New blog, for those interested.

http://www.englishmaninsouthkorea.blogspot.com/

The saga continues...X

It arrived. And not a moment too soon.

I did it.

In fact, the ceremony itself was much more impressive than I expected (the university clearly have their priorities sorted when they can afford to spend thousands on a graduation ceremony and not on student accommodation.)

Still, now isnt the time for griping, it was quite frankly, awesome.

This concludes my pilot blog 'Gradual Graduation'. Its certainly been gradual, but the journey has been incredible and I hope to talk to you all soon when my Korean plans start up in earnest.

Best of luck, be blissful.

Joe

X

Like a hot bun...

This is an interesting one, and something I find hard to admit: I've never been ditched.
I've managed to avoid that moment of utter arse-ness that occurs when someone says they dont want to see you again, until now.
I've dumped people left right and centre, I'm a serial dumper. What a complete bastard I am, but I do warn them in advance. Turn the tables on me though, and I'm carving people's names in my forhead with a compass. Failing to notice the whole time that it makes me less endearing than I think.
The funny thing is; being dumped is a bit like being knocked out (something I've also experienced, thankfully not in the same outing). You watch boxers get clocked right in the kisser and they stand with fists still raised for a second before keeling over. You feel the initial 'hit' and then deny to yourself that its really happening, as you slide onto the metaphorical canvas that turns out to be your half finished pint.
Bottom line: if you like someone, and you really dont want to let go of them, a sharp gut-punch of rejection is a decent smelling-salt for realising how much of a mug you were being to start with.
And, as for you, your loss.

Signs.

Partially to air the cobwebs on my laptop and also to kick the arse of a fellow blogger on the same topic, I am going to discuss a few small issues regarding the topic of the zodiac.

There are four distinct elements in the zodiac apparantly: Earth, Water, Air and Fire.

Air signs are normally noted for being great thinkers and philosophers, artists and poets, inventors and revolutionaries. They are also supposed to get on famously with each other, being on the same wavelength with their wacky ideas and views on the world.

I'm born under the sign of Aquarius, the water carrier which is, confusingly, an air sign.

Fellow air signs are Libra and Gemini, our continually crazy outlook means that we are better matched with sign of type than maybe a sign of another type (I tried going out with a Leo once, it became a bit fierce.)

So, without getting too bogged down in the details of it all, does your zodiac sign have any real influence on your compatability with someone else?

'Aquarians tend to be less likely to be involved in long term relationships due to their powerful sense of independence, they also have an unorthadox (and sometimes downright weird) approach to how a relationship is supposed to function.'

You got me, I was under the illusion for all these years that a relationship should be fun. How unorthadox of me.

The problem is, that to a certain extent some of this is a self fulfilling prophecy: I am independent, but then who thinks they arent? And if I'm unorthadox in my thinking about relationships, why would that be less likely for me to be in one? It should read:

'Aquarians tend to suffer from being impossible to please: they are attracted by intellect but turned off my smugness, love a laugh but like to be serious, hate being contradicted, hate being told to follow the rules and love to rebel against almost every social rule in the book.'

THAT sounds more like it!

Famous Aquarian dudes include James Dean, Axl Rose, Bob Marley, Alice Cooper, Thomas Edison and (my favourite) Charles Darwin.

I'm supposed to be a life-match with a Libra woman. They're supposed to be better equipped to deal with my many shortcomings and keep me 'mentally stimulated'.

The problem is: somebody's sign doesnt always mean that its a match made in heaven, I've met many Libra women who I cant fucking stand, it almost seems irrelevent to know their birth date because the fact remains...they're a nob!

I met one Libra who I got on with like a house on fire, but timing was a huge issue, as was my inability to stop partying. We're still friends, which makes me happy. I'm sure that says something about us as people, even if it isnt entirely dependent on our birthdays.

Bottom line is: if we are in the right stage of our lives to settle into a long term, get-a-mortgage, have-a-kid, family-car, Swanage-in-August relationship, then maybe that is the right time to meet that match, who knows?

So maybe from now on I'll just have to accept that I'm a total pleb when it comes to the relationships, but maybe I'll be wary that for now it might be better to be a single aqua, I do have the rest of my life to find a pair of scales. I've felt chemistry with different signs, its not always as cut and dry as one-for-one. But it does state that the one sign that I am forever not going to be able to handle is another Aquarian.

Makes sense.

To hear a very talented Libran's perspective on this topic, visit http://www.amiecoussens.blogspot.com/

An Honest Update...

I think I've stopped writing personal things on here and started writing odd, travelogue-esque articles because I've been feeling unable to express myself properly.
What is new in my life? Let me think of a few:

I have a new job, working for the NHS as a call-taker. I'm still undergoing my training but getting paid the same as I will when I'm totally qualified. Its fun; the shift patterns are crazy (i'm working 11pm-7am for three nights in a row this week, thank god it's time and a quarter.)
It appears Korea is on the way, theres a slight conflict between my interests and the practicalities of it all however: I have different days of feeling really optimistic about going, and other times when I feel hopelessly scared. This hasnt been helped by my most recent of conundrums: adjusting (badly) to life after Uni.
I know I've banged on and on about it but the transition between Uni and home is just totally and utterly knocking me sideways at present. I dont have a grip on anything, I feel.
Put it this way: we all need routine to be able to function, I'm having enough trouble settling back into a new routine before I decide to dissapear off again, this worries me. It almost feels like I'm trying to hide from myself. Cliche' or what?
To take a broader view on it for a moment, I am aware that time flies and I dont want to miss a moment of it, but how do I deal with plunging myself into change so deep if I can barely cope with moving 200miles back home within the same country?
My attempts to settle back into routine have been scuppered somewhat by the job that, by its very nature, requires flexibility in it's shift patterns. My want to play rugby again has been buggered by my body's inability to take the strain (two big injuries in as many months, I'm under the delusion that I'm still really really fit, and I'm not!) In short, I feel a bit crap, directionless and pessimistic about the future.
You cant escape your problems, they pop up wherever you are, whatever you're doing and whoever you're with. I used to think I could face mine, but I think that maybe its not that easy.
If the move to Korea turns into a nightmare, I wont know how to ever forgive myself; I've talked it up for so long now, and though I think it'll be amazing, I just cant help thinking I'm doing it all for the wrong reasons, and at the wrong time.
But maybe I need to feel like this, now. Better to lose my nerve before I'm out there.
This is a test, one more that I'll have to overcome and dominate.

As Anna would quote : 'Our doubts are traitors, that make us lose the good we might oft win, by fearing to attempt.'
Good old Jaques...

Cleanliness and acting the fool.

Those who know me will say this: I'm not tidy.
I cant help it, its not in my nature to be a clean-freak, I'm too busy being silly. Even I have my limits though...
When at 26 Denbigh Street (the infamous bachelor pad I lived in at Uni) the issue wasnt so much to do with cleanliness as it was to do with basic hygiene: our kitchen work-tops were inhabited with enough bacteria to start up a bio-weaponry arsenal.
This wasn't helped by the fact that the toilet was through the kitchen, on some evenings the smell would waft in and combine itself with the pasta you were making. It provided its amusing moments however; a favourite game of ours would be 'shower sabotage', where the window would be left unlocked and a fire extinguisher hose could be sneaked in. It would be unfair if I didnt mention that this game was usually played whenever Olly had a shower, after a while we dispensed with the subtleties and just kicked the door in. Seeing a naked and screaming Olly as we sprayed him was disturbing, but worth it.
I suppose I'm mentioning this because as bad as that house was for hygiene, and occasionally sanity, I miss being able to do daft things like that. Or maybe I miss the opportunity to do daft things like that...its hard to tell.
I could try to replicate it on my Dad, if I didnt mind being maimed.

Hip Hop Just Saved Me.

Following the introspection of the previous blog (sorry about that by the way), I have decided to return to a social commentary of sorts.
What makes hip-hop an art form?
The biggest barrier to any social commentary is a fragmented mode of address (or, ‘not understanding each other’, like.) Rap and hip-hop has been both lauded and damned in equal measure for the messages of unity but also ones of hatred. Is it simply storytelling?
The origins of this fast-evolving genre have been disputed for decades, the most likely source will have been West African poets, known as griots. They used the spoken word to pass on great fables and poems to audiences. Paul Oliver writes in his book "Savannah Syncopators"
‘Though [the griot] has to know many traditional songs without error, he must also have the ability to extemporize on current events, chance incidents and the passing scene. His wit can be devastating and his knowledge of local history formidable.’
This leads us to the immigration of America, and a development of a cultural identity in what would have been a melting pot of differing ideals and values when it came to entertainment. Many Griot-style lyricists used their gifts to entertain crowds in the post-civil rights era in the 1960s/70s.
Jamaican influence was key; ‘Dub’ music had travelled well and was later mixed with the unlikely combo of Disco and Funk. The shorter beats gave way to the practice of ‘toasting’, an early emcee-battle of skill between two opponents.
This combative approach had given disenfranchised youth a voice and while Kool Herc & the Herculoids were the first team to make it big in the Bronx, the rest of the world was soon to catch up.
The ‘first’ hip-hop track to have been put to recording is largely thought to be The Sugarhill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight in 1979. The fun-fast trio of Wonder-Mike, Big Bank Hank and Master-Gee were credited by having a catchy hook and wacky lyrics. It is hard, when listening to this 17 minute masterpiece, to see how gangster violence could be influenced by this art form. But, as with all things, a subculture always develops.
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five presented a new face of hip-hop to the world. Their songs were catchy but delved into areas of life that other rappers were no doubt living, but weren’t making records about. The Message is probably the best example of a rap-song that deals with the hard facts behind the genre’s poverty-stricken roots:
‘Broken glass everywhere, people pissing on the stairs, you know they just don’t care. I can’t take the smell, can’t take the noise, got no money to move out I guess I’ve got no choice.
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back. Junkies in the alleys with a baseball bat, I tried to run away but I didn’t get far cause the man with the tow truck repossessed my car.’
The track then gives way to possibly one of the most famous hooks in the world ‘Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge, I’m trying not to lose my head.’ Seeing them in print somehow takes away from the significance; orally they are said as if every word deserves to be emblazoned in red and capitalised, such is the desperation of them.
The ‘real’ lyrics of rappers became overshadowed with the glamour of rapper’s and their respective gang’s lifestyles. While songs such as Rapper’s Delight reference this with the lines ‘I got bodyguards, I got two big cars...So afterschool I take a dip in the pool which is really on the wall, I got a colour T.V so I can see the Nicks play basketball...’ it is seen as more of a cartoonish dream, that this lifestyle could ever be lead.
Soon, hip-hop became about what you had, and how much of it. Excess was the order of the day and while this is not exclusive to the genre (look at the Rat-Pack’s decadence) it became a political middle finger to the rest of the world that people from the ghetto could make big money from raw talent.
You may notice that at no point am I professing to be an expert, I am merely giving a view. The first rap album I ever owned was Will Smith’s Willenium. Considered by many to be a joke rapper, Will Smith represents something totally different at the turn of the decade: in terms of his social mobility, he has gone from being a rapper, to actor, to producer and is now one of the biggest banking stars of Hollywood. Not bad for the skinny kid who used to emcee with a guy called ‘DJ Jazzy Jeff’.
The 2000’s then appeared to have a dual role for its rappers, they weren’t just revered for their music, their lifestyles took on a totally different meaning: Eminem’s rags-to-riches film 8 Mile shows a behind the scenes take on the struggle to ‘blow up’ and out of poor neighbourhoods through music, a task which Eminem seems to be saying is harder to do if you’re white trash in a predominantly black ghetto, such as Detroit. This is what makes it so hard for us as an audience to understand whether we are infatuated with the music or the people.
To return to the issue of lyrics and the various interpretations of them; there is a renaissance of reality in some pockets of the genre. The idea being that the more we earn and spend looking good, the less good we do. As twee as it may sound, Kanye West’s early albums (where he still rapped) were an exercise in what can only be described as masked smugness. His records preached about the double standards of the world:
‘I say fuck the police, thats how I treat em
We buy our way out of jail, but we can’t buy freedom.
We’ll buy a lot of clothes but we don’t really need em
Things we buy to cover up whats inside.’

Lupe Fiasco, a personal favourite of mine, addresses the same issues of greed, inequality and the deterioration of social values. His approach is different in that he likes to make the audience think, rather than Kanye, who forces it down you in a manner which feels less sincere.
His song ‘Intruder Alert’ focuses on the pain in society, and challenges people to change their views of addicts, immigrants and much more. And he does it all without a sample from ‘Another Day in Paradise’:
‘He said nobody else ever loved him
Thats why he gets high enough to go touch the heavens above him
Vividly remembers every pipe
Every needle that stuck him
Every alley he ever slept in
Every purse that he snuck in
Every level of hell he’s been to
And the one that he’s stuck in
The one he can’t escape
Though it’s of his own construction.
Maybe you can relate
Maybe you one of those that just doesn’t
Maybe he doesn’t care
Loves to allow these demons to come in.’

Though strictly only forty years old, hip-hop has the capacity to become even bigger in the coming years. My preference for rappers like Lupe are that they stick closely to the truth of it all, reminding us why we should all live together harmoniously (Lupe is also a practicing Muslim).
The story-telling is all, without it the genre just becomes nonsense verse telling people to ‘get low.’

A peek into the frontal lobes...

Delving into my brain, never exactly safe...
I often wonder about attractiveness in people; there are many varying and clashing philosophies about the reasons behind infatuation and I for one think it is a different scenario for everyone.
Take a person who spends their whole time being obsessed by their own image: they are so worried about what people think of their appearance that they don’t pull their guard down for long enough to let anyone begin to know them. That isn’t attractive. Why?
Psychologically, we put up certain ‘fronts’ to attract people, its natural. People who bare all (emotionally) on the first encounter might be refreshing, but do you really want to know everything about someone that early, or at all?
Mystique is strange; if you like puzzles and games then you are drawn to people that baffle you. Mainly because their notions and ideas might clash with your own. Or, they appear to be very similar, but there’s something just beneath the surface that hints at something more.
So, if a person’s attractiveness is reliant on a blend of mystery and revealing...why do we find ourselves attracted to people who aren’t ‘right’ for us?
Firstly, what is right and wrong for any one person is seldom a ticking of boxes (for me anyway), it has to be an understanding that this person could be my friend, without me forgetting that I fancy them too. Someone who understands, but tells me to shut up all the same, laughs at and with me, and doesn’t stop their world for me, but makes allowances just in case.
It comes down to what makes you comfortable; being put on a pedestal is scary and being treated like an idiot is demeaning. Respect is key. We’ve all been hurt, we’ve all hurt others.
As Oscar Wilde said: ‘Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.’

Autumn Approaches, and my brush with the law.

I’m not a fan of writing melancholic observations of the changing colour of leaves, it can be completely boring for anyone else to read, and even more boring for me to write.
So, the 1st of September is upon us; the evenings feel that little bit shorter, the air is slightly less forgiving on bare skin and the leaves, the awkward cusses they are, have begun to turn bronze.
Everywhere, kids are being fitted up for uniforms in shops whose fronts bombard the public with huge bubble-fonts that scream “Back to School!” These are always accompanied by pictures of kids having simply THE best time of their lives in their new non-iron shirts; they’re all laughing, showing bright white incisors. What are they laughing at? If your child is anything like me at school age they’d most likely deduce the same conclusion: me.
I hated going back to school, not that there’s anything unusual in that. I think I was always struck by the fact that the summer was largely spent being patronised by the world at large (not being able to do ANYTHING without being considered a lout and, just as this is settling in, big posters appear on the high street to remind us that term starts all over again...it hardly seemed fair.
I know from my time in retail that the ‘back to school’ season is marketed at all ages. (I refer to it as ‘time’ deliberately, the branch of River Island I worked for when I was in college wasn’t QUITE like Broadmoor. I think they got dental care.)
It seemed so cynical, essentially saying “If you want your kid to look THIS good, make sure they have these shoes.” It baffles me that people can be that easily fooled, especially as it pressurises people to do the best by their children, usually out of the fear that they aren’t going to fit in unless they do so.
Anyway, enough of that. I never told people about my close encounter with the Met Police upon my arrival to the UK...
Gary and Katrina took me to a ship-wreck research centre (it also had a pirate section for the kids, which Gary and I found ourselves in) and then onto a few bars. We had devilled eggs in Mac’s Diner; the main diner area used to be a Harley Davidson garage, the decor giving honour to all of this. The menu was promised to be no-nonsense BBQ-fest, and so it proved to be.
Not being able to make up my mind, I chose to have ‘A little bit of everything’ which was:
Mac & Cheese
Soup
Beer-Can Chicken
Shredded Pork
BBQ Ribs
Potatoes
Quite frankly, it was awesome. I also had to contend with my belt, straining at its seams.
Boarding my flight after a few beers, a hearty meal and a last dose of North Carolina sunshine, I boarded my plane.
I’ve never been a good flyer. Every time I sit through a take-off my mind starts to wander to the sheer power in those engines, and how the slightest problem could effectively blow us all to pieces.
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m thinking about food. The nasty, freeze-dried, vacuum-packed ready-meals that are thrust at you as you contemplate watching more bloody films to pass the time.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. When I arrived back in Gatwick, I was shagged. It was 7am and my prepaid tickets to get to Manchester weren’t valid until 12.05pm. I had time to kill, but first I needed to...
BAM! I did the ‘falling’ asleep thing that people do when they are semi-dreaming and jerked awake. I’d been stood in line at a Tube-Ticket station at London Victoria at the time though. After sitting on a bench, drifting in and out of consciousness I was approached by a scary looking policeman, whose demeanour suggested that he’d like to throw me in the nick ‘with all the other nonces’. I explained to him that I wasn’t drunk, nor on illegal substances and I was just trying to get to Manchester. Clearly thinking that I was unlikely to be a problem for him if that was really the case, he let me go without another word. I promptly fell flat onto my face.

Cherokee's Answer to Nighthawks...

One small detail that I forgot to mention regarding the trip to Cherokee was our unfortunate experience regarding alcohol.
We had checked into our grotty motel, having driven for the best part of the day around the Smokey Mountains. We were desperate for a shower, a change of clothes and a refreshing cold beer.
Reassembling again in reception, we tried to locate the nearest bar down the gaudy strip that comprised of many odd looking gift shops, also offering delicacies such as ‘boiled peanuts’ and rat’s cheese’. I wasn’t hungry enough for either of these, but I had started to notice that while there was an abundance of tat to buy, there was precious little in the way of taverns or bars. In fact, there weren’t any; not a single, seedy looking tavern with a neon sign of an insanely happy Indian and a pint, nothing. There was a picture of a bear with a gun on a billboard however. I think of all the things you wouldn’t want to bump into, it would have to be a bear with a gun, and a banjo.
Traipsing back to the motel, which had started to make the Bates look quite twee in comparison, we enquired about the possibility of a hotel bar. The girl at the desk met us with a look that flicked from surprise to suspicion to a strange expression that suggested she might be struck by lightning should she divulge what she clearly knew from the moment we checked in.
“I’m sorry sir, Cherokee is a dry county.”
After a second of delay, in which my addled brain tried calculating how much rainfall there had been in Cherokee in the last calendar year, we realised the true horror of what had been said. We were informed by the girl (who wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Crucible) to drive to Bryson City where we would be able to fill our tanks, as it were.
Bryson City, ironical in that it was smaller than most English hamlets, was a ghost-town. I found it quietly interesting that the town was named after my favourite travel writer, in his home country. I had recently been reading his book Walk in the Woods where he embarked upon the Appalachian Trail, he documented the way in which certain areas (including the Smokey Mountains) were reminiscent of Deliverance and Bryson City, whether Bill knew it or not, was not dissimilar. It was a Sunday and most of the shops (most of them selling tat or guns) were all closed. I swore that I could hear banjo-music as I crossed the road, I quickened my step and tried not to look like Jon Voigt.
We’d seen a garage with a large neon sign in the window saying ‘Cold Beer Here’ on our way in. This filled us with joy, the plan was to eat and then go to the garage afterwards, pick up supplies and retire to the motel where we could play cards and get drunk.
Gary, ever the optimist, was on his iphone in front of me, he’d decided to ring the said garage to check its opening hours. He suddenly sank to his knees like one of those string toys when you press the button underneath it. He put one hand to his head while the other held the phone grimly close to his ear and enquired in a feeble voice:
“Is that a county law, by any chance?”
What Gary had discovered was that we weren’t able to buy alcohol from an off-licence anywhere in the county on a Sunday after 6pm. Sure enough, harmonising with the tortured groans of Gaz and I was the town-clock chiming 6.
Dad, meanwhile, had been doing a very good impression of the world’s slowest man, a trick he pulls off quite well. As it was, he was nearly two blocks behind us and hadn’t overheard the conversation. We decided to keep Dad from the horrible truth while we sat in a diner and ordered some ropey looking pasta. Eventually, after considering the predicament, we began to tell him the situation.
“What? What’s everyone not telling me?”
He looked up and down the table, at me awkwardly biting my lip, Mum and Rhiannon hiding behind their menus and Gary and Katrina both taking an abnormal interest in the interior decor.
I told him. He looked up and sat very still for a moment, utterly statuesque.
“So what exactly is it you’re telling me?” came the deathly-quiet question. We repeated to him the predicament we found ourselves in, he looked into the middle-distance with an expression of a man who had just opened the front door to not only find Rolf Harris stood there, but dressed entirely in leather. The Vesuvius reaction was on its way, but first came the confusion, like a Moose that stubbornly refuses to keel over, even though it has an arrow in its head.
The food arrived; Gary, feeling responsible, was consulting his iphone again and was no doubt trying to fast-track order a six-pack from ebay, or something to compensate. Katrina and Mum were twittering in that way that only married women can, Rhiannon was looking glumly at me and I was looking at Dad, who by now had slumped deep into his seat, looking for the entire world like a Moose that had clearly been shot.
We recovered well enough from the prohibition, soon we were off again to civilisation and hitting bars with an enthusiasm that would have appeared unhealthy if you didn’t know the full story.
Stay tuned for the next episode, find out how I nearly got arrested for looking like a drunk in London Euston...peace.

Musical Interlude

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiVNTddmWF8
Consider this an interlude while I gather my thoughts for the next part of my blog, I know my guitar playing and singing arent going to set the world alight. But I enjoyed myself!

Charlotte, North Carolina.

The plan was simple, hit the states and enjoy the hospitality of Gary and Katrina. They were, and still are the best hosts I’ve ever experienced. We set off for Charlotte, North Carolina on the 29th July from a rainy English summer and arrived to a sunny and sticky afternoon.
Gary and Katrina were family friends who lived in Colden Common about 8 years ago, Katrina is from Alabama and Gary from Swindon (someone has to be). It had been a long time since I’d seen either of them and it was heartening to see that neither of them had changed; Katrina was as gregarious as ever and Gary was still a big kid. The big difference between now and when I was 12 was that he could drink beer with me, which seemed to set the tone for the rest of the trip. Upon arrival, we were taken out to the local bar, which was about 20 minutes drive away. Gary explained, as he took on Charlotte’s rush-hour traffic, that people in America rarely walk anywhere and that most places are catered so much for drivers but not walkers. It seemed surreal being on a stretch of highway, yellow traffic lights suspended from wires, people driving on the right...little did I know just how strange things were going to become.
We ate out that evening, went back to the house where Rhiannon and Dad were clearly flagging. Mum and I stayed up until 12 midnight, in the interest of beating jetlag, and beating Gary at Wii Sports. I retired to bed a happy man.
We bumbled about for a few days, went to many bars and restaurants and ate and drank in U.S sized portions. It wasn’t so much the size of the main-meals that had you undoing yet another notch in your belt (I ran out of holes), as it was the free sides you got with them. We went to ‘Mert’s Soul Food’ one evening, lots of fried chicken, sticky rice, barbeque ribs and chilli. I honestly felt like asking for a bankers draft to afford to stay out here for the next year at least. The ribs were falling off the bone, extraordinarily tasty.
It was later in the week that we opted to go to Cherokee for an overnight stay. The main attraction there was the Native American reservation and re-enactment site, something I’ve longed to see since I was little. On the museum tour I found myself reading the plaques detailing the infamous ‘Trail of Tears’ in which numerous Cherokee tribe’s people, not having had to deal with foreign diseases before, perished on their slaves journey out west. Causes of death were typically smallpox, exhaustion and, some might say, despondency. Within me it stirred feelings of anger to the injustice this peace-loving tribe endured again and again. It appeared to be so undeserved too, it wasn’t as if the Cherokee were chasing Custer’s scalp; while the Sioux and the Plains Indians were fighting the settlers, the Cherokee would extend hospitality to anyone in need and were rewarded by the greed of a cruel, new age of globalisation. It reminded me of the Cree Prophecy:
‘Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish has been caught we will realise that we cannot eat money.’
The reservation was much more uplifting, the tour leader was dressed in traditional tribal gear which belied his Carolina drawl. What became apparent after a while however was that his trousers stopped just short of his upper thighs. This was compensated for by a loincloth that flapped dangerously when he walked, I found my eyesight involuntarily and morbidly drawn towards it as the tour progressed. The finale of the day was a Native American dance, which naturally had me imagining the swirling feathers and fire that you might see in films such as ‘Dances With Wolves’. If anything, the dances were much more Polynesian in their style than I expected. The men mostly had bald heads save a pony-tail, very much a Maori or South American look and the dance was very economical and not grand or showy . It was certainly interesting, though a few of the participants looked like they’d been roped into it...
Stay tuned in for Part Two....

Strictly Looking Like a Twat

On a whim, and to stop the sister figure from complaining, I went to a Ballroom and Latin class yesterday evening.
Now, being fairly game, I thought that the most I would be required to do would learn a few steps, embrace a leggy female dancer (preferably Eastern European and blonde), and whirl her roud the room, pausing only to wink at the astonished onlookers.
Astonished onlooker 1: "And this is only his FIRST lesson?"
Sister: "Yeah, he's annoyingly good isnt he?"

What followed was a tiny bit different to this delusion; I was assigned to the novices, to practice the Rumba. I picked up the basic steps fairly well, except for one endearingly called "the whisk", which was a lateral step with a tiny jink and a fast changover to the opposite foot.
Done well, it looked quite remarkable, requiring a blend of speed and grace that I quite obviously lacked. I looked something like a man who was discreetly trying to shift a troublesome house rodent from his trousers while keeping his hands free. I started to perspire from the sheer concentration of keeping my feet in the right position at the right time, as if a large male-part was stopping me from doing anything I might regret.
What was quite awe-inspiring though, was when the experienced dancers all took to the floor with some 1920's ballroom music playing over the tannoy. It seemed, just for a second, that I'd stepped back in time and was voyeuristically seeing something quite lost forever as a popular hobby. The older ladies moved with an economy of energy that was in itself quite exquisite, their wheeling steps following a groove in the floor that had clearly survived many years, the ballroom staying constant while outside all sorts of changes permeated.

New Suit

For a long time I've been a one-suit man. We met across a crowded charity shop (a fact that I've denied vehemently to my friends on numerous occasions, its like saying you vote BNP, or like Wales.) Someone, presumably deceased, had been cursed with the exact same measurements as me. The pigeon chest, the slightly awkward 31 inch inside leg and the 31 inch waist made the suit fit like a glove. I paid ten pounds for it back in 2005, it was an M&S charcoal suit, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
The suit and I were inseperable, we went to the Symonds Leaver's Ball in 2006. I had work the next day in Winchester and decided to be clever and pack an overnight bag and stay with one of my workmates who was also in for the morning shift. I forgot, after the combined effects of several tequilas, sambucas and pints of lager, to pick up my rucksack containing all my regular clothes from the cloakroom. The suit and I went to work in the morning, still reeking of booze. The manager didnt care, mainly because for the duration of my shift I was presumed to be the manager by various hormonal women screeching at me:
"I tried this size 18 on and its too fackin' small!"
"Thats because you have a fat arse, madam." I felt like saying. The closest I got to eloquence however, was being sick behind the till. It was a bad day for the suit.
What I hadnt noticed, being blinded by the bargain of it all, was that the suit was made out of very comfortable wool. Wool, being what it is, was hardly the choice for a hot July afternoon, especially as my hangover was taking on epic proportions while in a shop with no air conditioning.
Still, in the winter months, I reigned supreme if there was a formal situation. I, sadly, went to two funerals in as many years for people I knew well. I also went to three very joyous weddings.
Another grim day for the suit was my Rugby Xmas piss up where I got slated, nay, crucified for wearing something that was charcoal and woolen.
"Excuse me sir? What time does Geography start?" Was one of the various and hilarious comments slung my way. Olly preferred to keep it simple with: "Oi Riley, wheres your leather elbow patches? Ya cunt! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!" I, predictably, got fined and had to down a pint of Bailey's with lime cordial, I didnt go to the loo for days.
The days loomed where I knew the suit and I might have to part ways; neccesity for a dark suit at graduation and my expanding gut being the first harbingers of doom. And, naturally, I found a replacement in Debenhams today. The cut is good, it makes me look like someone from The Apprentice, and I can finally wear it without worrying about how much I'm going to perspire in the warmer months.
Still, all that being said, there will only ever be the one suit for me. I'll keep it in the wardrobe for emergencies, or give it to charity.

Starting to feel a little bit like I’m making the right choices, just at the wrong time. I feel drained everyday due to the Italians I’m teaching, and the sad part is that I’m only teaching them for 4 hours a day. How on Earth will I cope with a classroom full of rowdy Korean kids come New Year?
I’m seeing it as a learning curve, a challenge for me to overcome. There’s really no other way to approach it, in my opinion.
Still, every cloud: I’m getting paid £10.30 an hour which is bloody good, if only I could teach for longer...
Got my results back, 2.1 with Honours. I’m obviously really really happy. However, though I am happy to have achieved what I set out to do at the start of the year, the anti-climax of getting the result (it is, of course, just a grade) is compounded by guilt. This is probably normal, I made some big sacrifices in my personal life to be more focussed and selfish and to devote my time to me and nobody else. Even now, at the other end of the journey, I feel bad for having been so obtuse about getting the grade, it’s the kind of thing I sneer at in other people, and I wish I might have got it effortlessly and been able to pay as much attention to my personal life as I think it merits. Still, understandably, I have a big grin on my face because I know nobody is going to question my degree class, and that does make it partially worth it.
Had a brainwave yesterday, via the ever-expanding brain of Miss Mackenzie: after my travels, wherever they are and however long for, it would excite me greatly to get involved in a Journalism Course. The Institute of Journalism offer fast-track courses for graduates and often, if you aren’t totally hopeless, you can find yourself working in the industry after a year.
I will ruffle feathers by saying this: but I have heard from people who work in or with the industry and they all have the opinion that a Journalism degree is inadequate preparation. A wider course in English, History, Psychology, Classics etc combined with a Journalist’s Qualification, is considered to be much more wholesome as it means that the candidate has had other interests and disciplines other than just shorthand writing speed.
Still, all in good time.
Seriously tired and in need of a laugh, am beginning to feel a bit like Mort Raney in that Stephen King novel and am wondering at what point I'll wake up to a massacred family and me stood there in a Farmer's hat. I just want a big break, though I dont know when that will be.

Poems

I've recently been published again in this years edition of 'Pandora's Box'. I thought, as it is only a small publication, to share with you some of the things that are in there by myself.



Cleared Out

Heaney's North, Pinter's Celebration
And a Lonely Planet guide to Korea
All for under a tenner.
Joyous though I am,
It's hard to not feel sad and sorry for
Gap-filled bookshelves dotted with stickers,
Venerable walls cheapened
With discount posters.



Loss

Losing a loved one is not a hole in the head,
A wound to the heart,
A cavern, A void.
It is the deep and certain knowledge that whoever knocks at your door
Wont be them.


Stripped

Hovering just below corrugated roofing,
Disfigured, odd strips of varied luminosity
Glare.
Like stretched incisors, one blacked out,
One full of dead flies, they make me wonder
Just how many saw them in their pure new smile.
And, wherever they are now, remember it?



Horror-Scope

Virgos never give it up,
Leo's too hard to tame.
Capricorns find me unsure footing.
I'm no pescetarian, so Pisceans are a no-go.
Saggitarians arrows miss me, Scorpions scare me,
Librans weigh me, find me wanting.
I'm a red rag to Taurans, and Arians find me
Woolley.
I'm no bigamist, sorry Gemini.
And it goes without saying that I dont want Cancer.
After all this, star signs are rubbish,
Which is a very Aquarian thing to think.

I tend to ponder about things that not many others do: why are white van men so angry? What is the point of GMTV? And, most importantly, why does asking for a polythene shopping bag make me evil?
I'm a humanitarian at heart, give me an energy efficient way to do something and I'm there. Getting hot and bothered about possible emissions, especially when all I want to do is put the said shopping in my car and drive off home to eat it cold while I read a book. I could understand if I had become notorious in the area for grabbing fistfuls of plastic bags, taking them to a field with a handy tyre-fire already blazing away, and setting alight to them, pausing only to hurl car batteries on the inferno. Its quite simply nuts.
Tescos have had my custom for a few years now, mainly through convenience (but then, what else would you use a convenience shop for?) They are also the main culprits for making a person asking for a shopping bag feel like a pariah.
Woman: Would you like a bag?
Me: Yes please.
Woman: (scowls) Do you not have any of your own?
Me: (Looks around, puzzled) Well, no. I presumed that your offer of a bag might morph seamlessly into me obtaining one.
Woman: Well here you go. (Hands me one, crumpled up.)

Of course, wrapping it round her head would be considered assault. I merely informed her that I intended to pay for my shopping in its entirety by way of my book of vouchers...

Too Damn Hot...

I had a cold shower in the early hours last night (and no, not for THAT reason!)

By going to bed completely freezing cold and naked I just about survived the night, though I woke up this morning in a haze of mist from the water pretty much evaporating off my bum.

For the next two weeks I am teaching two Italian 11 year olds called Gianluca and Lorenzo, and they are both bloody crap. The level of fun I might ordinarily have derived from the teaching was normally to do with its brevity, I could make the lesson fun but not burn out. Now, I arrive in Romsey at 9am and after the first hour I want to cry. Its not so much that I doubt my own ability as it is that I dont have a template for teaching EFL, I can cover grammar, superlatives, punctuation, connectives etc. But pretending to be 'Inspector Clueless', the textbook's moronic cartoon character, while I 'search for full stops' with two kids from Milan who looked like they'd rather be outside smoking, is a bit much.

Still, getting some nice moolah for it. And I dont have to serve a pint...

Went for an interview yesterday at Bendicks, made a quip about my interviewer's hairnet making her look like one of the martians from "Mars Attacks". It was recieved with a polite smile that soon turned into a glower, I should learn to override my urge to talk total bollocks sometimes.

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.

Ponderings, Winnie the Pooh and Kwik Fit

My car has been being driven about on the spare tyre for a week now and I decided, for safety's sake, I should get a new one. I went to Kwik Fit who charged me £57 for the privilege only for me to compare it to a previous receipt where I had the same kind of budget tyre fitted for £40 exactly by the Kwik Fit in Southampton. So, having been charged an extra £17, I wanted to find out just what this little surcharge was for; I asked the Southampton garage for a quote and their prices (unlike Winchester's) were still the same as last year. So not only had I been diddled, I'd had it done for practically no reason whatsoever. Needless to say, all I had to do was mention the conversation with the other garage and they hastily refunded the difference, stating: 'We're not sure what happened there.' I replied that I would be sending a very long email, detailing this incident, to their customer complaints. It isnt the first time I've felt like I walk around with the word 'Mug' written on my forhead, I hope it might be the last.
What to do today? I've officially reached rock-bottom boredom levels and my self-esteem is slowly going down the swanny (not helped by my mum's comment on my expanding gut: telling me I looked a bit like Winnie the Pooh when I took my shirt off to play tennis.)
I've also started getting a taste of what its like not being as free to do what I want, when I want like when I was a student. Its the reality of life that is starting to depres me a little, I know it'll change when I start working, a topic of which there is some glimmer of light on.
Frustrated and realising I couldnt keep waiting for the dream job, I went to my local (and very friendly) pub which I handed my C.V into over Easter and heard nothing from. It was shut, I swore quietly to myself when another car rolled into the empty carpark and the manager got out to unlock the doors. We had a chat and she admitted she hadnt looked at a single application form, but she was recruiting for the summer. I now have an interview on Monday morning where I hope my experience will land me the job and I can finally get some pennies rolling in!
For those wondering, I'm not actually monetarily driven: it goes against my personality to be so, I do however have an overdraft to pay off and I want to be financially independent. Money doesnt make you happy, granted. But, money can buy you stuff, and holidays, and they can make you happy.
The hunt for a suit for the ball goes on, I fished out my old tux the other day and realised I looked like a fat waiter, all I needed was a porno-tache and I could exile myself from the world and call myself Mr Giovanni. Only 11 days to go before the big do and big farewell, a phrase concerning crossing bridges comes to mind...

Lakes, Unemployment, Beer.

Well, what a frustrating few days; I was let down by the job agency, who told me the NHS were still in talks to decide on new recruits. I was, naively, quite hopeful for the job to come through and I think my feeling of general unimportance is becoming ever greater due to my lack of ability to get my foot in the door.
This bad news led me to join my folks on a trip to the Lake District where I got the chance to relax, enjoy the scenery and some quite remarkable food and beer. It helped to give me some perspective about the world, and my part in it.
Anyway, enough mooning; I have decided out of some kind of inner stubborness to go back to basics and attack the job market the old fashioned way. I'll print off an armful of C.V's, find places that are advertising vacancies and charm my way in...might need a shave tho, my designer stubble is less Matt DiAngelo and more Rolf Harris at present.
Got the possibility of meeting up with cousin Adam later, watching the footie then the rugby, possiblity ofa bbq later. Tough life.
Had a dream I got 0% on my dissertation last night, need to stop eating cheese before bed. Or get therapy.

Twatty Flatty

Saturday was brilliant: The sun was out, I helped to hack Si's garden to bits in aid of his move and I got the job.
So, when sailing back along the road in my new-found euphoria, something bad had to happen, didnt it?
My car takes me on the 230mile trip to Chester and back, despite this, there have seldom been problems. My car, however, is designed to go down the shops. Daewoo didnt create the Matiz to be ragged up the M6 at 80mph, but needs must.
Whilst coming back from Winchester on Saturday afternoon, somebody behind me in a white van started flashing his lights at me. Abuse on public roads is something you become accustomed to when you drive a car like a go-kart, I merely carried on driving. He carried on flashing his lights and pulled into the middle lane and started gesticulating frantically; this was new, normally a quick flick of the 'V' as they overtake is enough. I realised, with a strange mixture of horror and bemusement, that he was telling me I had a flat tyre. I opened my window and sure enough, I heard the flapping noise and smelt cremated rubber, shit. Thankfully, just off the M3 is a golf club that I knew I could pull into and after much waiting around the AA man came, giving me a withering look at such an easy job as changing a tyre. Now, before I lose any man-points, I can and have changed tyres, this one had been fitted by Kwik Fit and therefore were pretty much welded on. Some witty chap in a Z3 suggested I take the parts from my car and fit them on a golf-buggy, telling me it might go faster. I suggested, jovially, that he sit on his 9 iron.
Hungover today, again. I think I'm getting old.

'Home is a place where I yearn to belong'

Hi all, just keeping you up to date with the lack of goings on in my current situation. I decided yesterday, after being a bum and waiting for the phone to ring with employment news, that if the world didnt want me then it didnt have a choice; I armed myself with C.Vs and an ironed shirt and hit town.
Suffice to say, town hit back, hard. The recession is less felt in Winchester than elsewhere but there is little left in regards casual work. The closest I think I got was with an agency that were referring people on to Hampshire Ambulances as call workers. Sounds interesting, also pays up to £9 per hour which is pretty fantastic. So far though I have had no phonecall, maybe I'll have to settle for Sainsbury's.
Went to rugby training on Wednesday and realised just how out of practice I am; still, I managed to chase down some of the established players and nearly scored an eighty-yard wonder try myself. I was caught 5 yards short of the line by the 1st team winger having burnt everyone else, give me a few more sessions and I'll score those. I hope! Got told by the 2nd team skipper that he'd have me in his team come September, nothing like speed to get you noticed, just wait until they realise I cant tackle!
Went for a few jars with Si last night too, ended up in Blondes on student night, where I had my first (and presumably not my last) surreal experience of feeling old and non-studenty. The average age was 18/19 and we both felt a bit out of place, some hopelessly drunk 18 year old threw a shotglass at his friend and hit me. It was plastic so no bother, but his grovelling apology was the most annoying thing ever. There is a definite culture change in an affluent, middle-class town like Winchester to a place like Chester. Arguably you could say that they are very similar but appearances aside, they are not. Example: bump into someone in most pubs in Liverpool and they will most likely say 'sorry mate', regardless of whose at fault. Bump into someone in Winchester and it turns into a mute staring contest, no apologies or friendly 'thats alright, dont worry'. It is almost as if the more priviliged forget their manners, truly sad in my opinion.
So, rant over, am enjoying all the other areas of being back. Have decided to stay away from potential womenfolk, partially because I dont see where they might fit into my life right now and mostly because I cant be arsed. I have the rest of my life to do that, fingers crossed!
Anyway, must be off. It's far too nice a day to be sat on a computer...the golf course awaits!

Bare Room

I have nearly a hundred books strewn across my floor and the posters have all been taken down. Amazing how a few familiar things on the walls can change the whole feel of a place, without anything there the walls appear so much higher...
Still, I got all my crap out of my desk in under an hour. Nearly killed me but I stripped it out and got the majority of my possessions in order, taking up two rubbish bags for all the old seminar papers and notes that lay scattered in my drawers.
Why am I detailing this extremely boring information? I think I'm having trouble putting into articulate thoughts what I'm feeling about leaving tommorrow: somehow describing my bare room (which, incidentally isnt really mine at all for much longer) is cathartic, yet sad.
I'll be glad to start living in the real world for a bit, you may take a sweepstake on how long this lasts and I'm on here posting "get me back to uni, NOW!" Change is an odd one; I'm adaptable, but I know myself too well to know I wont be able to cope effortlessly with the transition.
Fact is, without these doubts, I know I wouldnt be pushing myself further in regards my comfort zone. I know lots of people who are quite content to be safe; to stick to what they know, do the same things week in week out and never deviate from said pattern.
Before I lapse into a judgemental rant, I want to make it clear that the only thing I dislike about the majority of said people is that not only do they lead this style of existence, they criticise you for not doing the same as them. Its always: 'why you going to chink-country? You looking for a mail-order bride? hyuk hyuk hyuk' and so on and so forth.
I dont mind a bit of banter, its what makes the world go round. I just suppose that I'll be happy to meet other people who perhaps arent quite as closed minded as some people I've met, and quite so apparantly proud of it too. Not so I can have carte blanche to be a pretentious tosser (though sometimes its nice), but so I dont have to feel it all has to be dumbed down and hide whatever limited light I have under a bushel. So to speak.
Anyway, I'm shattered. Tommorrow is another day...

The End Begins...

Well here I am, in bed and feeling rough from too much to drink last night. This has become a familiar pattern as of late; I do, however, deserve it I think. For the past month and a half I've lived (more or less) like a monk to get my final coursework and dissertation in on time, I think a few cold ones are the perfect reward for all that!
Anyway, this is the first of many blogs I intend to write this year; I'm rubbish at keeping diaries and it always annoys me as a writer that I cant seem to keep up with keeping an account of what I do, maybe my life is too boring, or not boring enough...
My room in Chester is about to be vacated for the last time, having lived here since 2007. I wonder how it might seem to a newcomer, it has gone from a place I used to despise to a place I feel more at home in than my own bed back in Winch. If these walls could speak they may scream!
Feelings of sadness are nullified by the excitement of what lies around the corner; I've loved being a student here and I shall always treasure the memories (good and bad) of my three years as an undergraduate. Will I get a 2.1? If my dissertation is good then there's every chance, if I get a 2.2 I have to settle for it. Lots of people don't have degrees and my plans to go to Korea are dependent on having a degree full stop, classifications wont matter for now.
First off though, I need a job, maybe two. I have been poorer than a church mouse far too often as a student and cannot wait for the feeling of a steady income; no worrying about not being able to get a round in and being able to start paying my own way in the world.
On travel: I have applied (successfully) to EPIK but I just felt that going to Korea in August would be silly, South Korea (despite the North's best efforts) will be there after Christmas and I will be better placed financially and mentally to go.
Thats all for now, I'll keep you all in the loop!