If you attend college in England (and possibly the rest of the UK as well) you have to take what's known as an 'enrichment' course, wherein you are taught things like 'thinking' and 'reasoning' and 'critical thinking,' and the most productive of all, 'general studies' which are all things that are supposed to help you get into university. What they actually do is teach you nothing in particular that is any more helpful for getting into uni than being taught first aid. The best thing in the world, without a shadow of doubt, is doing 'extended project' in A2 (second year) because you failed thinking and reasoning in the first year because you were ill. Especially when the teacher isn't there because she seems to be permanently ill. All that happens whenever I actually attend one of these extended project sessions (to call them "lessons" would be like referring to the CIA as an "afterschool club") is a bloke called Richard takes the register, sends us all an email containing a useless document which nobody's going to take the time to read because we're all too busy trying to get an education, and a noticeable amount of time is wasted.
I haven't actually been told what I'm supposed to be doing in these extended project sessions, all the documents tell me is that I can do "literally anything." Like what? At least give me some bloody ideas. I can't ask Richard because he probably doesn't really know either and all he does is takes the register and then bloody leaves. He doesn't come back. He's probably gone to make himself a cup of instant coffee with semi-skimmed milk and two teaspoons of white sugar and sit in the staffroom doing the crossword in the papers.
Now, my father's been sent a letter by the college telling him that I've only been going to 20% of the extended project lessons I've been required to go to. It told him that if my attendance were to drop to below 75% by half term, I'd have to go into college on a day off, and attend an all-day session. Big fucking brass bollocks. I bet what's going to happen is I'll go to the first of my bi-weekly sessions to be told I don't have to attend for the next few weeks because my teacher, although in college and teaching English, isn't quite '100%.' Gah!
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Anger Issues
Everyone seems really angry these days. This could be because the vast majority of the people I know are in their late teens and at this age, you either love something, hate something, or couldn't give a shit either way. You can't quite like something, or not really like something, or be impartial to a bit of something on the odd occasion, for instance, I don't know many people who love the PS3 and also rather like the Xbox 360, they either love the PlayStation and hate the Xbox or vice-versa, the same goes for Marmite, Stella Artois, and "heavy metal" band Black Veil Brides.
People always say "The Black Veil Brides". That's wrong. It's like saying "The Spider-Man" or "The Red Dwarf", there's no 'the'. Believe me, I hate BVB as much as the next guy but that's not the point. It's also annoying when people say "Porsh" instead of "Porsha", as it should be because it's German (about the German car manufacturer Porsche, if you don't know what I'm talking/writing about). Same goes for Asbergers. It's Ass-Burgers because it's an Austrian name and the Austrian national language is German, and in German, the letter G is pronounced as a hard G ('guh') if it precedes a vowel within a word. So nyuhh. I mean you don't say "Mer-seeds" (Mercedes), do you?
Anyway, where were we? Anger, that's right. People need to stop being so angry about music that's not to their tastes; it was created for people to enjoy, and they do, so be angry about something worth being angry about, like racism, or homophobia, or Nickelback, or something.
Goodness me...
People always say "The Black Veil Brides". That's wrong. It's like saying "The Spider-Man" or "The Red Dwarf", there's no 'the'. Believe me, I hate BVB as much as the next guy but that's not the point. It's also annoying when people say "Porsh" instead of "Porsha", as it should be because it's German (about the German car manufacturer Porsche, if you don't know what I'm talking/writing about). Same goes for Asbergers. It's Ass-Burgers because it's an Austrian name and the Austrian national language is German, and in German, the letter G is pronounced as a hard G ('guh') if it precedes a vowel within a word. So nyuhh. I mean you don't say "Mer-seeds" (Mercedes), do you?
Anyway, where were we? Anger, that's right. People need to stop being so angry about music that's not to their tastes; it was created for people to enjoy, and they do, so be angry about something worth being angry about, like racism, or homophobia, or Nickelback, or something.
Goodness me...
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Silly People Are So Silly
It's okay to think Steely Dan is a solo artist if you've never heard of them. I did. It is not, however, okay to think Lynyrd Skynyrd, Pink Floyd, or Fleetwood Mac are solo artists, it is unbelievably silly. The kind of people who think this also think Adolf Hitler is still alive, they think Titanic is a work of fiction, they even think the Apollo 11 moon landings were filmed in a studio in California. Silly, silly people.
I am a silly person. Silly for not liking Queen because my mum doesn't, silly for eating breakfast at 1:30 in the afternoon, silly for eating that Chinese curry which has (along with a buggertonne of caffeinated energy drinks) given me the furious shits, which isn't pleasant considering I've spent the last week or so with a colon like a game of Kerplunk - i.e.: I pull out a straw and hope I don't drop a marble - although on the flipside, having the brown mist descend gave me the unending pleasure of shitting on a largely empty beach in the Norfolk sunshine. It was messy. It's probably still there.
There's nothing quite like finding a nice, picturesque, pristine sand dune overlooking a nice, picturesque, pristine beach one side and a nice, picturesque, pristine salt marsh on the other with a nice, picturesque, pristine English countryside landscape, and pouring a well-cooked bum casserole all over it.
This entire post is very silly indeed, and needs to end before I lose my marbles (in more ways than one).
Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.
I am a silly person. Silly for not liking Queen because my mum doesn't, silly for eating breakfast at 1:30 in the afternoon, silly for eating that Chinese curry which has (along with a buggertonne of caffeinated energy drinks) given me the furious shits, which isn't pleasant considering I've spent the last week or so with a colon like a game of Kerplunk - i.e.: I pull out a straw and hope I don't drop a marble - although on the flipside, having the brown mist descend gave me the unending pleasure of shitting on a largely empty beach in the Norfolk sunshine. It was messy. It's probably still there.
There's nothing quite like finding a nice, picturesque, pristine sand dune overlooking a nice, picturesque, pristine beach one side and a nice, picturesque, pristine salt marsh on the other with a nice, picturesque, pristine English countryside landscape, and pouring a well-cooked bum casserole all over it.
This entire post is very silly indeed, and needs to end before I lose my marbles (in more ways than one).
Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Day of Reckoning
So I got my A level results today. They were pretty good, considering I failed the shit out of music. Don't feel too bad for me, it's not the end of the world, I can still go back in September.
Some of the systems my college have are really silly sometimes. For instance, this year my college aren't printing out hard copies of results for students, which means we can only access them online. What if a student has no internet connection? I know it's 2012 but you still can't completely rule it out. Also, their security is severly flawed, using turnstyles activated by swipe cards (something which I imagine isn't uncommon) which only work if they feel like it. Much like the students who pass through them on a daily basis. The cards themselves are disabled by the slightest crack or split in the least compromising area (my which I mean nowhere near the magnetic strip). They are silly. Very silly indeed.
Not much has happened in the month since I last posted. Coffee still summons the chocolate monsoon, I still can't drive, and I've still got more useless crap than I know what to do with. Maybe I'll use them to build a glider and fly to Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty; or Hotel California, such a lovely place.
I'm running out of ideas now.
Farewell.
Some of the systems my college have are really silly sometimes. For instance, this year my college aren't printing out hard copies of results for students, which means we can only access them online. What if a student has no internet connection? I know it's 2012 but you still can't completely rule it out. Also, their security is severly flawed, using turnstyles activated by swipe cards (something which I imagine isn't uncommon) which only work if they feel like it. Much like the students who pass through them on a daily basis. The cards themselves are disabled by the slightest crack or split in the least compromising area (my which I mean nowhere near the magnetic strip). They are silly. Very silly indeed.
Not much has happened in the month since I last posted. Coffee still summons the chocolate monsoon, I still can't drive, and I've still got more useless crap than I know what to do with. Maybe I'll use them to build a glider and fly to Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty; or Hotel California, such a lovely place.
I'm running out of ideas now.
Farewell.
Monday, 16 July 2012
A Letter to Coffee
Dear coffee,
Oh, how I love you so; your ability to give me the energy to face the day; your strong, wonderous flavour, unspoiled by semi-skimmed milk and/or sugar; and your seemingly endless supply, instant or otherwise. But I have one question to ask, coffee:
Why, dear God why, do you always insist on giving me the raging shits every time I feel like a hot cup of brown? Honestly, it's really annoying. I still can't figure out if instant is worse than ground, or vice versa. Even if I consume the rich, brown, almost immorally delicious nectar that you are on an empty stomach, you can turn nothing into a metric tonne of shit. How in the name of Jesus H. Tapdancing Fucking Christ do you do that? Even weapons grade laxatives have a hard time doing that.
What I'm trying to say, coffee, is that you are everything I could want in a hot beverage: hot (always a good place to start), strong, brewed, rich, dark, invigorating, and fucking God damn delicious. Except you punish me (and everyone else's sinuses) for no reason. It's a shame we can't take our relationship further, it really is. Unfortunately, there's no chance of us ever having a sexual relationship because
A) You're a drink
and
B) The human personification of the kind of coffee I like is Mr T and quite frankly I'd rather have a sexual relationship with the leftover bits of Anne Robinson.
Sorry.
Your's sensually,
Sam x
Oh, how I love you so; your ability to give me the energy to face the day; your strong, wonderous flavour, unspoiled by semi-skimmed milk and/or sugar; and your seemingly endless supply, instant or otherwise. But I have one question to ask, coffee:
Why, dear God why, do you always insist on giving me the raging shits every time I feel like a hot cup of brown? Honestly, it's really annoying. I still can't figure out if instant is worse than ground, or vice versa. Even if I consume the rich, brown, almost immorally delicious nectar that you are on an empty stomach, you can turn nothing into a metric tonne of shit. How in the name of Jesus H. Tapdancing Fucking Christ do you do that? Even weapons grade laxatives have a hard time doing that.
What I'm trying to say, coffee, is that you are everything I could want in a hot beverage: hot (always a good place to start), strong, brewed, rich, dark, invigorating, and fucking God damn delicious. Except you punish me (and everyone else's sinuses) for no reason. It's a shame we can't take our relationship further, it really is. Unfortunately, there's no chance of us ever having a sexual relationship because
A) You're a drink
and
B) The human personification of the kind of coffee I like is Mr T and quite frankly I'd rather have a sexual relationship with the leftover bits of Anne Robinson.
Sorry.
Your's sensually,
Sam x
Thursday, 28 June 2012
I'm Full of Drugs!
Jesus tap-dancing Christ it's hot in here. The windows here only open so far and the air isn't conditioned, it's filtered so it isn't being cooled, so it's hot as fuck in here. Jesus.
Hospitals are boring. It's nothing like the hospitals in Scrubs or Holby City or Doctors, there's no drama, illicit sex, conflict, or even a flatline (at least not since I got here). I'm just sat in my really fucking hot room watching daytime TV and perusing the internet on this decade old laptop I've been given, waiting for a nurse to come in to fill me up with antibiotics through an I.V. line in my left arm. Either that or waiting for a different nurse to take another gallon of my blood by stabbing at any raised vein with a needle like a frightened criminal. Mind you, it's not all bad. Despite what they all say about hospital food, it's actually not that bad. I also get offered a cup of coffee every now and again.
If someone tells you they're not squeamish, they're lying. They can watch all the gory horror movies, genuine gore pictures from the darkest corners of the internet, surgical videos, whatever, as soon as someone puts a 50cm wire into their arm to guide the plastic tube that's about to follow it, they'll show you just how strong-stomached they really are. When I was nine, I was admitted into the Children's Hospital in central Birmingham for I.V. antibiotics for the second time. At the time I thought I could handle anything, that was of course until I saw blood erupting from my arm like it had been holding in a piss for four hours. That still disturbs me when I think about it.
Seeing my consultant tomorrow to find out if I'm being filled with the right drugs because, worryingly, nobody's quite sure. Oh well, early days.
Hospitals are boring. It's nothing like the hospitals in Scrubs or Holby City or Doctors, there's no drama, illicit sex, conflict, or even a flatline (at least not since I got here). I'm just sat in my really fucking hot room watching daytime TV and perusing the internet on this decade old laptop I've been given, waiting for a nurse to come in to fill me up with antibiotics through an I.V. line in my left arm. Either that or waiting for a different nurse to take another gallon of my blood by stabbing at any raised vein with a needle like a frightened criminal. Mind you, it's not all bad. Despite what they all say about hospital food, it's actually not that bad. I also get offered a cup of coffee every now and again.
If someone tells you they're not squeamish, they're lying. They can watch all the gory horror movies, genuine gore pictures from the darkest corners of the internet, surgical videos, whatever, as soon as someone puts a 50cm wire into their arm to guide the plastic tube that's about to follow it, they'll show you just how strong-stomached they really are. When I was nine, I was admitted into the Children's Hospital in central Birmingham for I.V. antibiotics for the second time. At the time I thought I could handle anything, that was of course until I saw blood erupting from my arm like it had been holding in a piss for four hours. That still disturbs me when I think about it.
Seeing my consultant tomorrow to find out if I'm being filled with the right drugs because, worryingly, nobody's quite sure. Oh well, early days.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
The Kitchen Incident
Great globs of fetid milk fall repulsively into the rinser, the foul stench filling my nostrils.
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.
My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.
And I wonder why I can't pull...
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.
My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.
And I wonder why I can't pull...
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