Tardis Cafe

What a week it has been. Unfortunately, due to circumstances well within my personal control, I have been unable to write anything on this tardy blog for the past few days. Only on the Friday before last were we told that all coursework must be handed in the following Tuesday. This sparked a frenzy of activity amongst the GCSE students. I have always sniggered at the people in older years who are being chased by ruthless teachers for coursework around this time of year. "It can't be that hard, why do you always leave it till the last minute?" is a frequent question on my mind. Now I know exactly the pressure these people are under.

That's not to say of course that people snigger behind my back when mad Australian Geography teachers chase me for work: they have much more obvious things to laugh at me about. Take for example the mangy locks circumnavigating my head in a drunken fashion. Jingo said to me about three weeks ago: "Gosh, you need a rather viscous trim." I replied: "Gosh? I may need a haircut Jingo, but we are not in an Enid Blyton novel you know."

Further to the point, I was in town on Saturday morning enjoying freedom from work for the first time in roughly a month. My mother and I (for she had tagged along to try and absorb some of my über-coolness) ventured into a small cafe near the Met Quarter (the apparently trendy end of town - but lacking in character) for a quiet drink and a danish pastry. This place was owned by a bald, bog-eyed, fat Italian man wearing spectacles similar to those in a 1960s Michael Caine movie. He is actually an genuine guy. He used to be the manager of Costa Coffee in Waterstones, but about a year ago he started complaining about the shit food this franchise was selling: four day old sandwiches, warm soft drinks and the most appalling Cappuchinos (I could make better coffee drinks. No really I could - I took my work experience in a café) to ever grace a chipped Costa mug and wrong sized saucer.

So instead of putting up with the customers' complaints and bad publicity, he decided to go it alone. In fact, he complained so much to the owners that he got sacked. After a bit of research and locating suppliers around his home town somewhere in the north east of Italy, he set up the cafe that I presently sat in. I had the most exquisite carbonated orange juice from a can that even had a foil seal on top so as to stop dirt getting around the rim, and subsequently down your oesophagus. It was a but pricey (95p) but I didn't pay for it anyway. What goes in must come out, so I set off the find a toilet. The Italian dude informed me that it was through the door at the back. I took his advice and swung it tenaciously open.

It was like a friggin' Tardis. I nearly wet myself. On the other side of this cheap panel door was a hair salon, in full blown Saturday trade. I stood and gawped for at least half a minute at high-rollers having cut, wash and blow and all the rest of it. Eventually someone noticed me looking bemused. A rather attractive looking hairdresser came over and asked: "Would you like to get started?" I turned and replied: "I need a piss."

"Ah, you've come from the cafe. Take the escalator up to the third floor. It's straight ahead of you from there." She turned and began stacking bottles of conditioner on a table next to me.

Slowly, I stirred back into motion and groped along the walls to the lift. I pushed the button and the doors sprang open. It was like something out of a Carlsberg advert. Inside were five identically dressed and beautiful hairdressers. I stepped inside assertively and pushed '3'. Slowly their welcoming smiles inverted themselves as their eyes were drawn to the mess sitting astride my large head. By the time I reached the third floor, I think they could smell the sweat that had quickly seeped through the layers of my clothing, and had turned to face the other direction. I disembarked quickly and sprinted through to the lavatory ahead, just as promised by the woman downstairs.

After relieving myself with rather poor accuracy, I managed to break the tap. Those crappy continental taps are obviously not built with the brutal tendencies of the average scouser in mind. As I left, a hairdresser waited patiently outside. I'm sure I heard a yelp of disgust as she entered behind me. How would you feel if there was piss all round the rim and no way of washing your hands?

Courseworkout

The onslaught has been unprecedented. We were alerted during the arduously boring morning assembly:

"But in the end... [headmaster's favourite catch-phrase to tag on to the beginning of nearly every sentence] The final deadline for all coursework is Tuesday the 27th of March. That is actually next Tuesday in fact. The final coursework deadline for 5th year students is in fact next Tuesday the 27th of March. Now, that is not long away, is it?"

"You tell me," I murmur, collecting harsh glances from the obese teaching staff, already thinking hungrily of break time.

So that's the picture people. A rather sordid picture of me locked in my bedroom all weekend listening to Dinosaur Jr (remember them?) and my Courseworkout playlist on iTunes, comprised largely of medium paced dance music to keep my fingers typing (Chemical Brothers mainly). Writing this post is actually today's break from work. On Saturday I made the dinner.

I have somehow amassed nine pieces of coursework despite taking only 8 GCSEs this year (French and Maths last year: A* oh yeah). For English we have to analyse 'An Inspector Calls A Whore' by I P Freely. In Geography its 'Examine the Urban Land Use Patterns of Liverpool'. In IT we have to design a database on Microsoft Access which seems to keep breaking and crashing and opening 20 copies for some reason. There is only one piece of software worse than that program in circulation: Windows itself. Physics involves measuring the resistance of a piece of wire (whoo!) and writing 3000 words on it (uurgh!).

In other news:

My form wins the annual house football tournament. I say my house because I just sort of stood around on the pitch in a slight daze. Jingo was worse though, he was conscious and still played crap. It was a bitter victory with 6 bookings for the other team. We scraped through though.

All Business Studies students (that's me) had to pay a "voluntary contribution" of £5 to go to the Jaguar factory (see last post). It was shit. We watched several hundred old men (and women) screwing

pieces of car together. I really couldn't tell the two genders apart some of the time.

Muscle Cramp

After along and arduous week slaving away behind a badly designed desk, I ventured in the city centre for the third Saturday in a row to purchase muscle pain relief creams and chocolate bars to rub into my tired arms and sell to friends, respectively of course.

The bus journey was surprisingly exhilarating. I must be getting too used to staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering how to start the next coursework task: anything seems exciting these days. Speaking of coursework, I scooped full marks on the first draft of my Business Studies. Jingo currently trails me by 7 marks. How I wish it was out of eight.

Tomorrow we have yet another pointless trip to the Jaguar factory at Halewood. This time it is for the everlasting benefit of the appreciative Business Studies students. We are having a talk on finance. It is sure to be exceedingly boring. If nothing else it just another way for the school to get their dirty hands on our hard begged cash. £5 just for 'the cost of transportation'. I'm not sure how much it costs to hire a 60 seater coach for three hours, but 60 students x £5 gives you £300 quid straight up. It is entirely possible for all of us to get the 80A bus down to the Speke/Halewood area for 70p a go. Despite having to stop at every bus stop in the whole of South Liverpool, I'm sure it would still be quicker. You know what these coach drivers are like. I once went somewhere with my primary school and instead of going through the Mersey tunnels under the river, he instead went the long way round (an extra 1 hour/30 miles) across Runcorn bridge. For those non-scousers out there: he was a dick OK. All that effort just to save the £1.35 toll fare. Groan. The system bites.

Enough of my pre-complaining. It hasn't actually happened yet. The day could run as smoothly as a cloud on an oil slick.
Check back later this week for a full report on the inner workings and financial accounts of the Jaguar factory.

In other news, my lemons haven't germinated yet. Damn. My life will be so much more vibrant when those lemons germinate. Now for the weather...

Home Security 101

Jingo seems rather agitated in French. He is constantly shuffling around and fiddling with the pen he just bought from me. This behavior is very unusual. We are in French for Chirst's sake. He is normally completely unconscious with boredom and ignorance at this stage of the lesson.

"Torquer!" he whispers loudly to the right of me, "I've done big shit!"
"What? You've shit yourself?" I ask, trying to hang onto the last threads of my linguistic talent (A* in GCSE) as they are blown through the open window.
"No! Even worse."
"Oh God, worse than that?"
"I've think I've left my house this morning with the bedroom window two foot open and my laptop on the table and my dad's laptop on the floor and my iPod on the...oh no I've got my iPod...but my bank details, including statements, cheque book...that's right I've got a cheque book and you haven't, ha...debit cards and other related literature with my name and address and pin numbers all over it on my window sill next to the window that's two foot wide open with easy access via wheely bin and top of the porch," he sweats.
"Whoa, that is big shit," I stare back blankly at his cringing face. And then it hits me:
"Bloody hell you retard!"

He then goes about drawing a plan with equations and diagrams about just how much shit he is in. To make matters worse, his parents can't sort it out because they are at work in London.

And so the rest of the day progresses with me trying to calm him down, constantly the agitated by the though of his neighbour and arch enemy Zong stealing all his stuff, worthless as it is. Even the fight at lunchtime did little to distract him.

So, I've decided to compile some home security tips for my clumsy friend.

1) Check all windows when you leave the house to go out. Make sure they are locked.

2) Don't leave valuables on display: either on your desk, window sill or where ever. Put it under the bed in an inconspicuous box/folder/toilet role tube.

3) Don't leave wheely bins lying around that can make a nice leg-up to a window.

4) Make sure your parents have their own set of keys.

5) Move into a respectable area.

6) Have a security alarm with a code - a code that only you know.

7) Chain your valuables to something heavy - try a Kingston security lock, most things computery have it.

8) Finally, I offer lessons in common sense, I'll give you a free 1/2 hour session.

Queen Coleen

Today, I ventured into town to purchase more stock (Blue Coat Redemption is going well). I got some kick-arse deals on Penguins and Kit Kats. Perhaps Jamie Oliver will close me down unless I start offering fruit at break and lunch. Kit Kats only have 107 calories though- it can't be all bad.

After grabbing a selection of saleable confectionary, I continued down Bold Street and arrived in some sort of ration queueing system outside Waterstones. I'm sure in the 1940s people were a lot more civilised when obtaining their daily bread. What I saw here was gangs of teenage girls squabbling over square inches of pavement, all bristling with copies of a peculiarly pink book: Coleen's Autobiography.

"Shit on a stick" I thought. It seemed that some no-mark slag had boned Wayne Rooney and now she is entitled to have her autobiography published and achieve instant national fame. I could understand the hysterics if Mr Rooney him self had visited the dump aka Liverpool to scribble more clumsily than my 6 year old brother over a chunk of paper with his ugly face printed all over it, but come on!

I asked one of the many Waterstones employees crowded around the crowd what was going on and how I was supposed to get inside. He told me Ms Rooney was performing a book signing in "this very building". I asked him what time it was starting. "Half past two," he replied. I consulted my watch: 11:15 it read. "Innit," he smiled at me again, "Most of these people have been here since ten o'clock." "Wow," I sighed and pushed myself round him and into the main foyer.

Now what I was looking for was a copy of Queen Camila by Sue Townsend. When I went inside, shelves by author from R through V had been moved to make way for Queen Coleen and an army of agitated photographers. I asked an employee if I could access the 'T' section. My request was declined. Darn.

I left in a disgruntled manner, knocking over some of the special £1 World Book Day books in protest. Outside, there were more protesters. I'm not sure if this Coleen woman regularly wears fur or something, but there were anti-animal cruelty, anti-fur and anti-footballers wives protesters all gathered round on the opposite side of the street. They were all jostling each other in the most uncivilised manner, vying to get the attention of the camera crew who seemed to be recording the whole book signing affair. Funnily enough, I haven't seen any mention of the event on the local news this evening.

After that intolerable experience, I decided on some soothing retail therapy in the form of browsing aimlessly around, and not actually buying anything, in Lewis', a huge independent department store in Liverpool. To my horror, most of the lower facade of the building had been plastered with signs proclaiming: CLOSING DOWN SALE- EVERYTHING MUST GO. For some explicable reason, I decided to enter to see if there were any bargains to be had. There were none. Instead of the racks of '99% off everything' that I wanted to see, all there was were a few ornate teapots and pointless teddy bear picture frames being mulled over by old women who smelt funny.

I sighed and departed, instead spending my hard stolen cash on an Angus Burger in Burger King. Pretty decent sandwich that.

Trash Wars - The Condom Strikes Back

To waffle on about my new television would be the hight of tedium. I will therefore refrain from a full scale invasive inundation and give you only a sprinkling of techno-babble. Instead of the dual-scarted, Freeview built-in, 26" television that I was hoping to get, we have ended up with something that ticks none of these boxes (except being a television). As mentioned in my previous post, my tight walleted parents were eyeing up a single-scarted, non-Freeview, 23" Philips in the Richer Sounds Catalogue. Thanks ever so much, Jason Richer, for stocking crap TVs at cheap prices. Sigh. Even when my step-father unwrapped it he seemed slightly surprised that it only had one scart. I won't bore you with the consequences of having only one scart. This is the iPod listening, Internet browsing, heroine taking generation - I'm sure most will be more than competent.

Anyway, there doesn't seem to be much litter around Princes' Park these days. Our clan (Jingo, Robin and I) have been out there in the wilderness collecting beer cans and Mars bar wrappers. It seems slightly odd that a chocolate covered caramel-fest of a snack bar is supposed to help you work, rest and play. How can 300% of your GDA of sugar in just four mouthfuls help you to rest? Last time I had a Mars Big One, I couldn't sleep for a week. Damn you New Order for adding Blue Monday to their latest advert.

Fun ensured however when Robin decided to climb a 30 foot high tree in the park. That's not to say he climbed up to the top; he only managed half-way, despite his monkey-like qualities. As we were leaving with our sack-fulls of trash, three ten year old kids marched over with a Rotweiler.

"Oi mate, why you'd climb that tree over here then?" the smallest belched.
After deciphering what their first message meant, Robin replied: "Because I wanted to."
"What? You're crap at climbing," he complained, surrounded by an air of arrogance, and his cronies.
"OK," Robin concluded the lengthy conversation.

We turned or backs on them and set off for the humble comforts of Robin's two pokey flats. For some reason, Jingo had the nerve to turn his head round and to take a glance at these kids. General rule of thumb: don't stare at yobs, no matter how small and young they are. What a rookie, he never lived in Tokie. This place was Robin's current 'hood and my formed 'hood. I buggered off out of Toxteth to the suburbs, after being the only one in my primary school without an ASBO at the age of ten. What he then saw made us chuckle and chortle all the way home. These kids had only made it a third of the way up the tree that Robin had failed to scale and were instead struggling up a small dead tree that was bent over so that the highest part was about a metre off the ground. Rebels.

Robin's dad then came screeching down the path towards us on his bike to embarrass his son in front of his mates with talk of private family matters seemingly regarding toothbrushes.

Back at Robin's flat, I read the sports supplement of the Guardian. Jingo shredded the rest.

I then bored the others with camera jargon whilst Jingo snapped happily away with his Canon Ixus into direct sunlight, completely disregarding my advice about the 'rule of two thirds'. What he found to photograph in Robin's bleak and untended communal garden, I'll never know.