Not a post about Michael Jackson.

Before I seem hard-hearted, I would like to point out that death, in any circumstances, is sad. So it is not without feeling that I say that I am touched by MJ's death, but I am not in mourning.
For a start, I never met him. I was astounded (like most of the world) by his songs, his performances and the inevitable public-demise of someone who was surrounded by people to make decisions for him. His genius as a dancer, not just practically but it's technicalities, was simply outstanding. There is a moment in the video for Thriller where, if you were to pause it, you would see clear air beneath every single dancer as they jumped. Bearing in mind how many there were, this is no mean feat. He also had real life gang-members skulking in the background for the Beat It video, most of whom looked on in amazement (one member of the Crips said he'd never seen anything move so effortlessly) as this waifish figure commanded an authority over his body that, though since parodied mercilessly, must have been shiver-inducing when seen live and for the first time.
Of course, such a performer could not keep that level of brilliance in all areas of his life. If you are raised like a circus animal, being given freedom and more money than anyone can possibly need, its a potent mix. One that must be near impossible to balance.
Personally, I have always been more a Prince fan; give me Purple Rain over You Are Not Alone anyday. Though I must admit that even I was shocked when I read that the song Bad was reportedly said to be a duet between Prince and MJ. Apparantly they shot down the idea after 'artistic differences' (Prince was probably hopping from foot to foot as he was late for yet another 6ft tall supermodel who was 'inspecting' his trailer) though really, they were two performers that were polar opposites of each other. Prince sings and plays with an overt sexuality, his songs are often explicit and hedonistic. MJ appeared asexual, alien and downright odd in some of his videos; his childish energy however, was what made people across the board love him.
Prince, if anything benefited by having Jackson around, it meant he was free to make 'real' music for his own fans without having to compete for the limelight with a dance move to beat the moonwalk. The question must be begged however: how many performers of today are cast on the template of Prince? A moderate few. Jackson? Hundreds, the style of dancing by performers such as Usher, Chris Brown, Justin Timberlake...there are performers who will remember when they first saw the video for Smooth Criminal and gasped, thinking to themselves how much they want to have that kind of reaction one day.
So, this was less a post about Michael Jackson 'King of Pop', as it was a post about how we still need heroes. And though he was perhaps one of the most controversial performers of all time, he was certainly one that will never fade in the memory of those who claimed to love him. I say, rest in peace, the performance is over.

Making Ends Meet

Having the opportunity to teach English to foreign students is great for a few things: you can get away with being a bit sloppy with your self-presentation and be a bit more informal in the way you come across. It also makes for some good money, if only a few hours!
My big problem is: I need the job with the long hours and reasonable pay. Bendicks (chocolate and confectory giants) have called me to interview on the 30th. I was keen to teach and work in the bar, but the bar's hours are slowly going down the swanny. I'm on for one night this week, a grand total of 7 hours. True, its money but it isnt steady hours. I think that shift work could be the answer; turn up, clock in, slave away and get paid.
Still, it could be worse (counting blessings...)
My room's mess keeps returning, Philip K Dick had it right about that kipple...

Just In!

Hot off the press! 66% in my Dissertation! WAHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Beach Break was possibly the most fun I've had in a long time. It was as if the gods of happiness (and luck) were looking down on us all. Without a doubt there were some poo points, such as having an 8 hour coach ride and then a 4 hour wait in line to get in. This meant that we erected out tent in darkness and in the tiny area opposite the main campsite and the arena. Still, after lots of swearing and holding a maglite between my teeth, we were done and went out to mingle.
The next morning was boiling hot and seeings as Alex and I had gone for the budget tent from a shop which has questionable credentials as a camping shop (I think I saw boob-tassles on the shelf but they may have just been colourful guy-ropes) the tent also built up so much condensation that it was like awaking in a rain-forest. This savage impression wasnt helped by Alex's insistence on sleeping naked, waking up opposite the last chicken in the shop every morning was bound to have a psychological effect.
That day we tossed a coin to decide if we would watch the Friendly Fires (who no-one liked, except Jack ) or enter ourselves into the Cornish Goblet (in Kent). We had a few beers, argued, then had a few more beers and decided on the latter. The setup was thus: a load of Uni teams entered a team of four players to take part in ridiculous (and sometimes degrading) events and the winning teams went through. We decided on the controversial name of 'Pool Party at Michaels' and expected to get our arses handed to us in the first round by some pumped up guys from Loughborough. We not only got through to the next round, but we also won our group and were through to the knockout semi-final the next day. We had a backwards wheelbarrow race, a blind-folded long jump and a course in the Zorb (giant sphere which we put a reluctant Alex inside). So, with some bemusement we went out and watched the rest of the acts, including a very good act called Dan le Sac vs. Scrubius Pip. They were a very clever spoken word hip-hop act and it was while watching them I realised just how blinkered I'd been about live music before; one of the songs they performed was a commentary on the monotony of working in a shop, the lyrics were poetic and the beer was cold, could it get any better?

The next day we were approached by the guys at the Bearded Kitten, who looked for all the world as if they were on Ketamine and they asked us if we could wear a different costume for the semi-final. We had, previously, turned up in our pants. So, with a bit of brainstorming (namely, the girls being out of their tents) we decided on bikinis. Feeling this was a bit of a cop out, we also got some crazy Zorro style masks and taches painted on to add to the somewhat nauseating effect of us in tight girls swimwear. We won that day as well, one of the events being a grand national piss-take where I was the jockey and Poyner was the horse.

The final day of games was the mighty Pool Party vs some lads from Bath Uni who called themselves 'This is Sparta' and had been in all the other events dressed as Spartans. We changed our costume yet again and in a moment of inspiration we got ourselves painted with Masai Swirls and different colour eye patches. As the Spartans came marching up the hill to the arena we all armed ourselves with a long bamboo pole and started a chant with the hundred-strong Chester crowd: " When we say Sparta, you say 'who?'

The games got underway, our first task was to erect a 2-man tent and fit as many people as was possible inside it. We'd barely got the tent up before it got mobbed by no fewer that fifteen people! After a countdown, the occupants were counted and Sparta had only managed nine. One-nil to Pool Party. The next event was a dance off, which I got picked for. I rock-paper-scissored the Spartan and managed to go second, the theory being that whatever he did I could upstage. It worked a treat: he spent most of his thirty seconds trying to gay me out, so when I got the chance to step up (see what I did there?) I took the sock out of my boxers and planted it on his nose, then backwards-cartwheeled into the only breakdancing moves I can do. After doing my caterpillar into flip-up, I then vaulted over his head and mooned him, knocking him off his stool in the process. Stuck for something to do to finish, I decided that the crowd pleaser of whipping my pants off was the way forward, thankfully I had put on a good three pairs and the top layer I threw at the T.V camera lodged on the viewfinder to the cheers of the boys, never would I manage to do it again even if I had a million years. Needless to say, that event was won by us, making it 2-0. We then had a Weetabix scoffing contest, Jack and Poyner winning it pretty easily. So, with the final looking like it was won, we had a tug of war event to seal it. We lost, horribly. The tie-breaker was a wrestling match, with a twist: The object of the game was to steal your opponent's sock while keeping your own on. We werent allowed to stand up and the tarpaulin arena was covered in fairy liquid and water. I was selected, against the tallest Spartan there and thought "this is the kind of pressure I normally do something stupid in!" Thankfully, the Spartan (who I found out later had never been in a fight in his life) was on the lanky side and I probably gave him the fright of his life when I slammed and pinned him. His sock was tough to get off though, he wriggled like a fish and after nearly ripping it to bits I got a good enough grip to whip it off and as I jumped up to celebrate I was rugby tackled by about twenty people.

So, Pool Party were triumphant. We were awarded the trophy and took great pleasure in drinking beer out of it later on. We also found the Spartans to be a really good bunch and went on the piss with them later on, a bit like how it should be in Valhalla (purists, relax: I know that's Nordic.) All in all a great festival, a thoroughly enjoyable time and possibly the best end to a Uni career anyone could ask for. Peace.

Summer Ball. 20

Well, what a night! After a long journey up and a chilled out day we got suited and booted and went to the ball.

An evening like this was never going to be without its hitches; the beautiful cotton shirt I purchased from Next was a tiny bit creased, so I decided to iron it round at Daz's house. After taking the chronic piss out of Olly for having the ironing skills of a disabled kiwi-fruit, I stepped up to iron a tiny crease out of the collar. The iron (which looked to me to have been last used in early 2001) leaked a small puddle of rusty liquid onto my shirt, my mirth disappeared quite quickly.

I started scrubbing it in the sink with some Surf and once it was out I started again. It seemed to go smoothly until I held the shirt up to inspect it and found that the collar was now a strange saffron colour. This was a combination of the Surf not having been rinsed enough and the iron being too hot. Olly doubled up laughing whilst I swore, loudly and at length.

Thankfully, Daz had a white shirt in my size so all was not lost. We had a meal which was barely worth the price of the ticket and a four mile walk to the toilet, the main highlight of this early stage was being treated to Olly's attempts at being our very own court jester. While hanging around outside in between courses, I attempted to take a stupid photo with Olly. It turns out that the photo in question was actually a video and upon realising this, John went in to give Olly a shoeing on the floor.

It would be prudent to note that the area of marquee we were in was particularly slippy and John's attempts to hold Ol on the floor with his foot got scuppered when he did an impression of a man on a banana skin just as he'd managed to muster enough force to send Ol flying too. Combined with us rocking the portaloo when Olly was in the middle of doing his business, this mini-break from the meal was a taster of the fun to come.

Later, when we were fed and watered, we were treated to a very very cramped room and some questionable music. Thankfully, the terraces of the racecourse were a haven for those wishing to smoke or those just wanting a bit of fresh air. It was also the al-fresco setting for a windmilling session from Ol, whose recipient looked as if she'd seen a ghost, albeit one with his willy out, shouting 'Awite Girls!' The ball gradually died a death and we marched to Off the Wall where we carried on drinking well into the morning. I was impressed by my body taking it to be honest: some nights I can drink for England and other nights I'm pissed after half a pint! Thankfully, ths one was the former and whilst I was drunk, I wasnt out of the game.

Personal highlight for me: getting in the fountain on the roundabout at 6am. This has been done a million times before, but never by me. I thought 'better late than never.'

What a palava!

Those anxiety dreams where you awake to a feeling of great relief when you realise that you werent, in reality, naked at your own graduation also leave you with a vaguely perplexed feeling...which is how I feel now.
I received a message from the clerical assistant at Uni to tell me that I got 62 in Shakespeare and 59 in Crime Fiction and after some sums I realised that my Shakespeare module is, overall, a 2.1. Add this onto the Sci-Fi mark and its another 2.1, add it onto the Poetry (which should be a 2.1 or 1.1) and drop the Crime Fiction...Dissertation pending, I could be in for a very nice time!
Still, a well known phrase regarding chickens and counting and hatching comes to mind, am happy that the essays I did in a blind surge of panic came through ok though.
Beach Break, the music festival that I've been a ticket-holder for the last 8 months have just announced that, following massive protests regarding the festival being held in Cornwall, it has been moved. Moved where? Only 300+ miles west to the Garden of England, Kent.
Now, call me a little old fashioned; but the word 'Beach' normally connotes some kind of, well, Beach. The grounds of a mansion are a completely bonkers place to see Dizzee Rascal in concert (sorry, couldnt resist!) Still, gonna have to dust off the wellies...

Cultivation of Beards

When having moments of self-doubt I tend to grow my facial hair for longer than usual. I think it makes me look a bit dangerous, a bit edgy. With a beard I look a little like a man not to be messed with, though I've recently decided that most people's impressions of it are that I look like a man who could be depended upon to mess with himself. It makes me look less like a chinless wonder, so thats one thing.
So with this beard and a decent enough shirt and tie combination I went this morning to the Winchester EFL centre to undergo an interview whereby I had none of the relevant qualifications required to be employed. I had been invited on the strength of my plans to start as an EFL teacher in another country and because I was local. The boss, who looked in mild dismay at the lower half of my face, took me through to his office, professing that 'this is not a formal interview' before sitting opposite me with my C.V and a large amount of formal questions.
Afterwards, I was told I had done very well and that he would consider me for work if they became inundated, I decided not to hold my breath and to mark it down to experience. I normally interview well, once or twice I've had ones that were over so quickly that the entering and exiting the interview room felt somewhat simultaneous, I've since learned some subtle nuances of being interviewed and enjoying the experience as I go along.
So, after that I went and gave blood and checked my emails to find out that I got 66% (2.1) in my Sci-Fi essay, which I initially thought was dire. Goes to show doesnt it? I also got an email from the EFL school saying that they are looking into my possible employment but asked in the meantime if I would be able to take some Italians to London for the day. I might not be able to make it, waht with me being on my way back from Chester, but it might mean me heading back from there immediately after my Beach Break. Still, they've offered a fee and expenses paid...might be worth it.

My own prison and pulling-shirts

Its 7pm, the sun has melted into the clouds and I find myself once again feeling very uncertain about a lot of things.
Being totally honest is always very difficult, especially in writing; even more so when you're writing on the web for all to see! I try to not sound too confessional, even when I feel like it, sometimes what makes for more interesting reading is a slightly more reined-in approach to my emotions.
My room is not mine, I dont feel like I belong back home yet. I hope it passes but I feel like I spend little time in it and I enjoy it less and less. I'm also missing uni, rose-tinted specs are a quite massive part of it I feel. Just, when driving home from work yesterday, all I could think was: 'This is going to be hell, I dont want to work behind a bar. I dont want to be an adult in the real world, I just want to go and live on a small desert island somewhere and live at one with nature...with regular packages of digestive biscuits flown out to me.'
Still, with my tips from the other night I found myself a new shirt to go with my lovely pink tie, the summer ball will be a quite gigantic laugh!

'Love life is a fairly grandiose term for staring at women when I'm driving.'

So, without too much palava I got through my second floor shift and am working next on Friday, doing what I do best: pouring pints!
Thankfully I think I impressed with my initiative (not being totally brain-dead I think helped) and I'm now fully a member of the team. Now comes the part I dont like: working long hours for little pay.
Went to volleyball training last night and then to Laura's 21st party afterwards, was accosted (very mildly) by a gay guy I knew from school who wanted "rape" me, apparantly. It was a tiny bit like the guy from Balls of Steel with his 'Fancy a bum?' line. I laughed it off until a friend of his said he was probably being serious, then offering me a sausage from the bbq which I declined rather hastily, conscious of possible connotations of me chomping on a bratwurst.
Gay people dont bother me, not in the slightest. I know myself well enough to say 'If I wanted to be, I'd have done it by now', so any possible bi-curiosity is a strange concept to me. Still, each to their own.
Decided today that I am definitely having Mark Corrigan-esque thoughts when I'm talking to women; it's a little worrying. Also had a phonecall from Olly today to tell me his dissertation only got 48%, needless to say his nose is sorely out of joint. Now isn't the time but I believe that he chose a topic that maybe was too broad and didnt get enough help earlier on in the process. Then again, I havent got my mark back yet and I think I'd do well to keep it a secret, just in case I find myself in a similar boat of fortune to Mr Williams. I hope not, I worked bloody hard at that thing and took the time to do some serious workshopping with people who were doing M.A's as to how I could put my argument across clearly. I should at least get 55 +, though I'd kill for a 1st.
Gotta go now, am accompanying the ginger one to Southampton and then possibly smoking a few cigars with the Viking.

'When can you start?'

Well well well, it would appear that the Gods of good interview technique are favouring me slightly more than usual. I normally find myself in the worst frame of mind to be interviewed when I'm knackard and yesterday I woke up with fifteen minutes to get myself there, looking relatively immaculate. I did a Mr. Bean style getting ready and parked my car like a total goon before opening the door and walking in the second the clock struck ten. I had, in my haste, not quite coordinated my shirt and trousers properly; by this I mean I had zipped up my fly with part of my new shirt wedged in it. So I shook hands with the manager not realising I had a tiny fin of white shirt flapping around out of my flies, a mistake that once realised, was hard to put right without looking like I was doing something untoward unfer the interview table.
I'm also always at a loss at which stance I should take when in interviews for jobs that are slightly more menial than others; by saying 'I'm a graduate and I eventually want to go into teaching' I feel I'm making myself sound overqualified. Its a bit like Peep Show where Jez is in an interview for the cleaner's job at the gym and the dialogue goes something like this:

BOSS: You say here that you're a graduate. You know that this job is very long hours, for very low pay.
JEZ: Yeah, I dont mind though. I like that.
BOSS: You do realise you'll be doing things like mopping the floors, cleaning the toilets and pulling the hair out of the plugholes.
JEZ: Its ok, I think its interesting.
BOSS: Its not interesting.
JEZ: Well, I'm still happy to do it.
BOSS: Are you writing a novel or something?
JEZ: (Thinks) Dont want to sound overqualified What's a novel?

The good news is that I got the job and I had the chance to start immediately that evening, little did I know that I'd be being trained up on the floor rather than behind the bar. I made nearly £15 tips tho, so that'll pay for a pair of inner-soles for my shoes (which are KILLING me!)
Got another floor shift today: just gonna smile, be polite and get the basics right. Anything else is a bonus.