100 Things About Me
In Cyberspace, No One Can Hear You Type
Clicking the "next blog" button is a life choice few make, but those who do choose to press it grow to regret it even if only for a few seconds, while others resent the outcome so much they develop an extreme dislike of all forms of literature: it is that bad. The 'next blog' is not just a metaphor anymore, but something you can actually see and interact with unlike the 'girl next door' metaphor; who for me is a withered aunt who's only resemblance to my ideal girl next door, Jordan, is an oversized chest used primarily to feed her legion of cats. Or so I have heard.
Usually the results are terribly depressing; rushed websites await the web traveller, most of which are pointless or unbearably irrelevant, sometimes even both. Is the literacy rate of people on the internet really so low? This small snapshot of the internet-going public, who it must be stressed feel themselves suitably qualified to write when in fact clearly aren't, are interminably tiresome individuals with either nothing to write about or without the capability to write anything remotely meaningful or interesting. In a lot of ways people like to 'tread water' by trying out this blog thing, admittedly with disastrous results. Motivation can stem from a number of sources; self-actualisation, pleasure, entertainment, and worst of all, boredom. Being bored is never a great motivator and never has been, and as the shelf life of any blog looms ever closer, the boredom gremlin begins to creep up like in those Adult Learning adverts whispering "we can't do this! This is not for us!" Quitters, all of them, but then again being a quitter isn't the stigma these days that it once used to be. No one can keep a blog running permanently, I refuse to believe it. At some point, everyone bites the bullet.
You may be thinking this is the end of Starsite, but far from it. I am merely bemoaning the lack of intelligible or interesting blogs and trying to find some meaning for the offending "next blog" button that seems to churn up never-ending reams of shite. You may not know of the Bloggie awards, but they are gaining a lot of press for reasons that beat me stupid like my right hand on a sunday night. To get a high-ranking blog you need to fulfil these criteria:
* You need to be a huge sell-out
* You can't swear, use offensive or derogatory language
* You have to be a member of about twenty affiliate programs, blogrings, blogrolls and link to about fifty websites none of which you've ever visited. See point one.
* You need to be adorably self-opinionated but not tread on any majority group's toes. Having any discernable opinion on religion makes you a fascist, and any gay-bashing immediately makes you a homophobe.
* Humour must be observational, but not contradict the above point.
* You need a catchy one-liner, the more irreverent and off-beat the better. So a blog called "boing boing" or "not scary, not a duck" will be an immediate success regardless of content or literary merit (actual examples, sadly).
* Owning a blog since 1997 makes it an instant classic, even if it hasn't be updated for eight years
You can't win- all the hyped up blogs are pishwater of the yellowest variety, and all the decent small time blogs are crowded and untraceable from the vast swarms of one-post-jims who never get round to deleting their fucking blog once they've decided that writing isn't actually for them afterall. Who knows, maybe one day I'll look up at that list again and realise I violated each of those points. But by that time my counter will read a healthy 200,000 and I'll have one of those coveted Bloggie awards and the $20.05 amazon voucher to match. Starsite- Can't I Stay Up Longer Mum? Winner.
I lost thread of what I was actually going to write about in these last few paragrpahs, if you couldn't tell. The single-minded rage of the Bloggie awards not only recognising wank blogs but actively rewarding them for being the sell-outs detailed above is enough to make anyone write in excess of five-hundred words to rectify it (ahem). Hey shut up, reading this makes you twice the nerd I am, so you sit and think about that for a moment. In cyberspace, no one can hear you type. Haha I think I might patent that, or at the very least make it this blog's subtitle. Yes, on second thought, that would be the appropriate course of action. The greatest form of wit is that spontaneous charge of genius that no one can explain but is an innate gift of the few.
I had intended to write one hundred things about me as a crash-course in all things Starry, and in fact have. So without further ado, I bring you:
100 Things About Me
- I am known as Waleser to my primary school friends, Star to my academy friends, and The Highlander to my University friends.
- I have been a middle-distance athlete for ten years, and have won the Scottish title three times over 3000m and Cross-Country as an U17 and 800m as an U20.
- I have been fired from three jobs, all of which were dishwashing jobs.
- I have a pet hedgehog called Axl who is an African Breed Pygmy hedgehog of the salt and pepper colour.
- My favourite takeways include curry, kebabs, chinese and Indian.
- I will eat almost anything, although I dislike honey, shell fish and mushrooms.
- I am a reasonably accomplished web designer.
- I do not consider myself to be funny.
- My favourite band is Guns N' Roses, but I am also partial to a lot of hip hop. I will listen to anything so long as it isn't dance music or hard rock.
- I started this blog to provide my friends with an entertaining account of my life, to voice my opinions, to cure boredom, to write an account of my life and to improve my writing.
- I bought a digital camera last year because I have virtually no pictures of myself or others that aren't taken for formal occasions. I printed fifty off at the end of last summer of my friends and they are all on my wall in my Lufbra bedroom.
- My typical mileage in winter is between 40-60 miles/week, but I still consider my sprint to be my strongest point and my endurance to be my weakest.
- The last film I saw was Team America.
- I hate cats because they are overly independent and they walk around like they own the place.
- I also hate dogs who chase me when I run, but I hate their owners even more. I tend to give them abusive language or gestures to show my disgust.
- I avoided a court summons for refusing to pay for a train fare.
- I think South Park is quality and can't stand whining teenage dramas like the OC and Dawson's Creek.
- I secretly like Hanson's new song.
- I drink far too much, but my student budget has helped me cut back due to my inability to afford alcohol anymore.
- I study Psychology and I find the course interesting, but the grades I get for work are the worst I've ever had since primary school. Expect a blog on this in the near future.
- I rate Dabby and Beefy as my best friends as well as a lot of people I'm too pressed for time to name!
- I generally miss breakfast unless I have to work or go to a 9am lecture.
- My fondest memories are of 6th and the early academy years where Dabby, MJ, Goldie and I slummed it out at the bottom of the food chain.
- I was joint top goal scorer in my primary school football team with the school bully.
- If I could change one thing about me it would be the bags under my eyes.
- In five years I have only ever bought two mobile phones.
- I bite my nails and don't care who knows.
- I have a type A personality where I feel constantly pressed by time, impatient, hungry for success and show little emotion.
- I use notepad to write everything.
- On sky my favourite channel is Bravo and least favourite is Living.
- One of my favourite smells is petrol.
- I never watch films more than once in a six-month period.
- I hate disloyalty or people who don't reciprocate effort.
- The Tolbooth has an important spiritual significance for me.
- I have done many petty crimes in my life, most involving relocating choice council signs or cones. I also stole three left over bananas today from a conference room that had been used.
- My favourite job was working for a kid's sports camp, even though I got landed with a paedophile retard. Only fellow co-workers could hope to sympathise with me.
- Every blog is based on a shred of truth, usually distorted for comic effect.
- I am overly competitive in accordance with my Type A personality.
- I love listening to Tupac and Biggie even though I'm not a gangster or a Nigga.
- The thought of physical torture is unbearable.
- I hate the cold.
- I have only ever properly been abroad once to Turkey; the rest of the times I visited france, and Belgium for two days where I ran my 1500m pb of 3:50.43.
- People who hum or whistle seriously piss me off.
- My ankles crack when I walk, but only very perceptive people have ever commented on it.
- My best summer involved staying up to 4am most nights drinking.
- I hate getting up to the sound of an alarm.
- I pushed my twin sister into a tv when I was little causing a permanent mark beside her eye. I have no recollection of the event whatsoever.
- I have had a hernia removed, my tonsils removed, gromits put into my ears and countless other problems in my early years.
- The average blog takes me well in excess of an hour to write.
- I dislike lists but use them all the same.
- My first kiss was with Victoria Officer and I have since lost my virginity. I two-timed two girls when I was in primary one and had to invite both to my birthday party.
- My favourite drink is Carlsberg Export and spirit is Butterscotch Schnapps.
- I am cocksure of my pool skills despite getting beat regularly. It takes me about four games to get used to a table before I start winning.
- I will watch any sport on television and have found myself watching darts, skiing and indoor bowls.
- My academic record currently reads 11111111, AAAAAA, AA at standard grade, higher and advanced higher respectively.
- I am atheist. I have a very low opinion of people with absurd religious beliefs, and especially people who use their ignorance as a soure of pride.
- I can't bear camp men.
- I love seeing my name in print.
- My ultimate goal would be the acquisition of money in great amounts. Money, contrary to popular belief, really can buy everything.
- My current favourite song is Locomotive by Guns N' roses.
- I have downloaded thousands of pounds worth of tv shows, music, and programs. I plan to return them all once I'm finished.
- I crave for my own car.
- I will only ever make or keep a promise if it was I who instigated it. If someone asked me "do you promise... [you didn't take those bananas?]" I will lie and not feel any remorse for it. You are naked without your ability to lie.
- I watch neighbours when I can.
- I am an msn addict. I regularly rotate my msn name to keep me amused.
- I spell check every blog although some grammatical errors do slip through. I also use a thesaurus because I want to improve my writing.
- I think I can do anything when I'm very drunk. I wake up with huge memory blanks and do seriously stupid things that I don't remember.
- I am an exam whizz. Ask me anything.
- Yet, I am undeniably crap at pub quiz's. My general knowledge is pathetic.
- The last thing you'll ever hear me say is "you're right" unless it's with sarcastic intent.
- My relationship with my parents is extremely distant. I have not heard from them for a month.
- I was one of the most popular kids in primary school. I also got into three fights- all of which were broken up by a playground attendant.
- Rich people can suck my bell, until I'm rich, where they can be my best friends.
- I have no idea what career I want to take, despite being in my final year of University next year.
- My leg muscles are well defined, but the cold Scottish summer doesn't lend itself to short-wearing. As a consequence, people categorise me as skinny for my upper body.
- I'm a sucker for novelty records that lose their appeal after a few listens.
- If the money is right, I will gladly move abroad to a warmer country to work.
- I never read books, everything I know about writing has come from magazines and school work.
- My bed has some sort of magnetic force. I can never get out of it unless I have a meeting or engagement.
- I went through a very brief skater-punk phase.
- I shave once a week.
- I have fond memories of SNES games and N64 games where I had an unnatural obsession.
- I am not a nerd, but if you were to write my interests and academic record I would fill all the criteria.
- I won the English prize at my academy despite not reading any of the books or showing any interest in class.
- I raced a school bus and won, making the front page of the Press and Journal and pages of the Sun and the Scotsman.
- My hair is a constant source of annoyance. No matter what treatment or haircare product used, it always looks crap.
- I can be really lazy for certain things.
- There is no feeling more satisfying than getting into a warm bed after a cold shower.
- My room mate last year was an African called Cletus, who I filmed on this website without him knowing for a full week using my webcam.
- If someone buys me a pint, I always buy them one back.
- I hate being taken for granted.
- I have never tried recreational drugs but am always open to new experiences, even if it means overcoming my dislike of mushrooms.
- I hate all forms of public transport, even though it takes me nine hours to get from my Ellon home to my Loughborough home.
- I have been with Leanne for over two years now. I rarely mention her on this blog.
- I seldomly buy new clothes or any unnecessary indulgences.
- I spend over ?35 a week on food, ?65 on rent, ?5-10 on alcohol and ?20 on nights out. My student loan doesn't even cover rent and tuition fees, despite being ?4000.
- Some of my most cherished comments are on my Yearbook.
- When I grow old I want to grow old disgracefully, like Hugh Heffner.
- I can text faster than the current Guinness world record.
- This post is now the longest I have ever written: it is 2665 words.
The "G" Word
Watching the recent Manchester United versus Exeter City FA cup third round tie, Monsieur Lawrence embarked upon yet another of his vituperative rants. Tongue laced with acid, he began slating Manchester United forward Cristiano Ronaldo with such compulsion it left gentle Mark open-jawed with astonishment. In the space of ten seconds he had systematically managed to use every swear word and associated conjunction I had ever heard of or even dared to imagine. Such was the ferocity of his outburst that it caused James to shuffle awayn slowly from the erupting volcano, his lips quivering with trepidation at the prospect of Lawrence lashing out at the nearest person in fury. Amidst the barrage of insults I managed to count the word "nigger" a total of thirty-seven times, a feat that even the late Mrockzchek would tip his hat to. His face red and twisted an evil shape of anger, Lawrence bellowed "fucks sake!" as an intermediary pause between slanging stanzas, his stinging words aimed squarely at poor unassuming figure on television.
Losing breath slightly, Lawrence calmed down into what we now call the "secondary" outburst that consists of a more lower-toned aggression, whereby his utter disgust and contempt at (in particular Manchester United) opposing players and fans is recited to himself, almost oblivious to anyone in the room. The famous Lawrence tantrum can be thrown at any minute; once, I caught him shouting at the kitchen hob for a full five minutes while it warmed, screaming "your cunter mother I will fuck" repeatedly until we got our second warning from the neighbours who rather sympathetically have put us on a weekly tri-warning system. Still babbling to himself, Lawrence depicted a harrowing tale of Christiano Ronaldo living on the streets, gaining sustenance in the form of male cum from his clientele of lonely male homosexuals. A wry smile emerged as he pondered the dynamics of Ronaldo falling from grace, his psychotic leer and subsequent transfixion on the baby-faced star left a chilling silence in the room, us being careful not to appear to be taking sides by talking amongst each other, such is the raging paranoia built up in the Rushden and Diamonds fan. He sat with his chin slightly protruded towards the television set, his blinkrate never broaching the two blink per minute barrier. With a cold hostility and view to channelling his hatred for the United forward by some form of extrasensory occult power, he sat in this frozen state until half time, the whistle acting like some magical "now wake!" signal from Paul McKenna himself.
Lawrence can snap at any given moment, and regularly loses the plot over the most trivial of things. He doesn't "dislike" anything- he's either impartial to something, or he hates it with a vehement passion that shows clear signs of neuroticism. If you go into his room, the first thing you'll notice are the dents in his walls that you would rightly deduce are the product of his fists. He scrawled "die, Henry, die" onto his back using an elaborate system of pulleys, knives and mirrors claiming that scars are "real man's tattoos" and that "if you so much as say a word of this to anyone" followed by the motion of me dying of aids. I really don't want to get into how he showed me that, but it involved a jar of marmalade and a goat's torso he'd stashed under his bed as an offering to his own personal god.
Yet, for all this you may imagine that even though his rants are amusing in a kind of perversely entertaining kind of way, he can be quite philosophical in between bursts of obscene language. As the second half began, Lawrence laid back and watched the action from his vantage point of twenty centimetres from the surface of the screen. Suddenly and inexplicably Lawrence jumped from his seat, and started clawing at the pixellated representation of Ronaldo's eyes and attempting to bite him, the curvature of the screen causing him to get a laughable "lock-jaw." As he muttered to himself in childlike fashion, I managed to pick up a scrap of Lawrence logic filter through the match commentary. Still on the subject of Ronaldo, he branded the twenty-one year old "an arrogant little baby." I never thought much of it at the time, but when I retreated to my bedroom I began to ponder Lawrence's musings.
Can you have an arrogant baby? It's not something you really associate with an infant, but seems more like an adult trait. Can you 'learn' arrogance? At first, the "arrogant baby" seemed like a paradox ("a seemingly contradictory statement that may nonetheless be true"). Using my Nobel non-nominated paradox killer, The ChuChu Rocket Analogy, the results came back conclusive:
Deceptively simple, The ChuChu Rocket Analogy
has puzzled academics for generationsAs the mouse never enters the paradox loop, it can't even be a paradox, let alone one that is resolvable. Thus, it must be an oxymoron. And you thought the ChuChu Rocket Analogy was just a stupid concept that had no real-world application. ~~~~~~~~~In other ponderings, I've been wondering: why are there ginger people in the world? I'm no advocate of the Eugenics movement; in fact, some gingers (pronounced GING-ERS) of the female variety are actually mildly attractive. But like Lawrence stated in one of his more well mannered moods, you'd tell them to 'shave down there' first, provided they hadn't yet come to the same conclusion. If we take an evolutionary approach to the Ginger phenomenon, we see that being a ginger confers no evolutionary advantage as defined by Charles Darwin in his seminal Origin Of Species. For simplicity, I'm going to relate to Ginger Men- where I will argue that they are impoverished by their strikingly disagreeable looks. * Variation Under Nature: Variations within a species begin indistinguishable at first, but gradually develop into differences that have an evolutionary advantage. Gingers are immediately noticeable by prey; they also tend to be hideously ugly. Ginger men lie squarely at the bottom of the food chain and are outcast from most groups, and also fail to score with the opposite sex unless they too are ginger, in which the case the offspring are destined to be cursed with comedy hair. * Struggle For Existence: "Each organic being is striving to multiply to be vigorous, healthy, and to survive - often at the expense of members of its own species or those of a competing species." To lessen the damage, Gingers are always "skimmed" from the group. If you have to start somewhere, Darwin would have argued in a less-politically correct era, it may as well be gingers. * Laws Of Variation: One day the ginger gene will be eliminated, see above. This will create a super-race of blondes, brunettes, blackies and even purple-haired people; it is no coincidence that the colour ginger doesn't occur in nature. One day the gingers will be wiped out, and those left will be stuffed ornaments in the Natural History Museum; a shocking display of the inadequacy of current human evolution through cell mutation. "A brighter future" the slogan will run below, "a dimmer hair colour." * Instinct: Currently the instinct to ginger hair has been repressed; long ago, it was a physical vomit. Now it's a wretch. In the future, it will be a compulsion to kill, kill, kill. See the above point. You can't argue with Darwinian logic; so please, if you have to screw a ginger, make sure she is well shaved. And make sure you have a sturdy and highly robust condom.
The Battle Of Baby Park
 Gently putting down the Gamecube controller in satisfied fashion, Jibba turned smugly to the seated contingent. From the glowing screen were the ranks "JIB" stretching down the column entitled "Records", his hands still moist with the sweat of effort. Despite the seminal game being set aside for the quest for FIFA perfection, the big man had dusted off the controller in secret and began single-handedly tearing down the times of the self-proclaimed "Timetriallist, The"; the recognised master of time-shaving powerslides and general Mario Kart maestro. The Eliteness; the MK Master- his title was unquestioned, his dominance undisputed. His stunning lap times and solo achievements were considered irreproachable; a beacon onto where all future performances would be gauged. Yet, lurking in the shadows, laid a foe who would mount a challenge on the great man of gaming. His pedigree was largely unknown despite having numerous Grand Prix victories to his name, the real prestige would always come with battles against the clock where the scourge of ground-levelling items were but a distant bitter memory. He would go by the initials "JIB"; the unmistakable calling sign of the enemy! The sensai was known only by the initials F.A.G., reputed to be either an acronym of great secrecy or an inadvertent insult to would-be contenders who would suffer the indignity of losing to the self-proclaimed FAG. The annuls had been rewritten. The initials F.A.G were no longer sitting proudly atop the Mario Kart halls of fame, leading to widespread confusion and discontent. Watching this uncouth renegade in the audience was the esteemed FAG himself; a man of great lore and mystique, whose Karting skills had quashed the wills and competitive instincts of weaker men. Where lesser beings would have panicked or conceded defeat, the FAG sat silently, soaking in the air of expectation. With a simple flick of the wrist, the challenge had been laid in his hands; he was holding the controller, and that could mean only one thing: It was on. The course for the title would be Baby Park- the deceptively simple oval loop, a test of fourteen corners spread across seven laps. To conquer it demands impeccable timing, precision and concentration, for the two combatants would be battling for mere tenths of an advantage over a tantalisingly beginner course that would be decimated by the seasoned experts... there are no gimmicks, obstacles or obstructions in Baby Park, only ten-seconds worth of tarmac. To complete Baby Park is an insultingly simple task- to master it in its fullest, however, requires literally pixel-perfect timing and blue-exhaust boosting at each corner. There is no margin for error; if even one corner goes badly, then you are forced to restart. There is no truer test of cornering abilities than the epoch-making Baby Park. With this in mind, the mighty FAG let the contours of the controller slip effortlessly into his palm and readied himself to re-establish his position as at the top of the rankings board. Rediscovering that magic touch, the revered virtuoso weaved and dodged around the symmetrical track, hitting the corners with clinical precision and keeping the racing line that he was famous for. Screeching round the final bend, he pulled in with a time that shattered the 1:16-second barrier (hereby known as the "elusive sixteen second barrier") and claimed top-spot ahead of the unruly rival. Truly, a masterful display had just been achieved but it was not to last long. Saving the ghost, it took the best part of a half hour for the notorious FAG's challenger to best him with a time that would be a low fifteen. Speculation grew as to whether or not this barrier could be broken. "There is a good second to come off that yet" the FAG confidently predicted amidst gasps and yells of "you're crazy!". Snatching the pad, the FAG set about redefining the parameters of Baby Park. Following his rival's ghost, he cut the corners with an extreme display of driver manoeuvring, attacking the bends with ferocious tilt and consistency. After several attempts, a near perfect run-in had achieved the seemingly impossible- a one-fourteen had been achieved, much to the admiration of the assembled masses. The competition managed to draw in wandering passer-by’s, who grew curious as to where the whoops and cries were coming from. It would take his opponent several attempts to even come close; so long, in fact, that the FAG went for a long run to pass the time. When he returned, the aura of smugness on his rival's face told the whole story. Drawing a deep breath, the FAG entered the living room to see those heart-dropping statistics: JIB 1:14.287 FAG 1:14.563 After trying for a considerable time, it seemed like his predictions would prove true that for the Koopa/Toad combo a one-fourteen was maxing out the limits of the racing line. Never letting up, the FAG raced until the tips of his fingers bled. Then, on one momentous trial the ghost was behind on lap four- could he continue this unflaltering pace to the line? As the Kart swung in for the final lap, a noticeable lead had been gained on the map. Keeping his concentration, the Kart powered round the final bend as the collective held their breath. Crossing the line, the inconceivable time flooded the screen- the fourteen second barrier had been broached, and the FAG regained his lead. The ghost was nigh-on perfection, could this stunning time be matched? After over an hour of unrelenting practice, JIB had pulled together a stunning display of Karting to record a high one-thirteen; mere thousands of a second in front of FAG. It seemed like the great man would have to once again rise to the occasion and prove his worth in an ever-increasingly demanding competition. Stopping his meal mid-way, the furious FAG grabbed the controller and set himself to breaking the elusive record set by his most worthy of rivals. The Battle Of Baby Park seemed to have tapered off at 1:13.6. Regardless of the amounts of attempts it seemed that this time would stand until the next generation of drivers would give up the loyal Koopa/Toad combo and have to beat the record by ulterior means. Then, when it seemed all hope was lost, something magical occurred. Putting together what can only be described as the indefectible performance, each corner clicked into place with mathematical precision and timing, typifying why the FAG is the envy of all pretender drivers. He wasn't just racing faster; he was racing smarter, and knocking chunks out of the ghost. Such a display had never been seen before, it was unquestionably the pinnacle of racing perfection. Charging towards the line, the final time registered a time that no one had dared dream imaginable: He had recorded 1:12.882, smashing the previous mark, becoming the only member of the illustrious sub-thirteen club. It was a standard that Jibba would attempt to break for nearly two solid hours. The gallant, triumphant FAG sipped Carlsberg all during Jibba's feeble attempts, smugly satisfied with his indelible performance. To this day FAG rides high on the crest of perfection, still the only member of the exclusive sub-thirteen Baby Park club. If you've skipped to the end, please take a moment to realise that the "sub-thirteen Baby Park club" isn't what it sounds like. Honestly! 
Late Entry...
Mason, Tom, Star, Jibba, Ako
Photo Blog
A picture is worth a thousand words. If so, the following blog is worth in excess of 134,000 words :p
I'll be frank- I haven't done any revision or work for my exams whatsoever. Alas, no, I've been working long in a running shop and busy doing more important things like combing my hair than to be bothered with the trifle issue of exams. Except, these exams are weighted as 20% of my final degree. Ye gods.
So for the coming fortnight I will have to keep as low a profile as is possible, entering sunlight only to snatch what scraps of food I can before retiring to the darkness to work ever harder at trying to nail these exams. Which is bad news for you, blog fans. This dreadful news will likely leave you weeping at the keyboard, wondering why this cruel fate has befallen you. If you're bored, I suggest you read a book. However drab Austen is, it'll make you appreciate this site even more and you'll have broadened your intellectual horizons, if only marginally.
As some form of mild compensation, I have uploaded a choice selection of photos from mine very own digitalis camerus. Be warned- I am not the best of photographers, especially not when drunk. Most of the photos are cringingly amateurish at best, but I feel they are representative of what they're supposed to show. Mostly, people. And in some cases, animals.
To use the 'Hello' programme could take a lifetime, so instead I've just uploaded them to the Scottish Boozing server for all to glance at. I'm too busy and in demand to put them into a 'proper' album, so the links with the sexual-sounding prefix 'S5300XXX' will have to suffice. If I could make money out of this blog, trust me, I would write a hell of a lot more often. But as it stands, this degree is my best chance of not living in the gutter and ruing chances lost... so I bid farewell, for the time being.
>>STAR'S CAMERA PHOTOS<<
Sixty-Second Profile: Dabby's Brother
Ah, Dabby's brother- an enigma in his own right. Often considered an ancillary character in the savage lineage, Dabby's brother was the heir apparent; a poor mans Dabby, forever consigned to being a mere novelty. A likeness unlike any other, Dabby's brother was a sporadic source of entertainment perchance any fortuitous encounter 'tween corridor walls. Fondly remembered as the amiable underachiever, Dabby's brother was always somewhat of a mystery package to us. His silent demeanor and short exposure left much to the imagination, as he went about his daily life with as much dignity as he could muster, given the unfortunate resemblance to one of Ellon Academy's finest characters. Indeed, he seemed forever resigned to live his life in his alter-ego's shadow, however much he tried to etch out his own individual being. To this day he remains a misunderstood passer-by, having no discernible background other than being a remarkably similar second best to the original Dabby. So, my dear friends, let us raise a glass to the man of mirror images, lest we forget his all-encompassing powers of effortless impersonation. The next time you're standing in a corridor, pay close attention. You never know if Dabby's elusive brother will walk by in front of your very eyes.
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