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.
Monday 22 June 2009
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.
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