... blong?

Today I witnessed the strangest sight I have ever seen.

On the bus home was a young man, and by the Gods I do swear he was possessed by demons. He struggled wearily up the stairs, tackling each step as though it was a very mountain, and lifting his aching muscles through mind-strength alone. Eventually did he manage to sit down, but this was just the beginning of his ordeals. Oftentimes through the journey I heard him muttering to himself, and growling as if through some bitter feud with his very soul. One time did he stand up, and strip off many of his sweat-soaked clothings. I fear the motion of transport was too much for him, however, and he fell down again with the contortions of one in constant torture.

Glancing rapidly left and right, this nervous young fellow seemed of a disposition not to be molested; for were he to be so disturbed, his devilous mindperils would surely sense a danger, and he would attack the hapless molester with all the fury of Satan himself.

Verily then, this youth had a mind polluted. Polluted with the unwanted babble of a thousand screaming demons.

Either that or he was very very drunk.

Also today, I tried Branston Pickle for the first time in about three years (cheese on its own is horrible, and there were no other sauces in the cupboard) and found out that actually I rather like it. Just after this I discovered that cheeks can go crunch if you bite them hard enough.

I now have a flap of skin hanging off the inside of my cheek, and it still hurts five hours later.

That's right, today I'm not going to make any jokes. Or even be remotely funny. I'm just going to babble for a while about my life, and you'll damn well read it, or else I shall sulk.

Hmm. So, today's been ok. I guess.

I got me my V ticket a couple of days ago, and my parents are refusing to pay for it. I'm gonna have to resort to prostitution.

Probably.

Lovely weather we've been having. Some interesting cumulo-nimbus formations, and even a spot of the old trans-atlantic wind coming into play.

Easter soon. Chocolate. Sounds like a deal.

I've been going out with the lovely Gracey-poos for a couple of weeks. I shall have metaphorical sex with her on Friday.

Probably.

I failed my mocks. Daddy says I have to do 30 hours revision per week until the exams.

Should be fun.

Possibly.

...

The writing above is my sensible post.

The picture below is me being foolish with bubblewrap.



Oh, and I've given up on druidism. The climate's just not right.

Today I begin my 18th orbit of the Sun. I am old.

This orbit sees me becoming road-legal, and soon, no doubt, terrorising innocents with the amazing speed, power and agility of the Vauxhall Astra.

I am also, due to some mightily screwed-up legislation, now allowed to kiss girls (or indeed boys) over the age of 16: apparantly it's illegal for under-16s to kiss anyone. It's good to know the Government is so eager to prevent unsolicited and dangerous activities like underage kissing.

Mmmm.

I'm hoping for a sombrero, or at least some kind of silly Mexican headwear.

Presents so far include a rather nifty tweed jacket, courtesy of master Mikey P.



And some compost.

Mmmm.

I've decided I want to live in a tree. A big one, with holes cut into it for rooms. The furniture would be living tree, and I'd sleep on a pile of leaves. I would be at one with nature, and have deep meaningful conversations with squirrels (all they can talk about at the moment is their nuts).

I'd dress in a robe made of treecloth, and drink the sap of the tree. I'd weave joyful dances with wolves, and gaze at the stars by night. I'd laugh the laugh of the forest, and pull faces at chimpanzees.

I'd sing with all the voices of the mountains, and paint with all the colours of the wind.

I'd make bad puns about finding my roots, and branching out in life. I'd cackle the glee of a merry merry man, and doodle on the trees with my teeth.

In fact, I think I will.

Might not see you for a while, I don't think they have broadband in nature.

This sounds like willy but is, in fact, a different word.

Tuesday is games afternoon so, with nothing better to do, we sauntered over to Castle Park, where they have a set of fairly hardcore Roman walls. And the Romans tend to build things chunky: ---------->

(These aren't in Castle Park. They are merely chunky and Roman.)

I discovered the best wall ever. Romans weren't too good at building straight (yes, shut up, I know about the roads) so this wall angled at about 20 degrees. To make up for their lack of straightness, and with the kind of wisdom that comes with having the largest army in the known world, they decided to build it 30 foot high. It also has moss on it, and painful sticky-out bits.

... Ru threw my coat on top of it. Now, I could have gone round the other side, where there was a grass verge and you can reach the top. However, I am a gangsta, so I decided to climb. After a while my coat got blown off by the wind, but I reckon I would have got it eventually. I shall return there next week and throw something valuable of Ru's on top.

Thinking about it, the Romans were pretty awesome at walls. They had it all sorted. Pile of bricks; cement; army. What more do you need?

Anyway, on an equally wall-related note, we're getting a room built next to our bathroom, and the window makes the entire bathroom the same as the colour outside. Yesterday it was cement-coloured and today it's a fairly hideous pink. Sometime soon we should achieve white. We've got the electrics installed, so now all we need is the floor. Apparantly it takes a month for the concrete to set, but this is clearly an excuse for a tea-break, and maybe a holiday or two to boot.

As I speak, Tom's cutting his hair with a flint. It's now about two inches longer on one side than the other. He says he's being manly, and neolithic.

Hmmm.

The PGFs have decided that we're going to blend Mafia, Samurai and Hip-hop to produce the ultimate gangsta experience. We're so ghetto it's unreal. Anyone who doesn't think so is clearly a complete emu, and goes round slitting their wings and sticking their head in the sand.

I would also like to point out that it's possible to fit around 18 creme eggs in a £3.00 pick and mix cup from Woolworths, with room to spare for smarties. Original idea and testing carried out by Paul. Other than that, I have that cool kind of pasta with ham and cheese and stuff inside it now, so you will have to excuse me.

That's right. A lot more Gangsta. 400 watts of it, to be precise. Two cordless mics, two 200-watt speakers and a mixing amp. We have the bass.


(I'm not a poser, honest) ¬_¬

Currently I'm using them as furniture because they're so fucking huge. One of them on its side funcitons as chair, bedside table and shelf combined. We have them on pretty much minimum volume the whole time so as not to get completely basslined.

We have the amplification.

I also coughed up blood today, which was pretty scary. But then I found out it was from my finger.

Easy mistake to make.

Anyway, best journey to school ever yesterday. It was more of a voyage really.

First we got stuck in a traffic jam five minutes out of the house, and didn't move anywhere for half an hour. Then my mum needed to go to work, so she abandoned us at a bus stop. We waited for another twenty minutes, then decided to walk.

In two hours of walking, no bus overtook us. We win.

The PGFs are completely underground.

We're working on some punk songs to turn into urban floor-anthems. Anti-flag's "Die for your government" shall be henceforth known as "Dance for the Mafia". So say Don Rafiki and Mafioso Bassline.

We're not going to put them into our album, because true gangstas are too hardcore for covers. We'll just perform them live for the total urban-wolf ghetto effect.

In boilersuits.

Hmmm.

Lemonade from Iceland. That was pretty amusing. Mike stayed sober (... weirdo...) and took videos, most of which I don't remember. Me and Dave got rather woozy on it, then wobbled into Culver Square, where there were policemen. Dave realises, shouts "THERE'S POLICEMEN OVER THERE!" and we manage to wobble off without them realising.

My parent's didn't realise I was completely wasted either, which leads me to suspect that either they don't pay attention to me, or that I'm so immature it doesn't make much difference whether I'm drunk or not. Probably option B.

Anyway, before getting jolly, we purchased us some rather hardcore cutlasses from Poundland (second time this week: they had new stock in on Monday for the first time in about six months; hence the piratesex with Paul on Monday) and went round slaying, looting and pillaging each other.

Good fun.

Right. What I want to know is WHO invented the keyboard?

Seriously.

I regularly spill stuff on my keyboard, being the complete spack that I am. At the moment I'm typing with water on the desk, because it fell out of the glass. I've decided that coordination is for grungers.

WHY are there so many holes in the keyboard?

I spilt milk yesterday. 10-minute solid mop-up job. Dettox and all.


Same goes for the guy who invented glasses. They should have lids.

And straws.

It had to come. You know it did.

There was always going to be a post where I moan.

So anyway, being the emotionally-charged angst-ridden teenager that I am, I was unhappy yesterday. Very unhappy. I felt like I was watching both Bambi and The Jungle Book at the same time. And Bambi's mum got shot at the same time as Mowgli thought Baloo had died.

Emofest or what? So, without further ado, I present to you:

How to be happy in 40 minutes.
Step #1: Get some cocoa with at least 20 spoons of sugar in. Heaped ones.
Step #2: Get yourself a duvet.
Step #3: Play Rolf Harris songs loudly until you're happy.

Worked for me.


Oh, further to this, I failed my Mechanics mock and had piratesex with Paul in Castle Park. But that's another story.