It has been another unsurprising week of activity in my busy unsocial life. After all the coursework deadlines were thankfully met before Easter (Spring Break for my thousands of American readers), we still had to complete redrafts to gain those crucial extra marks.
Even more crucial was Citizenship GCSE coursework. It is vital to get as many as possible since we have not actually been taught anything for the past 2 months. It turns out our teacher has been off school not because of a 'damaged knee', but instead due to a nervous breakdown. I'm not sure if I'm just being insensitive or just inexperienced, but I find that rather amusing.
This particular teacher's problems remind me of first year. Back then, all those 4 years ago, our music teacher by the name of Daunt, mysteriously vanished from school. Yes, she was daunting, especially when she threatened to give me zero on a test I was going to miss due to my father's own wedding! About half the class seemed to be absent on this test day and none of her threats came to fruition. Still, I missed the music test and haven't cared a drop for the subject ever since.
Daunt was a great fan of "There was an old man called Michael Finigan. He grew whiskers on his chin-ingin..." - you know the one, or perhaps not. Every single bleeding lesson she would sit at the piano and churn out the worst dirge imaginable just to emphasise a point about some notation thing. Apologies to all those music students reading this, but I don't see the point. Music is for the soul, and you can't learn about the soul.
Rather aside from my boring rant about mentally deranged teachers, my lemons have finally germinated! Yippee! Now I'll just have the wait another ten years for them to be visible over the rim of the pot.
In sports news, Jingo and I poned (is that how you spell it?) Richard and some guy called Colin at tennis today. Taking the set 6-3, the angle of my backhands easily disposed of Richard, and Jingo's smashes obliterated Colin and his feeble serves. We then swapped: Jingo and Rich VS Torquer and Colin, and it was a dead tie at 1 game all when we 'broke for lunch'.
In more local sports news, Chelsea screwed Liverpool 1-0. Bloody Londoners.
25 April 2007
18 April 2007
Chassen Park
It's been a rather long few days in the Torquer household, so I'll fill ya in.
Firstly I scooted off to Nottingham at the earliest opportunity to get away from my ignorant, insolent and persistent younger brother. After having grown out of CBeebies last year, he has been enveloped in the world of Tracy Beaker, a fictional TV character, young girl, roughly age 12. Her behaviour mainly involves complaining and tugging on other people's hair. Fortunately he does not copy the hair pulling bit, but unfortunately has already mastered sarcasm at the age of 6.
Furthermore, as I was in Nottingham, I noticed that everything seems to be much better there than in Liverpool. They have a 5 city centre cinemas, 60p bus fares, more frequent recycling collections, nicer scenery and even a Primark. The only aspects that Liverpool beats it on is 2 cathedrals and less gun shootings. They even have a Muji for Christ's sake.
Frequent readers of my blog (i.e. once a year) may remember my trials traveling to and from Nottingham over Christmas a few months ago. This time the train went wrong again. We were only waiting for an extra twenty minutes while some guy with a watering can topped up the coolant, though. However, this now means that I have had more unsuccessful journeys (being delayed, cancelled, no seats etc.) than successful ones aboard Central Trains services. A sign of the times, shall we say.
On the return leg from Nottingham, I called in at my other relatives in Manchester. Gratefully they do not live in Moss Side (like Toxteth but with more drugs) but in the quaint suburb of East Didsbury. Sigh, endless green avenues of trees in blossom, endless crunching of litter as you tread over it...
I stayed there one night, and, lets just say that bathroom is a bit, well, one star. I did manage to amass a large of amount of assorted confectionary and fruit for some reason.
So, lugging this heavy load down to the station the next morning, I consulted the departures board and went, as it indicated, to platform 7 for my train back to Liverpool. Now this platform is one all on its own at the side of the station. You can't actually see any of the other platforms/entrance/departure boards from there. I set my stuff down and waited with no-one else for about 15 minutes in silence, with silence all around me. I decided I fancied a quick snack form the extortionately priced vending machine at the end of the platform. I chanced leaving my bags unattended and hurried over for a 70p Twix (Innit! Bloody expensive or what?). I turned round and saw that the departure board had changed and my Liverpool train was apparently waiting to leave on the other side of the station: platform 1!
I legged it back over to my stuff, hurled the Twix into my bag and belted up the steps to the gantry. "Ah bollocks! Stitch for Christ's sake!" I cursed through the commuters, gathering surprised looks. I suspect people were thinking about how unorganised modern teenagers are ... always late ... tut tut. How totally unfair. I threw myself onto the train with moments to spare, almost giving an old man a heart attack.
"Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the 15:29 to Flixton, calling at Urmston, Chassen Park, Humphry Park and will terminate at Flixton."
I nearly cried.
Firstly I scooted off to Nottingham at the earliest opportunity to get away from my ignorant, insolent and persistent younger brother. After having grown out of CBeebies last year, he has been enveloped in the world of Tracy Beaker, a fictional TV character, young girl, roughly age 12. Her behaviour mainly involves complaining and tugging on other people's hair. Fortunately he does not copy the hair pulling bit, but unfortunately has already mastered sarcasm at the age of 6.
Furthermore, as I was in Nottingham, I noticed that everything seems to be much better there than in Liverpool. They have a 5 city centre cinemas, 60p bus fares, more frequent recycling collections, nicer scenery and even a Primark. The only aspects that Liverpool beats it on is 2 cathedrals and less gun shootings. They even have a Muji for Christ's sake.
Frequent readers of my blog (i.e. once a year) may remember my trials traveling to and from Nottingham over Christmas a few months ago. This time the train went wrong again. We were only waiting for an extra twenty minutes while some guy with a watering can topped up the coolant, though. However, this now means that I have had more unsuccessful journeys (being delayed, cancelled, no seats etc.) than successful ones aboard Central Trains services. A sign of the times, shall we say.
On the return leg from Nottingham, I called in at my other relatives in Manchester. Gratefully they do not live in Moss Side (like Toxteth but with more drugs) but in the quaint suburb of East Didsbury. Sigh, endless green avenues of trees in blossom, endless crunching of litter as you tread over it...
I stayed there one night, and, lets just say that bathroom is a bit, well, one star. I did manage to amass a large of amount of assorted confectionary and fruit for some reason.
So, lugging this heavy load down to the station the next morning, I consulted the departures board and went, as it indicated, to platform 7 for my train back to Liverpool. Now this platform is one all on its own at the side of the station. You can't actually see any of the other platforms/entrance/departure boards from there. I set my stuff down and waited with no-one else for about 15 minutes in silence, with silence all around me. I decided I fancied a quick snack form the extortionately priced vending machine at the end of the platform. I chanced leaving my bags unattended and hurried over for a 70p Twix (Innit! Bloody expensive or what?). I turned round and saw that the departure board had changed and my Liverpool train was apparently waiting to leave on the other side of the station: platform 1!
I legged it back over to my stuff, hurled the Twix into my bag and belted up the steps to the gantry. "Ah bollocks! Stitch for Christ's sake!" I cursed through the commuters, gathering surprised looks. I suspect people were thinking about how unorganised modern teenagers are ... always late ... tut tut. How totally unfair. I threw myself onto the train with moments to spare, almost giving an old man a heart attack.
"Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the 15:29 to Flixton, calling at Urmston, Chassen Park, Humphry Park and will terminate at Flixton."
I nearly cried.
06 April 2007
Departure of the Train Cowboy
Its that time of year again folks. Any kind of 2-week or more holiday from college means I must make the tri-annual trip to visit assorted relatives across the country. Therefore, expect little more than a sarcastic comment from Jingo to grace this blog over the next few days. I will be back in full blown typing action in under a week. Do go away, but do come back.
Want a taster of my experiences with national transport? The Return of the Train Cowboy (January 2007)
Want a taster of my experiences with national transport? The Return of the Train Cowboy (January 2007)
31 March 2007
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?
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?
25 March 2007
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.
"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.
21 March 2007
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...
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...
15 March 2007
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.
"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.
11 March 2007
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.
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.
04 March 2007
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.
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.
25 February 2007
Absence of Technology
Pip! Fssst... Oh dear, the television has just exploded. Shit. I'm gonna miss Coronation Street in half an hour. Oh wait, I just remembered, I don't watch crap telly. Phew! Still, the television going bust is not what you want in today's modern society of Hotel Babylon, Ugly Betty and Lilies (only some of these I watch by the way- my TV life is not as proactive as some). I just hope World's Wildest Police Chase videos comes out on DVD quite soon, I'll miss the last three episodes.
In my house, we don't have broadband. In my house, we don't have Sky HD. In my house, we don't even have an iPod docking station. We seem to be stuck in 2002. And that means the hurt of England's world cup catastrophe, the boredom of Ferrari dominating F1, and the pain of S-Club 7, is still rife.
After the controlled explosion that sent acrid smoke throughout the house, our beloved (actually, I hated it. It didn't have teletext) 1985 Sony Trinitron 20" television had eloped to the world of broken televisions. Otterspool waste dump, to be precise. That's right people, since last Monday, we have been crowding round a TV that predates me and scart leads. Thank God for RF adaptors.
Now however, we are all huddled around my mothers first television: a 1987 colour portable 13" Ingersol Television system! Yet again, it predates me and scart leads, and doesn't even have a remote or teletext. The origin of this TV is actually my bedroom. Losing this has the added side effects of no PS2. Sigh.
The one thing right now that I would like more than a Digital-SLR camera, the latest MacBook computer, Broadband, iPod docking station, Sky HD (with RF adaptor: Ingersol is scartless remember) or tickets to see Liverpool against Sheffield today, is a modest (not asking for much here) 26" Panasonic with double scart and built-in Freeview. Price tag: £499 ($899?). Live a little dear parents.
In other news, the allotment season has started again. That means regular (twice weekly) trips down to our squalid patch of land to plant potatoes and chard (yuk :-§ ). My usual job is to remove chunks of broken glass that seem to mysteriously accumulate on our soil. I am convinced our neighbors sprinkle it on our plot when we're not there. Last year was just the start. Now its time for full scale mass production of oddly shaped carrots.
In my house, we don't have broadband. In my house, we don't have Sky HD. In my house, we don't even have an iPod docking station. We seem to be stuck in 2002. And that means the hurt of England's world cup catastrophe, the boredom of Ferrari dominating F1, and the pain of S-Club 7, is still rife.
After the controlled explosion that sent acrid smoke throughout the house, our beloved (actually, I hated it. It didn't have teletext) 1985 Sony Trinitron 20" television had eloped to the world of broken televisions. Otterspool waste dump, to be precise. That's right people, since last Monday, we have been crowding round a TV that predates me and scart leads. Thank God for RF adaptors.
Now however, we are all huddled around my mothers first television: a 1987 colour portable 13" Ingersol Television system! Yet again, it predates me and scart leads, and doesn't even have a remote or teletext. The origin of this TV is actually my bedroom. Losing this has the added side effects of no PS2. Sigh.
The one thing right now that I would like more than a Digital-SLR camera, the latest MacBook computer, Broadband, iPod docking station, Sky HD (with RF adaptor: Ingersol is scartless remember) or tickets to see Liverpool against Sheffield today, is a modest (not asking for much here) 26" Panasonic with double scart and built-in Freeview. Price tag: £499 ($899?). Live a little dear parents.
I'll never be as happy as this pair
In other news, the allotment season has started again. That means regular (twice weekly) trips down to our squalid patch of land to plant potatoes and chard (yuk :-§ ). My usual job is to remove chunks of broken glass that seem to mysteriously accumulate on our soil. I am convinced our neighbors sprinkle it on our plot when we're not there. Last year was just the start. Now its time for full scale mass production of oddly shaped carrots.
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