The Times Are Changing
I'm speechless.
Modern technology, when you sit back and think about it, is remarkable. Who could have predicted a hundred years ago that you could pull out a device no larger than a matchbox, and talk to someone at the very opposite end of the world? Could you concievably have imagined a worldwide road system as complex as it is today, with the amount of vehicles there are on the roads? And a box that shows you the past? TV produces such a function each and every day, yet it's splendour goes unappreciated. And now, in the past 15 years, we have seen the introduction of the Personal Computer- A box that can process unbelievable amounts of information all arranged- get this- in 1s and 0s! It's astonishing what the average household PC can do, from showing DVDs (a marvel in their own right), to connecting millions of people online, to immersing gamers in a photo-realistic world.
But it wasn't until a few days ago that the speed of this transition into the technological age hit me. Just five years ago the market leader in mobile phones was a bulky, black Nokia 402, a device limited to phone and text. In this short space of time we now have colour phones where you can see who you're talking to! A logical progression when you take into consideration the popularity of webcams, but still a giant leap when you consider this wan't even possible a couple of centuries ago, let alone imaginable.
It's well known that I've thrown off the shackles of my old pc for a shiny new one. I didn't think much of it until Dan (my nemesis in GTA) gave me a program much like Kazaa but considerably faster. Upon offering the program I silently discluded it, "it'll just be another Napster" I told myself, reluctantly accepting.
And yes, for the most part it is "just another Napster" except for one crucial detail- it downloads at break-neck speeds. You probably don't appreciate this as much as I do, but until a month ago I was lucky to get a connection above 2KB/s. In otherwords, I'd be lucky to download a song in less than an hour on average. But since joining the DSL revolution, a brave new world has unfolded in front of my very eyes.
"Why do you need a PC with 120GB of memory, Dad" I asked after being told he'd bought a new PC. Why indeed, when my PC had a 'stunning' (hey, it was at the time!) 8GB of memory, and hadn't used even half of the space available. "You'll be lucky if you fill 1GB of that" I told him, returning to the Simpsons. My new PC, by way of comparison, has a monumental 80GB of memory- quite substantial, I'm sure you'll agree. (If you're reading this in the distant future, go ahead- laugh. Let those hot tears flow down your cheeks until you can't bear it anymore. See if I care.)
However now I know better, now I know the unparalled joys of DSL and how misled I was. Using this new program, all downloads are flying at an astonishing 500KB per second. Last night I downloaded The Ring, a full 1.5GB, in less than an hour. Alongside that I am now the proud owner of an entire series of South Park and what can only be described as a library of porn. My music collection has boosted too, to the point where I can't think of any songs I've left to download. It's a wonderful feeling of accomplishment.
Although I can't help but wonder, where will we be another hundred years down the line? How much more information can you cram down a phone line? I feel lost, completely and utterly lost. It's got to the point where no one can predict the longevity of electronic appliances. My two year old Nokia 3310 for example is now the monocoloured laughing-stock of the cordless world, the very basest of technologies. Can we really afford to have to shell out for vastly updated models every few years?
One thing is for sure- DSL is a world apart from a 56k modem, and even then I know I'm not future proof. Will the theatre outlast sky television? Will broadband still be around in a decades time? How long will it be until petrol-fuelled cars breathe their last? Who knows, but one thing is for sure- this world is everchanging, and it's you that has to adapt to new technology.
It's certainly not the other way around.
Student Tardiness
I was going to write a blog about the fantastic night at the FND I enjoyed last weekend, but I'm going to have to live up to the lethargic student steriotype and fuck it. Truth is, after spending six weeks getting drunk and avoiding all contact with books my lack of effort has come back to haunt me with avengence, leaving me with a mountain of work and a molehill of time. Yes, life's unfair- that's been well established- but when you've got an anatomy test in 5 days time and a modecum of Biology knowledge, "unfair" is simply not strong enough.
If I could turn back the hands of time, I'd either take Biology at any level (I had to be told what a humerus was, despite having a broken one), avoid psychology or, most likely, go back and shoot whoever's responsible for making all anatomical words polysyllabic and hence impossible to learn ("amphiarthroses, obturator foramen" anyone?). My strategy of cramming one month before the exam clearly isn't going to work here, so it's back to the old drawing board for me.
So while I try and find a suitable grift to get me out of this hellish exam which, by the way, is only one module out of eight I enlisted for, I'll leave it to your imagination what I got up to this weekend.
If you're lacking in imagination, here's some stimuli taken from the FND last friday:
Jordan, going for the money shot
My mate Jibber, sporting a suitably boner-induced expression
Disclaimer
I can't believe I didn't think of it before!
One of the key hallmarks of a good blog is an exaggerated, melodramatic disclaimer that claims wildly that all or part of the aforementioned blog is fictitious or not based entirely on fact "herein" (a legal buzzword). Commonly pseudonyms like Star, Dabby or Uber are used in place of actual names, or witty replacements like Mickey Mackerel or Anger Mackintosh concocted as a weak legal crashmat should anyone feel so misrepresented as to take legal actions.
I've offended my fair share of people but surprisingly I've never been threatened with legal action, disappointingly. Perhaps I should send this address out to the authorities, that might provoke a response of some sort. Who knows, I might even get a criminal record! That seems to be a badge of honour amongst the local neighbourhood neds, so I might yet be able to sink their petty, vandalistic levels.
Dabby once claimed, prior to Wee Issue Online being exposed, "I can say anything I want online." Except, he couldn't. And nor can I. But making up a disclaimer sounds fun, so I think I'll give it a bash:
"All events, characters or any reference to anyone or anything is entirely the reader's fault for misinterpreting use of irony. Starsite is based on a wild, fabricated dillusion fuelled by a boredom of reality and perverse need to exaggerate and blatantly lie to make the author(s) life appear interesting. Any appeal for litigation will be heartily mocked/ridiculed by the accused, who will swiftly phone and/or text message fellows to join in guffawing loudly. Starsite accepts no responsibility in regards to defamation or names used inappropriately or any loss/damage to ego. In retrospect, the term "capade" will not hold up in a court of law, even in America, and all acts of cone stealing are based on the tales of Lee Christie and cohorts. All names have been changed to protect identities. Except Lee Chrisite."
After writing that, I feel invincible. Not that anyone has ever claimed damages against Starsite, but should they, I'll tell them where to go. And then I'll tell them to read the disclaimer.
Time for a good old fashioned Jaywalk, Frogger-style, methinks.
Fatman Scoop Vs Poulet Tete
I just had to share this with you! Have you heard that fantastic song "Be Faithful" by Fatman Scoop in the clubs? Well, for good measure I decided to download the 12" version and I heard something very odd. I decided to investigate further... and yes, our very own Zanders (nee Poulet Tete) is on it!
Source: Astraweb
"Single ladies! I can't hear ya!
Single ladies! Make noise!
Single ladies! I can't hear ya!
Single ladies! Make noise!
All the chickenheads... Be quiet!
All the chickenheads... Be quiet!
All the chickenheads... Be quiet!
Yeah ladies, Fatman Scoop, Faith Evans sing along! Come on!"
Hahahaha! I'll be listening out for that one next time I'm in vice versa...
We Was Robbed
One Hundredth Blog!Contrary to popular belief, theft is not an activity practiced only in the Glasgow belt; it's everywhere, and if you're not on your highest state of alert constantly it's you that could be their next target. Yes- you. Since moving to England my eyes have opened. Things that I thought unimaginable in Scotland are happening here on an almost daily basis- nothing is done by halves here. Into sport? Good luck in succeeding here pal, you might have been a big fish back home but you're nothing but cannon fodder for the big boys here. Good at studies? Yep, I thought that too, then I moved in with a guy who achieved AAAA in his A levels. I'm not even the smartest guy in my fucking room, let alone any region of any significance! And, consequently, crime here is also done with immaculate precision. Not the sloppy break-ins you might see in Glasgow, where Burberry-toting Neds smash your windows and chuck your tv in their Fort Fiesta "getaway"- they sting you here without you ever noticing it. Now, I know what you're thinking- how can someone break into a fourth floor flat? And how would they get away with the goods? And, as was the case, how could they do it with seven people in the flat? Perhaps we'll never know, but I'll explain the happenings of that fateful night as an appeal for any witnesses or anyone who can come forward with any information. It was the night of October 20th, and six friends had gathered into Dan and Mark's room for a communal DVD watching. Also present were James, Tom and Jibber- the latter who was chomping into a melon and sipping on Newcastle Brown ale (can you say Gaz Batterson?). I myself was having a delightful bowl of cereals and drinking away at a Castlemaine XXXX, which formed a quarter of a four pack in the fridge. They were beautifully chilled to icy perfection, and went down the gullet like a dream. Firstly we watched "about a boy"; a film, curiously, not actually about a boy. Stupid, nonsensical, ambiguous movie title! The film itself was a mirror image of french extravaganza "Amelie", although distinctly more British. Hugh Grant lavished in using weak English swear words used, in theory, to "comical" effect ("Bloody hell!") but actually not. Still it was good fun, but as the film approached its midway point (accompanied by the twentieth rendition of Badly Drawn Boy's "about a boy") a knock was heard at the door. "Ei! Got any booze?" a loudmouthed Irish bimbo shouted. "No" we replied, shoving the bottles of Stella, Newcastle Brown Ale and Castlemaine behind the bed. Mark and Dan attended to the girls, as they barged their way into our kitchen. Hearing a ruckus, Tom went through to investigate. They had just left along with, to Mark's knowledge, a tin of Carling from the fridge. Upon further inspection all the beers were still firmly in place in the fridge, including mine, I was relieved to note. Thinking nothing of the intrusion we returned to "about a boy" unperturbed, right the way to its conclusion in fact. At the end I went through to the kitchen to make myself some midnight Spaghetti, opening the fridge to grab myself another beer. My heart sank. Someone had cleared us of all our booze. "Guys" I began. "We've been robbed." "Good one", Tom started, making his way to the kitchen. "Where have you hidden them?" "I haven't touched them! I swear! Would I joke about something like this?" After a short inspection it was clear that they had in fact gone AWOL. There was only one port of call- to march down the the third floor and claim them back. James led the way to their door, where I then took over. Walking through to their kitchen there were empty tins of Webster's (Tom's Yorkshire ale), Carling and- you guessed it- Castlemaine. Fucking thieves! Without thinking, I went straight to their fridge to reclaim as much goods as I could possibly carry. Tom joined me, and took as much he could too. Escaping, someone caught a glimpse of us. Run! We got up safely, along with a 2 litre bottle of lemonade, orange juice, a 2 litre bottle of tropical juice, 1 litre of milk, and a toffee yogurt. I downed the orange juice bottle right there and then, and the toffee yogurt soon became a nice dessert for my spaghetti meal. But, as is uni life- the drama didn't stop there... The retarded Irish bimbo came back up, offering to "make peace" (read: steal more). For ten solid minutes she scratched on the door claiming "it's just me! I want to say sorry!" but I formed a human barrier to put paid to her ploy. Eventually Jibber, he of feeble mind, managed to dislodge me from my position and let the filthy whore in. She pleaded, they accepted, I locked myself in the kitchen (it only locks from the inside) and told her to go fuck herself. "No one steals my beer" I firmly told her, clutching onto her juice as hard as I could (not a euphemism). She left after a lengthy "discussion", and we put Meet the Parents in the DVD player. To this day I haven't got my damned beer back. And drinking litres of tropical juice just isn't a satisfactory replacement, but minor compensation none the less. Yes, I'm still pissed off; pissed that someone would walk knowingly walk into our kitchen and steal all our alcohol. I feel cheated, and used. If ever I had faith in today's society, it's long gone. And, like my faded belief in God and Santa, it's never coming back.
Happy Places
Given my recent bout of aggressive and antisocial behaviour (towards incompetent phone line staff) I've taken it upon myself to visit my "happy places" more often than I usually would in recent times.
"Happy places" are psychological retreats; everyone has them, and they vary from person to person. If you're ever down go take a trip there in your mind and you'll feel much better. Similarly everyone has "unhappy places", but your councillor won't tell you about those for obvious reasons, the most prominent being that he wouldn't earn as much money by making his clientele cry and feel unloved.
However, these "happy places" are very private affairs for most people, and spoke of very little or with great reservation. But I, as you well know, have little reservation, and have made it my trademark to be outspoken. Patents pending, if you will. So don't steal it.
Without further ado, here are three of my favourite "happy places" at age eighteen:
Being in my living room with a group of friends- let's say Dabby, Tete (sorry, Zanders) and Tom- playing vodka-based drinking games and later going for a capade. In this happy place we'd order food from the Faisal and have it delivered, I'd have a gorgeous donner kebab to compliment my beer perfectly. There would be a 24 pack crate of Carlsberg Export to share for the beer loving fraternity amongst us (just me, which is an added bonus 'cos less to share), whiskey for Zanders, alcopoofs and cider for Tom, and vodka and mixers for Dabby. We'd have the Dreamcast and N64 up and running, freshly dusted off for old time's sake. Needless to say myself and Dabby would whup Zanders' and Tom's ass at the old classics, and then try and take out each other out despite our non-aggression pact (priceless) as Zanders and Tom watch helplessly at a showdown between two truly astonishingly hardcore gamers. Afterwards, in a state of inebriation, it would be time for some quality Truth or Double-Shot and then put a pizza in the oven. In the early hours we'd put Sky on and laugh uncontrollably at the shite on the God Channel, the Asian channel and late night Bravo, sinking the drinks on our merry way. Then, around 4am, it would be time to go to the mace and steal the papers, dumping them outside someone's house and incriminating them. Zanders would fall, we'd laugh, and cry "that ridiculous Zanders!" and then decide to walk to Dabby's, to get even more drunk at his, laughing all the while up the eerily dark railway line. What a night.
The second thing that always makes me smile is the infamous and truly unique Tolbooth atmosphere. It's friday night and I'm sitting next to Beefy, Drew, Cheesy, Shaw, Scott and Graester, having a pint and bantering all the while. The banter, by the way, is always lad orientated at the 'Booth, and a laugh sans cesse. Sure, the moody Hattoners are in close proximity but it's the crew I sit with that are filling the four walls with ambience and class conversation. Near the end of the night, after many a discussion and occasional friendly/heated argument, we'd head to the cars and really kick start the night. Cheesy's car is always the most popular, as he does his weekly demonstration of why exactly he's the most respected driver of our year and the other lads are setting off to gather materials. Beefy, Feesh, Snail and Cheesy depart their separate ways (cars with 2-3 people each) to collect capade materials and rendezvous back at the library carpark. "Who are we going to capade?" Yann asks sensibly, before commencing his unspeakably brilliant Feesh and Smeagle impressions. Feesh soon gets pissed off as Yann continually cries "I'm... I'm going to tirty-tree-and-a-turd a cap in your ass" as the passengers all laugh at his misfortune. Eventually the drivers leave single file, destination... Sarah Robert's house! The drive is exhilarating, the capade even more so. Afterwards the drivers go for a thrash to conclude what has been yet another thrilling friday night with the lads.
Down here Tom, James, Jibber, Ben, Huan and I are at Riley's shooting some pool and having pints of Guinness. I'm trashing Jibber, who is progressively losing his cool and duffing up sitters. After an hour of social pool we head off to Vice Versa to really get the drinks in, and then to Barraccuda, the Orange Tree and the Newshouse before deciding on a club to go to. We're too drunk to make a rational decision, so we decide to just go to the first club we see. It turns out to be Pulse, a fine fate-induced choice indeed. We go to the dance floor and dance like the uncoordinated fuckers that we are; but we don't care, all I can see is a haze of people swaying to and fro and hear a distorted noise that can only be the music, although I can't tell. We stay there deep into the early hours, before stumbling out of the club and back towards Butler Court. On the way we spy USA chicken still open, and purchase a 12 inch Meat Feast pizza each and then devour it on the way home. When we finally get back at an unhealthy hour we bang on Dan's door. He's up, on the internet in fact. "Dan" I begin, unsure what will come afterwards. After a lengthy pause, he intervenes. "Do you want to watch the entire Back to the Future trilogy at 4 in the morning?" "Yes please" I reply, as we all take our seats. But one thing's missing: booze! I head to the fridge and pick up a chilled XXXX four pack, and retake my seat. Six hours later, and the final closing credit falls on the tv screen. "Shit", I add, breaking the silence. "I'm an hour late for my first lecture." "Me too", Jib replies. "Eh, what you going to do" I quip, heading towards my cosy bed.
The No-Help Line
"Help lines." Now there's an oxymoron if ever I saw one.
"Help" lines all have one thing in common- to generate even more revenue for cash-strapped corporations. They're bound to lose some money replacing/repairing faulty equipment, so how do they make it back? You guessed it; by making you "sit in queue" while generic inoffensive "music" plays down the line as the pennies whittle away on your phone. Even if you do manage to get to an operator before your final shred of sanity snaps you can be damned sure they're dumbstruck, incompetent idiots, only out to waste your time and earn themselves a nice bonus.
If I see an emachines call center operator, I'll break his legs.
To add insult to injury, I've already sent them an email ("the cheaper alternative") to no reply, five days later. That's no use to me whatsoever- so I'll have to phone the bastards again, wasting another hard-earned fiver of my own money. It pisses me off so much, I'm so engulfed in rage that I can't think straight anymore- all I can think about is that smirking call operator, stalling for as much time as he conceivably can.
"Is the power cable in?"
What do you think? That I'd forgotten to switch the damned thing on? That's not even the problem you bumbling moron, I told you quite clearly that the machine does switch on but keeps resetting.
"Hold just a minute."
Before I've got a chance to reply, "if you're happy and you know it" is blaring from my phone, trying to diffuse the situation. By contrast, it only fuels my irreproachable anger further, to the point where I hang up and smash my fist against the wall. My lengthy and vocal list of swearing conjunctions alarms my room mate, whom I then focus my anger on.
The next day my Social Psychology class is based on the Frustration-Aggression model, which is self-explanatory and an insult to our intelligence to even explain. The lecturer managed to draw out a full one hour lesson on the findings of five psychologists, who all basically stated that "frustration leads to aggression." No shit, sherlock.
So that leaves me here, furiously typing away on my pathetic old pc to try and take my mind off the emachine call center fiasco. Of course, I've got to phone them again tonight to finally get a computer that works, and endanger my already fragile high blood pressure in the process. If they put my hold one more- and I swear, just one more time- then expletive simply won't be a strong enough word to describe my actions.
I think I'll give Cletus due warning to when I'm going to phone them.
The New Guard
After many a long year, the time has come to wave goodbye to my trusty pc and finally join the technological wonderworld that has flown right by me. No more 56k modem, no more serial mouse, heck, no more 5GB hard drive; for my computer has wheezed its last and has finally crumpled in a shameful heap, devoid of any dignity or redeeming features.
It's a pity, but you won't see me shedding a tear. No siree- my trusty companion has held me back long enough, and its time to ditch the loser. Like Darwin's theory only applied to technology- it's a battle of the fittest, or in this case, the fastest. And my pc just doesn't cut the mustard. So it goes. Simple as that.
Its replacement will be a heaving giant amongst pcs; an electronic behemoth, a modern day Golliath amongst pitiful, shameful Davids like the computer I type with this very second. So mighty it will be that my old pc will cower and hide its face in shame, pleading, begging for mercy. And what will it get? Yet another boot in the side from yours truly, a boot to the pathetic loser that's pissed me about for so long.
My new pc will grasp its belly and laugh heartily at my old pc, bellowing obsecenities and issuing challenges.
"Hey Al, watch this" it will sneer, trying to play a DVD on my old pc. It'll burst out laughing as my old pc struggles and whirrs, trying to understand this strange medium. "Haut-haut-haut" it'll cry, "such a powerless little wimp", as it pulls its arm back and bitch-slaps my reddening old pc, tears streaming down its grey, ugly face.
"Oh what's the matter" my new pc will approach, feigning a comforting voice. "Is it because you're so woefully underpowered, with a hard drive barely a 16th the size of mine? Does it make you feel inadequate? Or, is it because you've only got an embarrassing 56k modem... is that what the matter is? Because you're so slow? And you've got an ugly grey case?"
"Stop it! Stop it!" my old computer will cry, covering its ears with two mouse pads. "Please Alan, make him stop..."
"No. You deserve everything you get" I reinforce firmly, clasping a screwdriver in my right hand. "It's curtains for you, you lamentable wretch."
*sobs*
"Stop crying!" my new pc will order, raising his hand in a most threatening manner. "There's no room in this world for your types. Star- pass me the spanner."
"Nooooo!"
*Star pulls the plug on the old pc*
"Goodbye... you worthless piece of junk"
"Fancy a Carlsberg Export, master?"
"Don't mind if I do, new pc"
*Both walk hand in hand into the sunset, laughing and dragging old pc's limp body behind them by the power cords*
"Star... I love you"
"Too far. Much too far."
Food For Nowt
Sometimes there are advantages of being friends with certain people. The phrase "friends in high places" is not only unjust but it can be down right annoying as you watch Inferior Joe snatch the promotion you had being eyeing up since arriving at your work, forty years to the day, all because he knew the boss in kindergarten. But sometimes- just sometimes- when it happens to you, it's the best thing that was ever created.
Allow me to relate this ambiguous opening paragraph to my humble life.
Last night a good ten of us, consisting of the six in my flat and four others, went to the seedy snooker joint that is Riley's to rack 'em up and hussle up some street cred (or something like that). I had an intensive two-hour duel with pool shark Jonathan "Gibber", where we both played shite on the oversized novelty pool table accompanied with "Early Learning Centre's My First Pool Cue" standard cues. To wit: We blamed the apparatus for our most obvious lack of ineptitude or any competence whatsoever on the table, and vowed never to speak of those games again.
In the end the session cost Ł14, not too bad split between the two of us, but Jonathan struck an intriguing deal before I could reach for my wallet (which is a notably slower process when it comes to paying for services).
"How about I pay for the pool, and you buy me a large pizza on the way home?"
"Interesting", I began, "veeerryy... interesting...."
(dramatic pause for effect)
"Very well." And the deal was done.
So on the way home we pass by USA chicken- purveyors of chicken based goods, but more notably for its delicious pizzas and awful kebabs (you will swear there is no God when you taste one). "One large meat feast" I order casually, waving a tenner in his face. He leans over to dislodge the tenner from my forceful grip.
Then Jonathan walks in. Seeing Jonathan, aka their best customer, the man behind the counter says hastily "tonight it's two pizzas for the price of one" (which it clearly isn't), and effectively doubles the order. Jonathan is much pleased, and grins like the Joker would after popping a shell in Batman's ass. Much like a Mafia boss commands respect, Jonathan is a big-wig in the USA chicken chain of customers, his loyalty comes at least four times a week (by loyalty I mean custom).
These days Jonathan just needs to walk into USA chicken and the man will career into the back and cry "meat feast, damn you! (sounds of slapping resound throughout the building) It's J! (J! Why didn't you say!) Step on it, you worthless toad!" All other orders are put on hold as an express-pizza is cooked faster than USA chicken dare push their ageing cooking appliances. Minutes later two meat feast pizzas are handed to us piping hot, "with compliments of the chef." "See you tomorrow" Jonathan adds exiting the door, already half way through the rapidly diminishing pizza.
"I'll see you... next time Jonathan is in" I think to myself, chowing on my free pizza. It's good to know someone with authority, even if it's only for free pizzas. And seeing as we'll both be here for the next three years, I think my late night dining out is well covered.
Not Quite The Canterbury Tales
A couple of months ago Star and myself were sitting in a Business Management lesson on a damp and dreary Monday morning. This particular morning Mr Forbes was in one of his grumpy moods and thus the usual free flowing banter associated with our rather rowdy class (the class obviously being set up to study the effects of putting a group of highly banterous people in a confined space). Star and myself were thoughourly depressed as Business Management was a class where usually we did no work (cheers for doing it for us Graster) and as a consequence of this it provided a good opportunity for the combined creativity of our great minds to come up with a lot of the great banter that is the subject matter for many articles on these very pages, take Stallion McLure for example but, due to the foul temper of Mr Forbes on this particular day (cheers Perry and Pig), we were expected to work and so therefore our bantering was restricted merely to quiet mumblings behind a copy of Leckie & Leckie's Guide to Higher Business Management, our usual subject for ridicule, Christieeee/Stallion McLure, being given a reprieve for a change. Well, the quiet bantering of Star and myself went on for some time before we stumbled upon the idea of writing our own version of Chaucers classics, The Canterbury Tales. The idea was to write a set of hilarious tales about people that we knew. Thus far our plans have not fully come to fruition but examples of the sort of thing we meant to do can be seen in blogs such as "It's Your Future", "A Vision Of....." and "Stallion McLure".
I am hopeful, however, that Star will agree with me to ditch "It's Your Future" and "A Vision Of....." and unite them under the originally planned banner of "The Ellon Tales". For the time being I bring you the first of "The Ellon Tales", salvaged from the Business Management folder I threw out today. This first tale was co-written by Star and myself on that aforementioned dreary Monday morning in Hut 6A. Enjoy
The Ellon Tales-Feesh's Tale
One day in Fenionland Feesh woke up and sprang out of bed, when I say sprang I really mean got up lethargically, it is Feesh afterall, and low and behold he found some mail on his doormat. However, Feesh had no time to read it so he tossed it onto the kitchen table (an upturned cardboard box) and went out to begin his day closing the house (shak) door behind him. Firstly Feesh stamped out the steaming bag of shite on his doorstep that had been left there by Wullie Orange the Hun, then he removed the union jack flag from his lawn (overgrown wasteground) before finally clearing his driveway of tatties left there by the world famous Tattie Boguls.
Feesh decided that he would do some shopping so off he went to fill his trolley up with Safeway Savers goods making sure that he bought a packet of Safeway Savers condoms "just in case" but every packet he bought landed up in the bin as they sat unused for so long that the rubber perished. When Feesh got to the checkout the operator called for the manager. The manager of the store came storming down the stairs with a look of incensed rage across his reddened face and smacked Feesh viciously across around the lughole shouting at the top of his rather loud voice, "what the fuck are you doing? I've told you before and I'll tell you again- FENIONS DON'T GET!!!!!!!!"
So Feesh trudged dejectedly homeward but alas he encountered a gang of Hun NEDs along the way who promptly administered a good hiding and smashed a bottle of Buckfast over his head. Feesh was left for dead in the gutter but he somehow managed to find the strength to hobble back to his abode. In an effort to cheer himself up a little, Feesh decided to open his mail only for it to blow up in his face as it was a letter bomb from a group of Hun paramilitaries. Feesh died instantly and no-one turned up at his funeral.
Everyone else lived happily ever after whilst Celtic got relegated and the huns stamped on Feesh's grave who were apprehended by some Dons who gave the Huns a good kicking in, the sort you'd like to give Chappy after mowing him down in a good Chappy hunt (thats surely worth at least a tousand points Drew), and then the sheep shaggers continued the stamping of Feesh's grave even kicking down his tombstone in the process!
The End
Butler's Burning!
Last night, in my very own hall, an electric fire raged from the depths of our grill to nearly wipe out an entire block and cause a student death toll unforeseen in the midlands in modern times. The fire- dubbed the "second greatest catastrophe in Butler Court"*- lashed out from the overcooking of two seemingly harmless economy burgers to almost scorch the face's off nearby cookers Mark, Dan, Tom, James and myself.
It all began with a communal cooking around 5:20, where I was microwaving a mighty-looking Chinese-style Curry, James and Tom were cooking pasta, Mark was chomping into his finished meal, and Dan was attempting to grill burgers. Hold on- Dan, cooking meat? That alone should have set off sirens in our heads; novice Dan, unaquinted with the finer points of grilling meat, was set to venture into new-found territory unassisted. Dan, the boy who can chargrill anything (even breakfast cereal) at the slight of his hand, is disaster personified, and surely must have a court injunction against his name by now saying "not to be let within 100 feet of cooking appliances."
But yet, amongst the carnage of trying to weave round four cooking personnel in such a limited space, his antics were left unnoticed. Let it be said that had I had just a second to myself I'd have seen in the corner of my eye Dan fumbling around with his burgers, I'd have dived straight at him Swarzenegger-style and cried "noooooo....!" and pinned him to the ground. "Gimme... those... Burgers... Dan..." I'd have struggled, forcing his wrists to the floor. "Never!" he'd defiantly add, before Tom and James fly across the room and add their weight to mine. For a few minutes we'd be on top of Dan, trying to unhand his grip on the offending burgers. By now Mark would have joined in, and started gnawing on Dan's ankle. The pain would cause him to lose his grip, and we would be in possession of these lethal weapons. Getting off Dan, we'd all resume cooking as he sobbed in the corner and eat the dust off the floor to kill his ravaging hunger. If he was lucky, we'd maybe throw him a scrap or two, leaving him to pick away at what little meat was left on our chicken wings.
But as it was Dan continued apace, doing his best to keep a low profile and evade our otherwise impenetrable gaze. The result was after a mere ten minutes of "cooking" the smell of sizzling, grossly overcooked meat wafted its way round the kitchen. My spider senses were tingling.
"Sniff sniff."
"Curious... very curious" I pondered. "James... what are you and Tom cooking?"
"Pasta, why?"
"I swear I can smell trouble... a meaty, burning kind of trouble. The likes of when you sunbathe for too long."
In unison, we all turned to Dan.
"Ehh, hey, funny story about this guys. You see, now don't get mad... No, don't op-"
Instantly an inferno burst from the grill, as Dan tailblazed it out the rapidly smoke-filling room. "Shit!" I cried, clearly aiding the situation. If it wasn't for the quick thinking of Tom and Mark, I might be typing this through an interpreter. They reached for the fire extinguisher and extinguished the flame with immediate effect, covering the room (and my bloody curry) with carcinogenic powder.
Then there was silence. We looked at one another, and sighed. "So much for that", I added, and walked calmly out of the room. End credits flashed before my eyes, with "Alan.... Played by Star, Dan.... Played by Where's Wally, Tom.... Played by Liam Gallagher" rolling from my bottom eyelid to the top, with cheesy retropop music cooing "Oh, Danny boy, when will you learn, Oh Danny boy, when will you stop creating small fires" booming around my ears.
Until the fire alarm sounded, that is, and we reluctantly left the building. When we got to the bottom Dan 'fessed up, and was then informed "you've just cost the fire department Ł2000." Any fire set before 6pm, you see, instantly calls out the fire department. So they came, looked around a bit, and then grumpily left, and we went back up to our kitchen.
"Not so fast", one hall supervisor said, turning the key in the kitchen door. "You won't be going in here for a looooong time. Monday, to be precise." The reason? "The powder is carcinogenic. Sorry boys." There you have it, you're allowed to smoke 50 fags per day, but you can't eat a curry coated in carcinogenic powder. That's equality for you.
As a means of compensation, Dan offered us each a tenner. Which I took, and didn't feel (too) guilty about. When you're a student, you don't know where your next meal is coming from, especially when your kitchen is locked with all the food in it. So I took his money, and my karma dropped another 20 credits to now put me into minus karma (I owe God a lot of good deeds...).
If I thought that was the end of my day, I was about to be horribly wrong (again). As a laugh, I told Mark and Dan to tell Cletus (my roommate) that the door is jammed and not to tell him about the fire.
So later that evening myself, Tom and James are making our way to the renowned Friday Night Disco at the Union and who should we meet on our merry way but a certain Cletus!
"HEY MA!" I shout (fans of the Simpsons will get this)
"Hey guys, where are you going?"
"We're on our way to the FND. Oh, by the way, if you can't get into the kitchen it's because the door is jammed."
(Step in Tom and James)
"Actually, it's because Dan set fire to the grill."
"Yeah, yeah, he was cooking burgers right, and suddenly whoof! The place is on fire! So we're not allowed in until Monday"
"Err, yes, I see. Well have a nice night guys!" (leaves)
"You dunces, why'd you go and tell him?! It was going to be so funny!"
I didn't think much of the incident until I stumbled through the door at 2am to find Cletus still awake reading up on study notes (for your information, he has an even more flawless school record than I do). After some idle chatter, Cletus then asks me how to get the door unjammed.
I burst out laughing. "What, you didn't realise it was locked?!"
Cletus then goes into an elaborate explanation of how he was so starving that he spent more than an hour trying to get the door unjammed! "I just couldn't understand why it was not opening" he started, "I took your word for it, when you see Tom and James adding things to each other's already unbelievable story it was plausible to think the door was jammed." Cletus tried the door hundreds of times, and actually walked to the other side of our block to see from the outside if we could have locked it from the inside and escaped out the window!
"I was so mad" he continued, "I was banging on the door and trying to find Mark and Dan but they weren't in. I just couldn't understand why the door wouldn't unlock, it made no sense. I even tried locking our door to get the feel of it and comparing it to the kitchen door." Poor Cletus thought there was a reward for his efforts at the end of it all, but the door wouldn't budge! After an hour of solid effort and starvation off the scale, he phoned for a takeaway, and had to wait a further 45 minutes!
How I laughed, and then I remembered how Dan blocked off the kitchen till Monday trying to grill burgers, and laughed till my sides burst. What a day...
* Since last Tuesday
A Depressing Statement
‘Twas freshers week last week and I trust that you all had a brilliantly good, if somewhat intoxicated time. I, as you will probably have guessed seeing as you all know the banterous nature of my character, was no exception to this and partook in many a joyous and drunken night of mirth and merriment. It is however, with a pained and outraged expression on my face, that I feel that I have a duty to report to all you friends, Romans and countrymen a soul destroying conversion that myself and Downie had one fine evening last week with three wankers who stated without any sign that they thought that the abominable sounds that were cascading uncontrollably from their oral orifices was in fact, the biggest heap of shit since the one that was cleared from the area around Merkland Road to make way for a football stadium. What they said that crisp September evening I find difficult to repeat on these great pages but I’ll try to find the mental strength to bring myself to do it. Deep breaths now everybody what you are about to read will shock you more than if you were to find in twenty years time at our school reunion that Lee Christie was a mafia ringleader with a supermodel girlfriend and a Ferrari in the garage! Make sure you're sitting comfortably and that there are no sharp or pointed objects nearby and please note that if you have a heart condition it may be most unwise to proceed with reading this for the three wankers uttered these terrible words; “Capades are shite! Only complete fucking wankers would do something like that!”
Have you all regained your composure yet? Is all that you now feel inside a bitter hatred for the three aforementioned capade haters, a loathing greater than the one you hold for Big Carol Stuart? Is all that you now want to do hunt them down like the dogs that they are and tattie bogul them like no one has been tattie boguled before? You do! Well that’s just great! Let me continue.
You may be wondering how it came to pass that these three fools came to express this outrageously misguided statement. You may be wondering what was said or done to provoke such an outburst. Or you may simply be wondering what the fuck we were playing at conversing with pricks of this nature in the first place! Well let me start at the beginning.
It was the Tuesday evening of freshers week and my good self and a large gathering of the Tolbooth crew, the usual suspects, I trust you can all workout who I mean, I don’t want to go boring you with a long list that wastes valuable blogging space and is usually somewhat irrelevant to the subject matter in hand. (Was that statement longer than a list of names? Please note the intentional irony!) Well our large group bantered for a considerable time and its main constituents did what is customary for them to do of an evening, I bantered, Yann bantered, Cheesy went for a mental drive and Snail, as usual drank an incomprehensible blend and quantity of alcohol until he reached the point where he becomes a highly argumentative and aggressive little brat, thank fuck him and Morna have buried the hatchet as his demeanour began to quickly resemble that of the night when we abandoned his arrogant little self in town but fortunately his level of hostility did not reach the echelons of that evening.
Due to the cheap prices of drink in the union and the fact that Kyle Henderson was working behind the bar and thus we were getting served considerably more quickly than every other punter, JT and myself consumed a few too many jars of ale, a proficient amount in fact, for us to deem it appropriate to engage in a nitting contest (not knitting you fool). For those of you not in the know, a nitting contest is a game played by two people whereby the participants take it in turns to say the Russian word nit with each saying of the word slightly louder than the last, the winner is therefore the person who can shout nit loudest. Our contest began well enough but the progressively louder nits alerted the attention of a nearby bouncer who began to head our way to investigate the commotion. I noticed the advances of the burly fellow but JT however did not so when the bouncer told us to keep the noise down, JT, unaware of the presence of the security man, continued and let out the loudest NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTT I’ve ever had the honour of hearing. Needless to say we were threatened with expulsion from the union so our nitting was at an end.
The evening soon came to a close and the mass of freshers was herded quickly out of the rear of the union and sent on their way home. Home (this evening Downies halls), was not to be reached for some time, as positioned at the rear of the union was a row of concrete bollards, one of which happened to be unattached at the base and I think you all can guess what we did next.
The bollard was fucking heavy but between us we managed to carry it to The Spital, which most of you will only know as the cobbled part of Snail’s sly route for avoiding the lights on King Street but it is also the site of Brough and Jonny B’s halls. En route we also came across a discarded hubcap so that too was added to the bollard to make the proposed capade more complete. It was at this point in our journey to Brough’s that we met the three aforementioned wankers.
“What the fuck are you doing with that?” asked one of the wankers.
“A capade,” replied a rather shocked looking Downie.
“What’s that? It looks gay to me,” came the second wanker.
I then went on to describe in graphic detail what a capade was. I told them about the nicking and strategic positioning of road signs and cones, I explained what Tattie Boguling was all about but the threesome looked less than impressed.
“That’s just pointless and gay,” exclaimed a bemused looking wanker, “and it’s not funny!”
“But it is funny,” I replied, “very funny indeed.”
“But how is it? It just seems like a waste of time to me!”
“A waste of time!” I shouted, “And it is funny because it pisses people off. If there’s someone that’s a prick then a capade is a good way of annoying them!”
“It just seems pointless and gay!”
“You’re pointless and gay!” I roar at the wanker at the top of my voice. “Fuck off and get on with your mundane existence you miserable git.”
“Everyone at uni will think you’re a dick if you do things like that!” snapped one of the wankers as a parting shot.
Downie and I continued with our capade in defiance but at the same time a great many questions were running through my head. Was capading pointless and gay? Would people at uni think we were dicks? Was it time to stop capading? What would Star, Dabby, Tete, Cheesy and an abundance of other people think if we were to give up?
So it was with these questions in my head that we arrived at Brough’s halls with the intention of dumping our cargo at his door when we met a Glaswegian fellow and his girlfriend outside who thought that what we were proposing to do was hilarious and shook our hands respectfully. This gave me great comfort as it proved that capading was not gay and that it was in fact the three wankers on The Spital who were the gay ones.
Back to the capade itself and we had just discovered a major obstacle in our path; a warden. Fuck! Who were we going to get around that one? Then suddenly an idea struck me; I would try to get in with the hubcap and whilst the warden was giving me a good ticking off Downie would sneak in with the bollard undetected. Or so we thought anyway as when Downie tried to do this the warden glanced up from me at precisely the wrong moment and Downie was rumbled. No problem, we’d just dump it at Jonny B’s instead but alas our hopes were dashed when we got there to discover that Brough’s warden had alerted Jonny B’s warden of our presence and we were sent packing. So it was with our tail’s between our legs that we headed for Downie’s to sleep off the night’s alcoholic excesses.
We later discovered that several students enjoy a good capade as we’ve met a number of fellow capaders from all across Europe, never mind Scotland.
The Ultimate Drinking Game
Many have tried to make a drinking game that is enjoyable and challenging, without being overly complicated or stupidly easy. Striking the correct balance has always been mission impossible, with no drinking game being classed as "essential" to a good evening. Sure, there are old favourites- like shot pontoon, truth or shot, and shots and ladders- but none are a riot to play, and seem more like a vain attempt to get the lesser drinking-orientated participants to get drunk.
Most of the time these games involve sitting patiently for your turn, watching the clock run down until your next turn. Drab affairs every one of them; enjoyable, but nothing special.
That was until last night. Tom, James and I first had a few at a local pub The Wetherspoon before meeting up with James' older brother and his gang of friends. Sitting round a table outside heated by a special outdoor heat lamp (these are awesome, it's like sitting in front of a fire... outside!), the ten of us bantered for a while. I was on the pints of Stella, but most of the contingent were drinking Corona with traditional lime in the neck.
To cut a long story short, we played a drinking game that sounds complicated at first but becomes second nature with a bit of play. It works very well if everyone is willing to try it and get into the spirit of it; if you're going to sit there and grumble "this is crap" it will be, as with all drinking games.
The game starts with two coins in an emptied ash tray. The person who starts throws the coins in, and if it lands on heads-heads then they have to take a drink ("2 fingers" worth). If it lands on tails-tails then they get to nominate someone else, and if it lands on heads-tails the tray moves onto the person on the right. Sounds easy, doesn't it?
But the rules don't stop there! Firstly, you're not allowed to point with anything but your right elbow. Got that okay? Also, before you take any drink you have to "shimmie", which is just a small dance on your seat with your arms that lasts about 2-4 seconds (untimed, you could shimmie for a minute if you really wanted to). Also, to add further complication, you have to take your drink with your left hand, which caught me out everytime because it's so instinctive to pick up my drink with my right hand!
As with a lot of card-based drinking games there are various "masters". There's the "thumbmaster", where an elected thumbmaster will put their thumb on the edge of the table at any moment they want, and the last person to put their thumb on the edge takes a drink. There's the "monkeymaster", where the elected monkeymaster makes a monkey impression and the last person to do so takes a drink. The "chinmaster", probably the best, puts their chin on the table and the last person to put their chin on the table takes a drink. The loser of the various masters replaces the old masters and so forth.
A quick example of the game in action:
James: *Rolls head-head, takes a drink*
Tom: "No shimmie!"
James: *Shimmies, and takes four-fingers worth of drink*
Alex: "Right hand drinking! Another two-fingers!"
James: *Shimmies, picks up drink with left hand and rolls tails-tails. Nominates John*
John: "You didn't point!"
James: *Points to John*
Star: *Points with elbow to James and accuses "no pointing with fingers!" Everyone points at James with their elbows and shouts "no pointing!"*
James: *Rolls tails-head*
*By now half of the table have their thumb on the table except me, James and Karl. Realising, I slyly put my thumb on the table too and look at James. James realises, and everyone points to Karl with their right elbow and cries "2 fingers!"*
Karl: *takes drink*
John: "No shimmie!"
Karl: *Shimmies, takes drink and ducks his chin onto the table. Everyone dives their chins to the table, with Peter being the slowest. Peter takes a drink, and I roll the dice to tails-head*
Alex: "Oooh oooohh ahhh ahh ahhh!" *scratches arm pits*
Everyone: "ohh ohhh ahhh ahh ahhhh!" *James is last, everyone in nearby vicinity looks at us*
Star: *Points with elbow to James* "No right hand drinking!"
The game continued until everyone was most thoroughly buckled, and we headed off to Pulse afterwards. As far as drinking games go, this one is my favourite by a long way. I don't think it would work well with less than eight people, but it's a laugh if you're already drunk and definitely something to do at the pub. Unless you've got a pack of cards or a snakes and ladders board handy, I heartily recommend this game. Now, to think of a name for it...
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