Monday, 28 December 2009

It's 0137 or maybe it's later. And from the hot tub it feels like a summer night, but in reality it's winter. And the sky is clear, and open, broken only by the stressed, tangled branches of deciduous trees. And it's star lit, and we watch as occasional planes flash red and white like commits above. And we're talking about all those crazy parties we used to have, and all the girls we've slept with, and not about the boys we've slept with. And BM sings the tired tiger song, and somewhere from the wood on which the hot tub fringes an owl cries, and the undergrowth bussles, and our voices are carried by the cool night wind, and rising steam.

And a few hours pass, and the drinks run dry, and the lights across the valley fade, we make a run inside. And it's not late enough to sleep, and in a moment of London Preppyness we watch Miami Ink on DMAX. Which we've been pre-recording for a number of weeks now. And after the fifth episode finishes I notice a bottle of crème de cassis, and immeditatly crave a Kir Royale. And spend the next fifteen minutes hunting for a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and eventually give up and go back to Miami Ink. And as the sun comes up, and the hills unroll it's so unlike winter and so much like a summer gathering, that we're disorientated. And we all vow to come home, only for the company in those prime beach months.

Saturday, 26 December 2009

It's no secret that two of my favourite things to do are 1) Demand to be woken with only the finest English teas and 2) read text messages from people I like. And honestly there probably should be some mention of vodka in there too. And whilst I'm doing these activities this morning I am interrupted by my brother, who is shouting about something insignificant, which just makes him seem more hopeless than he already is, and makes me look more perfect than I already am.

And some how I end up looking through the photographs on my mobile gallery, and here is a description of what they are composed of, and you may or may not ever see these, depending on my level of boredom when I eventually find my bluetooth device:

18/05/2009 (Photograph 20)
A mirror photograph taken in the changing room of a department store. The focus, a man, wearing rolled up white chinos with a brown vintage leather belt, and a lime and fuchsia (detail) Slim fit Ralph Lauren polo.

03/07/2009 (Photograph 40)
A photograph of a piece of graphic art, which on inspection is an invite to the Hampton Court Palace flower show. The typography is presented in such a way that it takes the form of a root vegetable. It should be noted, that typographical art is this years must do.

05/07/2009 (Photograph 42)
A shot of Gilchrist & Soames (London) Sea Kelp shampoo that the chambermaid has placed where Gilchist & Soames soap should be. The shot is taken in a London hotel, which shall remain nameless. A simple reminder to actually purchase soap.

18/07/2009 (Photograph 45)
A piece of graphic art displaying an advert for 'Handmade glass gifts' in a gallery, Bath. The piece makes use of typography as apposed to other graphic elements.

20/07/2009 (Photograph 50)
A man cradling a box of Perfekt muesli in Waitrose. The use of type is quite appealing.

27/07/2009 (Photograph 54)
'A Good pinch of oregano'. A photograph of a male hand holding a own-brand box of Waitrose Oregano, of attractive colour and layout.

28/10/2009 (Photograph 95)

An white envelope, in which one thousand and two hundred and fifty five pounds sits, counted and banded, in twenty and fifty pound notes. The inside of the envelope is blue splatter design and encompasses a blue logo.

03/11/2009 (Photograph 99)
The walls are clad with an Ash Grey tile. Approximately 250 by 100, with white grout. A treated pine door, with chrome fittings inhabits the right hand of the screen. Whilst on the left, light is reflected off of a small silver hand dryer, and small 'Half' sink, with chrome fittings. Location, Liverpool.

11/11/2009 (Photograph 101)

A small ginger/black/white Guinea pig sits behind a cage. A remember that today is September the 11th.

25/11/2009 (Photograph 104)
A 'man' wearing a red lumberjack shirt, with long sweaty hair, is french kissing an attractive blond girl in a night club, Bristol, whilst lights flash in the background. This photograph is later printed and pinned to a studio, for all to see.

27/11/2009 (Photograph 106)
An illustration of a ethnic stick man, holding and pouring a vile of acid over his head, with the letters T and N floating above.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 107)
Platform. C Words. Carbon, Climate, Capital, Culture. A sign from a small art gallery, Bristol. Underneath the title a blurb describes how the artist, an African woman, is sick of western Capitalists. Lets see how well her less economically developed country survives without capitalist intervention.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 108/109/110/111/112)
Various graphic art from the said gallery.

14/12/2009 (Photograph 115)

A sign that reads Dylexia Action. Outside a Dyslexia Action clinic.

17/12/2009 (Photograph 122)
Dylan poses in a High Visibility jacket, sporting a pink glove and scarf combo. Whilst cleaning the windscreen of a pastel blue 1.2 Clio.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 123)
A lady, wearing a purple White Stuff cardigan, ices a wonky Christmas tree cookie, in what appears to be a small kitchen. The icing is lime green in colour.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 125)

A man is listening to 'A Tiny Christmas > Driving Home For Christmas: Chris Rae' whilst decorating a wonky Christmas tree cookie with stars and silver pearls. He is wearing a red, nondescript checked shirt, over a white Henley. Both with tentatively rolled up selves.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 128)
The photograph depicts a display of alcoholic beverages, above an Geogian mantel piece. Two 35ml bottles of Chamboard liquor, two 750ml Luksusowa, one 250ml bottle of Jacob Creek Shiraz.

24/12/2009 (Photograph 130)

And the photographs that are missing, quite possibly, never existed.

Thursday, 24 December 2009

In The Water I Am Beautiful plays as I dive into the pool and by length 21 mother is already baking in the kitchen, and by length sixty four the playlist has skipped to '101 Slightly Enjoyable Christmas Songs', which I guess is fairly fitting, but somewhat irriatting. And I pull myself out, and lounge on poolside watching as steam rises from the warm water, and condenses onto glass.

And from the kitchen the usual christmas songs play from Radio Four, and I remember that this year, thirteen stores haven't gift wrapped my gifts. And so I have decided that if the stores can't be bothred, then neither can I. And leave the pile of unwrapped presents somewhere for someone else to deal with, and usually this tactic works quite well. And by far, the best christmas song to date, has to be Wham, Last Christmas, which has been covered numerious times by bands such as Jimmy Eat World, and so on and so forth. And really, it's more that just a christmas song, but I digress.

At 1132 I am 'escorted' on the way to retrieve some items from a friend. And much of the morning is spent being followed by this silver saloon. And honestly I'm not entirely sure who organised this escort and for what reason. Perhaps icy roads? And I feel like I'm practically under house-arrest. But eventually in the afternoon negoiate freedom, and so take the oppertunity to cruise the rest of my coast line, and much like the pervious days, it is barren, the spray of the ocean giving the shore a faux snow like covering.

And later I remember that I have stored two 'Display' cases of Grey Goose in the loft, and so attempt to find them, and when I eventually do, the bottles are dusty and heat has distorted one of the geese and the liquid inside looks even more undrinkable than it already is. But who am I to let it waste, and so place the bottles in the cellar amongst cases of Perrier table water, a gift for whomever is lucky enough to be seated with it.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Few things have changed since Autumn, albeit the weather. And the trees. Which instead of being a mellow orange, are now whipped bear by the winter. And a blue sports car now takes the place of mine. And in a sudden moment of realisation it occurs to me that I was bought up in the equivalent of a beach house. Pinned geographically by seven or so beaches. Kept warm, even now, by the golf stream. Warm enough not to be snow covered, yet cold enough to turn the earth to granite.

And on the wall of the bedroom in which I stay, Churchill. Who stares through a pain of glass, blankly at the imperial desk. Eyes animated by reflections that rise and fall accross his face. And the hardwood floor, cold, and smooth. The walls, ebony, matt, absorbing northern light. Which falls, cut by venetian blinds, from thirteen degrees in the sky.

On the horizon clouds roll through woodland. Forming low laying mist. And it is to this that I drive. Where I change for a '96 Defender, Blue. Gateback. And in the frost we cruise the coast, deserted, and lifeless. Until we retire. The snug, oak panelled, lined with photographs. Last Summer, New Year, Graduation. An Alpaca rug. An open fire. Freshly cut wood.

And I realise this beach house, is more than a home.

Friday, 18 December 2009

And as I carefully fold the remaining wearable RL items, and place them in my auburn Antler, UK case (the Vuitton is for Europe) I suddenly realise I've forgotten the Luksusowa. And reconsider my life.

Oh, hello Christmas my old friend.

Friday, 11 December 2009

From the terrace of the old Library someone calls my name. And I don't notice. And instead turn away, as the rain falls endlessly onto the pavement. And countless cars race past causing the water to surge at my feet. And the rain running down my cheek is sticky,sweet, and smells of product. And somewhere, possibly inside my head, the Eurythmics, Here Comes The Rain Again is playing.

Skipping the queue at the rank someone who I've never seen in my life, jabs me on the shoulder, and I close the carriage door. And they bang on the window, and their mouth is moving but I only hear the rain falling on the roof. And the door locks, and a small amber light flicks on behind me. And the words which fall from my mouth are entangled with condensation and bar names, and eventually the driver understands what I am saying and the car jerks into the a motionless line of traffic.

And in the forty five minutes that I sit in the back of the cab, the fog lifts, but the rain carrys on, and I'm thinking, is it raining with you?

Wednesday, 9 December 2009

So I've spent most of the day feeling sick. So I stop drawing the threads on the screws of this technical drawing, and spend a few minutes laying on the floor. Whilst Paula Cole tells me how he make her feel like a sticky pistol. And I stare into my mirror and mime a few of the words and then decide it's probably best to go and buy some cake.

And so I decide to walk to Starbucks, and as I'm walking it's really cold, and I pull the hood of my royal, blue summer, Ralph jersey up. And I'm thinking, this hood is pretty cool, I mean, it's pretty big and that's pretty cool. And then at the counter I order a latte, even though the coffee isn't that great, and I tell the woman to get me some cake, and she does. And then I walk home.

And on the walk home I'm thinking...mainly about feeling sick, and it's pretty shit, and then I start to think about my health and then I remember I haven't actually been to the gym in like, I don't know, six months? And its ok really cos I can't afford a four hundred and fifty pound membership, but then I cant really afford a six pounds coffee with a piece of cake. And I cant really afford to do anything much.

And then I get home, the handyman opens the door and I just stare at him. And when I eventually get to my apartment, I realise my coffee is cold, so I find a place for the cup on my mantel, with the piles of books. And then I lay on the floor and I just can't bring myself to finish drawing the threads on the screews of this office block...and so now I'm thinking, if I don't draw them, they wont get made, and if they don't get made then they wont be put in the building, and really, without these screws lots of people could die. And it's all a bit to much to think about, especially at four in the afternoon. So I have a nap.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

When I wake I find myself entangled in my Nimbus designed bed clothes. And my luxury king is cold and empty, much like my apartment. And my head is congested and gripping,and I'm pretty sure that its not self inflicted. And my eyes are more tired now than when I retired, and I pull the vanity mirror off of the bedside table and admire the structure of the face staring back. And one must say, he is rather attractive.

In the dinning room the air is chilling, crisp and a window is thrown open, despite the weather outside. And my bare chest is constricted by the wind, which is lifting a fragrance from a decanter and throwing it around the room. And I notice the door ajar, a indication of life whilst I slept. And realise, it's been two days, fourteen hours and fifty seven minutes since I last saw my house mate. But who needs house mates when you have...jesus? Finding the coffee on the sideboard I begin making a pot for two, realise that I am alone, and in a disheartened mockery of John Humphrys I exclaim "I've Started so I'll finish."

And whilst checking my email, and then facebook, and watching people outside. It becomes apparent that my day will become one of cleaning, and drawing, and cleaning. And the book that I am semi reading, whilst taking a phone call, is telling me of the techs that I must draw today, and honestly, I'm not the slightest interested. But one must press on. Drawing is a career. And after saying goodbye to the caller I don't hang up, and instead listen to the beginning of their new conversation with whomever accompanies them. And I wish for someone to accompany me. But then remember I've got Jesus. So it's ok.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

So I get up, and don't talk to anyone. For perhaps an hour or so and in a coffee shop I pretend to be mute. To avoid awkward conversation. And I find this all rather entertaining.

And it's not until I reach the meeting point, an art gallery; at which I arrive early and stand around for about twenty minutes.

That I first talk. And the first words I speak are a lie. And they are 'My driver dropped me off'. And I'm not really bothered, because I'm still finding this entire game highly entertaining, and I don't, and never will, know these people. So that's ok.

And on the walk to the second gallery, I just stop in the middle of the pavement, wait for thirty seconds and slip into a shop. And then I go home, and its all very funny, to me at least. And when I arrive home I've successfully filled enough time in the day to:
a) feel guilty about wasting time
b) receive a parcel

Sunday, 29 November 2009

Several weeks come and go, much like the pattern of storms that have plague these streets. And nothing of real significance occurs. The highlight of many a week perhaps, drowning in expensive vodkas, soaked moccasins and much needed sleep.

And it is not until Monday, when I meet with several Chancellors, that I realise I have fallen from my social throne. A fall I should have perhaps anticipated when my driver failed to return call. And so I walk. And in a fit of rage I stop mid street, and push down the hood of my cashmere pullover and unbutton my coat so I can breathe, and stare into the sky. And rain cuts into my eyes, and down the back of my shirt, and rolls off of my neck and fingertips. And several minutes pass and a car flashes its lights, and behind a horn. And I am brought back from the cold, and button my coat, pick up my holdall and carry on, as if nothing has happened.

And come Tuesday I feel strangely different. And find myself at a Calendar launch. And then in a club. But I have to pay entry, and suddenly the Stoli doesn't taste so sweet.

And on Thursday I find myself blankly staring at a stage from a VIP Arena. Which upon studying looks more and more like a sound control booth. And on the stage children sing Christmas carols, and a radio disk jockey's voice drowns monotonously. And I'm trying to feel festive, but the Luksusowa is making me nauseous, and the mulled wine that I am cradling is causing my hands to uncontrollably shake. And I want to vomit. But I don't. And instead in visit the circle of shops pinned into this performance area. And immediately want to vomit again. And I leave. Apparently missing an 'A-list' celebrity.

And I vow never to leave it this long again before touching base, with anyone, or anything for that matter. And on the train I push my headphones into my ears and An Angel Falls plays. And a light rain begins to stain the carriage windows. And shortly after, a storm.

Friday, 13 November 2009

I am woken by a ringing telephone, and at the end is my mother. Who tells me to stay away from trees, and something about a weather warning closing bridges on the South coast. And as I try to listen, I find what looks like the remains of a leaf under my pillow, and partly in my hair, and dryly swallow.

The wind is tormenting the sash windows, racking them in their rotting wooden frames. And as I stare across the blackened room, what used to be a palace is nothing more than a collection of material objects. Most of which I can no longer find a use for.

And in my mouth, the taste of nothingness. And the light on a small digital watch flicks on, and several minutes pass before the LCD scrolls around to 1851 and the Compact Disc alarm starts, and Remembering Sunday Plays from the speakers. And I think there really are very few trees here.

And from the window, in the kitchen, the Christmas lights in the street warp with the rain. Like dying candles. And I think of home, and Christmas. And although it's never an eventful time, I am looking forward to it, more now, than I ever have before. And the coast, and mould wine, and candle light dinners, and beaches on new years, and old friends, and college, and Berry Estates.

Monday, 2 November 2009

And at 0501 an alarm wakes me. My Antler case still empty. Clothes thrown into a somewhat unorganised pile. Clearing my vision and embracing the cold oak floor I make my way to the bathroom. Throwing a selection of Ralph Lauren garments into the pile as I do so.

And as the coach rushes towards Birmingham, and the driver announces security detail, plan stops and information on using the on board facilities, I'm hungrily shoving Nestle Skittles into my mouth. Flipping through a restaurant guide desperately searching for somewhere to dine.And I'm doing this whilst my ipod plays songs from Chase this Light, which seem to endlessly merge into one another. Tiring of the guide I choose at random a med restaurant, Ego. Call ahead. Make reservations. Throw the guide at the seat opposite.

And I'm left thinking, on this trip why exactly are we traveling via Birmingham. And why Liverpool of all cities? And feeling the anger and inconvenience that this week has caused rise I attempt to loose myself the only way I know how. In the life of someone else. Although quickly images of Paris bleed into my imagination, and the conversation I am no longer keeping, filters into deminuendo, as I push my headphones back into my ears, and stare blankly back

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

The tea in the cup, is scalding, and of English origin. Black. Sans lait. And as the days minutes are recalled, I realise nothing of true significance has happened. And that's the way most good days are constructed. Liberated from routine. Most of the day filled with chores, the kind that were used to pass the summer time.

And the brown liquid is slightly spicy, sweet, dry. And in the wardrobe a collection of shirts that have not been worn for a period of time, hang, as if new; and some indeed are still attached to labels. In the back pocket of a folded pair of jeans, A Moveable Feast. The pages of which I flick through. Until four hour fall way, and retirement is imminent.

And on a hard drive I find the following image, from last September:

Sunday, 25 October 2009

Tonight, two of the three courses take over an hour to reach our table. Despite a mere fourteen full tables in this thirty six tabled restaurant. And after drinking half of the bottles on the white list, it's decided, as usual that gratitude charge is defiantly null and void. And the conversation is a slur of regurgitated wine talk, largely based on bottle blurbs. As everyone is too far gone to actually think, let alone taste for them selves.

Wednesday, I am spotted having breakfast in another expensive establishment. Rather rudely I am approached, and spoken at for an awkward thirty seconds, until it's obvious that the conversation is dead. Shortly after the American waitress brings the bill. Closing my eyes, I pick a card at random and drop it into her basket.

And the rest of the week is unfortunately a blur of drawing, coffee, drawing, and expensive lunches alone. Coupled with perhaps the odd urge to make more excursions to the continent.

Tonight, having underpaid the bill, and cut the restaurant, the walk home is as equally as disappointing. The wind grazes at my face, and the spatter of the rain dampens my brown, moccasins, and the light at the crossing roses my face, and headlights race in the sky, and the dormant Christmas decorations hang, apathetically, across the street, and a man talks German into a mobile phone, and the Vodka makes my head spin, and the coffee makes me shake. And I'm left thinking. In the story of my life, on what page do I receive terrible service in a restaurant, get chatted up by a waiter in a Vodka bar, and still walk home alone? Because I really wish the editor had torn it out.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

And this club I have not paid entry for. Much like the club before, and the bar before that. And whilst being solicited by a girl, sporting only a Naval captains cap, I receive a phone call. Push my way through the crowed, stained club. Reach the antechamber. Notice the carpet is the same of many chain clubs. And consider whether this is a sister establishment. Sip a complimentary drink, courtesy of my charm. And move, group in tow, to the second private floor.

Convinced that my social life may not be entirely dead, I wonder whether it perhaps should be. Many of the clientele middle age, balding office jockeys. Flustered. On this level I am propositioned by five girls. Consecutively. Dubbed Abercrombie & Fitch boy. Presented to a blonde, semi attractive girl, who in profile is hideous. Laugh as someone asks of her aspirations in life. Asked what aspirations mean, entertained. Introduce a friend. And slip away.

Saturday, 17 October 2009

At 1339 I wake up, surprised I'm not dead, and more tired than I went to sleep. And I'm thinking that today I am supposed to be in London, but I'm not. And this is really quite saddening. At 0507, previously, a red fox stares through me in the street outside my apartment. Frozen with fear. And I think to myself, I've never seen so many. And as I walk past a white BMW 3 series, it disappears. And I think why here? Why not there? And somewhere between 2043 and 0331 I spend my night on the wrong side of a cocktail bar, not because I need to work, but because I want too. But really, it's pretty shit.

On Wednesday I am sick four times, and apparently the mystic that shrouds my character is dismantled by drunken conversation. Which I cannot recall. Nor piece together via text message, as none are sent or received. Leaving the bar to momentarily vomit, and then return to drink my way through.

And at 1502 I receive a phone call, regarding a voice mail I never received, and I am left wondering where my life has gone. Where my alfresco luncheons have gone. Why my social life peaked at sixteen. And I'm pretty burnt out.

Saturday, 3 October 2009

On Saturday I wake from three days grace, with a possible case of Swines. Wander into the kitchen, take three brightly coloured tablets from a mother of pearl pill box that I find in my apartment, scrape and consume some burn cheese from the sandwich toaster, and slowly carry on with life.

During the week I am subjected to a tour of Bristol's gay 'Village', by a team of 'scene famous' butch lesbians. Where I choose a stance, near the bar, that suggests I am an unreasonable force, and ignore at those who I have deemed socially unacceptable. Read, everyone. I refuse to purchase a single drink. Yet, due to my boyish good looks, and out of reach attitude, end up consuming the following :

  • Two double Gin and Tonics, three singles.
  • Six red, cherry shots
  • One Mexican beer
  • Two pints of cider (mine-swept from the bar)
  • and two double vodkas with soda.

I also receive free entry to two clubs, a VIP access coupon with a balding man's telephone number, a wink from a bearded transvestite, and a scalding hangover.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

The sunlight glaring from the table is piercing. The September air still warm, although constantly changing. I am dining alfresco in a central Bristol bistro. Adjacent two girls play ping-pong, whilst a stilted lady wanders through the floor mounted fountains. Waiters continually check if "the food is to standard" and tiring of such interruptions it is decided that no service shall be paid.

Mid course, I find I am staring, perhaps too hard, at the woman opposite. White dress shirt, tucked into black 501 jeans. Large sunglasses, with large hooped earrings, silver. Toking her fourth cigarette. Someone at our table says something I don't hear,whilst another speaks a soft reply. And I'm thinking. About the time of year. Not listening. The turn of the trees. The September sunlight. Where the summer went. A short stay at my parents. Last night. My bank account, it's lack of funds. The house I rented near London. The tree lined streets that followed the roads. My bike. A Golf, British racing green. Three large leather sofas. Where the summer went. Pinto wine. The mold on the shower walls. Where robins go in cold springs. The west end. The broken washer/dryer. How warm the wine is. That semester, that five thou invoice. 2007.
That house. That September air. The rain. Where the summer went.

And I am pulled back to our table by the conversation on the other side of the courtyard. Where someone is asking a french guest, patronisingly, 'Did you buy anything...did you'. And I wave the busboy away, and throw my Visa onto the table.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

My pockets are empty. I am being searched, whilst giving an in depth commentary on my possessions. One RC Leather, Black pin stripe wallet containing, amongst other things, three credit cards, one debit, and three forms of identification. Set of house keys for a prestigious Bristol townhouse. One E71 communication device, black, titanium, perhaps not as good as the blackberry, but certainly better looking. Small piece of paper, possibly a bus ticket, detailing exchanges of £1.67. And this could go on for a while, but I am patted down and ushered into the club. The music is disgusting and the people more so, and whilst not much occurs in the course of the night, I do fall in love with a Russian.

And the days that occur previous are somewhat similar to one another. Consisting largely of letting my returning presence be known. On Monday, I have coffee, which I do not pay for, and check some designs, which I do not care of. And shall be happy when the brand which I have now recreated, fails.

On Tuesday I have coffee which I do not pay for and begin intensive social networking. Until I eventually exhaust my contacts, and leave. However it must be said, some handy housewifery tips were traded.

On Wednesday I have coffee which is later followed by two pints of cider, three gin and tonics, nightclub entry, and a taxi home, all of which I do not pay for. I also attend a private function, to which I am not invited. Entertaining myself by playing off attendees against one another.

By Thursday coffee is substituted with coke. And the details of Friday, so mundane, that they have slipped my mind completely.

And if this is an inclination as to how this sabbatical year shall progress, so be it. But lets hope for more Russian encounters.

Saturday, 12 September 2009

I am staring at the four boxes and one suitcase, that over the last two years, have become my life. Sipping an excellently blended quadruple gin and tonic. My third of the evening. And thinking, perhaps I could just change my degree to housewifery. Because right now the last thing I want to do is start actually doing things with my life.

Today I make one last drive on the coastal roads around my parents home. Ripping up the farm land as Don Henley's Boys Of Summer play out from the stereo. And it's the first time I realise what Don is trying to say in this song. But it's not the first time I realise that there was never truly anyone here. No body on the roads, no body on the beach. And at first, this thought upset me. But now I welcome the solitude.

And a little voice inside my head says don't look back, you can never look back. So I don't. And I carry on drinking gin, and thinking, and drinking. Until my phone rings, and then I go to a bar. To say goodbye the only way a twenty something year old should. In the arms of friends.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

A collection of days, that some call a week, come and go. And it is difficult to establish what exactly these days comprised of.

On Thursday I am told of the new Verso that my friend intends to purchase, and although a Toyota, I am somewhat envious. As my small 1.2, British racing green, lump of plastic really could do with a new engine, body, and a good crushing.

Come Friday, to pass the emptiness of working (for the good of others) I decide to attempt Sudoko. Fail and instead arrange two lunch dates for the weekend. Using the office phone to do so. To prepare for the said luncheons, I go to the gym. Where I spend a fair portion of my time comparing myself to others. After thirty minutes, I decide that I no longer need to attend, and freeze my membership, vowing to renew as soon as people no longer want to sleep with me.

The luncheons, much like the antecedent week, come and go. And whilst seated, discussing mainly the mundane realities of life, the gentleman on the opposite table, and exciting discoveries of new ways to pastime, it occurs to me that this will be the last meal I will attend with all parties present. Possibly until next summer. And as we arrange a date for next week, I am certain that I will not be in attendance. My plan, to slip away unnoticed, so not to bludgeon the memory of such events (and to create a mysterious ploy to lure drama, and more lunch dates into my agenda).

On Sunday, I lay my eyes on the Vanquish S. Which is parked in my bay, at a friends residence, next to an R8. And its confirmed, I really do need a new car. Although 'super cars' are perhaps slightly out of budget whilst one is a student.

Saturday, 29 August 2009

The Sunday road home from the beach is one that I have only navigated. Never driven, as I do not own a coupe. However I now find myself driving here, although alone; My partner driving the continent, whilst I relive cruises that we have taken. The stereo is playing music that, whilst in my collection, I have never listened too. And I'm enjoying the summer evening, ripping through high granite rock laden road, and winding, dusky, coastal lanes.

Come Monday, the road I find myself driving is the one I have driven many a time. 79.56 miles. Leaning to that place that people go to do that activity one assumes is called work, the same activity I do, merely to fill time. The same happens on Tuesday. And sadly on both days, nothing of true significance happens.

On Wednesday, I have guests. For whom I conjure Tomato Terrine, and summer leaf salad whilst we recline in the vegetable garden, under the heavy branches of the apple trees, drinking Pinot Grigio. Conversing of the summers events, or lack there of, and where the four months have gone. By Thursday the conversation has turned to love, and the scene is now a coastal walk. One I have taken many times, and find quite a bore; But what kind of host would have guest from the city and not boast the fragile, red cliff, coastline.

Late Friday evening, it is brought to my attention that I have no offering, gift or otherwise for the event that I am to attend the following eve. And subsequently spend much of the night thinking. It's hard to by for a twenty one year old millionaire who has everything. Eventually under the strain of the week, and my two extremely taxing days of hard graft, I arrange a lunch date for Saturday, retire, and decide Laurent Pierre will have to suffice.

Friday, 21 August 2009

And it's really quite a tragic revelation. And perhaps I cannot continue. And perhaps now I'll end up typing to myself. Again.

My one and only loyal reader no longer exists...or so I'm told. Although this may very well be a hyperbolic fabrication, conjured by yours truly. Even still, this event has saddened me.

Or something.

I've still got the other four followers...right?

Sunday, 16 August 2009

And so actually having a job, or a reason to get up in the morning, other than housework, is actually pretty shit. This week I have started work in an operating theatre, and long story short, it's not half as exciting as it sounds.

My new daily routine is something like this:

0525 am : Wake up
0527 am : After a two minute lay in, walk to the kitchen
0527 - 0532 am : Eat breakfast - Usually carb orientated to ensure that I do not die at the wheel of my car, although this is probably better than actually pretending that you have to work for a living.
0532 - 0541 am : Shower, wash, brush teeth.

Somewhere between 0541 and 0601 am I manage to loose twenty minutes doing mindless things, occasionally exciting myself by doing a few chores. Such as emptying the dishwasher, cleaning the soap dish. Whatever.

Then I drive for an hour to the private hospital, in which I work. Where, signing in at exactly 0700 am, in the little red book, every morning. And changing into scrubs. I then sit down for the best part of two hours. (You'd think being paid to sit down was an all right way to make money. Well it isn't. I'd rather not make any at all, and lets face it, I don't need it.)

From 0900 am and for the rest of the day I usually entertain myself with the small talk of the various nurses, anesthetists and surgeons I work with. Typical questions asked include 'What do you do in the real world?' (you mean to say this isn't a real job?) and 'Are you working full time?'. To which usual the reply is Nothing of interest/Stay at home dad/International sock model/something vaguely entertaining and borderline true and 'No'. Which usually kills conversation, until around 1832 pm when I sign out, and skip off home.

Sunday, 9 August 2009

I'm sitting in the sun, wearing Christian Dior sunglasses and working on my non-existent Caucasian tan. Reading, thinking of a story I can conjure for you people; my four followers. When an apple falls from the tree. And three wasps angrily disperse from the windfall. Two stopping to engage in some kind of mating ritual, or wage war with one another. I can' tell. I watch for a moment, as they break, and then refocus my concentration. Causing a smile, to the simple pleasures in life, to leak from my lips. Then I bring a tan leather moccasin down on top of them. Silencing the commotion.

The story I think of, I don't really like to tell. Although I often amuse myself by telling twisted variations of it to strangers. It is from a time way before any inclination to live in Bristol ever existed, and way before I understood true happiness. It's a story that, I shall tell in due course.

I am interrupted from my book.Thoughts. Again. By my mother. Who offers a tumbler, and a bottle of Perrier, on ice, along with freshly baked pastries, and red summer berries. And I continue to read into chapter twenty seven, whilst life continues around me.

Monday, 3 August 2009

On Friday, I wake up about quarter to ten. Have breakfast, a couple of pieces of toast, have a cup of Miles blend tea, and open the post. I send three letters, and return four request forms. I use my typewriter to reply, and hope that the person opening the letters gets as excited as I, when I see that English typewriter font.

I clean the house, well the kitchen at least, and by clean I mean, wipe a few things with a cloth. I load the dishwasher. Take a drive to the store, and hand deliver a letter.

On Saturday I crash my car. Or rather someone crashes into me.

Naturally I seek the best medical advise and after being given the all clear, drown my sorrows with a bottle of Absolute. Which I find stops my lower jaw, and chin area, spasming almost completely.

I spend the best part of Sunday being sick (Which I've heard is great for the abs). I don't go to the gym, and I don't get out of bed. At three fifty one pm, once I am convinced that I am able to hold down food stuffs. And my lips have stopped burning, and the feeling has come back, and my face has stopped spasming and my neck feels...ok. I consume : Two packets of crisps, two bottles of Coke, Two tubes of gelatin sweets and a Marz Bar.

Then I go back to bed.

Sick count 7.5 (the last retch was half hearted).

Friday, 31 July 2009

And it's probably only fair I tell you this, and it is probably quite a difficult thing to hear. But I have surrendered life as we know it, to concentrate on my housewifery skills.

On Wednesday I visit my new apartment. I drink Earl Grey and lavish Gin cocktails. I consume two lunches with two different people. I wear a hat. I drink mediocre coffees, at three different establishments. I urinate in a shop doorway. I use contacts to gain VIP. I dine with an old friend. Sell my Apple Macintosh. I re-arrange furniture. I drive 87.2 miles.

On Thursday I lunch with a friend. I drink more coffee. I compose some designs. I say the words 'Looking millionaire'. I enjoy the English summer rain. I wear orange underwear. I eat multipule cream teas. I get caught speeding. I buy a sandwich for £4.56. I sleep in silk sheets. Stop mid-sentence. I drive 80.5 miles.

I intend to return to Bristol, to live the life of a graduate of Finishing school. And I intend to do this well.

Monday, 27 July 2009

On Sunday morning. Late afternoon. I notice a small bruise and several scratch marks under my left pectoral. And inside my head thousands of tiny people are poking pointy sticky into my brain, and it seriously fucking hurts. After several hours of internet, three Spainsh pain killers and four bottles of Perrier, I am able to establish a few events from the previous night.

Apparently, we've been to a local night club. Situated in the midst of a wide network of fishing villages, and so naturally is themed as a pirate ship.

At about half one, whilst supporting myself against the tongue and grove paneled walls of the cramped bathroom, my head clears for a few seconds and I have a sudden realisation of just where I am.

Nothing particularly happens during the night. Although I am told by a over excitable bouncer to "Die outside" whilst sitting at a table. To which I reply, as I recall, "I'm not dying, well maybe perhaps inside".

Under a tiller I have a passing conversation with someone,which is initiated as they exclaim that wearing ___________ is a crime. To which I agree. Defending my choice, by detailing that the shirt is in fact vintage, that this is a small fishing village and I don't own a fishing vessel, and not wanting to stand out opted for, what the locals consider couture.

I leave, perhaps about two thirty, walking the road, which I earlier drove, home.

Sick count: 0 (Although wish it were around 4)

Saturday, 25 July 2009

Seated by the lounge window, staring into the mild, late afternoon sun, a view flooding over the fields of maze and wheat. I place a china cup into a china saucer and onto the coffee table, next to the reminisce of two scones which I have just consumed; eaten with half fat creme.

Upon doing so I think of the road that I drove to purchase these items from the store. The road that I have walked many times, on various nights, in various states of mind, the road that I no longer walk, and instead drive.

The green where I used to play, lined with houses, the insides of which were familiar, but are no longer, and the green a safari for another to explore.

The house with the intercom we use to abuse, which now hangs off of the wall. And the house next to it, it's once formal gardens, photographed for magazines, now overgrown, swallowed by disinterest.

And then I pick up another scone, and bring it to my lips. And then I forget the road that I drove to purchase these items. Like many others have.

Friday, 17 July 2009

I awake this morning to find myself alone. A normal occurrence in this residence, especially since my father is extremely footloose due to his retirement. However I am sure that it wont be long before he returns, a week perhaps, at most.

On Wednesday, after running three miles at the gym, I visit three supermarkets in order to purchase Perrier.
Two of these establishments only sell San Pellegrino. Which appears to be the favoured carbonated water around here. And the third is sold out. Who would have thought that it was so hard to find?

These disappointments are all that have occurred this week. That and an undisclosed difficult decision of Thursday, which has called for numerous telephone calls, altered many a plan, and still remains unresolved.

According to the elaborate penmanship (of possibly my mother?) in my agenda, I am set to attend a graduation ceremony, commencing at...some unreasonable time tomorrow. Where no doubt, more disappointments will follow.

(Also, hello anonymous commenter. Your comment, as witty and as thought out as it is, has touched me in a way incomparable to any other, a way in which Tim could only wish to).

Monday, 13 July 2009

On Sunday, I am given five pounds by my mother. As I "never ask for anything" although she is quick to inform me that it was supposed to be ten pounds, but my father had spent it. I also find two pounds in an old pair of Levi 501's, and win a further pound on a National lottery, Number 5, scratch card.

In between the, what seems like, endless rain showers, I find myself taking a Sunday drive, to our local store. Where I use the said money to purchase Nestle chocolate, a six pack of Coke and some Roast Beef flavored corn crisps; of an unheard of brand. I am served by Sue, Operator Number 0003, at precisely 15:18:41. A good forty one minutes and fifty nine seconds before the panic shoppers arrive, before the store close at 16:00. Sue implores that I "Enjoy" my afternoon and I drive home.

Sunday, 12 July 2009

Several long, drawn out, days reluctantly merge into one another. And although most of the days are empty, filled with only the details of being alive, eating, washing, sleeping. A few minor events unfold amongst them. An interview in an operating theatre, a cruise along the coast line, a film in the picture house, lunch with an old friend.

The relentless fracas of warm rain hitting the slate outside, reminds me of last spring. Many afternoons spent sitting at my faux classical, faux yew desk, aimlessly. And many mornings spent sitting on pool side, watching the flat water ripple, distort, and buckle as swimmers entered.

Monday, 6 July 2009

And its the first time since September that I've felt like this. The wooden floor. The echo of sirens in the streets. Voices inside. A wall of books. A sixty something inch television. Red wine. Stacks of post boxes. Security guards. Window boxes. The alcove in the bathroom where a single candle sits.

From the decked floor of the balcony of this Islington flat I am listening to an argument. Half listening, half staring at the render on the underside of the upper balcony. Irritated by its uneven appearance. And its not the first time since September that I have missed him. And I know this. I also know that I will leave the city, despite this, without seeing him. It has been two years.

A text message. A sip of wine. The man carrying two dinning room chairs. Two forty something year old women. The table in the hallway. A Schindler's lift.

Friday, 26 June 2009

Whilst driving today I past three accidents. And thought how annoying it is that these three people, have fucked up not only mine, but a hell of a lot of other motorists day.

I past each one slowly, mainly because I had too, but also partly because, lets face it, everyone loves a good car crash. Despite about two hundred units from the emergency services, there was no blood, or guts, which is a bit of a shame, and quite a waste of tax payers money. Needless to say, these anti-climatic mishaps only actually added about fifteen minutes to my journey.

Whilst in the Bristol, apart from getting stressed, panicked and swallowed by urban etiquette, or lack thereof, I visited a very pricey but amazing gym, and had a meeting with some people from the Royal Institute of British _________,Which was...erm, not really worth going to.

Tonight however, I am going to a wine bar opening night...sadly I am driving, and probably nothing will happen, but who knows.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

In the afternoon sun, in the chaise lounge, reading; wearing only a pair of sweat pants and some Dior sunglasses, I am interrupted by my farther. Who has brought me a coffee, despite a tray of drinks laying in front of me.

I tell him, half interested, half still reading, that I have applied for two jobs today. He congratulates me, and suggests that perhaps I should look for work in the local bars. I brush off this suggestion, simply saying "not an option" and continue from where I left off, even though I have just read the same paragraph three times over.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

At dusk this evening, flailed over a chaise lounge, I ponder the possibility of the matter in my cranium melting and trickling, in a cocktail of bodily fluids, onto the yellow concrete patio slabs below.

Within the next few days, I may find out if this is actually possible, unless something more entertaining arises.

Today I also contemplated reality, but tiring of this, downloaded some computer games. In one I created characteratures of my friends, because we all know that pretending to socialise with your friends, its much better than actually socialising with your friends.

Friday, 19 June 2009

Of course after writing this, I then realised that I had actually filled out a job application, climbed up on the roof, and prank called a lot of people via VoIP, but really, that is as good as my day has been.

Thursday, 18 June 2009

Usually its around now that all the days start to blur together in an alcohol educed, summer haze. But they haven't. Pretty soon I may die if I don't find away to fill my otherwise pointless existence.

This is the fifth day of our summer vacation, and although I thought I'd never say it, it's pretty shit.

(Note that it isn't actually the fifth day, as three days were spent in Oxford but I am discounting those)

Since the beginning of this low, I have at least achieved the follow:

- Consuming 4 cream teas in 5 days. For those that aren't familiar with cream teas they consist of : Scones, Jam and Clotted Cream with a pot of tea, and obviously are about 1034% fat.

- Knocked the front bumper off my car.

- Knocked the back bumper off my car.

- Spent four hundred pounds in Ralph Lauren. Even after flirting heavily with my personal shopper, which included making him check the size of an shirt on the mannequin, taking him shopping in the kids section, and the girls section, and making him carry my stuff (that is what flirting is right?) I still couldn't bring the price down. So unless I take these items back, or start taking them off to make money, I'm in debt.

But in other news. I was in attendance at the gym last night. Which was...interesting. And I may just have to start going again to get myself out of bed. When I arrived, with PJ, Sweaty C was working out. I informed him that 'The king had returned' and he filled me in on all the local gossip, therefore not much working out was actually achieved.

Monday, 8 June 2009

Saturday night, like many Saturdays, was fairly uneventful. Apparently Bristol has a gay pride week ending or starting this weekend. (I cannot say for sure if it was defiantly ending, or starting for that matter, as it was pretty dire either way)

Naturally this event wasn't in my diary, which of course I am very upset about; because if I had known then perhaps I would have made an effort to look remotely homosexual. Instead I opted for a very nice Ralph Lauren outfit.

The night consisted of, well not a lot really. But perhaps the following should be noted:

- I was not nearly drunk enough, and wasn't sick, what is the world coming too?

- A fight broke out, and I'm pretty sure it was entirely my fault. But what can I say, don't put your sweaty little hands on me thank you very much.

- I was asked about my store card in paralanguage that suggested it was some form of insult or in someway snide to ask. How this pleb knew that I held the highest store card at this store, I will never know. But I'm pretty sure that asking :

"Hows your new ____ __ _____ credit card?"

Is asking for a witty comment about your poor credit, particularly when it's a store card.

- Many other minor non descript events occurred

But overall, definitely not a night to write home about (but perhaps someone else would like to on my behalf? I really don't mind.) and to be honest, paying fifteen pounds to get in this club, and then not even seeing a single transvestite was quite disappointing.

Sunday was pretty much spent moping, and feeling guilty that I perhaps ruined some little gay boys life, by getting them banned from a gay club for some while. However BR and I did go to the gym, even if it was just to fill a little time; It's extremely nice to have a life that doesn't revolve around the design studios at the moment.

But unfortunately it is now time to pack my belongings, before a quick shopping trip to Oxford, and then leave the city for a summer full of probably nothing. But more on that another day.

Saturday, 6 June 2009

Oh, and there's this. I found this little clipette, I think it sums me up quite well:

"Do you find yourself irritated when someone keeps you from doing what you want?
Do you feel that you are somehow special, and the rules don't apply to you?
Your emotional style could be Entitlement.

People with this emotional style feel that rules don't apply to them. They may have been spoiled as a child, or the love they received was based on a certain quality — looks, academics, athletic skills. These people often exaggerate their prowess, usually to hide a feeling of inadequacy, or feel they are entitled to more than their fair share of compensation. They also display a lack of self-discipline, and the inability to delay gratification.
If your emotional style is entitlement, try to be aware of the negative impact your actions have on the people around you. Mindfulness can help you learn to catch yourself before you overstep appropriate limits, and connect with your deeper feelings so you can deal with them directly."

Thanks Oprah, or whoever.

Oh, and someone put salt in my kettle.
Deary me, how the days are blurring. Yesterday, however, was the official closing of the campus bar. At which drinks are about fifty pence each. I won't go into detail beacuse frankly, like most university organised events, it was shit. Needless to say highlights of the day where:

- The Samba Band. Now I'm a big Samba fan, and I've got the slinky hips to go with it.

- Urinating in a sink in an office. Which I feel is an apt way to end my relationship with the Student Union.

Considering I didn't even want to get out of bed yesterday, had slumped back into a Lithium educed state, and physically had to be dressed by A, I think I did quite well.

But today it's raining.

Monday, 1 June 2009

During a revision break today I took the time to fill in a job application to join a team of twenty members for some reason or another, and this is what it said:

Past experience in customer services:
When I was 16 I worked for Co-op (a supermarket), it was really great but I left, cos management told me to lie to shoppers and say that, and I quote, anything that wasn't on shelf 'Would be in stock on the Thursday delivery' I thought this a bit naughty, and couldn’t bear to lie to dear old ladies anymore so resigned leaving the store in utter chaos.

Shortly after this tragedy I worked as an NPLQ RLSS Lifeguard and Duty manager at a community based leisure complex in ____ _______ Although the main roles in this line of work are based on safety of bathers, some roles (often more on the management side) where public relations based. For example, Admin and reception jobs often ensure that I was 'front of house' for the company, and in direct correspondence with the customer.

Example of working under pressure:
Obviously as a national and regional super hero I am often under pressure to perform, but as, with many super hero based roles there is little evidence to support this.

However during a previous life, as a lifeguard and duty manager, much of the work experienced was under pressure. For example Once, there was this little boy in the swimming pool, and he was drowning and I was a lifeguard and I had to save him, and I did.

The management side of things was more about keeping the company together whilst no one knew it was falling apart. This at times had its moments. Like, for example, the story of the leaky acid pump, in which the plant room for the site had to immediately shut down under my authorisation. Which in turn, if not dealt with efficiently and quickly could have serious repercussions in terms of bather’s safety, and economically for the company.

Why should you be selected for the twenty person team:
Really the question here is why shouldn't I be in it? Now I can tell that as you are reading this you are obviously judging me, and that frankly is very naughty. But give me a minute, let’s talk this out.

Obviously, previous experience, should hopefully illustrate that I have the skills and stuff, but enough of all that waffle. Let’s talk solely about me.

I think I’m pretty amazing at most things, in fact I am. I’m both book smart and street smart, and really should probably be applying for bigger things, perhaps maybe to be the president of the world. But for now I’ll settle for working for _____ ______ cos I like that and stuff. Have I mentioned I designed the _____ ____ ______ advert? Cos I did, but seeing it around really annoys me now.

Also I’m already on your pay roll, so that’s less paperwork for the ___ ____ man and he’d like that.

Needless to say I got an interview, so I guess I am pretty amazing, but hey, we all knew that didn't we.

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

So there isn't much more to do, one day left in fact, and perhaps some luminance equations to work on. Enough on the writing front.

Here are so photographs for your viewing pleasure.

Here is a lovely photograph of all the design work I just submitted..blah blah boring

More importantly however, this is the outfit in which the said work was submitted. I like to call this outfit 'Can't-decide-what-type-of-wine-I-am-outfit" or something like that.

For those of you that wish to copy it, it comprises of : the perilously featured, lime green H&M polo shirt, purple CK underwear, white/cream/depends on the light, gap chinos rolled to the knee, leather accessories including belt and flipflops.

Obviously its name comes from the different colour gapes.

I have a bar to drink dry now.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

"Twenty days of hell" as it's dubbed in our faculty, is about half way through. Put simply this is known as exam and portfolio period and is probably the most important stage of our course.

Naturally I've decided it's not that amazing and I have, so far:

- ignored all the work I have to do.

- spent the day calculating my age in days (well into my 7000th's - guess the correct number of days old I am and you can...erm win a prize or something.)

- taken sometime out to sample antibiotics from various friends, thus helping produce the next super bug (this is something I am very proud of.)

- spent all other available time watching day time television.

Not really what I'd call hell. More heaven?

It has come to my attention that watching Homes Under The Hammer should be officially classed as revision, cos it's buildings. This beautiful creation is my new pass time, that and the lovely woman from Bargain Hunt...Julian? Jillian? I duno. Lovely voice, cracking pair of tits.

If this is what the unemployed do all day, I want to be unemployed (or at least state dependant.) Thanks.

Sunday, 19 April 2009

So I'm in a bar in Devon. I've been out with a PJ, V and the old work gang. Some tracksuit wearing chav comes up to me and tells me that I've called "Tara a fake". Who is Tara? Next thing, there are about six people crowded around our table.

Tracksuit Chav : "If you said it again I'm gonna mess your face up"
Me : "Excellent, I look forward to it"

Everything kicks off and the bars bouncers, as well as bar staff are quickly called to our booth. Some chavs square up to V and PJ; who quickly reminds the girls that she's an E1 girl, and she doesn't take shit from anyone.

S-jane and Lee control the situation with the unsucessful help of the bouncing team, whilst in the mean time I make small talk with a guy who is a friend of a friend, who asks what's going on. To which I reply

"I've no idea but appearntly I'm the centre of it."

These tracksuits are escorted from the pub, and shortly after we leave. On the way out we walk past these ASBOs, who make a snotty comment and are quickly reminded by the Bouncers that they should watch themselves. We then pass the girl who says I called her fake, who whispers under her breath "Prick."

Our night is pretty much over and I have to charter a lift home.

The perks of being a big fish in a small pond eh.

Monday, 13 April 2009

So I've been silent for a few weeks. Truth be told I've been to Barcelona. Where it rained, a lot.

Other than that I'm not entirely sure that there has been much worth writing about. That said, I am under the influence of Spanish sleeping pills. Which I have discovered can be quite heavy but worth a laugh.

Oh and it's Easter break, which has been, so far, quite nice. Although I've worked most of it, because we, as architectural students, are simply not allowed to ever have any time off.

I'll be extra vigilant for exciting events, but for now know that I am alive.

Oh and I can't get into my mail box anymore...perhaps Ash has changed the code.....

(that's a lie because the combi-locks can't be changed. But it sounds dramatic and I like that)

Thursday, 26 March 2009

On Tuesday my front door locks behind me and I am left standing outside my apartment half naked. When my card is swiped into the lock nothing happens.

So I have to go to reception where I inform the woman that the lock on my front door has failed. She gives me an admin card, and I tell her that I don't think it will work. Which it doesn't. So I have to go back to reception, still half naked, and tell her this. She decides that the door might need more batteries.

Apparently our high security locks run on 4 AA batteries?

So I wait for her to get some batteries from another court as she doesn't have any. And I'm still naked. Twenty minutes later she comes back with some batteries which she installs in my door, with no avail.

So we go back to reception where I sit in the window seat whilst she calls security to get a master key. Then who should walk in. Ashley the stalker warden, who has clearly just come up to see me naked. I guess good news travels fast.

Long story short, eventually my door gets fixed by Ashley after an awkward lift journey and even more awkward conversation. Which pretty much goes something like this :

Ashley: "So why were you outside in your pyjamas?"
Me: "Measuring the hall way"
Ashley: "Oh"

Saturday, 14 March 2009

For the weekend I have ventured back to my parents house in the country. I have done this to compose myself before my exciting working holiday in Barcelona.

I didn't want to do a normal post but it looks like I am. So far I have slept quite well, as it is quiet here and that's what I'm use to, init. Also I have driven, and played boy racer with farm machinery, racing a tractor down country lanes and such.

Now to the most exciting event, buying stuff. Having driven 27 miles to go shopping with my mother I have bought/been bought the following:

a) (Apple) Green H&M Polo b) New White belt c) Grey Caus' pin stripe slacks d) Fred Perry Grey Parkside Marl pumps

From this picture you can tell :

-I've removed my head to retain my identity, so that you can't open a credit card or worse fall in love with me

-I've had a hair cut

-I can model pretty well. Check that stance.

From this picture you can't tell :

-That jeans are over.

-My room is black and my floors are totally wooden.

-According to a contact on the inside this coming season's colours and greys with bright accent colours, or something (I tired to ignore this but sadly thats all you can buy at the moment).

Not much more to report really.

Saturday, 7 March 2009

Having being told that I am not eating properly by my oh so caring house mates I have tried to make it more public when I am cooking. There are many ways to achieve this my favorite so far has to be cooking using the dirty oven which causes the room to fill with smoke.

This leads nicely into the story of last night. Because before I went out I ate a yoghurt. This made me feel very sick, and pretty much halted any fun.

I returned home yesterday from the studios and of course instead of eating, checked facebook, and realised I had a message saying "Fancy coming out tonight"? Obviously not one to buckle under peer pressure I replied, and three hours later ended up in Old Market St.

Interesting Relative Fact: Usually I piece together my nights by reading my text messages, or asking fellow cohorts. However thanks to the sicky yoghurt I don't have to as I didn't really drink much.

Much of the night was spent looking at the types of weirdos that this gay bar/club/converted old bank (I worked this out whilst sitting at a table and looking blankly at the re-enforced ceiling and doors and realising I was in fact sitting in an old vault). The types of people can be categorised into the following groups:

a) Fat, shaved lesbians who like to eat faces on the dance floor. Much like the girl with the red checked hat, checked white shirt and a fat girl stuck to her face.

b) Deformed wanna-be muscle boys, like the guy with the most fucked up biceps. Which we small, thin and bunched up at the top.

c) Random 67 year old man. Who was actually just a pervert, like the rest of us. But who was there alone, in a sweater, with a beard and glasses. I'm sure I can find a photo.

and of course

d) token blackman who was referred to as Coolieo. Who later tried to rape Welshie in the toilets, which in hindsight was actually quite amusing, although I'm pretty sure I broke the urinal by standing on it, and Welshie is probably now traumertised.

I say most of the night was taken up by categorising the clientele, in fact all of it was.

Still for a random night out, and probably my last for a little whilst (as once again I have more work to do) it was rather entertaining.

Sick count 0.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

I'm going to lie. I just haven't had the time. However on this somewhat random day procrastination has got the better of me and I may briefly fill you in with what has happened recently. Using notes from my small orange book.

Stopping drinking hasn't work at all. That's all there is to say really. Sick count 2. My brothers birthday didn't help this much, neither did cheap champagne. But this was a long time ago now, perhaps a few weeks so the details have escaped me.

I also returned home a couple of weekends ago, mainly to work on my last project. Which had been stealing most of my time, and was extremely infuriating. During this visit we had a bit of a college reunion meeting for tea, in every much the same manner that we used to during those EC days. From this the following happened:

- I decided that I really do miss college
- I spent lots of money

In the same visit I also took time to go out with my old work colleagues. Insuring that I stay popular whilst at home. Of course a pub crawl was organised. I did not consume alcohol at this, and of that I am proud. Although I did get asked for ID for just being in the pub, which has assured me that, as I thought, I do look younger that 14.

The final even that is scrawled in this book simple states

" I took Nytol and I'm still awake "

This is a very proud moment for me. As I returned home for a disastrous night out I saw it fit to pop a few Nytol pills. Then panicked because I had drank. Got scared I was going to die. And forced myself to stay up for 5 hours.

All in a days/several weeks work.

Sunday, 15 February 2009

Not drinking is not going very well. Friday was crit day. This is basically where you pin up all your designs and research and some nobody that you've seem perhaps once in your life, whilst walking the corridors, tells you that you're shit.

Usually I am quite good at blagging said crits (and most presentations really). But this time it appeared I had lost this ability. Halfway through we broke for lunch....then I returned for one presentation, decided that it was absolutely pointless, put my hood up walked off.

Most of the afternoon was spent in bed. Largely due to the fact that, once again, I am not sleeping properly. Later housemate 4 woke me up and tried to force me to go shopping for lightbulbs.

Interesting relative fact: Even though I sometimes kiss boys, I am the only one in my flat who owns a fully factional toolbox complete with 3 different types of knife. I am also the most knowledgeable about DIY and fixing stuff up. So obviously I am the prime candidate for lightbulb shopping.

However little did Housemate 4 know that by entering my room she had agreed to choose an outfit and dress me whilst I still lead in bed. The following garments where chosen: A ebony coloured A&F tshirt (which I've considered destroying on many occasions), Straight-Legged-Somewhat-Skinny jeans, Black socks, Black CK's, White and black Fred Perry Tennis shoes.

Then we went to B&Q and somehow I managed to acquire 3 bottles of Cider.

Given that I had acquired these it was decided that I would pull a few strings and get us a free night out in our (trashy) campus club. A night which was very messy and very entertaining. During the said night the following things happened:

-A chocolate cake was mysteriously delivered to our flat?

-A punch was created containing: London Gin, Bells Whiskey, Cheap (Appearntly Russian)Vodka, Wine white Hardy's, Martini Blanc,Cider, Orange juice, and a hole kiwi fully skinned (This fruit was possibly pushed the punch other the edge) This punch was drank out of various vessels including espesso cups and mircowavable tupperware.

-A door handle was pulled off of a disabled door, which was locked, and all the sofa's in the uni Cafe where turned upside down and into dens.

-I was sick.

-I found it hilarious to get into our fridge-freezer, and still manged to fit in it without removing too many of the shelves.

- Our SU president passed out in my bedroom and everyone eventually went to sleep at 6am. But no one really slept.

The remainder of the weekend has been spent...doing not much. I've vaguely thought of doing some work, but I'd rather not do it, and face the wrath of Sexy Spanish tutor on Monday.

Being T-total lasted 13days. Lets try again.

Sunday, 8 February 2009

So I have a dream last night. I dream that I am at my parents house in South England. My friends and I are at a bar that we go to in the holidays, which gets pretty full at the weekends. It's a Friday, maybe Saturday and we are dancing around this tiny little bar that's no more that twenty-five meters square.

It's the same bar that H and I had an argument in over Christmas.

In the dream it gets to about midnight we are making our way to a night club. Someone grabs my hand. A blond girl, possibly Chels. I'm unsure as to why it is her, because I don't find her attractive in the least. We're having sex.

And the dream ends and immediately after another begins.

I'm following a man and a woman, both in grey suits, down Corn St. As they turn into the exchange they talk about being journalists and how its illegal to go on television.

I get talking to this girl, I don't know what about. But suddenly a rocket smashes into the wall across the street, sirens scream in the distance, and panic is thrown over the city. Her news team are screaming for her to get in a van; that is full of cloth, and I chase after her.

Only now I'm wearing roller skates and it's hard to stand still. I ask for her number, but I don't have a pen to write it down. So I give her mine, and in the dream I'm saying my actual number but I get the digits mixed up. So she never calls.

I follow the van, clearing the way through littered streets. Congested with work men, plant machinery, and fencing. All the time shouting to the van driver through her window and skating as hard and fast as I can, and I realise that this is Easton, and I wake up.

And I drank last night. Only one drink, but I wish I hadn't. I want to go T-total.

Saturday, 7 February 2009

For the last three years it has snowed on the same day every year. I know this, not because I write it down. But because its supposedly the day of my birth. Although in technicality I was born on two days. The Thursday and the Friday.

This year celebrations followed much the same pattern as previous years. Resulting in me being sick, several times.

Nine, actually.

This week has seen the 'worse snow in twenty seven years', and this annoys me. My week, has revolved around white power. And not the good kind.

So I'd really love it if, please, it would stop snowing and I could carry on in my semi-normal ways. Thank you.

Sunday, 1 February 2009

It's the thirty first of January and I receive this message:


hey mr
you look hot and was hoping we could meet mr or just hang out sometime.. I am an easy going guy and very open minded... so not sure what you after but am willing to make it worth your while mr?? hows a few £££ sound?.. plz get back to me


And I am thinking two things. Why does this man say Mr all the time, its quite annoying, and £££ sounds very much like someone pressing a combination of keys on a keyboard. Never the less I reply and I say the following:

Like £4000?

I wait, quietly confident that this man will understand that I am obviously jesting.

But then, on the first of February I get this message:



£300 for me to suck u off?

This annoys me somewhat. I'm now asking the following questions.

- why would you want to pay to suck someone off?

- more to the point what about me on this profile suggest that I am willing to accept payment?

- should I say yes and pocket £300, which would pay for my trip to Barcelona?

Saturday, 31 January 2009

The alarm clock is flashing 0701. Under my head is a pair of jeans. I’m fully dressed, my face covered in war paint, tv on, lights on.

I pull my belt off, scramble to the lights, smell burning, and go back to bed. At 0952 I decide I’ve slept enough. In the kitchen is a burnt chicken burger (it always seems to be chicken burgers that cause fires!) and flame marks up the wall. I’m still confused of their origin.

The only proof that I went out last night is a collection of text messages:

“this hot tub is hot and steamy?”


“I’m outside by the doors”


which I guess was supposed to say FIT, but arrived in a random order.

“My wooden spoon is on fire” which I assume I didn’t mean in a literal sense. But then I might have.I did take a wooden spoon with me?!

I also have a strange recollection of a life size polystyrene W, a lady called Clair, spelt Clare, who didn’t exists, and phoning for Clyrissa from an office that I’m pretty sure we broke into.

“Dear Clare please love me…you can find me on facebook” is not written across her desk

Overall, I suppose, it could be said that it was an ok night, on account that I didn’t fuck anyone off, or fuck anything up.

...Im supposed to have stopped drinking. But so far, I've only stopped drinking spirits.

Sunday, 25 January 2009

I'm pushing my way through a crowded dance floor. My back is stinging from being thrown against the wall. Somewhere in the night club a girl is crying. Sweat is dripping down my face and someone has a hold of my wrist.

I shake them off. Outside the air is bitter, wet, refreshing.

They are still following me, but I don't acknowledge them. As I pull my coat over my shoulders I realise that it's Mark.

"What are you doing?
"I'm going home. Fuck off. Where does she live?"
"Don't be stupid. Sit down"
"I want to go home."

The girl crying inside is H. We've been friends for years. Tonight is her birthday. But that doesn't stop her pushing me against the wall. And it doesn't stop me from threatening to hit her.

She's crying because I've just told a girl that I fucked her brother. And when this girl wouldn't leave me alone, stamping on my feet, I pushed her. And she fell on the floor. She is stupid drunk.

Apparently I "slapped her down". But let them talk.

I've probably just had this shittest, most expensive weekend that I've had in a long time. To be honest I'd written the night off from the start.

Thursday, 22 January 2009

Apparently I’ve just gone to the toilet. But I’m actually standing outside. And it’s very cold.

I figure I should probably get out of Millennium Square. But according to the bouncers I’m too drunk to be let back into the club.

I don’t like being sick, but I usually am. I’m quite famous for it.

“Don’t I know you? Aren’t you that boy-”
“-that’s always sick? Yeah”

So far tonight I’ve been ok; although I probably shouldn’t have traded some Vaseline for a shot of Tequila. It’s been touch and go ever since.

God knows what I’ve drunk since.

Anyway I eventually find myself in another club. On a boat. Another drink, another, and then another. Perhaps one more?

Now someone is pulling me across the dance floor by my ankles. It’s only in the taxi home I realise that this is my house mate.

"twenty-one pounds please young man"

So now I’m holding onto the bed. And it feels wobbly to be quite honest. So does the floor.

I stumble to the en-suite.

Sick count: five.

Friday, 16 January 2009

I have one pending friend request, on a certain social networking website. I look at this persons profile and realise it's the same request I had, and rejected, two weeks ago. A warden from our apartment complex, Ashley.

At around 1134 I am woken by my telephone ringing:

"Hi its Ashley from Quantop reception, is that ____"
"We've got a package here for you, it got delivered to the wrong block, if you
want to come and get it we're open until three...if not I'll bring it up to you...your reception later"

After a long pause

"Did I wake you up?"
"Yea. I'm hanging"

-Dial Tone-

On the front of the parcel someone has miss-typed the address, and someone else has highlighted this and written
"Best this week." next to it.