care about (especially Esther's poor kids - and Esther herself when her husband asks her to "wait" for him to "let this stupid thing run dry" this stupid thing being having an obvious affair with a woman around ten years younger than him). Although we can always guess what's going to happen, it's still fun to see the Slitheens (Ethel and Gilbert Tonks) get their comeuppance ^^.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
96
Big number, isn't it?
We wouldn't think so now.
In a world where people count their pounds in thousands and millionaires are getting common, we don't think of anything below 10k as a "big" number.
Okay. Forget the number 96 for a minute. Think about the number 1.
1 life, say.
In that life, you have friends, pets, teachers, GCSEs. You have family reunions at Christmas. You have the sluggish cursing as you wake up to your alarm. You have the mental swearing as you miss your bus. You have the worry of a summer job, the petty dislikes of the class bitch, the hopes of getting an iPod for your birthday.
Shallow things?
They are what make life life. What makes it such a wonderful thing. All the tiny things that make you yourself. Now imagine them blown away in an instant.
Imagine 96 of them blown away in one hour.
96 ordinary, exceptional, typical, amazing people went to a football match twenty years ago to the day, along with hundreds of other supporters.
These 96 men, women and children would not come back home.
So here's to the football fans.
Here's to the police, keeping control over the supporters as we get excited. We spite them, sneer at them, we only want a little fun after all. All they want is to prevent anything like the Hillsborough Disaster happening ever again.
Here's to Brian Clough, who told the police if there was even one fatality, there would be no football played today.
We wouldn't think so now.
In a world where people count their pounds in thousands and millionaires are getting common, we don't think of anything below 10k as a "big" number.
Okay. Forget the number 96 for a minute. Think about the number 1.
1 life, say.
In that life, you have friends, pets, teachers, GCSEs. You have family reunions at Christmas. You have the sluggish cursing as you wake up to your alarm. You have the mental swearing as you miss your bus. You have the worry of a summer job, the petty dislikes of the class bitch, the hopes of getting an iPod for your birthday.
Shallow things?
They are what make life life. What makes it such a wonderful thing. All the tiny things that make you yourself. Now imagine them blown away in an instant.
Imagine 96 of them blown away in one hour.
96 ordinary, exceptional, typical, amazing people went to a football match twenty years ago to the day, along with hundreds of other supporters.
These 96 men, women and children would not come back home.
So here's to the football fans.
Here's to the police, keeping control over the supporters as we get excited. We spite them, sneer at them, we only want a little fun after all. All they want is to prevent anything like the Hillsborough Disaster happening ever again.
Here's to Brian Clough, who told the police if there was even one fatality, there would be no football played today.
"Football should not be life or death.
Not even in a semi-final."
And here's to the people of Sheffield, taking in fans to their homes; total strangers, people they have never met and probably will never meet again, to rack up their phone bills and use their best china. Bless them all.
"They're all dead, missus. All dead."
Liverpudlians have not forgotten their kindness.It's just a shame it takes a loss of life for people to be like that most times.
The Hillsborough Disaster was a deadly human crush that occurred on 15 April 1989, at Hillsborough, a football stadium home to Sheffield Wednesday in Sheffield, England, resulting in the deaths of 96 people (all fans of Liverpool Football Club).
The match was an FA Cup Semi Final clash between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest. It was abandoned six minutes into the first half.
Wikipedia
You'll Never Walk Alone
Sunday 12 April 2009
Cause he's awesome \(^-^)/
SHAKESPEAAAAAH!!!
I find it amazin' that I haven't yet written anything about the Bard in my blog... and we're already on post 6!! So, random info time, Shakespeare created over 1700 words in his plays that are now used everyday. Here's just a few of his more famous ones:
accused
addiction
advertising
amazement
assassination
bandit
bedroom
birthplace
blanket
bloodstained (Trust him)
blushing
bet
bump
buzzer
champion
cold-blooded
Compromise
courtship
countless
critic
dauntless
Dawn
deafening
drugged (Found this funny for some reason)
epileptic (Othello suffered epileptic fits)
elbow (I want to know what people called their elbow before he came along)
excitement
Exposure
eyeball
fashionable (I'm willing to bet most girls I know won't believe me)
flawed
generous
gloomy
gossip
green-eyed (The green-eyed monster, mentioned in Othello ^^)
Gust
hint
hob-nob (I doubt he meant biscuits)
label
laughable
lonely
lower
luggage
majestic
mimic
moonbeam (Purdy)
mountaineer
negotiate
noiseless
obscene
Olympian
outbreak
puking (And you thought it was modern slang)
radiance
rant
remorseless
savagery
scuffle
secure
summit
swagger
torture
tranquil
undress
unreal
varied
vaulting
worthless
zany
More Shakespeare soon. Don't like it? Don't read it dahling.
I find it amazin' that I haven't yet written anything about the Bard in my blog... and we're already on post 6!! So, random info time, Shakespeare created over 1700 words in his plays that are now used everyday. Here's just a few of his more famous ones:
accused
addiction
advertising
amazement
assassination
bandit
bedroom
birthplace
blanket
bloodstained (Trust him)
blushing
bet
bump
buzzer
champion
cold-blooded
Compromise
courtship
countless
critic
dauntless
Dawn
deafening
drugged (Found this funny for some reason)
epileptic (Othello suffered epileptic fits)
elbow (I want to know what people called their elbow before he came along)
excitement
Exposure
eyeball
fashionable (I'm willing to bet most girls I know won't believe me)
flawed
generous
gloomy
gossip
green-eyed (The green-eyed monster, mentioned in Othello ^^)
Gust
hint
hob-nob (I doubt he meant biscuits)
label
laughable
lonely
lower
luggage
majestic
mimic
moonbeam (Purdy)
mountaineer
negotiate
noiseless
obscene
Olympian
outbreak
puking (And you thought it was modern slang)
radiance
rant
remorseless
savagery
scuffle
secure
summit
swagger
torture
tranquil
undress
unreal
varied
vaulting
worthless
zany
More Shakespeare soon. Don't like it? Don't read it dahling.
Friday 10 April 2009
Party Flee-r and Proud Cont.
Thought archive surfers would like an update on the party.
Wait... what party?
All goes fine until the host's brother spots some weed smokers and calls home mother. Mother arrives with police in tow and everyone scatters around the Moortown/Roundhay suburbia. Down to the woods, up to the park, across the church to the other, bigger park... everyone hides from the Plods even if they're totally innocent.
Understandably, the host wasn't too happy about this, but was distracted when three or four ex-partiers rush in with the news that one of the boys who had had far too much to drink was lying at the bottom of her garden not breathing.
Don't worry people, he ended up being okay.
But his so called friends when they were tracked down to the bigger park, found the fact he almost didn't regain consciousness hilarious.
Fuckers.
~UPDATE~ He ended up having his stomach pumped. *shudder*
Wait... what party?
All goes fine until the host's brother spots some weed smokers and calls home mother. Mother arrives with police in tow and everyone scatters around the Moortown/Roundhay suburbia. Down to the woods, up to the park, across the church to the other, bigger park... everyone hides from the Plods even if they're totally innocent.
Understandably, the host wasn't too happy about this, but was distracted when three or four ex-partiers rush in with the news that one of the boys who had had far too much to drink was lying at the bottom of her garden not breathing.
Don't worry people, he ended up being okay.
But his so called friends when they were tracked down to the bigger park, found the fact he almost didn't regain consciousness hilarious.
Fuckers.
~UPDATE~ He ended up having his stomach pumped. *shudder*
Sunday 5 April 2009
Sabbath of Palms
Well, yeah, its Palm Sunday. The day Jesus rode into town on a mule and people laid palm leaves for it to walk on.Of course, these were the same people who in a few days would yell "Crucify him!" to Pontius Pilate. But anyway, Palm Sunday's the day that begins the Holiest week in the Christian calendar; the week Christ was killed and rose again.
We're all given palm crosses on this day and my brother and his friends - being eight year old boys - use them as swords.
Just got me thinking... didn't old cultures used to stab the sword of a fallen warror into the ground where he fell? As a grave... or a cross?
Dang... I had a perfect shot of a part of Disney's Mulan... but you get to see an ugly cross instead (:
And in peace times, the swords are left hanging upside down, perhaps to represent the forgiveness He gave us (as in times when wars were fought with swords, many people were religious).When Christ died upon the cross the curtain of the temple ripped in two by an invisible blade. Perhaps the Yin of Christ's Yang is combat, fighting and war, as we all know reversed things are opposites, right? ;P
Saturday 4 April 2009
How society's changed...
Common sense really isn't that common anymore.
People can usually find a way without any will whatsoever.
People don't give horses as gifts.
Absence makes the heart forget now.
Old habits don't die at all.
Nobody makes their bed, but they always lie in it.
People who live in glass houses don't throw stones... the chavs do that for them.
No one cooks broth anymore.
A rolling stone has had too much plastic surgery to get any moss.
And the early bird may get the worm... however the second mouse gets the cheese.
I'm an english student - sue me.
People can usually find a way without any will whatsoever.
People don't give horses as gifts.
Absence makes the heart forget now.
Old habits don't die at all.
Nobody makes their bed, but they always lie in it.
People who live in glass houses don't throw stones... the chavs do that for them.
No one cooks broth anymore.
A rolling stone has had too much plastic surgery to get any moss.
And the early bird may get the worm... however the second mouse gets the cheese.
I'm an english student - sue me.
Tuesday 31 March 2009
West Side Poetry
On the streets tonight
There's excitement on the streets tonight
As the Jets take on the Sharks
For the showdown of thecentury weekend
Fighters on your marks
There's fighting on the streets tonight
As the clash of man on man
Finds the blood-covered victorious
With a red knife in his hand
There’s panic on the streets tonight
As no one dares believe
How little this ‘fair rumble’
Has managed to achieve
There’s running on the streets tonight
By children fuelled by fear
No one wants to go back home
But they can’t stay out here
For there's sirens on the streets tonight
The blue flash lights up a face
Streaked with tears and blood and dirt
But not looking out of place
Because there was murder on the streets tonight
And death hovers above them all
Waiting for its next victim
Who everyone will see fall
There's excitement on the streets tonight
As the Jets take on the Sharks
For the showdown of the
Fighters on your marks
There's fighting on the streets tonight
As the clash of man on man
Finds the blood-covered victorious
With a red knife in his hand
There’s panic on the streets tonight
As no one dares believe
How little this ‘fair rumble’
Has managed to achieve
There’s running on the streets tonight
By children fuelled by fear
No one wants to go back home
But they can’t stay out here
For there's sirens on the streets tonight
The blue flash lights up a face
Streaked with tears and blood and dirt
But not looking out of place
Because there was murder on the streets tonight
And death hovers above them all
Waiting for its next victim
Who everyone will see fall
Party Flee-r and Proud
Is there really anything so wrong with a teenager in modern Britain who DOESNT want a drink?!
If a girl's invited to a party in which she knows there will be drinking, drugs, sex and (most terrifyingly) dancing, why does she feel she has to find a good reason to get out of her idea of Hell? It's just not acceptable anymore to say: No, I'm not going because I don't want to.
Why is the relieved feeling that I've got out of going marred by a slight jab of guilt?
What's there to be guilty about?! That I don't want to get "Drunk Enough To Dance" (as bowling for soup would say)?
I refuse to believe that the youth of today is lost. I know some people- scratch that- A LOT of people find that kind of thing fun. I don't have a problem with that, so long as they don't drag me into it either. The problem I DO have is that if I'm not careful I'll get a storm of jeers, taunts and downright bullying if I let people know I don't find it fun myself.
People who I believed were drink and drug free have had a habit of surprising me recently. I know- I know- I KNOW- that I'm not the only kid in the UK who doesn't want to drink. Hell, half my friends would find that situation a good time to run too.
Well maybe I am missing out. Maybe if I went to number 16 this Saturday I would manage to enjoy myself. But the point of this rant is that if that's what it takes to have a good time these days, God help me I'll find a way to time travel back to when dancing was optional and there was such a thing as a gentleman.
If a girl's invited to a party in which she knows there will be drinking, drugs, sex and (most terrifyingly) dancing, why does she feel she has to find a good reason to get out of her idea of Hell? It's just not acceptable anymore to say: No, I'm not going because I don't want to.
Why is the relieved feeling that I've got out of going marred by a slight jab of guilt?
What's there to be guilty about?! That I don't want to get "Drunk Enough To Dance" (as bowling for soup would say)?
I refuse to believe that the youth of today is lost. I know some people- scratch that- A LOT of people find that kind of thing fun. I don't have a problem with that, so long as they don't drag me into it either. The problem I DO have is that if I'm not careful I'll get a storm of jeers, taunts and downright bullying if I let people know I don't find it fun myself.
People who I believed were drink and drug free have had a habit of surprising me recently. I know- I know- I KNOW- that I'm not the only kid in the UK who doesn't want to drink. Hell, half my friends would find that situation a good time to run too.
Well maybe I am missing out. Maybe if I went to number 16 this Saturday I would manage to enjoy myself. But the point of this rant is that if that's what it takes to have a good time these days, God help me I'll find a way to time travel back to when dancing was optional and there was such a thing as a gentleman.
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