Hello again to all my make believe readers. It's been a good two month since I've blogged so I figured I'd come here and use this barren wasteland of binary and dead space as a place to write down some of the stuff that's bothering me before I have a mental breakdown of some sort.
So! It's 2012! We're two days in and today I got out of bed for one hour before giving up and going back.What a start to the year.
I had a good day at the match yesterday, due to possibly still being drunk/covered in pen and seeing us beat Man City (like I predicted I might add)
Still though, with the exception of the game it hasn't been the best of starts. I don't buy into the whole using new year for new starts thing, I think you can do that at any time of the year if you want to. It's just an excuse, I think.
It's about new starts that I have some problems with at the minute. Did my best to give two friendships which were nosediving fast a fighting chance. I don't think I've put myself out there any more at any time than I have done in the last month. Neither of them appear to be bothering.
Well, I say that. I know one isn't. The other is, I think, well, I want to think.
So, I'm not bothering either now I've given so much of myself to other people over the last few weeks that I've kept nothing for myself. I'm drained. I'm drained emotionally, physically and financially.
I know this was a short one, and not funny, but needed to be put down. I'm taking a break. From everything. Twitter, SMB, FB, here...
And here's to the Mayan's being right.
Tra.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Thursday, 1 September 2011
The shit things that happen in my shit life. This week's edition.
Right, well another day has turned into another tomorrow without much happening and to be honest I'm getting a little tired of reflecting over it all in my head all the time so I'm going to smash open my skull, metaphorically of course, and let the worries flood onto the page (the page is also a metaphor, as it's a screen. Basically that last turn of phrase doesn't work from a lot of angles. I can only apologise.)
Right so I'm writing about the week. 7 whole days. This will probably be a long post, and just to forewarn you, dear readers who don't exist, it is probably the least interesting summary of a seven day period since Craig David put pen to paper to tell us about how much creepy, overly emotional sex he was, presumably, getting.
Yeah, you wouldn't turn that down would you? Especially not after a couple drinks. Although, Craig only states that he took her for 'one drink on Tuesday,' before making love to her on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Quite what Craig put in that 'one drink,' despite looking increasingly suspicious, I will not speculate on, as I imagine a relatively successful and almost popular pop singer of the early naughties could still probably afford better lawers than I can.
Anyway, sorry I got off topic. We're talking about my week. Well I guess drinks are actually a pretty good place to start. Friday night was my first 'work night out.' Not just with my current workmates, I mean ever. It had been planned for weeks, and now it was time for it to happen. Despite living eight miles away from the town I decided to book a room at the travelodge there, this was booked under the pretence of 'helping out one of the lads who lives in Hartlepool and can't get home otherwise.' The actual reason for the booking, as you can probably guess, was more to do with the realisation that under no circumstances could I ever let my poor mother see me in the state I intended to get into on this night.
Yeah so the travelodge was booked, work was finished and I was heading through town with Alex. We caught a film (The Inbetweeners) and then went to get a meal together. This all sounds very lovely, but just to make sure you're painting the correct image in your head and my words aren't misleading you, Alex is a boy. Well, to be honest Alex is a man. He's a whole foot taller than me. This was a man date. And I was the bitch.
We had some food and a few drinks before heading back to the room. He stripped for a shower and had a poo with the bathroom door open. The room was full of mirrors so there was no easy way to avoid staring at his nakedness. There was only one was this was going to end. I remembered I was the bitch and gulped. Imagining the burning shame between my cheeks.
Luckily, my hyperbolic, completely unfounded fear of gay rape was, as I just said, unfounded (I should really plan what I write out to avoid this repetition). We showered, not together, remember the non-gay rape I just mentioned twice, and headed back down to the pub.
There were seven people there.
Seven.
That's the number of dwarves who lived in that house with Snow White. At no point in that film do any of them look uncomfortable (except from a few uncomfortable looks between Doc and Grumpy as they try to decide whether Snow White's constant kissing of Dopey is, as they hope, mere pleasantries or if it is some form of molestation).
Seven people can, as Disney shows, live in a house together and work together and be best pals. How the hell was I meant to conjure up the decadent night I had been planning with seven people? There had been drop-outs all over the place. Friends from Sunderland couldn't make it due to work/family reasons/the weather etc, some people from work couldn't make it due to family reasons/the weather/the fact their boyfriend was threatening to kick me all over if they came out with me... Just the usual really.
I thought that the night was probably going to turn out shit. Then I remembered a fundamental fact. A fact I should have mentioned earlier.
Go on, ask her. I'll wait.
Right so I'm writing about the week. 7 whole days. This will probably be a long post, and just to forewarn you, dear readers who don't exist, it is probably the least interesting summary of a seven day period since Craig David put pen to paper to tell us about how much creepy, overly emotional sex he was, presumably, getting.
Yeah, you wouldn't turn that down would you? Especially not after a couple drinks. Although, Craig only states that he took her for 'one drink on Tuesday,' before making love to her on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Quite what Craig put in that 'one drink,' despite looking increasingly suspicious, I will not speculate on, as I imagine a relatively successful and almost popular pop singer of the early naughties could still probably afford better lawers than I can.
Anyway, sorry I got off topic. We're talking about my week. Well I guess drinks are actually a pretty good place to start. Friday night was my first 'work night out.' Not just with my current workmates, I mean ever. It had been planned for weeks, and now it was time for it to happen. Despite living eight miles away from the town I decided to book a room at the travelodge there, this was booked under the pretence of 'helping out one of the lads who lives in Hartlepool and can't get home otherwise.' The actual reason for the booking, as you can probably guess, was more to do with the realisation that under no circumstances could I ever let my poor mother see me in the state I intended to get into on this night.
Above: The state I intended to get into on this night out.
Yeah so the travelodge was booked, work was finished and I was heading through town with Alex. We caught a film (The Inbetweeners) and then went to get a meal together. This all sounds very lovely, but just to make sure you're painting the correct image in your head and my words aren't misleading you, Alex is a boy. Well, to be honest Alex is a man. He's a whole foot taller than me. This was a man date. And I was the bitch.
We had some food and a few drinks before heading back to the room. He stripped for a shower and had a poo with the bathroom door open. The room was full of mirrors so there was no easy way to avoid staring at his nakedness. There was only one was this was going to end. I remembered I was the bitch and gulped. Imagining the burning shame between my cheeks.
Above: The burning shame between my cheeks.
Luckily, my hyperbolic, completely unfounded fear of gay rape was, as I just said, unfounded (I should really plan what I write out to avoid this repetition). We showered, not together, remember the non-gay rape I just mentioned twice, and headed back down to the pub.
There were seven people there.
Seven.
That's the number of dwarves who lived in that house with Snow White. At no point in that film do any of them look uncomfortable (except from a few uncomfortable looks between Doc and Grumpy as they try to decide whether Snow White's constant kissing of Dopey is, as they hope, mere pleasantries or if it is some form of molestation).
Above: Snow White Deleted Scene VII - The shattered aftermath of Dwarf home life as Dopey breaks down and reveals where Snow White touched him.
Seven people can, as Disney shows, live in a house together and work together and be best pals. How the hell was I meant to conjure up the decadent night I had been planning with seven people? There had been drop-outs all over the place. Friends from Sunderland couldn't make it due to work/family reasons/the weather etc, some people from work couldn't make it due to family reasons/the weather/the fact their boyfriend was threatening to kick me all over if they came out with me... Just the usual really.
I thought that the night was probably going to turn out shit. Then I remembered a fundamental fact. A fact I should have mentioned earlier.
I was wearing a fucking suit.
Refusing to let the night get away from me, I made my way to the nearest cash point and withdrew £100. If people were insistant on dropping out then I would simply have to drink enough for everybody. This was a dangerous plan. I began my night by spending around £40 on cocktails in the first bar. All vodka based.
I can not drink vodka.
At all.
You see that little Twitter thing on the side of my blog? Click it. Then find @IBlameFashion - Tweet her these words, 'What happens when Chris Hunt drinks a lot of vodka'
Go on, ask her. I'll wait.
Yeah, it really is that bad.
Anyway,storming ever hopefully onwards I began to drink vodka and jagermeister in, what I can only describe as, dangerous amounts. I don't really remember much of the night to be honest with you. I remember being in Pulse, and a Jesus looking fellow dancing with Lauren. He then saw me, proceded to ignore Lauren, come over to me and, without saying a word, try to kiss me.
Just for reference here, Lauren is the attractive girl on the left. I am the chubby fellow in the middle.
Above: Me being a pimp, regardless of what Simone says.
I managed to make my escape from this fellow, and stumbled off to another bar. After this I'm afraid it all goes blank. I did wake up to discover that I had spent the last portion of the night getting into a girl I work with, so I guess drunk me does have a victory every now and again but still.
In retrospect, I was still smashed until around Saturday evening. That £100 I took out? I spent it all. You know what else I did, I bought Champagne. £40 on one drink. Why? I mean seriously why? I'm not just even repeating that question for literary effect, I honestly want somebody to tell me why?
Anyway now that night is out the way I can get into the serious stuff. I did nothing on the weekend. That's becoming a bit of a recurring theme. I have a new job now so I work each weekday, 11 till 8 so obviously my social time during the week is limited. I am rich though. I just have nowhere to spend it. The same is going to happen this weekend. Nobody I know is interested in going out tomorrow night, nobody is interested in making plans for Saturday either. I'm just going to spend another weekend sitting about my room. There is only so much porn a guy can use to get him through boredom. Have you ever passed the 7 in one day mark? It just hurts after that. Really hurts.
Above: A picture for 'hose chafe damage' - Use your imagination.
So I'll be having another weekend by myself before heading back to work. Don't let that last sentence mislead you, I don't hate where I work. Actually, I love it. I work in a call centre as a customer advisor. Basically, you know when something goes wrong and you phone up the company, and some chirpy little voice answers ready to try and help you out, but you're too blinded by rage to work out that this person is just an employee and has had absolutely no say in why the thing that has happened to you to make everything so bad has happened and just start screaming at them? Yeah that's me. Obviously, I don't think I can mention who I work for in my blog because if they read it they may not like me writing about it and I could find myself sacked.
Yeah, I enjoy the shit out of my job. I spend my time having a crack on with customers down the phone. The problem is though, well, what some people have said is a problem, is that I get too involved in it all. I had an old lady yesterday who could not cash a cheque we had sent her, the bank wouldn't do it, I looked on her account and she was over 70, arthritic and with poor eyesight. She said she needed the £80 refund for new spectacles. The only information I could give her was to go back to the bank and try and cash it again, this requires a taxi trip into Kidderminster for her, and another one home. I knew that the bank would not cash it again, but it was the only advice I could give. She was getting herself worked up and worried about it. That stayed with last night, and I've been thinking about it tonight too, to be honest. She was meant to call back, but never did. I wonder if she got her money?
Logic tells me she didn't, but I'm going to choose to believe she did. Ignoring all logic to remain cheerful is something I do well.
Talking about problems I have fixed, I finally got round to saving my baby hamster from his weeks of turmoil and bullying.
This is my baby hamster, Swarley.
Above: Swarley. I used my awesome photo editing skills to highlight how innocent he is.
Swarley, bless him, has been getting his arse kicked. Constantly, by his dad who I, foolishly, forced him to live with. I had to split Swarley's father and mother up because they kept making babies at a rate where I couldn't look after them. I had to isolate them before I hate a whole incestuous, cannibalistic shitstorm on my hands. I can deal with a lot of things but watching creatures I'm responsible for eating or fucking their sisters is not one of them.
I seperated the parents, Swarley's dad (Hector) and his mother (Achilles... Yes Achilles) into different cages. The problem was, I only had two cages, so Swarley needed to live with one of his parents. There was no court case or custody battle, I placed Swarley with Hector, his dad. I figured if I put him with his mother he would simply sleep with her, then eat the incestuous, cursed, unholy babies. I'd just stopped that whole hoo-ha so I wasn't letting it happen again. Plus, living with his dad, I thought, would toughen him up. He could teach him how to chop wood, talk to girls, even play sports!
Above: What I thought would happen.
What I didn't factor into my equation is that hamsters, while not performing the role of helpful, teaching fathers due to not being human can still have many of the negative human pitfalls. I think Hector became depressed from being seperated from Achilles, I noticed he became less active, I would check on him and you could just tell he wasn't in a good state, I'd catch him with five o clock stubble, wearing the same clothes as two days ago and I'm sure at one point I caught him drunk at 9am in the morning. I think he began to blame Swarley for the disintegration of his happy hamster union with Achilles. He began to attack Swarley from time to time.
Above: What actually happened
Luckily, I managed to get paid before this escalated into a full on turf war between the two, and got Swarley his own cage. This is the end of the fighting and injuries I thought. Unfortunately, Swarley is, what some people would accurately describe as, mentally retarded. Now whether this is the cause of, or a result of, his father's constant rejection is up for debate. But Swarley has continued to hurt himself in ever increasing ways. His latest hobby is climbing the wire of his cage to the very top, which is about a foot, so in hamster terms, about the size of a house, and then letting himself drop all the way to the floor.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
I have him added padding to make sure he was safe, only to later discover he would move the padding, and purposefully falling onto harder ground. I think he blames himself for his parent's divorce and the abuse. Classic abused child syndrome. I don't know what to do about it.
So, anyway. I'm rambling now, and despite my blog's title that's not something I'm fond of doing so I will leave you all be safe in the knowledge of knowing the past week of my life has been drunken revellery, attempting to help an 80 year old woman buy new spectacles, and a suicidal hamster from a broken home.
Diverse or what?
Friday, 15 July 2011
Graduation, Barney Stinson and Fate (I'm still drunk)
Yep, I graduated today. I don't really have any photos on the computer at the minute except a weird facebook one of me and my sexy parents.
Anyway, I'm sexy as hell. here I am just casually rocking my suit and graduation robe combination and also wearing a hat that whilst looking slightly ridiculous also looks awesome. Check it.
I have awesome eyebrows don't I?!
Anyway, I don't really have many more photos of today yet, they haven't been uploaded but here is one someone tagged of me as I make my way across the stage.
Look how happy I am. Thing is I was actually quite pissed off at this point. You walk into graduation and get all your robes and stuff, anyway, despite being 21 and despite the fact they know I have a degree, the woman decided I couldn't dress myself and proceeded to dress me. I was fine with this till she slammed the mortar board on my head, ruining my hair! Look at my hat hair above. I wouldn't mind but we were all wearing our mortar boards until we got out there and the dene, who happened to be pretty awesome and had a moustache, told us we had to take them off because you can't actually wear them until you have graduated. This meant I had to go on stage with hat hair.
Not like I care, the guy told us that we had worked for three years to get here so to feel free to milk it. Like I need to be told to milk anything.
I don't know if you can see this, but have a look anyway.
Click here for video
I come on right at the end just as it cuts off because it is my friend's video, I'll have my own up soon enough. Two things. Check the awesome cheer I get and check my swagger.
Yeah so I graduated and it was awesome. Well, kind of awesome. We (me and Mark.... who is married) were chatting up the girls behind us as we waited to go up. It was going quite well until one of them realised she recognised me as apparently I had stumbled over to her English class in a pub whilst drunk once. We didn't talk to them after that.
Anyway, with graduation done it was time. Time for the night three years had built up to. Time for Grad Night baby.
Now, to understand the mentality of this night you need a bit of background.
I have a friend who gives me recommendations to watch stuff now and again. She told me to watch Jersey Shore, and I was thought 'fuck that' - but then I watched it and it was brilliant. Then she told me to watch Grey's Anatomy, and I thought 'if I want a hospital show I'll watch Scrubs because interacial homo-erotic guy relationships are my thing', but then I watched it and it was brilliant, so anyway she told me to watch How I Met Your Mother. I kept putting it off but then started watching it and.... you guessed it, it was awesome. I watched to season 6 ep13 in like 4 days. That is both pathetic and awesome.
Anyway there's a character in this show called Barney Stinson who always wears a suit and is one hell of a guy. He's also in Starship Troopers. Here's Barney.
Also, just for fun, here's Barney doing something random, skip to 50 seconds in.
..... Starship Troopers is such a bad film.
Anyway, I kind of get a bit too into things now and again if I really like them, after Jersey Shore I'd spent my nights fist pumping and shouting about my T-shirt, but tonight I was suited up, with my friends all suited up and I decided, drunkenly, that I was going to Barney it up.
Now, barney is a smooth, charming and successful man. And I have one thing in common with him. We are both male. Aside from that, nothing. Anyway, I wasn't going to let that stop me from having a damn good time deluding myself.
We started out, as usual, in Fitzgeralds because it is our post-Uni pub. I love that place, partly for the great selection of beers and partly because me and the old lady who runs the place flirt outrageously with each other and it's only half in jest. Not even lying, I fancy her a bit.
Here we are in Fitzies.
The only people who made it out from this photo are me, Chris Mcananey (far left) Greg (to my right in the glorious red waistcoat) and Copland (To my left in the slightly less awesome but still smart black wasitcoat)
After leaving Fitzgeralds Copland and Chris for some reason wanted to go to the Black Bull, the place was full of kids, emos and emo kids. We rocked in, turned heads and took over the place. I can't stress enough how easy it is to get served and to basically just do what you want if you are with a group of people and you're all in a suit. I managed to talk them into leaving the Bull by constantly complaining about how terrible it was. Luckily they started to play Swagger Jagger and this kind of helped things along nicely.
As we left, I looked forward to a brilliant night. This misguided belief was shattered moments later as Copland decided we would be going to Varsity. The place was as dead as Mcauly Culkin's acting career, there was literally only us and one barmaid in there. Thus began the first game of the night, the imaginatively titled 'let's see which of us can chat the barmaid up the best' game. It was a delightful time had by all, with the possible exception of the barmaid, as we all began our elaborate attempts to charm her. My attempt, which was hastily thought out and based around the fact I was in a suit, was to look and sound important. For some reason I thought ordering a bottle of wine would do this. It didn't. What actually happened is I bought the cheapest wine they have, she laughed at me and I struggled to throw that vile pink liquid down my throat. Although my plan backfired, I did manage to stand at the bar chatting to her for a quite a while and we were having a laugh until Copland came over and blatantly cheated.
Bit of background info on Copland. he is from Glasgow but now lives in Darlo. He speaks a weird kind of mixture of the two accents but still has the ability to put on a broad Scottish accent.
This is one of those times he did it. I don't know what it is about the Scottish accent but it has been scientifically proven that after hearing it a woman's pants are 70% moister than before. It was ridiculous how quickly somebody would show interest in him when he turned out to be Scottish. Anyway, he won the chatting the barmaid up game right there and then so I took my vile pink 'wine' and went to sit outside in the smoking area where I could have a cigarette. There happened to be two girls sitting out there, so I decided considering Chris and Greg were doing God knows what and Copland was with the barmaid I'd go talk to them. This was doomed from the start as five minutes later we had to leave Varsity as a strangely much drunker than he was five minutes ago Copland shambled out of Varsity claiming we had to leave. It transpires the bandit machine or quiz machine or whatever it was he was wasting his money on this time had 'cheated' him and he had smashed his drink on the floor. So, we had to leave.
We had no idea where we wanted to go next, and I jokingly suggested Little Black Book, Sunderland's newest lapdancing bar. I genuinelly was joking, but I learned a few pieces of information in the next few seconds that sealed the deal and led to us going in. Copland and Greg stated that they had never been in a strip bar before, Greg said he wasn't comfortable going in because he has a girlfriend and the doorman said it was free in for us if we fancied it.
In we went.
The lads were all looking a bit nervous and afraid, this is understandable because everybody knows an empowered woman is every mans worst nightmare. I was alright though because, and this makes me sound like a much worse person than I actually am, I know a few of the people who work there from various things like running errands for the manageress and from some of the dancers trying to lez off with my housemate who took me in once. I had warned the lads that the girls would pretend to be interested in them, and that they probably shouldn't waste all their money at 11pm on lapdances when this night still had easily another five to six hours to go. Unfortunately, due to actually knowing me more than five minutes the lads know not to really pay attention to anything I say, so they did not listen.
I walked in, ordered my drink, by this point I was drunk, in a suit and in a lapdancing bar so I ordered a scotch. Here is some CCTV footage of me ordering my drink.
I sat down and started to drink my drink wondering why everyone was taking so long at the bar. Tearing my eyes from the swinging, hypnotic breasts of the 23 year old mother of four flaunting her body for my entertainment I turned to look at the bar to see what was happening.
Nobody was there.
I stood and scanned the dimly lit room trying to stare past the numerous G-string clad women tottering about almost bent to the double under the weight of their shame, until I spotted them, yep, there were my friends, in a booth at the back with four strippers. These girls move fast when they smell fresh blood.
I strolled over to make sure that none of them were buying the girls drinks or whatever and basically just sat there drinking whilst I watched my friends, completely misjudging the workings of the lapdancer/customer relationship, offering all sorts of platitutes and compliments to the dancers.
I finished my drink and ordered another, and as I returned to the table I heard one of the girls, a six foot tall four foot wide monster of a woman who's very appearance made me wonder, despite my pleasant nature, how she got the job of 'someone people will pay to see naked' announced that we should 'cut the shit and tell her if we wanted a dance.'
I informed her that I did not, in fact, want a dance and that I was fine with my scotch. Greg also said he did not want a dance because he had a girlfriend. He later told me he also didn't want a dance because that woman scared him. Upon hearing this I went and bought Greg a dance from the scary stripper. He cursed me as he walked solemnly to the back room to watch the most unerotic naked dancing he is ever likely to see.
Whilst my friends all got dances I went to the smoking area for another cigarette where I was joined by yet another dancer. She sat down and lit a cigarette and we talked for a bit. I told her I wasn't intereted in having a dance etc, and instead she gave me her real name and we talked about music. She plays piano and wants to do more with it. This conversation led to a strange moment as my friends all emerged onto the smoking terrace to talk about the boobs they had just seen to see me telling an upset looking lapdancer that 'she should play paino if she wants to play piano' that 'she could make something of herself rather than live the life of a stripper'
At this point I was drunk and had drunkenly decided that the life of being a lapdancer is exactly the same as the life of being a down and out actress struggling to make it in Hollywood, turning to protitution as a way of making ends meet and drugs as a way to escape the shame.
Anyway, the mood lightened up when she showed me her moustache tattoo on her finger which I immediately took a photo with. She then put her finger up my nose which was strange. It was STD-lightful.
Greg and I left the strip bar after this, Chris and Copland, however, stayed to talk to a dancer and later claimed she had agreed to meet them in Glass Spider after work. This is a lie.
Greg and I were not quite drunk and wanting to get drunker. I stormed into Little Cuba for my traditional four trebles in there and it was here, dear readers, that two star crossed lovers met. Our paths meeting for the first time. It must have been a beautiful moment for all those who saw it. I, a suited gentleman with a drunken swagger happilly dancing his way towards the bar, her, a small ball of vibrant energy running around with a smile on her face, clearly drunk too. We started to dance. Not the slow, sensual dancing that you would associate with such a meeting, but a wild, slightly scary, erratic dance. She got me a drink, I got her a drink, we fell over chairs and couches and ran about outside. It was lovely. She asked me for my number and I typed it into her phone, well I typed what I thought was my number into her phone and she handed me her phone to put hers in mine, before Chris and Copland turned up and we were dragged off to Passion, which I hate but it would be full and it's quite cheap so I went along.
None of us really remember anything from Passion. I remember there were beachballs and I remember there was a lot of alcohol but aside from that not much else. It was here, at around half 3ish (maybe?) I did my usual trick of wandering off on my own. I wandered out of Passion and went to Subway which has strangely become a bit of a tradition for me, which is unfortunate because Subway sandwiches taste awful when they are coming back up and the only time I buy them is when I'm that drunk it is safe to say they'll be coming back up. I went to go back to Passion but my phone began to ring. It was Greg. He started to tell me thet they had left passion and that they were in... BOOM. My phone died.
This sucked because I had no way of getting home, taxi money was spent on beer, I didn't have a house key and the Egg (my old student house) was empty. I was fucked. I needed to find Copland as I was crashing at his mates.
Thus began the great wander. I wandered everywhere until I accepted that I was indeed shafted, and decided to start walking home. I walked about half an hour of the way home before I realised there was no way I'd make it as my feet were killing me and turned back to walk back into town with the hope of somehow not seeming drunk to the Library security guard and spending my night on the computers in there, sending stupid messages to people on facebook I'd only regret in the morning. Unfortunately the library was closed and it was now around half four. I did the only sensible thing I could. I went to the University Metro Station, which is essentially outside, sat down in a corner and went to sleep for an hour.
I woke up at what I would guess was around half five considering after my walk to park lane bus station it was around twenty to six. My bus came at six so I had time to spare, I went to sit on the benches outside the station while I waited and it was here that fate brought me back together with the girl from Cuba. She was there, on the bench, sitting looking as bad as I felt. I went over and said hi and she produced a footlong subway sandwich from her bag. We sat and ate it and talked about our nights, her's was as eventful as mine. She said she had sent me a text message but I never replied. I told her my phone was off. My phone is now on and no message has arrived. I definitely gave her the wrong number.
My bus came and I boarded it and left for home. Without a key I wasn't sure how I would get into the house, but luckily I was a child during the nineties and had, as such, seen Saved By The Bell, I knew that throwing rocks off my little brother's bedroom window would be enough to get me back in the house.
It did.
I went for a cigarette out the back, made some toast and sat having a glass of orange juice just as my parents got up to begin getting ready for work. They had just had a nice ten hour sleep. They looked at me, stood in a stained suit, with eyes like pissholes in the snow, swaying slighty and giggling to myself.
They asked if I had had a good night, I said yes, they asked where I stopped, I tapped my nose. They must never know. They must never know.
And that is it, the tale of last night. I don't know why I've typed it out but it has certainly helped me start to feel a bit more human again.
So thanks for reading and lets have one last salute for this handsome suited bastard who rocked Sunderland in his last night as a student.
Anyway, I'm sexy as hell. here I am just casually rocking my suit and graduation robe combination and also wearing a hat that whilst looking slightly ridiculous also looks awesome. Check it.
I have awesome eyebrows don't I?!
Anyway, I don't really have many more photos of today yet, they haven't been uploaded but here is one someone tagged of me as I make my way across the stage.
Look how happy I am. Thing is I was actually quite pissed off at this point. You walk into graduation and get all your robes and stuff, anyway, despite being 21 and despite the fact they know I have a degree, the woman decided I couldn't dress myself and proceeded to dress me. I was fine with this till she slammed the mortar board on my head, ruining my hair! Look at my hat hair above. I wouldn't mind but we were all wearing our mortar boards until we got out there and the dene, who happened to be pretty awesome and had a moustache, told us we had to take them off because you can't actually wear them until you have graduated. This meant I had to go on stage with hat hair.
Not like I care, the guy told us that we had worked for three years to get here so to feel free to milk it. Like I need to be told to milk anything.
I don't know if you can see this, but have a look anyway.
Click here for video
I come on right at the end just as it cuts off because it is my friend's video, I'll have my own up soon enough. Two things. Check the awesome cheer I get and check my swagger.
Yeah so I graduated and it was awesome. Well, kind of awesome. We (me and Mark.... who is married) were chatting up the girls behind us as we waited to go up. It was going quite well until one of them realised she recognised me as apparently I had stumbled over to her English class in a pub whilst drunk once. We didn't talk to them after that.
Anyway, with graduation done it was time. Time for the night three years had built up to. Time for Grad Night baby.
Now, to understand the mentality of this night you need a bit of background.
I have a friend who gives me recommendations to watch stuff now and again. She told me to watch Jersey Shore, and I was thought 'fuck that' - but then I watched it and it was brilliant. Then she told me to watch Grey's Anatomy, and I thought 'if I want a hospital show I'll watch Scrubs because interacial homo-erotic guy relationships are my thing', but then I watched it and it was brilliant, so anyway she told me to watch How I Met Your Mother. I kept putting it off but then started watching it and.... you guessed it, it was awesome. I watched to season 6 ep13 in like 4 days. That is both pathetic and awesome.
Anyway there's a character in this show called Barney Stinson who always wears a suit and is one hell of a guy. He's also in Starship Troopers. Here's Barney.
Also, just for fun, here's Barney doing something random, skip to 50 seconds in.
..... Starship Troopers is such a bad film.
Anyway, I kind of get a bit too into things now and again if I really like them, after Jersey Shore I'd spent my nights fist pumping and shouting about my T-shirt, but tonight I was suited up, with my friends all suited up and I decided, drunkenly, that I was going to Barney it up.
Now, barney is a smooth, charming and successful man. And I have one thing in common with him. We are both male. Aside from that, nothing. Anyway, I wasn't going to let that stop me from having a damn good time deluding myself.
We started out, as usual, in Fitzgeralds because it is our post-Uni pub. I love that place, partly for the great selection of beers and partly because me and the old lady who runs the place flirt outrageously with each other and it's only half in jest. Not even lying, I fancy her a bit.
Here we are in Fitzies.
The only people who made it out from this photo are me, Chris Mcananey (far left) Greg (to my right in the glorious red waistcoat) and Copland (To my left in the slightly less awesome but still smart black wasitcoat)
After leaving Fitzgeralds Copland and Chris for some reason wanted to go to the Black Bull, the place was full of kids, emos and emo kids. We rocked in, turned heads and took over the place. I can't stress enough how easy it is to get served and to basically just do what you want if you are with a group of people and you're all in a suit. I managed to talk them into leaving the Bull by constantly complaining about how terrible it was. Luckily they started to play Swagger Jagger and this kind of helped things along nicely.
As we left, I looked forward to a brilliant night. This misguided belief was shattered moments later as Copland decided we would be going to Varsity. The place was as dead as Mcauly Culkin's acting career, there was literally only us and one barmaid in there. Thus began the first game of the night, the imaginatively titled 'let's see which of us can chat the barmaid up the best' game. It was a delightful time had by all, with the possible exception of the barmaid, as we all began our elaborate attempts to charm her. My attempt, which was hastily thought out and based around the fact I was in a suit, was to look and sound important. For some reason I thought ordering a bottle of wine would do this. It didn't. What actually happened is I bought the cheapest wine they have, she laughed at me and I struggled to throw that vile pink liquid down my throat. Although my plan backfired, I did manage to stand at the bar chatting to her for a quite a while and we were having a laugh until Copland came over and blatantly cheated.
Bit of background info on Copland. he is from Glasgow but now lives in Darlo. He speaks a weird kind of mixture of the two accents but still has the ability to put on a broad Scottish accent.
This is one of those times he did it. I don't know what it is about the Scottish accent but it has been scientifically proven that after hearing it a woman's pants are 70% moister than before. It was ridiculous how quickly somebody would show interest in him when he turned out to be Scottish. Anyway, he won the chatting the barmaid up game right there and then so I took my vile pink 'wine' and went to sit outside in the smoking area where I could have a cigarette. There happened to be two girls sitting out there, so I decided considering Chris and Greg were doing God knows what and Copland was with the barmaid I'd go talk to them. This was doomed from the start as five minutes later we had to leave Varsity as a strangely much drunker than he was five minutes ago Copland shambled out of Varsity claiming we had to leave. It transpires the bandit machine or quiz machine or whatever it was he was wasting his money on this time had 'cheated' him and he had smashed his drink on the floor. So, we had to leave.
We had no idea where we wanted to go next, and I jokingly suggested Little Black Book, Sunderland's newest lapdancing bar. I genuinelly was joking, but I learned a few pieces of information in the next few seconds that sealed the deal and led to us going in. Copland and Greg stated that they had never been in a strip bar before, Greg said he wasn't comfortable going in because he has a girlfriend and the doorman said it was free in for us if we fancied it.
In we went.
The lads were all looking a bit nervous and afraid, this is understandable because everybody knows an empowered woman is every mans worst nightmare. I was alright though because, and this makes me sound like a much worse person than I actually am, I know a few of the people who work there from various things like running errands for the manageress and from some of the dancers trying to lez off with my housemate who took me in once. I had warned the lads that the girls would pretend to be interested in them, and that they probably shouldn't waste all their money at 11pm on lapdances when this night still had easily another five to six hours to go. Unfortunately, due to actually knowing me more than five minutes the lads know not to really pay attention to anything I say, so they did not listen.
I walked in, ordered my drink, by this point I was drunk, in a suit and in a lapdancing bar so I ordered a scotch. Here is some CCTV footage of me ordering my drink.
I sat down and started to drink my drink wondering why everyone was taking so long at the bar. Tearing my eyes from the swinging, hypnotic breasts of the 23 year old mother of four flaunting her body for my entertainment I turned to look at the bar to see what was happening.
Nobody was there.
I stood and scanned the dimly lit room trying to stare past the numerous G-string clad women tottering about almost bent to the double under the weight of their shame, until I spotted them, yep, there were my friends, in a booth at the back with four strippers. These girls move fast when they smell fresh blood.
I strolled over to make sure that none of them were buying the girls drinks or whatever and basically just sat there drinking whilst I watched my friends, completely misjudging the workings of the lapdancer/customer relationship, offering all sorts of platitutes and compliments to the dancers.
I finished my drink and ordered another, and as I returned to the table I heard one of the girls, a six foot tall four foot wide monster of a woman who's very appearance made me wonder, despite my pleasant nature, how she got the job of 'someone people will pay to see naked' announced that we should 'cut the shit and tell her if we wanted a dance.'
I informed her that I did not, in fact, want a dance and that I was fine with my scotch. Greg also said he did not want a dance because he had a girlfriend. He later told me he also didn't want a dance because that woman scared him. Upon hearing this I went and bought Greg a dance from the scary stripper. He cursed me as he walked solemnly to the back room to watch the most unerotic naked dancing he is ever likely to see.
Whilst my friends all got dances I went to the smoking area for another cigarette where I was joined by yet another dancer. She sat down and lit a cigarette and we talked for a bit. I told her I wasn't intereted in having a dance etc, and instead she gave me her real name and we talked about music. She plays piano and wants to do more with it. This conversation led to a strange moment as my friends all emerged onto the smoking terrace to talk about the boobs they had just seen to see me telling an upset looking lapdancer that 'she should play paino if she wants to play piano' that 'she could make something of herself rather than live the life of a stripper'
At this point I was drunk and had drunkenly decided that the life of being a lapdancer is exactly the same as the life of being a down and out actress struggling to make it in Hollywood, turning to protitution as a way of making ends meet and drugs as a way to escape the shame.
Anyway, the mood lightened up when she showed me her moustache tattoo on her finger which I immediately took a photo with. She then put her finger up my nose which was strange. It was STD-lightful.
Greg and I left the strip bar after this, Chris and Copland, however, stayed to talk to a dancer and later claimed she had agreed to meet them in Glass Spider after work. This is a lie.
Greg and I were not quite drunk and wanting to get drunker. I stormed into Little Cuba for my traditional four trebles in there and it was here, dear readers, that two star crossed lovers met. Our paths meeting for the first time. It must have been a beautiful moment for all those who saw it. I, a suited gentleman with a drunken swagger happilly dancing his way towards the bar, her, a small ball of vibrant energy running around with a smile on her face, clearly drunk too. We started to dance. Not the slow, sensual dancing that you would associate with such a meeting, but a wild, slightly scary, erratic dance. She got me a drink, I got her a drink, we fell over chairs and couches and ran about outside. It was lovely. She asked me for my number and I typed it into her phone, well I typed what I thought was my number into her phone and she handed me her phone to put hers in mine, before Chris and Copland turned up and we were dragged off to Passion, which I hate but it would be full and it's quite cheap so I went along.
None of us really remember anything from Passion. I remember there were beachballs and I remember there was a lot of alcohol but aside from that not much else. It was here, at around half 3ish (maybe?) I did my usual trick of wandering off on my own. I wandered out of Passion and went to Subway which has strangely become a bit of a tradition for me, which is unfortunate because Subway sandwiches taste awful when they are coming back up and the only time I buy them is when I'm that drunk it is safe to say they'll be coming back up. I went to go back to Passion but my phone began to ring. It was Greg. He started to tell me thet they had left passion and that they were in... BOOM. My phone died.
This sucked because I had no way of getting home, taxi money was spent on beer, I didn't have a house key and the Egg (my old student house) was empty. I was fucked. I needed to find Copland as I was crashing at his mates.
Thus began the great wander. I wandered everywhere until I accepted that I was indeed shafted, and decided to start walking home. I walked about half an hour of the way home before I realised there was no way I'd make it as my feet were killing me and turned back to walk back into town with the hope of somehow not seeming drunk to the Library security guard and spending my night on the computers in there, sending stupid messages to people on facebook I'd only regret in the morning. Unfortunately the library was closed and it was now around half four. I did the only sensible thing I could. I went to the University Metro Station, which is essentially outside, sat down in a corner and went to sleep for an hour.
I woke up at what I would guess was around half five considering after my walk to park lane bus station it was around twenty to six. My bus came at six so I had time to spare, I went to sit on the benches outside the station while I waited and it was here that fate brought me back together with the girl from Cuba. She was there, on the bench, sitting looking as bad as I felt. I went over and said hi and she produced a footlong subway sandwich from her bag. We sat and ate it and talked about our nights, her's was as eventful as mine. She said she had sent me a text message but I never replied. I told her my phone was off. My phone is now on and no message has arrived. I definitely gave her the wrong number.
My bus came and I boarded it and left for home. Without a key I wasn't sure how I would get into the house, but luckily I was a child during the nineties and had, as such, seen Saved By The Bell, I knew that throwing rocks off my little brother's bedroom window would be enough to get me back in the house.
It did.
I went for a cigarette out the back, made some toast and sat having a glass of orange juice just as my parents got up to begin getting ready for work. They had just had a nice ten hour sleep. They looked at me, stood in a stained suit, with eyes like pissholes in the snow, swaying slighty and giggling to myself.
They asked if I had had a good night, I said yes, they asked where I stopped, I tapped my nose. They must never know. They must never know.
And that is it, the tale of last night. I don't know why I've typed it out but it has certainly helped me start to feel a bit more human again.
So thanks for reading and lets have one last salute for this handsome suited bastard who rocked Sunderland in his last night as a student.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Seriously?
Haven't been on in a while, I'm sure you (yes, you, my two followers) missed me.
Anyway, I haven't returned with hilarious anecdotes and joyous stories designed to make you smile. I've come back with a series of questions over matters that make me feel like I've been kicked in the testicles. Repeatedly. By a bear.
Like that, only less likely to give me epilepsy and more likely to just make me spend a couple days in bed cursing sunlight and the cheerful nature of birdsong.
Yeah, so basically I've had a strange month. Lets start with the good stuff first. I got offered a job! Well, kind of. As long as the paperwork checks out, and there is no reason it shouldn't, then I have a job. It's just at Npower as somebody who answers the phone when you or someone else call up to complain or with some questions. This is a good thing because of my fantastic communication skills and the money it will bring in (over £1k a month) but it is a bad thing because, despite being good at talking and interacting with them, I hate people.
Hate them.
I probably hate you.
This stems from my fantasticly misguided belief that I am better than most people. I'm really not. This realisation that I'm not as awesome as I thought I was would probably lead me to hate myself, but I don't hate myself. I hate people, and I'm not a proper person so I'm exempt from my own contempt.
I'm not a proper person because I have figured out that I am a character. Whether it be some sort of Truman Show-esque character or a character in a sick book somebody is writing, I'm just the figment of somebody's vivid imagination.
Call me insane if you like, but it is the only explanation for the series of events in my life. There is literally no other way this stuff could happen if not specifically designed by somebody else, the timing is too perfect, the links too fine for it all to be an accident.
It's beyond a joke now. I don't normally complain like this, but seriously, it's crossed a line. I accept that bad things happen to good people, and I'm not even a particularly good person so of course bad things are going to happen to me. But all at once? And at this volume? What did I do to piss God off? Was it not believing in him? Was it for claiming that the devil is cooler anyway because he can play guitar solos? I don't know but Jesus Christ (was it the blashpemy?) this is ridiculous.
You know when you're really, really bored and you end up watching some nature documentary and it's never anything cool like sharks or dinosaurs and it's always some stupid insect in a jungle, or that smarmy bird that jumps about with it's disturbing wing/tail face trying to get laid?
This scary bastard?
Well, yeah, you know when you're watching those and you see some pathetic little creature and it shows you it's awesome defence mechanism? Like that bug that has two chemicals inside its body, and when threatened it mixes them and they cause a sort of explosion out of its anus that propells it to safety? Well, I noticed I have my own strange defence mechanism, and it doesn't involve my anus. It basically involves ignoring what's actually going on for a bit, then accepting I need to deal with it, think about it and feel bad until I actually just can't feel bad anymore, get over it, be alright again.
I'll admit that's not exactly a perfect mechanism, but fuck off, it works. Most of the time anyway.
You know when it doesn't work?
When every fucking thing happens at once.
Don't get me wrong, I know this post makes me sound like a dick, but I'm not a dick... mostly. I'm a pretty good friend (for a time being, until people inevitably get sick of me and I move onto my next herd of associates) and I'll help you out if you need it, but if I do I at least expect the same courtesy back.
I'm very selective about people I share with, and because of incidents in the past I have (had) three people I felt I could properly talk to.
That number is now 0. So I'm doing the 'dealing with it yourself' method. The only thing that is worse to deal with by yourself than emotions is a house fire.
So, considering I am letting everything that is currently eating me from the inside out stay on the inside and not come out my mouth to bother you, could you lot do me a favour and please not tell me about how shit your life is because something trivial has happened like your boyfriend only put one kiss on the end of his text. Fuck off. I don't care. I have my own stuff to deal with and considering I'm dealing with it myself, and considering it's all happened at once, my attention is kind of focussed on me right now. So unfortunately I don't have the time, or the strength to spend 45 minutes telling you that you and *insert name of whoever the fuck has done something wrong in your eyes this time* will be alright in the end.
I normally post the link to completed blogs on Twitter and I can think of a few people who will have read this thinking I am talking about them.
I am talking about them.
There will, however, be a few who will think I'm talking about them, but I'm not. There are some of you I genuinelly do have time for and I think they know who they are so I won't name them.
Anyway, I've stressed myself into needing a cigarette now so I'm going to go inhale a combination of sweet, deadly chemicals to calm my mood for half an hour.
I hope reading this, slightly angrier than intended, blog has left with you with the same sweet feeling of release normally reserved for after sex that it has left me with.
Anyway, I haven't returned with hilarious anecdotes and joyous stories designed to make you smile. I've come back with a series of questions over matters that make me feel like I've been kicked in the testicles. Repeatedly. By a bear.
Like that, only less likely to give me epilepsy and more likely to just make me spend a couple days in bed cursing sunlight and the cheerful nature of birdsong.
Yeah, so basically I've had a strange month. Lets start with the good stuff first. I got offered a job! Well, kind of. As long as the paperwork checks out, and there is no reason it shouldn't, then I have a job. It's just at Npower as somebody who answers the phone when you or someone else call up to complain or with some questions. This is a good thing because of my fantastic communication skills and the money it will bring in (over £1k a month) but it is a bad thing because, despite being good at talking and interacting with them, I hate people.
Hate them.
I probably hate you.
This stems from my fantasticly misguided belief that I am better than most people. I'm really not. This realisation that I'm not as awesome as I thought I was would probably lead me to hate myself, but I don't hate myself. I hate people, and I'm not a proper person so I'm exempt from my own contempt.
I'm not a proper person because I have figured out that I am a character. Whether it be some sort of Truman Show-esque character or a character in a sick book somebody is writing, I'm just the figment of somebody's vivid imagination.
Call me insane if you like, but it is the only explanation for the series of events in my life. There is literally no other way this stuff could happen if not specifically designed by somebody else, the timing is too perfect, the links too fine for it all to be an accident.
It's beyond a joke now. I don't normally complain like this, but seriously, it's crossed a line. I accept that bad things happen to good people, and I'm not even a particularly good person so of course bad things are going to happen to me. But all at once? And at this volume? What did I do to piss God off? Was it not believing in him? Was it for claiming that the devil is cooler anyway because he can play guitar solos? I don't know but Jesus Christ (was it the blashpemy?) this is ridiculous.
You know when you're really, really bored and you end up watching some nature documentary and it's never anything cool like sharks or dinosaurs and it's always some stupid insect in a jungle, or that smarmy bird that jumps about with it's disturbing wing/tail face trying to get laid?
This scary bastard?
Well, yeah, you know when you're watching those and you see some pathetic little creature and it shows you it's awesome defence mechanism? Like that bug that has two chemicals inside its body, and when threatened it mixes them and they cause a sort of explosion out of its anus that propells it to safety? Well, I noticed I have my own strange defence mechanism, and it doesn't involve my anus. It basically involves ignoring what's actually going on for a bit, then accepting I need to deal with it, think about it and feel bad until I actually just can't feel bad anymore, get over it, be alright again.
I'll admit that's not exactly a perfect mechanism, but fuck off, it works. Most of the time anyway.
You know when it doesn't work?
When every fucking thing happens at once.
Don't get me wrong, I know this post makes me sound like a dick, but I'm not a dick... mostly. I'm a pretty good friend (for a time being, until people inevitably get sick of me and I move onto my next herd of associates) and I'll help you out if you need it, but if I do I at least expect the same courtesy back.
I'm very selective about people I share with, and because of incidents in the past I have (had) three people I felt I could properly talk to.
That number is now 0. So I'm doing the 'dealing with it yourself' method. The only thing that is worse to deal with by yourself than emotions is a house fire.
So, considering I am letting everything that is currently eating me from the inside out stay on the inside and not come out my mouth to bother you, could you lot do me a favour and please not tell me about how shit your life is because something trivial has happened like your boyfriend only put one kiss on the end of his text. Fuck off. I don't care. I have my own stuff to deal with and considering I'm dealing with it myself, and considering it's all happened at once, my attention is kind of focussed on me right now. So unfortunately I don't have the time, or the strength to spend 45 minutes telling you that you and *insert name of whoever the fuck has done something wrong in your eyes this time* will be alright in the end.
I normally post the link to completed blogs on Twitter and I can think of a few people who will have read this thinking I am talking about them.
I am talking about them.
There will, however, be a few who will think I'm talking about them, but I'm not. There are some of you I genuinelly do have time for and I think they know who they are so I won't name them.
Anyway, I've stressed myself into needing a cigarette now so I'm going to go inhale a combination of sweet, deadly chemicals to calm my mood for half an hour.
I hope reading this, slightly angrier than intended, blog has left with you with the same sweet feeling of release normally reserved for after sex that it has left me with.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
What a week!
Well what a ridiculous week I have had that has been filled with highs and lows. I'm actually exhausted at the end of it with no idea what to do. Now, for the first time, my dear imaginary readers, I'm going to take you down memory lane and fill you in on the turgid events that, to me, constitute some sort of drama and or excitement.
Two weeks ago I moved out of my student house in Sunderland. I know it's only a twenty minute bus journey away but when you're penniless and don't look like being offered a job any time soon it may as well be the moon.
Anyway, it's a bit normal for us all to get emotional when leaving our comfort zones so I carried on with life and stuff and, to be honest, things weren't that different. I even managed to score a few nights out round Easington which inevitably ended up round town in Sunderland.
Sunday night was, in itself, a microism of this week. Amazingly fun but with the added bonus of my drunken self destructive streak emerging yet again to shatter both something I valued above most other things and also my freedom for the night.
The first thing I shan't go into here, it's not for your (imaginary) eyes or ears. The second thing though, as the wise amongst you will already have worked out, is that I was arrested.
I've been arrested before, for things ranging from criminal damage (didn't do it) to indecent exposure (totally did it) but this time it was the standard drunk and disorderly charge which was incurred when the police, after warning me to fuck off and get away from my own house, returned an hour later to find me trying to battering ram the door in using what I believe may have been part of a window-sill. It was one of those nights where you wake up the next morning and remember nothing. I put this down to the fact that I ended up going to town with two girls I don't know and to counteract the initial awkwardness we all drank about 20 Jagerbombs before hitting Little Cuba to take advantage of their £3 trebles.
Waking up in the police station was a bit of a shock, but apparently I was a polite prisoner and managed to escape a fine. Not having a clue what had happened the night before and my phone being conveniently out of battery I set about trying to repiece the night.
Using inspiration from the brilliant Hangover, and the not so brilliant but still worth a watch Hangover II, I used the Bradley Cooper method of remembering, I checked my pockets and the list of items the police listed taking off me.
The list read.
64p - This was no good.
One lighter - This too provided no clues, even under extensive questioning.
One keyring - This showed me that I had been to Innfusion, a bar I hate. I was with the two girls I'd gone to town with. Little to no answers.
17 Subway Points Cards - This pointed to an obvious end of night trip to Subway.
1 Subway receipt - for 3:21am.
That was it.
So, as you can imagine, aside from knowing what time I left town I was pretty much screwed. I had to struggle through town on Bank Holiday Monday with nothing open trying to find a pay-phone to ring my dad. After the payphone stole £3 from me I decided to use my bankcard. 20 minutes later I was on the way home with my dad (to henceforth be referred to as SuperKev).
Upon getting home I turned my phone on. I wish I hadn't. You know when you see photos of catastrophes or you see an action film where too much is going on and you think you've seen the worst bit only for the next bit to be worse?
Yeah my phone was like that. The photos, the few that were taken, showed a steady decline in behaviour and my inbox... well it was just a no-go zone.
I sat, hungover out of my mind looking at the destruction I had caused and just put my head in my hands. The inside of my brain looked like this..
Yeah...
So I sat and sulked for a bit before I received a text asking me if I was out round Sunderland that night. My instant reply was a simple 'fuck off' until I was told it was my friend Jordan's last night round Sunderland before she left for London. Jordan has lived with me for two (practically three if you count the sleepovers) years and she is one of the people I'm closest to. I obviously had to go.
This is Jordan btw.. I mean look at her, she clearly needs looking after.
I turned up at the egg with some cans for a pre-drinking session before we left and... to be honest, really didn't feel in the mood. This is me, an hour after drinking started, looking as ill as I felt.
Yeah we keep a clean kitchen
Anyway, the night went on and I grew into it, mainly due to £3 trebles and it only being £2.80 for four vodka and cokes. There was a hiccup in the night, incurred by that part of my brain that when drunk refuses to acknowledge the use of common sense, manners, decency or anything of the like, but at the time, the focus was on Jordan and having a good night for her. I could worry about everything else on Tuesday.
The last photo of the night before shows us all screaming drunkenly into the camera, my eyes looking in different ways. Remember the cheap prices I told you about? Yeah I still spent £70. Here's a photo from Tuesday to show you how me and Jordan felt the following morning.
Yeah....
Well, Jordan had had her last night out, and now we just had to wait till Friday for her to leave. I decided to stay the week in The Egg.
Tuesday night saw the emergence of Alice. Alice is Adam's bird, I think, and she came round to spend the day and night with us. She provided such much needed distraction from my woes as one of my favourite things is meeting new people, especially girls and/or girls my friends like, and winding them up mercilessly. This I did with much fun. After hearing she cried with fear watching Harry Potter I immediately put on The Grudge for her to watch. In the dark. I'm a top bloke.
Nothing much really happened on Wednesday, just the usual boredom of lying in The Egg living room, although this time it did have an element of excitement added to it in that I had to flee if the landladies arrived as, as far as they know, I have disappeared off the face of the Earth owing them money. Money I don't have. Because I spent it on beer, friends, McDonalds and cigarettes. The rest I wasted.
Thursday, though, was Jordan's last day. Collectively we spent it drinking. I, along with Jamie I think, also spent it trying not to cry. Four times I had to excuse myself to the bathroom before I cried, I was very sneaky. However, when Jordan was pressured into opening her farewell card signed by everybody before she actually left and started to cry... well that just set me off.
Thursday was a sad day. Jordan has messaged me every day since she got to London though, and she's having a bloody fun time down there and tomorrow is her first day of work so everybody keep your fingers crossed for her.
As for me, left up here. I have my own stuff to sort out. Not going to tell you lot what it is but you can know that it's important. So keep the fingers on your other hand crossed for me.
Anyway. That's enough of me rambling for today, I'm tired of typing. See you all next time I have anything (interesting?) to say.
Two weeks ago I moved out of my student house in Sunderland. I know it's only a twenty minute bus journey away but when you're penniless and don't look like being offered a job any time soon it may as well be the moon.
Anyway, it's a bit normal for us all to get emotional when leaving our comfort zones so I carried on with life and stuff and, to be honest, things weren't that different. I even managed to score a few nights out round Easington which inevitably ended up round town in Sunderland.
Sunday night was, in itself, a microism of this week. Amazingly fun but with the added bonus of my drunken self destructive streak emerging yet again to shatter both something I valued above most other things and also my freedom for the night.
The first thing I shan't go into here, it's not for your (imaginary) eyes or ears. The second thing though, as the wise amongst you will already have worked out, is that I was arrested.
I've been arrested before, for things ranging from criminal damage (didn't do it) to indecent exposure (totally did it) but this time it was the standard drunk and disorderly charge which was incurred when the police, after warning me to fuck off and get away from my own house, returned an hour later to find me trying to battering ram the door in using what I believe may have been part of a window-sill. It was one of those nights where you wake up the next morning and remember nothing. I put this down to the fact that I ended up going to town with two girls I don't know and to counteract the initial awkwardness we all drank about 20 Jagerbombs before hitting Little Cuba to take advantage of their £3 trebles.
Waking up in the police station was a bit of a shock, but apparently I was a polite prisoner and managed to escape a fine. Not having a clue what had happened the night before and my phone being conveniently out of battery I set about trying to repiece the night.
Using inspiration from the brilliant Hangover, and the not so brilliant but still worth a watch Hangover II, I used the Bradley Cooper method of remembering, I checked my pockets and the list of items the police listed taking off me.
The list read.
64p - This was no good.
One lighter - This too provided no clues, even under extensive questioning.
One keyring - This showed me that I had been to Innfusion, a bar I hate. I was with the two girls I'd gone to town with. Little to no answers.
17 Subway Points Cards - This pointed to an obvious end of night trip to Subway.
1 Subway receipt - for 3:21am.
That was it.
So, as you can imagine, aside from knowing what time I left town I was pretty much screwed. I had to struggle through town on Bank Holiday Monday with nothing open trying to find a pay-phone to ring my dad. After the payphone stole £3 from me I decided to use my bankcard. 20 minutes later I was on the way home with my dad (to henceforth be referred to as SuperKev).
Upon getting home I turned my phone on. I wish I hadn't. You know when you see photos of catastrophes or you see an action film where too much is going on and you think you've seen the worst bit only for the next bit to be worse?
Yeah my phone was like that. The photos, the few that were taken, showed a steady decline in behaviour and my inbox... well it was just a no-go zone.
I sat, hungover out of my mind looking at the destruction I had caused and just put my head in my hands. The inside of my brain looked like this..
Yeah...
So I sat and sulked for a bit before I received a text asking me if I was out round Sunderland that night. My instant reply was a simple 'fuck off' until I was told it was my friend Jordan's last night round Sunderland before she left for London. Jordan has lived with me for two (practically three if you count the sleepovers) years and she is one of the people I'm closest to. I obviously had to go.
This is Jordan btw.. I mean look at her, she clearly needs looking after.
I turned up at the egg with some cans for a pre-drinking session before we left and... to be honest, really didn't feel in the mood. This is me, an hour after drinking started, looking as ill as I felt.
Yeah we keep a clean kitchen
Anyway, the night went on and I grew into it, mainly due to £3 trebles and it only being £2.80 for four vodka and cokes. There was a hiccup in the night, incurred by that part of my brain that when drunk refuses to acknowledge the use of common sense, manners, decency or anything of the like, but at the time, the focus was on Jordan and having a good night for her. I could worry about everything else on Tuesday.
The last photo of the night before shows us all screaming drunkenly into the camera, my eyes looking in different ways. Remember the cheap prices I told you about? Yeah I still spent £70. Here's a photo from Tuesday to show you how me and Jordan felt the following morning.
Yeah....
Well, Jordan had had her last night out, and now we just had to wait till Friday for her to leave. I decided to stay the week in The Egg.
Tuesday night saw the emergence of Alice. Alice is Adam's bird, I think, and she came round to spend the day and night with us. She provided such much needed distraction from my woes as one of my favourite things is meeting new people, especially girls and/or girls my friends like, and winding them up mercilessly. This I did with much fun. After hearing she cried with fear watching Harry Potter I immediately put on The Grudge for her to watch. In the dark. I'm a top bloke.
Nothing much really happened on Wednesday, just the usual boredom of lying in The Egg living room, although this time it did have an element of excitement added to it in that I had to flee if the landladies arrived as, as far as they know, I have disappeared off the face of the Earth owing them money. Money I don't have. Because I spent it on beer, friends, McDonalds and cigarettes. The rest I wasted.
Thursday, though, was Jordan's last day. Collectively we spent it drinking. I, along with Jamie I think, also spent it trying not to cry. Four times I had to excuse myself to the bathroom before I cried, I was very sneaky. However, when Jordan was pressured into opening her farewell card signed by everybody before she actually left and started to cry... well that just set me off.
Thursday was a sad day. Jordan has messaged me every day since she got to London though, and she's having a bloody fun time down there and tomorrow is her first day of work so everybody keep your fingers crossed for her.
As for me, left up here. I have my own stuff to sort out. Not going to tell you lot what it is but you can know that it's important. So keep the fingers on your other hand crossed for me.
Anyway. That's enough of me rambling for today, I'm tired of typing. See you all next time I have anything (interesting?) to say.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Hello
First post, this is a big moment.
I don't really expect to gain many, if any, followers on this Blog, its sole purpose is to allow me a nice little corner of the internet in which to vent my frustrations and air my ponderings. I'm one of those strange people who lets things build up, you see, without ever really making a fuss so the idea of little virtual soap-box that allows me to rain down hellfire and brimstone via binary was something I thought I'd give a try.
So on that note, if you have stumbled here accidentally, lost and afraid in the strange world of the internet, you may click the red cross situated in the top right hand corner of your screen which will help you to escape. I'll just wait here.
Are you gone?
Oh, you're still here.... Well this is awkward.... That was essentially my introduction, designed to scare you off, and you're still here? Oh well, I suppose if you're staying I can ramble on about a few more things before you go.
I suppose I'll continue with a kind of overview of what I'm going to be writing about. It's all terribly interesting and involving and I'm sure you'll like it if, like me, you enjoy long, boring posts that mean little to anybody other than the person who is writing them. But, due to my own inflated sense of self worth I'm just going to assume that the issues of my life, my opinions and my hobbies are all things you wish to read about avidly.
What types of things am I going to be writing about I hear you ask in a tone of almost deathly boredom and spite? Well, if you're really interested I'll tell you.
I'm a big SAFC fan so as you can imagine there will be numerous posts regarding the club which will, after years of experience I can confidently state, follow a set pattern.
Sunderland struggle.
Things look up.
I start to believe again.
We start to do well.
We fuck it up.
Repeat from top.
Regarding the constant belief that good times are ahead only to have such beliefs crushed leads me right into my next common topic. Myself.
If talking about myself was a job, then I'd be a billionaire and wouldn't be wasting my time talking to you on the internet. As it stands, it isn't a job, but that isn't going to stop me dedicating at least 40% of my day wittering on about myself. Unfortunately for you, lost and confused reader, I have just finished University, so I can only apologise that instead of tales of parties and good times you are about to embark on a literary journey with me into the world of the dole and job-hunting. (I really know how to sell myself, eh?)
Oh, sometimes I like to write down little stories, if I do one I like I might share it with you. Steal it and become famous from it and I'll find you. I really will.
Anyway, as for now I'm bored of this blogging thing, so I'm going to sign off now. I'm locking the door on my way out so you're going to be stuck in here till I get back. I've left enough food and water for two days. You better hope I'm feeling interesting.
I don't really expect to gain many, if any, followers on this Blog, its sole purpose is to allow me a nice little corner of the internet in which to vent my frustrations and air my ponderings. I'm one of those strange people who lets things build up, you see, without ever really making a fuss so the idea of little virtual soap-box that allows me to rain down hellfire and brimstone via binary was something I thought I'd give a try.
So on that note, if you have stumbled here accidentally, lost and afraid in the strange world of the internet, you may click the red cross situated in the top right hand corner of your screen which will help you to escape. I'll just wait here.
Are you gone?
Oh, you're still here.... Well this is awkward.... That was essentially my introduction, designed to scare you off, and you're still here? Oh well, I suppose if you're staying I can ramble on about a few more things before you go.
I suppose I'll continue with a kind of overview of what I'm going to be writing about. It's all terribly interesting and involving and I'm sure you'll like it if, like me, you enjoy long, boring posts that mean little to anybody other than the person who is writing them. But, due to my own inflated sense of self worth I'm just going to assume that the issues of my life, my opinions and my hobbies are all things you wish to read about avidly.
What types of things am I going to be writing about I hear you ask in a tone of almost deathly boredom and spite? Well, if you're really interested I'll tell you.
I'm a big SAFC fan so as you can imagine there will be numerous posts regarding the club which will, after years of experience I can confidently state, follow a set pattern.
Sunderland struggle.
Things look up.
I start to believe again.
We start to do well.
We fuck it up.
Repeat from top.
Regarding the constant belief that good times are ahead only to have such beliefs crushed leads me right into my next common topic. Myself.
If talking about myself was a job, then I'd be a billionaire and wouldn't be wasting my time talking to you on the internet. As it stands, it isn't a job, but that isn't going to stop me dedicating at least 40% of my day wittering on about myself. Unfortunately for you, lost and confused reader, I have just finished University, so I can only apologise that instead of tales of parties and good times you are about to embark on a literary journey with me into the world of the dole and job-hunting. (I really know how to sell myself, eh?)
Oh, sometimes I like to write down little stories, if I do one I like I might share it with you. Steal it and become famous from it and I'll find you. I really will.
Anyway, as for now I'm bored of this blogging thing, so I'm going to sign off now. I'm locking the door on my way out so you're going to be stuck in here till I get back. I've left enough food and water for two days. You better hope I'm feeling interesting.
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