I'm unsure as to whether I'm writing an article I genuinely want to write, or if I'm just procrastinating. My 'To Do' list which I have blu-tacked next to my Lord of the Rings poster glaces angrily down at me.
'1. Complete UCAS
2. 3 posters for CHEM
3. Read to pg106 in WH.'
It screams. Sure, 'past Alex who thought it was a good idea to create a To-Do list' - later.
So instead, I'm going to copy out a large chunk of Stephen King's monster (in two senses of the word) book, 'IT' to try and prove a point. This section of the novel comes fairly early on, when author Bill Denbrough is reminiscing on his university life and how he came to write novels.
Page 149
'Here is a poor boy from Maine who goes to the University on a scholarship. All his life he wanted to be a writer, but when he enrolls in the writing courses he finds himself lost without a compass in a strange and frightening land. There's one guy who wants to be Updike. There's another one who wants to be a New England version of Faulkner - only he wants to write novels about the grim lives of the poor in blank verse. There's a girl who admires Joyce Carol Oates but feels that because Oates was nurtured in a sexist society she is 'radioactive in a literary sense.' Oates is unable to be clean, this girl says. She will be cleaner. There's the short fat grad student who can't or won't speak above a mutter. This guy has written a play in which there are nine characters. Each of them says only a single word. Little by litter the playgoers realize that when you put the single words together you come out with 'War is the tool of the sexist death merchants'. This fellow's play receives an A from the man who teaches Eh-141 (Creative Writing Honors Seminar). This instructor has published four books of poetry and his master's thesis, all with the University Press. He smokes pot and wears a peace medallion. The fat mutterer's play is produced by a guerrilla theater group during the strike to end the war which shuts down the campus in May of 1970. The instructor plays one of the characters.
Bill Denbrough, meanwhile, has written one locked-room mystery tale, three science-fiction stories, and several horror tales which owe a great deal to Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, and Richard Matheson - in later years he will say those stories resembled a mid-1800s funeral hack equipped with a supercharger and pained Day-Glo red.
One of the sf tales earns him a B.
'This is better', the instructor writes on the title page. 'In the alien counterstrike we see the vicious circle in which violence begets violence; I particularly liked the 'needle-nosed' spacecraft as a symbol of socio-sexual incursion. While this remains a slightly confused undertone throughout, this is interesting.'
All the others do no better than a C.
Finally he stands up in class one day, after the discussion of a sallow young woman's vignette about a cow's examination of a discarded engine block in a deserted field (this may or may not be after a nuclear war) has gone on for seventy minutes or so. The sallow girl, who smokes one Winston after another and occasionally picks on the pimples which nestle in the hollows of her temples, insists that the vignette is a socio-political statement in the manner of the early Orwell. Most of the class - and the instructor - agree, but still the discussion drones on.
When Bill stands up, the class looks at him. He is tall, and has a certain presence.
Speaking carefully, not stuttering (he has not stuttered in better than five years), he says: 'I don't understand this at all. I don't understand any of this. Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics...culture...history...aren't those all natural ingredients in any story, if it is told well? I mean,...' He looks around, seeing hostile eyes, and realizes dimly that they see this as some sort of attack. Maybe it even is. They are thinking, he realizes, that maybe there is a sexist death merchant in their midst. 'I mean...can't you guys just let a story be a story?'
No one replies. Silence spins out. He stands there looking from one cool set of eyes to the next. The sallow girl chuffs out smoke and stubs her cigarette in an ashtray she has brought along in her backback.
Finally, the instructor says softly, as if to a child having an inexplicable tantrum, 'Do you believe Shakespeare was just interested in making a buck? Come now, Bill. Tell us what you think'.
'I think that;s pretty close to the truth', Bill says after a moment in which he honestly considers the question, and in their eyes he reads a kind of damnation.
'I suggest,' the instructor says, toying with his pen and smiling at Bill with half-lidded eyes, 'that you have a great deal to learn'.
The applause starts somewhere in the back of the room.
Bill leaves...but returns the next week, determined to stick with it. In the time between he has written a story called 'The Dark,' a tale about a small boy who discovers a monster in the cellar of his house. The little boy faces it, battles it, finally kills it. He feels a kind of holy exaltation as he goes about the business of writing this story; he even feels that he is not so much telling the story as he is allowing the story to flow through him. At one point he puts his pen down and takes his hot and aching hand out into ten-degrees December cold where it nearly smokes from the temperature change. He walks around, green cut-off boots squeaking in the snow like tiny shutter-hinges which need oil, and his head seems to bulge with the story; it is a little scary, the way it needs to get out. He feels that if it cannot escape the way of his racing hand that it will pop his eyes out in its urgency to escape and be concrete. 'Going to knock the shit out of it', he confides to the blowing winter dark, and laughs a little - a shake laugh. He is aware that he has finally discovered how to do just that - after ten years of trying he has suddenly found the starter button on the vast dead bulldozer taking up so much space inside his head. It has started up. It is revving, revving. It is nothing pretty, this big machine. It was not made for taking pretty girls to proms. It is not a status symbol. It means business. It can knock things down. If he isn't careful, it will knock him down. He rushes inside and finishes 'The Dark' at white heat, writing until four o''clock in the morning and finally falling asleep over his ring binder. If someone had suggested that he was really writing about his brother, Georgie, he would have been surprised. He has not thought about about Georgie in years - or so he honestly believes.
The story comes back from the instructor with the F slashed into the title page. Two words are scrawled beneath, in capital letters. PULP, screams one. CRAP, screams the other.
Bill takes the fifteen-page sheaf of manuscript over to the wood-stove and opens the door. He is within a bare inch of tossing it in when the absurdity of what he is doing strikes him. He sits down in his rocking chair, looks at the Grateful Dead poster, and starts to laugh. Pulp? Fine! Let it be pulp! The woods were full of it!
'Let them fucking trees fall'! Bill exclaims, and laughs until tears spurt from his eyes and roll down his face.
He retypes the titles page, and one with the instructor's judgement on it, and sends it off to a men's magazine named White Tie (although from what Bill can see, it really should be titled Naked Girls Who Look Like Drug Users). Yet his battered Writer's Market says they buy horror stories, and the two issues he has bought down at the local mom-and-pop store have indeed contained four horror stories sandwiched between the naked girls and the ads for dirty movies and potency pills. One of them, by a man named Dennis Etchinson, is actually quite good.
He sends 'The Dark' off with no real hopes - he has submitted a good many stories to magazines before with nothing to show for it but rejection slips - and is flabbergasted and delighted when the fiction editor of White Tie buys it for two hundred dollars, payment on publication. The assistant editor adds a short note which calls it 'the best damned horror story since Ray Bradbury's 'The Jar'.' He adds, 'Too bad only about seventy people coast to coast will read it,' but Bill Denbrough does not care. Two hundred dollars!
He goes to his adviser with a drop card for Eh - 141. His adviser initials it. Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor's congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor's door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving on its own accord he writes this: 'If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I'm going to kill myself, because I won't know what to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do. He pauses, and then, feeling a bit small (but unable to help himself), he adds: I suggest you have a lot to learn. His drop card comes back to him in the campus mail three days later. The instructor had initialed it. On the space marked GRADE AT TIME OF DROP, the instructor has not given him an incomplete or the low C to which his run of grades at the time would have entitled him; instead, another F is slashed angrily across the grade line. Below it the instructor had written: Do you think money proves anything about anything, Denbrough?
'Well, actually, yes', Bill Denbrough says to his empty apartment, and once more begins to laugh crazily.'
Wow, that took me a fair while. If you haven't read IT, you should; it's a fantastic novel. I tweeted yesterday that you don't just read Stephen King's novels, you live them. That's not just a comment on their length (although, they do often tend to be huge) but because they contain such well drawn out characters. And in more cases than not - normal characters. King creates a world in which these characters inhabit; he will often dedicate large chunks of his texts to back-stories of towns or previous events in minor character's lives and some critics see this as 'padding'; that King gets a little bit carried away and enjoys the sound of his 'words' a little too much. I beg to differ - all this extra information brings his stories to life.
It often surprises me that when I bring up Stephen King in a conversation with literature students that I feel like I have to resort to phrases like, 'Yeah, I like Stephen King. He's like a guilty pleasure'. or 'I guess I should be ashamed by this, but I read a lot of Stephen King. I'd say he's one of my favourite authors.' But why? Why should I be ashamed to read Stephen King? The answer lies, I believe, in our snobbish, stuck up society where literary works seems to be graded on its content.
What do I mean by this? Well, think of a book you would consider 'classic' to you, or to the public eyes. No doubt, many of you (perhaps I am overestimating the number of views this page will get)/one or two of you, will think of Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' or Bronte's 'Wuthering Heights'. Maybe, if you dig the old stuff, you would think of 'The Iliad' or 'The Odyssey'. Maybe even 'Beowulf.' And, of course, you'd be right. These books ARE classics and there's no way I would ever contradict that statement. But when asked that question, has anyone said, 'Classic? Hmm. Stephen King's IT is fantastic. Oh, and The Stand! That book changed my life. And Misery! Oh my God, that one scared me. There's just so many! King writes classic books.'? No, they haven't. But I'd be willing to bet a fair amount of money that if asked the question 'Name one of your favourite books', or 'Name a book that you really enjoyed' and specifically, 'Name one of today's greatest writers', King's name and works would pop up frequently. This is because they are genuinely good books.
I'll probably have to explain why King's books are good first. Or attempt to - it's particularly hard to explain why you enjoyed something to someone who hasn't experienced something. But, I'll take a pretty good guess that a large number of people have read a Stephen King book (his books have sold over 350 million copies). I'd say that the three most important aspects of a book are: the story/the plot, the characters and the author's writing ability. King's books have all three of these in large doses in the majority of his books (author's have 'off days' too!)
Firstly, the character's in his stories. King's characters feel real, is as well as I can put it really. They just fit right into the world that he's created and live in it. In a book like IT, or 11/22/63, once you've started reading it's hard to convince yourself that the characters aren't real. In fact, when you do, it is often saddening. This isn't an analysis into how King create's his novels, just one on the overall impact on King and so I'm not going into much further detail on how he creates his characters the way he does. However, I believe a large part of this comes down to the fact that we know so much about them - we know their childhoods, their likes and dislikes, turn ons and turn offs, family, friends and enemies. King tells us information about the characters which isn't remotely related to the plot but strengthens the character themselves. I think the best example of this is in 11/22/63 - my favourite King novel (a statement which I suppose will shock die-hard fans). I'd say for a good third of the novel, nothing much happens apart from King writing about the central character, Jake, living in the past - making friends/enemies and the such. King does this so that the final chapter is possible the most heart-wrenching thing I've read. The reason being because I know Jake Epping, I have lived his life.
Second, story. King comes under a lot of criticism because his novels deal with the supernatural. Because, of course, fantasy and horror can't possible have any literary worth, can they? To a critic who thinks this firstly, I'd wring your neck for a good few minutes before calmly explaining that if one insists to believe such nonsense, then at least think of his works in a different way. King's novels usually deal with ordinary people in extraordinary situations. His books are character pieces, showing the complexities of human nature that is shown in difficult, sometimes supernatural situations. The fantastical elements in his novels are only the back drop to very real and complex emotional character studies. For instance, yes, IT is about a monster that kills children. But is it all about that? No, it's about the characters that have to face IT, as well as their own fears themselves. Bill has to face the guilt he feels over the death of his brother, as well as his speech impediment. Eddie has to face his overbearing mother and crippling sensitivity, Bev has to face her abusive father and her life in near poverty, Ben is forced to come to terms with unrequited love and Mike is confronted by the 1950s racial views. And more, of course - because characters in a Stephen King novel aren't perfect, they're real. So these children (and their adult counterparts) have to deal with their own demons as well as a very real monster. IT, has everything.
Writing ability. Am I going to say that Stephen King comes out with the most perfect prose ever written? No, that would be foolish. Stephen King is no Bronte or Orwell or whoever. But he his a decent writer; something that many critics cannot seem to grasp. He isn't a linguist, he's a storyteller and boy, does he tell stories. I think that people criticise King's writing because it is so contemporary and easy to read. But should that really go against King's favour? Is it really a bad thing that my 'To-Do' list still reads, '3. Read to pg106 in Wuthering Heights' while I am happily writing this and ploughing through a Stephen King book? God, I hope not. Because that just shows how elitist literature has become; an author is being looked down upon because people who aren't entirely engrossed by literature enjoy him. King's novels aren't intended to be studied. They aren't meant to be analysed. The symbols and metaphors he uses aren't cryptic, they're necessary to the story. But does that make King any less valuable than other, more 'acclaimed' authors? No, not in my opioin. Because King accomplishes what he intended to do: entertain us. I'm not going to force feed any readers the meaning of the quote above; it's obviously why I included it. King is writing about himself. He is aware that his novels are 'pulp' and are purely for entertainment.
King is quoted as saying, 'My novels are the literary equivalent to a Big Mac and Fries.' Wow, hold on Mr King. In a way, I partially agree with this statement and it backs up my previous ideas. However, I think that not only is King being far too hard on himself, King's books aren't completely trash. Firstly, he's a good writer. You can't deny that at all - he's written so much. Before you can exclaim, 'But Stephanie Meyer has written FOUR books!', King (according to Wikipedia) has written fifty novels, five non-fiction books and over TWO-HUNDRED short stories. Now tell me that someone with no talent can have that many books published. Also, his books have emotional weight, just like, I'd like to point out, well known classics. In a lot of cases, more so, I would argue. I don't think I can do justice to the ending of 11/22/63 so I'm not going to try and explain it. But it's moving. Eye-watering moving. I don't believe pure trash can have that effect on a person. In short: Stephen King's 'trash' novels have worth.
I have a theory. We have classics now and these are well known to be so, but what about in fifty years? One-hundred years? What will the classics be then? 'Serious' authors, of course, will be included, like Cormac McCarthy. I have read 'No Country for Old Men' and 'The Road', and both are, indeed, fantastic books. Classic, no doubt. But, heaven forbid, I prefer Stephen King. It could be argued that McCarthy is a better writer, but I'd argue that King is a better storyteller. My theory is that in forty or fifty years time, a new category of novel will be naturally formed by society. I call this category the 'Entertaining Classic' category (I've yet to come up with a better name). That's not to say that 'our' classics aren't entertaining, but these new classics were written purely for entertainment. They won't be studied in schools, but we will remember them. They will last. These books shouldn't be confused with 'Modern Classics' like A Clockwork Orange or McCarthy novels because these still contain the heavy going nature that accompanies classic novels. Instead, my category includes Stephen King novels (as the forerunner), the Harry Potter novels and perhaps the Millennium trilogy, among others. And no, Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey will not be included in 'Entertaining Classics' for a number of reasons; the main ones being that they are not entertaining and they are not classics. Seriously, though, they're badly written and unoriginal pieces of work that are unlikely to be remembered as more than a brief trend in a teenage girl's life.
In 2030, or whenever I have had children I expect to end up discussing and recommending novels to them. At first I'll suggest The Hobbit and Harry Potter when they're old enough to read by themselves. As they grow, I'll recommend The Lord of the Rings and when they reach their late teens, I will recommend Stephen King to them.
'When was it written, Dad?' asks one of my children as I hand him or her IT to read.
'God, I'd say a good fifty years ago now', I will reply, surprised at old the book is and, in fact, how old I am.
'That's even older than Harry Potter! How has it lasted so long Dad? Why do people still read Stephen King books after all these years?'
And I'll reply
'Because they're bloody good reads'.
Thursday 8 November 2012
Thursday 23 August 2012
The immortal words of Hank Moody (idol?)
Radio Show Host: What's your latest obsession?
Hank: Just the fact that people seem to be getting dumber and dumber. You know, I mean we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it's really given us is Howard Dean's aborted candidacy and 24 hour a day access to kiddie porn. People... they don't write anymore, they blog. Instead of talking, they text, no punctuation, no grammar: LOL this and LMFAO that. You know, it just seems to me it's just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people at a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King's English.
Radio Show Host: Yet you're part of the problem, I mean you're out there blogging with the best of them.
Hank: Hence my self-loathing.
Tuesday 31 July 2012
''Everyone say 'OXYGEN DEPRIVATION!' ''
Firstly, I should point out that there is a very high chance that I may die during my writing this entry. Or at least be carted off into the nether-realm by some supernatural being. See, either I'm currently residing in a 'Shining'-like hotel, or humanity is even more retarded than I first thought. The reason for this is that our room number is 610. Doesn't seem too odd right? Wrong. There are only four floors in the hotel. When given the key, the receptionist looked me in the eyes and told me, 'second floor'. I wasn't totally listening, perhaps in some sort of semi-sexual daydream due to my lack of recent intimate contact. So when Father and I stepped into the elevator (oh God, I'm American), we were shocked to find the highest numbered button was four. Immediately, I pressed the number two button, subconsciously aware that the receptionist and I had some sort of psychic connection. However, when we reached the second floor, the hotel rooms only went up to 221 and so, slightly confused, we headed up to the forth floor; maybe there could be more than one hundred rooms per floor? No luck. Our room simply didn't exist. I began to fantasise that maybe 'floor six' was haunted, that I was going to have to endure a night of pure nightmare. Long story short, our room was on the second floor, only slightly further along. So perhaps the hotel isn't haunted. Yet it still stands as a testament to the stupidity of man-kind: that some designer thought it would be a good idea to label rooms 200-221, immediately followed by 600-621, with rooms above 300 on the floors above. Fantastic.
Not much happened yesterday. We took a detour out by about 90 miles each way to head to 'Grandfather Mountain' - a huge mountain in the Appalachians. The mountain itself was spectacular, with edges without fences that would never have passed safety inspections in the UK. Yet with every beautiful natural attraction, there are always idiot people to, not necessarily ruin it, but distract me enough to want to laugh at them. Perhaps unfairly, the general opinion on American's is that they aren't particularly in peak physical shape. This obviously isn't the case in all individuals (I've spotted numerous very attractive women on my travels), yet occasionally American's do adhere to their stereotypes, much to my amusement. To make it to the highlight of Grandfather Mountain, a large swinging bridge across a ravine, one must climb a few steps to the top of an outcrop of rock. I literally mean a few, it really was no mean feat. Yet I overheard one woman say to another, 'Are you sure you'll be able to climb them? We could always take the elevator'. Fair enough, these were largish women, sometimes stairs will give them problems. However, it was the other lady's response that made me gag: 'No, I should be fine thanks. It's just that I'm not accustomed to this altitude'. Sorry, what? Grandfather Mountain is, admittedly, fairly high, at around 5900 feet. However, it's not fucking Everest. American's love to blow things completely out of proportion - I'm willing to bet that the oxygen concentration up there was almost the same as where you are sitting right now. Alright, so that was only one person, surely the whole of America isn't so stupid? I'm sure you can see where this is going, considering the title of this entry. Further along the mountain, we came across a Dad taking a photo of his family in front of the scenic overlook. Instead of the usual 'cheese!', he said, 'everyone say OXYGEN DEPRIVATION!' My faith in humanity is lost.
Upon entering Grandfather Mountain, we were given a CD. This was a CD that essentially worked as a guide - you put it into the CD player and as you drove up the mountainside, it would point out interesting features and tell stories relating to the area around. I'm sure you have already spotted a few problems with this idea.
''If you look to your left, you will see the famous Grandfather Mountain meadows, they look beautiful in the Summer.''
''Dad, all I see is trees?''
This went on all the way up the mountain. The problem is, everyone travels at different speeds when in the car, so everyone ends up with a very mismatched version of the history of Grandfather Mountain. Fantastic idea, retarded when put to the test. Nice one America.
Upon entering Georgia the following day, we were greeted by a Georgia welcoming sign. Underneath the sign read another message: 'Georgia - home to the 1996 Olympic Games'. Because evidently, nothing else of interest has happened in Georgia for the past 16 years. Think about it. That's like London being recognised for nothing else but the Olympic Games in 2028. I seriously doubt that will be the case - Georgia is just rather boring.
Father had his heart set on visiting a place called 'Wormsloe' or (Wormslow). I didn't have very high expectations for Wormslow as it sounded like a shit version of Wilmslow. Perhaps a Wilmslow inhabited by a worm. When we found ourself at Wormslow, I was convinced that we'd never leave. On either side of the road, trees overhung with hanging moss obscuring much of the view. I'll upload a photo onto twitter. It was very spooky. Wormslow itself turned out to be relatively uninteresting, which isn't surprising really because of America's very short history. Basically, if you've heard one colonial story, you've heard them all. And once again, another twat has become an American legend; Noble Jones was a colonist who opposed slavery and intended to keep slavery illegal in his small town. That was, until the English government legalised slavery in his colony. He then bought a bunch of slaves, because, hey, slaves. The video still showed Jones as really pally with his slaves though, his slave showing a visiting naturalist a pomegranate, as Jones laughed good naturedly at his antics.
Off we set to Savannah, the filming location of Forrest Gump. Unfortunately, the bench that he sat on has been put the museum (which we later saw) because people were attempting to steal it. Honestly, why do people have to fuck stuff up for the rest of us?! Savannah was a lovely city and I was lucky enough to experience another feat of American engineering. Scrap that, TWO feats of American engineering. The first was a lift which only had an 'up' arrow on the outside. Problem was, we had to go down. So we turned around to look for some stairs, only for the lift doors to open and two men walked out. They had obviously come from downstairs. Confused, Father and I stood in the lift, realising that inside was a button for the floor below. I'm still dumbfounded by this lift. I cannot see the point of installing an 'up' button when the lift only has two floors...and the second floor was the one with the button on. You couldn't even go up.
Secondly, was, I assume, a relatively new invention for Savannah: talking traffic lights. I have never wanted to murder an inanimate object, yet today I wanted to multiple times. Upon pressing the button to cross the road, the traffic light would speak:
''Wait....*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait....etc etc'''
Those of you who have been to America may be aware that crossings like these take for ever, because people rarely walk in America. So this talking and beeping went of for minutes while I stood there, sweating excessively due to the humidity, while an annoying traffic light told me to wait over...and over...and over again. When the voice changed to, 'You may now cross Main Road, Main Road. You may now cross Main Road, Main Road', I was ready to admit myself into a mental asylum. I was seriously considering throwing myself in front of one of the speeding vehicles.
And there we are, all up to date. Tomorrow is the final day of travelling and then I have two weeks of chilling out which I'm looking forward to. And then home. I feel slightly ashamed to say it, but I'm looking forward to that too. I miss people, too much. I like to think of myself as a cynical loner, but the truth is, I actually really need my friends. Or maybe that's just the Jack Daniels talking. Either way, I apologise for the quality of this post, I'm not totally pleased with it. But whatever, everyone has their bad days.
Cya.
Not much happened yesterday. We took a detour out by about 90 miles each way to head to 'Grandfather Mountain' - a huge mountain in the Appalachians. The mountain itself was spectacular, with edges without fences that would never have passed safety inspections in the UK. Yet with every beautiful natural attraction, there are always idiot people to, not necessarily ruin it, but distract me enough to want to laugh at them. Perhaps unfairly, the general opinion on American's is that they aren't particularly in peak physical shape. This obviously isn't the case in all individuals (I've spotted numerous very attractive women on my travels), yet occasionally American's do adhere to their stereotypes, much to my amusement. To make it to the highlight of Grandfather Mountain, a large swinging bridge across a ravine, one must climb a few steps to the top of an outcrop of rock. I literally mean a few, it really was no mean feat. Yet I overheard one woman say to another, 'Are you sure you'll be able to climb them? We could always take the elevator'. Fair enough, these were largish women, sometimes stairs will give them problems. However, it was the other lady's response that made me gag: 'No, I should be fine thanks. It's just that I'm not accustomed to this altitude'. Sorry, what? Grandfather Mountain is, admittedly, fairly high, at around 5900 feet. However, it's not fucking Everest. American's love to blow things completely out of proportion - I'm willing to bet that the oxygen concentration up there was almost the same as where you are sitting right now. Alright, so that was only one person, surely the whole of America isn't so stupid? I'm sure you can see where this is going, considering the title of this entry. Further along the mountain, we came across a Dad taking a photo of his family in front of the scenic overlook. Instead of the usual 'cheese!', he said, 'everyone say OXYGEN DEPRIVATION!' My faith in humanity is lost.
Upon entering Grandfather Mountain, we were given a CD. This was a CD that essentially worked as a guide - you put it into the CD player and as you drove up the mountainside, it would point out interesting features and tell stories relating to the area around. I'm sure you have already spotted a few problems with this idea.
''If you look to your left, you will see the famous Grandfather Mountain meadows, they look beautiful in the Summer.''
''Dad, all I see is trees?''
This went on all the way up the mountain. The problem is, everyone travels at different speeds when in the car, so everyone ends up with a very mismatched version of the history of Grandfather Mountain. Fantastic idea, retarded when put to the test. Nice one America.
Upon entering Georgia the following day, we were greeted by a Georgia welcoming sign. Underneath the sign read another message: 'Georgia - home to the 1996 Olympic Games'. Because evidently, nothing else of interest has happened in Georgia for the past 16 years. Think about it. That's like London being recognised for nothing else but the Olympic Games in 2028. I seriously doubt that will be the case - Georgia is just rather boring.
Father had his heart set on visiting a place called 'Wormsloe' or (Wormslow). I didn't have very high expectations for Wormslow as it sounded like a shit version of Wilmslow. Perhaps a Wilmslow inhabited by a worm. When we found ourself at Wormslow, I was convinced that we'd never leave. On either side of the road, trees overhung with hanging moss obscuring much of the view. I'll upload a photo onto twitter. It was very spooky. Wormslow itself turned out to be relatively uninteresting, which isn't surprising really because of America's very short history. Basically, if you've heard one colonial story, you've heard them all. And once again, another twat has become an American legend; Noble Jones was a colonist who opposed slavery and intended to keep slavery illegal in his small town. That was, until the English government legalised slavery in his colony. He then bought a bunch of slaves, because, hey, slaves. The video still showed Jones as really pally with his slaves though, his slave showing a visiting naturalist a pomegranate, as Jones laughed good naturedly at his antics.
Off we set to Savannah, the filming location of Forrest Gump. Unfortunately, the bench that he sat on has been put the museum (which we later saw) because people were attempting to steal it. Honestly, why do people have to fuck stuff up for the rest of us?! Savannah was a lovely city and I was lucky enough to experience another feat of American engineering. Scrap that, TWO feats of American engineering. The first was a lift which only had an 'up' arrow on the outside. Problem was, we had to go down. So we turned around to look for some stairs, only for the lift doors to open and two men walked out. They had obviously come from downstairs. Confused, Father and I stood in the lift, realising that inside was a button for the floor below. I'm still dumbfounded by this lift. I cannot see the point of installing an 'up' button when the lift only has two floors...and the second floor was the one with the button on. You couldn't even go up.
Secondly, was, I assume, a relatively new invention for Savannah: talking traffic lights. I have never wanted to murder an inanimate object, yet today I wanted to multiple times. Upon pressing the button to cross the road, the traffic light would speak:
''Wait....*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait...*beep*...wait....etc etc'''
Those of you who have been to America may be aware that crossings like these take for ever, because people rarely walk in America. So this talking and beeping went of for minutes while I stood there, sweating excessively due to the humidity, while an annoying traffic light told me to wait over...and over...and over again. When the voice changed to, 'You may now cross Main Road, Main Road. You may now cross Main Road, Main Road', I was ready to admit myself into a mental asylum. I was seriously considering throwing myself in front of one of the speeding vehicles.
And there we are, all up to date. Tomorrow is the final day of travelling and then I have two weeks of chilling out which I'm looking forward to. And then home. I feel slightly ashamed to say it, but I'm looking forward to that too. I miss people, too much. I like to think of myself as a cynical loner, but the truth is, I actually really need my friends. Or maybe that's just the Jack Daniels talking. Either way, I apologise for the quality of this post, I'm not totally pleased with it. But whatever, everyone has their bad days.
Cya.
Monday 30 July 2012
'Thomas Jefferson loved the octagon'
I think I may have diabetes. I was supposed to update this every day, so everything was fresh in my mind, but each time it would get to around 7 o'clock and I would literally die of tiredness. Well, not literally, that would be insane, but I was finding it hard to stay awake. Why diabetes? Well, I pee a lot, probably an abnormal amount, and now I'm dropping off every few hours or so - symptoms of diabetes. I shall keep you updated.
Anyhow, I'll attempt to keep this fairly brief because I'm hungry. Dad has disappeared off downstairs to read the paper, so I'm all alone and can finally concentrate. The first day of the road trip was pretty intense. We had to drop Max off with Emily and Mum in New York and then take them to JFK so they could get their flight. The good part of this meant that I could have a quick look around New York, the bad was that I was tempted by the national Native American museum, which turned out to be shit. Unfortunately, by the time I realised this, we had missed the ferry back to Staten Island so we had to wait for a later one. This was cancelled. So, as the flight departure time drew closer, we were stuck in a ferry terminal with a bunch of New Yorkers. Perhaps I'm making a general assumption here, but while the people I have met in every other American state have been welcoming, friendly people, I have found New Yorker's to be loud, rude and rather obnoxious. They also seem to think that popcorn is an appropriate food to eat when forced to wait an hour in a crowded space. It really isn't. I didn't understand this man, who stood there with his wife next to me, star tattoo glaring evident on the side of his neck, munching on a bag of medium popcorn. I eat popcorn at the cinema, or when I'm watching a film at home; it's entertainment food, it doesn't have a particularly strong or interesting taste, you just (as Michael Mcintyre said) graze on it. Queuing is not entertainment, nor was this man grazing, rather, shovelling it into his mouth like it was the last thing he'd ever eat. There's not really much point to this rant, it just annoyed me. Popcorn is for cinema's, not for ferry stations.
So finally, after driving for hours in rainy New Jersey, we hit Pennsylvania, which was beautiful, in a forest-y kinda way. When you're driving over 300 miles a day, you have to be pretty picky as to what you stop for, but it was pretty much certain that the Amish 'habitats' (that's almost definitely the wrong word. It makes them sound like Pokemon, but I'm keeping it because I like it) would be one of the stops. Dad and I headed for 'Bird in Hand' and 'Intercourse', two villages on exactly the same road. I like to think of them as rival gangs fighting over sections of corn, but I doubt that's the case as I'm fairly sure that passivity is a must for the Amish. Then again, I came to realise that the Amish were incredibly hypocritical people. Firstly, if you're a deeply religious person, adhering to God's every rule, why the hell would you name your village after sex? Perhaps it was to get it out of their system, as in, now that their entire town was named after a forbidden practise, they could forget it and continue growing corn or whatever. Apart from the obvious hypocrisy in the town name, I also saw someone getting into a car. I just don't understand how a person who goes ape-shit over having their photo taken can happily get into a vehicle that isn't pulled by a horse. And where will this lone Amish go in the car? A porn super-store? A strip club? Perhaps even that place in Hostel where rich people pay to kill people? When, for the love of God, will this lunacy end?
Pulling out of a petrol station, we ended up behind two Amish girls on their horse and cart. Not only was this frustrating due to the fact that they couldn't go faster than a few miles per hour, it also prompted Dad to say, 'They all look very plain, don't they?' I defended them with, 'Well yes, but they don't have any make-up on, do they?', immediately realising that I was condemning all girls to looking like the Amish when they go to bed. '...You just want to shag an Amish girl, don't you?', he responded. Where did that come from?! I quickly asserted that no, I do not want to shag an Amish girl. I think that might be a lie. In fact, I find the idea of helping an Amish girl come to terms with modern society quite endearing. Like, I'd show her how to use a hair dryer, or use the internet. It would be exactly like E.T or Stig of the Dump, except I'd be able to have sex with her.
I'll skip ahead to later in the day. At a McDonald's in which we stopped at later on to get a drink, I went off to the 'restroom' to pee. God I hate having to ask American's where the restroom is. I'm sure if I asked where the 'loo' was, they'd still be able to direct me, but then they would initiate the annoying, 'Oh my Gosh! You're from England, say it again!', which, while making me feel slightly like a celebrity, can be mighty time consuming, especially with my bladder problem. So there I was, my penis hanging out over the urinal, when I saw two words scrawled on the wall in front of me: 'Das Penis', with an arrow pointing down...towards my penis. A quick google translate confirmed my suspicious; 'das', means 'the' in another language. So, the graffiti said 'the penis', pointing down to my penis. Surely the artist couldn't be so obvious? He (or she I suppose) must have meant something else. I came to the conclusion that 'the penis' meant 'THE penis', as in, my penis is the 'King of all penis'. He is the boss, the kingpin, the leader, a penis that puts all other penis' to shame. THE penis. I walked out of the toilet feeling both refreshed and complimented.
Skip ahead to the next day. This was a long driving day, along both Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway, two very high, and very scenic mountain roads. Because it was so beautiful, Dad and I took a walk through the forest towards some falls. Being a Sunday, plenty of America families had also decided to make the trip and so I was able to make a few observations. American's are friendly, there's no denying that. But did you know, that American animals are equally friendly? We spotted a very photogenic deer (perhaps a celebrity) which enjoyed eating leaves while crowds of people gathered round to snap photos of it, myself included. Looking back, I'm slightly surprised that I was so interested in this deer, considering I've seen more than my share of the animal in Dunham Massey, a mere 20 minutes from my house. Butterflies are also more friendly; I was able to essentially pet a number of them. In England, butterflies treat us like psychopathic murderers, flying away at the sight of a human. Has anyone actually intended to hurt a butterfly? I think not. American butterflies realise this. I also met a large moth on my travels, but he didn't want to stick around for a photo. Despite having a broken wing, he decided to suicidally jump from my hand to the floor far below.
Dad had his mind set on visiting Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's house. In case you're like me, and confused Jefferson with Benjamin Franklin for half of the tour, Jefferson was the third President of the USA. He came up with the Declaration of Independence, hated slavery (yet kept over 600 slaves) and slept with one of his slaves enough times to produce six offspring. Like most American 'heroes', the facts surround Jefferson pointed out one glaring contradiction between history and popular opinion: he was actually a bit of a nob. But, before I took the tour of the house (in my, 'I'm visiting Benjamin Franklin's house' stage) I met the love of my life. It should be pointed out at this stage that so far, my quest for a sexy American girl to share my bed with hasn't gone especially well, yet, lacking in Squid-Hat, I managed to both fall in love and lose my soul mate in a matter of minutes. I'm going to call her Kate. Yeh, I didn't know her name, but I don't think that changes anything. She was the woman who sold us our tickets to the house; Dad had previously encountered Kate when I was off pissing and so they seemed to be getting on fairly well. Despite him having a wife, I found myself slightly jealous. Kate was a red-head, a hair colour which I have always found attractive, yet have never met one that wasn't a total weirdo. She was freckly and cheerful and while not really thin, she had a body that was still attractive. She sold us the tickets, her southern drawl turning me on slightly, my gaze unwavering from her beautiful face. And then we had to leave and there was nothing I could do. Perhaps if I were not with the Father, if I were with friends, I would have tried some chat-up lines on her. Although I have being single for about a quarter of a year, I still haven't mastered the art of chatting up girls; however, I do believe that I've managed to conjure one or two that would have wooed her into marrying me. Or at least moistened her knickers enough for her to jump into my bed.
'I'd like to stick my Thomas into your Jefferson'
'Maybe we could cause controversy like Jefferson and create six illegitimate children'
Both these would be followed by a cheeky wink and and sexy lick of the lips.
But alas, it was not to be. So, weeping and heart-broken, I was dragged onto a bus down to the house. Here, we were slightly early for the tour, so started a conversation with one of the guides. A child ran up looking rather flustered, and as soon as she reached us, she burst into tears, 'I'VE LOST MY MOMMY AND DADDY!'
'Shut the fuck up, kid, I'm trying to talk to this woman about a building'.
That didn't happen. Instead, I had to stifle a slight smirk as I pondered how over the top Americans can be as I watched our tour guide lead this child to go and find 'Mommy'. After going to look at Jefferson's grave and finding a spider, we returned for our tour. Our tour guide was fantastic; a young, slightly attractive man from Georgia, who was very possibly a failed actor. He gesticulated wildly and managed to pause without reason in the middle of sentences, like this: '...their reason for this? That 'he was not that type of guy'. My response to this........(pause for dramatic effect)........what does that even mean?!' He also managed to do the most annoying thing possible when on a tour around a stately home, or a tour of any kind for that matter: ask the audience questions. For instance, he asked us, 'And what was the name of the slave family most closely associated with Jefferson?' I haven't a fucking clue Mr. Tour-guide. I thought Jefferson was Franklin until about five minutes ago, I wasn't even aware he had any sort of relationship with his slaves. Seriously, why ask the audience questions?! They paid money for YOU to talk to them about the place they decided to visit. It's not fucking high school. I was put in a slightly bad mood after this, but this mood was lifted after he said this: 'Thomas Jefferson loved the octagon'. Seriously? The President of the United States had a favourite shape? And he loved this shape so much that he created two rooms in his house in the shape of this shape? And this shape wasn't a normal shape, like a square or a circle, it was an octagon? Fucking hell. I found this hysterical. Dad didn't. I don't know why.
Eurgh, I still have one more day today but I'm knackered and Dad's asleep. I'll have to do it tomorrow - goodnight! Apologies for the many grammatical/spelling errors, I'm knackered.
Anyhow, I'll attempt to keep this fairly brief because I'm hungry. Dad has disappeared off downstairs to read the paper, so I'm all alone and can finally concentrate. The first day of the road trip was pretty intense. We had to drop Max off with Emily and Mum in New York and then take them to JFK so they could get their flight. The good part of this meant that I could have a quick look around New York, the bad was that I was tempted by the national Native American museum, which turned out to be shit. Unfortunately, by the time I realised this, we had missed the ferry back to Staten Island so we had to wait for a later one. This was cancelled. So, as the flight departure time drew closer, we were stuck in a ferry terminal with a bunch of New Yorkers. Perhaps I'm making a general assumption here, but while the people I have met in every other American state have been welcoming, friendly people, I have found New Yorker's to be loud, rude and rather obnoxious. They also seem to think that popcorn is an appropriate food to eat when forced to wait an hour in a crowded space. It really isn't. I didn't understand this man, who stood there with his wife next to me, star tattoo glaring evident on the side of his neck, munching on a bag of medium popcorn. I eat popcorn at the cinema, or when I'm watching a film at home; it's entertainment food, it doesn't have a particularly strong or interesting taste, you just (as Michael Mcintyre said) graze on it. Queuing is not entertainment, nor was this man grazing, rather, shovelling it into his mouth like it was the last thing he'd ever eat. There's not really much point to this rant, it just annoyed me. Popcorn is for cinema's, not for ferry stations.
So finally, after driving for hours in rainy New Jersey, we hit Pennsylvania, which was beautiful, in a forest-y kinda way. When you're driving over 300 miles a day, you have to be pretty picky as to what you stop for, but it was pretty much certain that the Amish 'habitats' (that's almost definitely the wrong word. It makes them sound like Pokemon, but I'm keeping it because I like it) would be one of the stops. Dad and I headed for 'Bird in Hand' and 'Intercourse', two villages on exactly the same road. I like to think of them as rival gangs fighting over sections of corn, but I doubt that's the case as I'm fairly sure that passivity is a must for the Amish. Then again, I came to realise that the Amish were incredibly hypocritical people. Firstly, if you're a deeply religious person, adhering to God's every rule, why the hell would you name your village after sex? Perhaps it was to get it out of their system, as in, now that their entire town was named after a forbidden practise, they could forget it and continue growing corn or whatever. Apart from the obvious hypocrisy in the town name, I also saw someone getting into a car. I just don't understand how a person who goes ape-shit over having their photo taken can happily get into a vehicle that isn't pulled by a horse. And where will this lone Amish go in the car? A porn super-store? A strip club? Perhaps even that place in Hostel where rich people pay to kill people? When, for the love of God, will this lunacy end?
Pulling out of a petrol station, we ended up behind two Amish girls on their horse and cart. Not only was this frustrating due to the fact that they couldn't go faster than a few miles per hour, it also prompted Dad to say, 'They all look very plain, don't they?' I defended them with, 'Well yes, but they don't have any make-up on, do they?', immediately realising that I was condemning all girls to looking like the Amish when they go to bed. '...You just want to shag an Amish girl, don't you?', he responded. Where did that come from?! I quickly asserted that no, I do not want to shag an Amish girl. I think that might be a lie. In fact, I find the idea of helping an Amish girl come to terms with modern society quite endearing. Like, I'd show her how to use a hair dryer, or use the internet. It would be exactly like E.T or Stig of the Dump, except I'd be able to have sex with her.
I'll skip ahead to later in the day. At a McDonald's in which we stopped at later on to get a drink, I went off to the 'restroom' to pee. God I hate having to ask American's where the restroom is. I'm sure if I asked where the 'loo' was, they'd still be able to direct me, but then they would initiate the annoying, 'Oh my Gosh! You're from England, say it again!', which, while making me feel slightly like a celebrity, can be mighty time consuming, especially with my bladder problem. So there I was, my penis hanging out over the urinal, when I saw two words scrawled on the wall in front of me: 'Das Penis', with an arrow pointing down...towards my penis. A quick google translate confirmed my suspicious; 'das', means 'the' in another language. So, the graffiti said 'the penis', pointing down to my penis. Surely the artist couldn't be so obvious? He (or she I suppose) must have meant something else. I came to the conclusion that 'the penis' meant 'THE penis', as in, my penis is the 'King of all penis'. He is the boss, the kingpin, the leader, a penis that puts all other penis' to shame. THE penis. I walked out of the toilet feeling both refreshed and complimented.
Skip ahead to the next day. This was a long driving day, along both Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway, two very high, and very scenic mountain roads. Because it was so beautiful, Dad and I took a walk through the forest towards some falls. Being a Sunday, plenty of America families had also decided to make the trip and so I was able to make a few observations. American's are friendly, there's no denying that. But did you know, that American animals are equally friendly? We spotted a very photogenic deer (perhaps a celebrity) which enjoyed eating leaves while crowds of people gathered round to snap photos of it, myself included. Looking back, I'm slightly surprised that I was so interested in this deer, considering I've seen more than my share of the animal in Dunham Massey, a mere 20 minutes from my house. Butterflies are also more friendly; I was able to essentially pet a number of them. In England, butterflies treat us like psychopathic murderers, flying away at the sight of a human. Has anyone actually intended to hurt a butterfly? I think not. American butterflies realise this. I also met a large moth on my travels, but he didn't want to stick around for a photo. Despite having a broken wing, he decided to suicidally jump from my hand to the floor far below.
Dad had his mind set on visiting Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's house. In case you're like me, and confused Jefferson with Benjamin Franklin for half of the tour, Jefferson was the third President of the USA. He came up with the Declaration of Independence, hated slavery (yet kept over 600 slaves) and slept with one of his slaves enough times to produce six offspring. Like most American 'heroes', the facts surround Jefferson pointed out one glaring contradiction between history and popular opinion: he was actually a bit of a nob. But, before I took the tour of the house (in my, 'I'm visiting Benjamin Franklin's house' stage) I met the love of my life. It should be pointed out at this stage that so far, my quest for a sexy American girl to share my bed with hasn't gone especially well, yet, lacking in Squid-Hat, I managed to both fall in love and lose my soul mate in a matter of minutes. I'm going to call her Kate. Yeh, I didn't know her name, but I don't think that changes anything. She was the woman who sold us our tickets to the house; Dad had previously encountered Kate when I was off pissing and so they seemed to be getting on fairly well. Despite him having a wife, I found myself slightly jealous. Kate was a red-head, a hair colour which I have always found attractive, yet have never met one that wasn't a total weirdo. She was freckly and cheerful and while not really thin, she had a body that was still attractive. She sold us the tickets, her southern drawl turning me on slightly, my gaze unwavering from her beautiful face. And then we had to leave and there was nothing I could do. Perhaps if I were not with the Father, if I were with friends, I would have tried some chat-up lines on her. Although I have being single for about a quarter of a year, I still haven't mastered the art of chatting up girls; however, I do believe that I've managed to conjure one or two that would have wooed her into marrying me. Or at least moistened her knickers enough for her to jump into my bed.
'I'd like to stick my Thomas into your Jefferson'
'Maybe we could cause controversy like Jefferson and create six illegitimate children'
Both these would be followed by a cheeky wink and and sexy lick of the lips.
But alas, it was not to be. So, weeping and heart-broken, I was dragged onto a bus down to the house. Here, we were slightly early for the tour, so started a conversation with one of the guides. A child ran up looking rather flustered, and as soon as she reached us, she burst into tears, 'I'VE LOST MY MOMMY AND DADDY!'
'Shut the fuck up, kid, I'm trying to talk to this woman about a building'.
That didn't happen. Instead, I had to stifle a slight smirk as I pondered how over the top Americans can be as I watched our tour guide lead this child to go and find 'Mommy'. After going to look at Jefferson's grave and finding a spider, we returned for our tour. Our tour guide was fantastic; a young, slightly attractive man from Georgia, who was very possibly a failed actor. He gesticulated wildly and managed to pause without reason in the middle of sentences, like this: '...their reason for this? That 'he was not that type of guy'. My response to this........(pause for dramatic effect)........what does that even mean?!' He also managed to do the most annoying thing possible when on a tour around a stately home, or a tour of any kind for that matter: ask the audience questions. For instance, he asked us, 'And what was the name of the slave family most closely associated with Jefferson?' I haven't a fucking clue Mr. Tour-guide. I thought Jefferson was Franklin until about five minutes ago, I wasn't even aware he had any sort of relationship with his slaves. Seriously, why ask the audience questions?! They paid money for YOU to talk to them about the place they decided to visit. It's not fucking high school. I was put in a slightly bad mood after this, but this mood was lifted after he said this: 'Thomas Jefferson loved the octagon'. Seriously? The President of the United States had a favourite shape? And he loved this shape so much that he created two rooms in his house in the shape of this shape? And this shape wasn't a normal shape, like a square or a circle, it was an octagon? Fucking hell. I found this hysterical. Dad didn't. I don't know why.
Eurgh, I still have one more day today but I'm knackered and Dad's asleep. I'll have to do it tomorrow - goodnight! Apologies for the many grammatical/spelling errors, I'm knackered.
Friday 27 July 2012
...and then I bought a Squid Hat.
All right, I'm back writing again! It's been a while. Not that I haven't been itching to do so; I've written a bunch of short stories and the like, but I've also been fairly caught up in 'real life' which has been a bit of a bummer. But now, with university looming ahead and the terrifying risk of losing my friends to distance, I've found myself in America for three weeks, with nobody around but myself and my wonderful, beautiful mind. And my family.
So, that's a good start: my holiday. Yesterday, we flew from Manchester to Heathrow on a lovely little short flight (at only 35 minutes, I can say that it was the closest I have ever come to actually enjoying flying) and then on from Heathrow to Newark in New Jersey. That flight was a hell of a lot different, and a bunch of things began to bug me.
Firstly, I was forced to sit with a stranger. Being entirely unsociable, the idea of such a meeting with another human being is the stuff of nightmares. The thought of a situation where I was stranded next to one in a confined space for seven and a half hours made me practically suicidal. But when I sat down in my seat, I found myself next to a girl more or less my age, perhaps a few years older. My 18 year old misogynistic mind immediately leapt to 'I'm not attracted to her!' but my preferable, mature and I suppose slightly adventurous side thought, 'hey, maybe this is an opportunity to make a new friend! You can leave your shell slightly, broaden your horizons and listen to all the interesting stories that this woman has hidden inside her perfectly average looking head'. So I sat down and waited for her to say something. She said hi, and perhaps that was my window to jump in with a conversation starter, but I didn't. I wasn't that adventurous. So, for seven and a half hours we sat in silence and I watched hour after hour of films on a shitty aeroplane screen.
I started with the film 'Wanderlust', a film about hippies starring the handsome Paul Rudd which was fairly average. I then moved on to 'Young Adult', a film which I've decided that, if by some off chance I become Prime Minister, I shall screen to all teenagers, so that they know how shit their life will turn out if they decide to continue to behave like idiots. And finally I watched 'Love Actually', which I instantly moved into my list of 'films I should not like because I am straight, but totally do and make me cry', a list that also contains 'Titanic' and '500 Days of Summer'. Apart from the excessive nudity and the sexy Martin Freeman, I particularly enjoyed this scene (skip to about 1 minutes in):
My God. If my three weeks here does not end up like that, I will be sorely disappointed.
Half way into the journey, the guy behind me started to snore. Loudly. In fact, it was so loud that after a characteristically nasally snort, the woman next to me jumped awake. The whole situation was wholly comedic, like I was living in a cartoon and the people around me were caricatures. Again, perhaps this was another opportunity to make a witty comment, or perhaps we could have shared a few banterous back and forth's, slagging off Mr. Snore. But alas, she simply wiped away the dried drool from her bottom lip and curled to the side, ignoring the elephant sitting behind her.
What really pissed me off was that when coming into land, the seat-belt signs were switched on early and an announcement by the Captain told us passengers that we were going to be landing in some stormy conditions, so we should be aware that there may be some turbulence. While we were lucky in the fact that our plane managed to stay airborne, we were subjected to some lightening. With the first blue flash of light, the woman next to me sat up and grabbed my arm, you know, because she obviously saw me as some sort of masculine figure, able to protect her from the all-so awesome power of Mother Nature. 'Sorry', she whimpered, embarrassed, releasing her claw-like grip from my arm. I grinned at her, a sexy grin that showed her that I knew what I was doing, that women all around the world felt protected just with me in their presence. 'Haha, don't worry', I told her, 'I was on the way to Italy one year and lightening actually hit the plane, they're designed to take it'. I guess I'm paraphrasing because her response wasn't exactly warming: 'Haha, okay'. And that was it. I practically just saved your life, you ungrateful bitch! Urgh.
So we landed, safe and sound and I was happy because I could go to the hotel and finally sleep. Then 'woman sitting next to me' started clapping. One of my most hated pet peeves is clapping on a plane. Why do people clap?! Are we celebrating the fact that we aren't dead? The pilot's job is to fly is to our destination! You don't applaud a taxi driver when he successfully manages to take you to your house after a night out in Manchester, do you? It's the equivalent of saying to him, 'Nice one! Thanks for not crashing and thus preventing us from dying a very fiery and painful death!' Idiots. Have some faith in the pilot - it's his job after all. But the damaged was already done. The woman had started a revolution against logic and common sense and the whole plane started to clap. 'Yey, we're still alive!'
Finally, before we left the plane, I managed to assault a woman. Accidently of course. The fact that it was Mr Snore's wife didn't change anything. Basically I opened my over-head locker (that, by the way, had been stuff to the brim by Mr Snore's family's shit) and my laptop case, complete with heavy laptop and books, came crashing down to assassinate Mrs Snore. She wasn't happy. Mum yelled at me to apologise, which I did. Only to then yell back that it was their fault in the first place because they decided to over-cram the compartment. Mr and Mrs Snore, with their little Snore-lings, looked on in distaste.
After parading around the airport getting lost like tourists, we stumbled into the hotel at four in the morning, UK time. I died into my pillow.
Only to be woken up at five in the morning by a knock at my door. I knew it was Dad. I knew that He,
Mum and Emily (who had a different room) had woken up early and wanted to get out. But I didn't want it to be true. So I left him to think Max and I were practically unconscious sleepers and went back to bed, ignoring him. So he rang the phone. Fuck.
Dad, Max and I were off to Six Flags today. Six Flags is kinda like a low budget Universal Studios - I think it may be sponsored by DC comics or something because all the rides were named after the likes of Batman or Superman or whatever. We stopped off at 'Dunkin' Donuts' on the way, which was terrible. I ordered a cheese and egg bagel and received a cheese and 'thing' bagel. It was kind of yellow and spongey. I suppose it's possible that the Dunkin' Donuts staff had accidently given me the 'cheese and Spongebob Squarepants bagel'. It tasted vile, but I still ate Max's when he decided he didn't want it any more.
I was (am) in New Jersey. To all you My Chemical Romance fans out there, I can confirm that I have discovered how your favourite band ended up 'like that'. New Jersey is a shit hole. An ugly, grey, industrialised shit hole. No wonder they all want to kill themselves.
Although, perhaps I was slightly too harsh. Further driving through the state provided a more sightly view of forests and greenery, things I find rather pleasant. And Six Flags is bang in the centre of a huge forest. In fact, on one of the rides, I think it was the parachute one, you can look as far as the eye can see and just look upon trees. It's really quite beautiful. The only problem is, Six Flag's biggest attracting is 'Kingda Ka' - the world's tallest and second fastest roller coaster. So, being tall and all, you'd expect a fantastic view. Kingda Ka is situated next to the largest car-park known to man. It's disgusting, unsightly and distracting. Slightly distracting. I like to complain, but Kingda Ka was the most intense experience I have ever...well, experienced. My eyes wanted to explode out of my head. More than usual.
Wooden roller coaster's piss me off. I can't remember what this one was called, but it was crudely painted white and had evidently been in the park since it had opened in 1970-something. We decided to ride it because the queue was tiny compared to some of the other rides - we basically walked straight on. I nearly didn't walk off again. While Kingda Ka may have been the most intense ride of my life, 'wooden torture ride' was definitely the most insane. At one point, I felt that my head would be severed while simultaneously both my knees would dislocate. Trembling and stumbling off, I was faced with an even bigger, newer wooden roller coaster. Hold on a second. A NEW wooden roller coaster. Wooden roller coasters were made because the technology hadn't been invented to create safer, more stable roller coasters. Why would anybody want to ride a wooden one when more exciting, and safer, roller coasters are available? The only reason I can think of is that while one may ride a modern roller coaster for an adrenaline rush, one knows they are essentially safe, it looks safe and you feel safe. On a wooden roller coaster, you genuinely feel like you may actually die. Different kind of rush.
Another thing I noticed about New Jersey is that, you know how they say that 1 in 5 Americans is obese? In other states I didn't notice it. I did here. It's weird, like every fifth person is that boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark. This became increasingly more noticeable during the day and especially when I was queuing for a ride and about a third of the way through the queuing area was a food stall. Now, it was a quiet day, so I was essentially walking onto all the rides, but on a normal day, this queue area would be heaving with Americans wanting to ride the roller coaster. This stall was about at the point where a sign would be posted saying 'you have 60 minutes left to queue before you can ride such and such'. Considering on a busy day that most rides have queue times of an hour and a half, the people in the queue would have been waiting half an hour. Half an hour without food. Like one would stop before the stall was created and go, 'Fuck, I've basically just stood in line for half an hour and burnt a bunch of calories. If only there was a place where I could buy deep-friend Reece's Pieces to replenish them.' It's disgusting really. But it made me giggle a little.
Despite this rather cynical view of America and its inhabitants, I do love the country and the people. Case and point: I was wandering around the park and then I bought a Squid Hat. Alright, I lie. I saw the Squid Hat and said to Dad, 'I will not refill this coke unless I get that Squid-Hat'. Fortunately, to win the hat, all I had to do was take part in a game to test my strength because EVERYONE WAS A WINNER! Yey! That meant I didn't have to try. So I risked the embarrassment of looking incredibly weak when smacking a mallet onto a button and received the squid. There were multiple colours of squid: green, pink, blue and orange. I chose pink. You know, so I could be zoologically accurate. Why did I want a Squid-Hat? Because bitches love Squid-Hats.
So, now sporting a black eye, a slightly bust lip and a Squid-Hat, I set off around the park waiting for the American gash to come running. I didn't get much attention from the girls, unfortunately, but many guys came up to me and yelled, 'Nice hat, man!' I suppose that these guys could be taking the piss, but I got the impression that they were genuinely impressed. It was a Squid-Hat, after all. Seriously though, people in the UK wouldn't take something like that as a joke, they'd take the piss and try and steal it or whatever. People in America are just too nice to be like that.
So yup. That's a brief-ish overview of the past two days. I guess I've rather enjoyed them. More tomorrow, mainly because I enjoy writing it all.
Cya.
So, that's a good start: my holiday. Yesterday, we flew from Manchester to Heathrow on a lovely little short flight (at only 35 minutes, I can say that it was the closest I have ever come to actually enjoying flying) and then on from Heathrow to Newark in New Jersey. That flight was a hell of a lot different, and a bunch of things began to bug me.
Firstly, I was forced to sit with a stranger. Being entirely unsociable, the idea of such a meeting with another human being is the stuff of nightmares. The thought of a situation where I was stranded next to one in a confined space for seven and a half hours made me practically suicidal. But when I sat down in my seat, I found myself next to a girl more or less my age, perhaps a few years older. My 18 year old misogynistic mind immediately leapt to 'I'm not attracted to her!' but my preferable, mature and I suppose slightly adventurous side thought, 'hey, maybe this is an opportunity to make a new friend! You can leave your shell slightly, broaden your horizons and listen to all the interesting stories that this woman has hidden inside her perfectly average looking head'. So I sat down and waited for her to say something. She said hi, and perhaps that was my window to jump in with a conversation starter, but I didn't. I wasn't that adventurous. So, for seven and a half hours we sat in silence and I watched hour after hour of films on a shitty aeroplane screen.
I started with the film 'Wanderlust', a film about hippies starring the handsome Paul Rudd which was fairly average. I then moved on to 'Young Adult', a film which I've decided that, if by some off chance I become Prime Minister, I shall screen to all teenagers, so that they know how shit their life will turn out if they decide to continue to behave like idiots. And finally I watched 'Love Actually', which I instantly moved into my list of 'films I should not like because I am straight, but totally do and make me cry', a list that also contains 'Titanic' and '500 Days of Summer'. Apart from the excessive nudity and the sexy Martin Freeman, I particularly enjoyed this scene (skip to about 1 minutes in):
My God. If my three weeks here does not end up like that, I will be sorely disappointed.
Half way into the journey, the guy behind me started to snore. Loudly. In fact, it was so loud that after a characteristically nasally snort, the woman next to me jumped awake. The whole situation was wholly comedic, like I was living in a cartoon and the people around me were caricatures. Again, perhaps this was another opportunity to make a witty comment, or perhaps we could have shared a few banterous back and forth's, slagging off Mr. Snore. But alas, she simply wiped away the dried drool from her bottom lip and curled to the side, ignoring the elephant sitting behind her.
What really pissed me off was that when coming into land, the seat-belt signs were switched on early and an announcement by the Captain told us passengers that we were going to be landing in some stormy conditions, so we should be aware that there may be some turbulence. While we were lucky in the fact that our plane managed to stay airborne, we were subjected to some lightening. With the first blue flash of light, the woman next to me sat up and grabbed my arm, you know, because she obviously saw me as some sort of masculine figure, able to protect her from the all-so awesome power of Mother Nature. 'Sorry', she whimpered, embarrassed, releasing her claw-like grip from my arm. I grinned at her, a sexy grin that showed her that I knew what I was doing, that women all around the world felt protected just with me in their presence. 'Haha, don't worry', I told her, 'I was on the way to Italy one year and lightening actually hit the plane, they're designed to take it'. I guess I'm paraphrasing because her response wasn't exactly warming: 'Haha, okay'. And that was it. I practically just saved your life, you ungrateful bitch! Urgh.
So we landed, safe and sound and I was happy because I could go to the hotel and finally sleep. Then 'woman sitting next to me' started clapping. One of my most hated pet peeves is clapping on a plane. Why do people clap?! Are we celebrating the fact that we aren't dead? The pilot's job is to fly is to our destination! You don't applaud a taxi driver when he successfully manages to take you to your house after a night out in Manchester, do you? It's the equivalent of saying to him, 'Nice one! Thanks for not crashing and thus preventing us from dying a very fiery and painful death!' Idiots. Have some faith in the pilot - it's his job after all. But the damaged was already done. The woman had started a revolution against logic and common sense and the whole plane started to clap. 'Yey, we're still alive!'
Finally, before we left the plane, I managed to assault a woman. Accidently of course. The fact that it was Mr Snore's wife didn't change anything. Basically I opened my over-head locker (that, by the way, had been stuff to the brim by Mr Snore's family's shit) and my laptop case, complete with heavy laptop and books, came crashing down to assassinate Mrs Snore. She wasn't happy. Mum yelled at me to apologise, which I did. Only to then yell back that it was their fault in the first place because they decided to over-cram the compartment. Mr and Mrs Snore, with their little Snore-lings, looked on in distaste.
After parading around the airport getting lost like tourists, we stumbled into the hotel at four in the morning, UK time. I died into my pillow.
Only to be woken up at five in the morning by a knock at my door. I knew it was Dad. I knew that He,
Mum and Emily (who had a different room) had woken up early and wanted to get out. But I didn't want it to be true. So I left him to think Max and I were practically unconscious sleepers and went back to bed, ignoring him. So he rang the phone. Fuck.
Dad, Max and I were off to Six Flags today. Six Flags is kinda like a low budget Universal Studios - I think it may be sponsored by DC comics or something because all the rides were named after the likes of Batman or Superman or whatever. We stopped off at 'Dunkin' Donuts' on the way, which was terrible. I ordered a cheese and egg bagel and received a cheese and 'thing' bagel. It was kind of yellow and spongey. I suppose it's possible that the Dunkin' Donuts staff had accidently given me the 'cheese and Spongebob Squarepants bagel'. It tasted vile, but I still ate Max's when he decided he didn't want it any more.
I was (am) in New Jersey. To all you My Chemical Romance fans out there, I can confirm that I have discovered how your favourite band ended up 'like that'. New Jersey is a shit hole. An ugly, grey, industrialised shit hole. No wonder they all want to kill themselves.
Although, perhaps I was slightly too harsh. Further driving through the state provided a more sightly view of forests and greenery, things I find rather pleasant. And Six Flags is bang in the centre of a huge forest. In fact, on one of the rides, I think it was the parachute one, you can look as far as the eye can see and just look upon trees. It's really quite beautiful. The only problem is, Six Flag's biggest attracting is 'Kingda Ka' - the world's tallest and second fastest roller coaster. So, being tall and all, you'd expect a fantastic view. Kingda Ka is situated next to the largest car-park known to man. It's disgusting, unsightly and distracting. Slightly distracting. I like to complain, but Kingda Ka was the most intense experience I have ever...well, experienced. My eyes wanted to explode out of my head. More than usual.
Wooden roller coaster's piss me off. I can't remember what this one was called, but it was crudely painted white and had evidently been in the park since it had opened in 1970-something. We decided to ride it because the queue was tiny compared to some of the other rides - we basically walked straight on. I nearly didn't walk off again. While Kingda Ka may have been the most intense ride of my life, 'wooden torture ride' was definitely the most insane. At one point, I felt that my head would be severed while simultaneously both my knees would dislocate. Trembling and stumbling off, I was faced with an even bigger, newer wooden roller coaster. Hold on a second. A NEW wooden roller coaster. Wooden roller coasters were made because the technology hadn't been invented to create safer, more stable roller coasters. Why would anybody want to ride a wooden one when more exciting, and safer, roller coasters are available? The only reason I can think of is that while one may ride a modern roller coaster for an adrenaline rush, one knows they are essentially safe, it looks safe and you feel safe. On a wooden roller coaster, you genuinely feel like you may actually die. Different kind of rush.
Another thing I noticed about New Jersey is that, you know how they say that 1 in 5 Americans is obese? In other states I didn't notice it. I did here. It's weird, like every fifth person is that boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark. This became increasingly more noticeable during the day and especially when I was queuing for a ride and about a third of the way through the queuing area was a food stall. Now, it was a quiet day, so I was essentially walking onto all the rides, but on a normal day, this queue area would be heaving with Americans wanting to ride the roller coaster. This stall was about at the point where a sign would be posted saying 'you have 60 minutes left to queue before you can ride such and such'. Considering on a busy day that most rides have queue times of an hour and a half, the people in the queue would have been waiting half an hour. Half an hour without food. Like one would stop before the stall was created and go, 'Fuck, I've basically just stood in line for half an hour and burnt a bunch of calories. If only there was a place where I could buy deep-friend Reece's Pieces to replenish them.' It's disgusting really. But it made me giggle a little.
Despite this rather cynical view of America and its inhabitants, I do love the country and the people. Case and point: I was wandering around the park and then I bought a Squid Hat. Alright, I lie. I saw the Squid Hat and said to Dad, 'I will not refill this coke unless I get that Squid-Hat'. Fortunately, to win the hat, all I had to do was take part in a game to test my strength because EVERYONE WAS A WINNER! Yey! That meant I didn't have to try. So I risked the embarrassment of looking incredibly weak when smacking a mallet onto a button and received the squid. There were multiple colours of squid: green, pink, blue and orange. I chose pink. You know, so I could be zoologically accurate. Why did I want a Squid-Hat? Because bitches love Squid-Hats.
So, now sporting a black eye, a slightly bust lip and a Squid-Hat, I set off around the park waiting for the American gash to come running. I didn't get much attention from the girls, unfortunately, but many guys came up to me and yelled, 'Nice hat, man!' I suppose that these guys could be taking the piss, but I got the impression that they were genuinely impressed. It was a Squid-Hat, after all. Seriously though, people in the UK wouldn't take something like that as a joke, they'd take the piss and try and steal it or whatever. People in America are just too nice to be like that.
So yup. That's a brief-ish overview of the past two days. I guess I've rather enjoyed them. More tomorrow, mainly because I enjoy writing it all.
Cya.
Thursday 12 January 2012
Rant
I don't like to rant but I think today I deserve one because today went terribly. Well, this morning anyhow. This rant includes a certain person who I have never spoken to before but am now sure that they are metally incapable of doing anything at all. ANYTHING.
So I got into school this morning for my English Lit re-sit with plenty of time and strutted off to the pavilion with my cronies only to find two boys with a yellow poem anthology. I thought this was strange as they are meant to be provided in the exam but the two boys insisted that they thought that too but had been told to get one anyway because the exam board weren't providing them this year. Whoever told them this piece of information is also on my hate list but we'll come to that later. So off I rushed (I don't usually rush so this was rather impressive) to go and grab an anthology from English. Only English was deserted. On the whole two floors, there was not ONE fucking English teacher. This is where I began to stress. So off I rushed (double the rush) to the staff room to see if I could find my English teacher.
Last year I wandered into the staff room looking for a physics teacher only to be quickly ushered out of the room by a rather dishevelled looking woman telling me that 'I wasn't supposed to be in there' so I was pretty apprehensive. I looked through the door into the staff room and I don't think I've seen that many teachers in such close proximity. I felt claustrophobic just standing outside the room, never mind inside it. It should be highlighted here that I don't think I ever intended to enter the room, only stand outside hoping to catch the teacher's eye. This hope was quickly dashed due to the shear number of people there. Luckily my form teacher was about to enter the room and my first instinct was to warn her of the danger ahead, then became more level headed. I explained my situation and asked her if she could go in and look for any English teachers for me. She preceded to take two steps into the room and crane her neck to see if she could see anyone. 'There's so many people in here, I don't know if I can see any English teachers Alex'. 'Brilliant, you just did exactly what I just did, thanks for the help', I said. Okay, I didn't really say that last sentence...I was too busy trying to stop my head from exploding. After a couple of minutes of looking and doing nothing she bucked her ideas up and wandered off to grab someone. She gave me a man I'd seen around school but didn't know his name. Apparently he was the 'English technician' but I seriously doubt the English department has a technician, unless there job was to sit around and do fuck all all day.
Anyway, this guy was again, completely useless. After 15 minutes of him searching and me shitting myself, Sally popped up and told me that everyone had gone into the exam. Thanks Sally. She then wandered off again. I wanted to die. Then, out of the blue, my guardian angel arrived: my English teacher. 'Miss Brady!', I called, running down the corridor towards her, arms open wide for an embrace, 'I need your help! Your technician is a complete imbecile, please help me find an anthology!', I cried. So she walked into the store room and picked up an anthology. The same store room Mr Incompetent Fool had looked in for about 5 minutes trying to locate one. They were on a shelf. In plain fucking sight. I wanted to kiss her, but there was no time for romantics, so off I ran to grab my equipment.
At the pavilion, the Sixth Form team and Sally were gathered around looking worried and being completely useless. 'Oh, got one? Good!' one of them said half-heartedly. Mrs Robinson came over and reassured me that I'd be fine and that I should just calmly walk down into the hall and that I had plenty of time. She was very nice. So off I trotted, happy that my ordeal was over and that I still had the majority of the time needed to complete the exam paper.
I entered the exam hall. Everyone was working and it was completely silent so I basically tip-toed down to my seat. I was row A and so headed to the left of the hall and then down, noticing there was a spare desk towards the front. Mine. Wait. I looked at my hand and a large black biro scrawl stared back at me: A7. I looked back. Someone was in my seat. Now, here is the point of my entire rant. This boy, who shall be known as 'JP' looked up at me and seemed slightly confused. I tried to insinuate as quietly as I could that he was in the wrong fucking seat but he just stared back at me like a sheep. I looked back towards what was probably A3, trying to reassure myself that if I sat in the wrong seat everything would be okay but I knew deep down that it wouldn't be. Sitting in that seat would be admitting defeat to this....there is no word for the stupidity of this person. Before you get all annoyed at me for thinking this kid was a complete retard, just think for a second. This person is unable to look at a board and go, 'Ah, I'm in seat A3'. No, that is too hard for him. He obviously just goes into the exam and just sits down somewhere. I don't even know if he was doing English, maybe he just wanted somewhere to sit. I'm also slightly confused as to how he's managed to get through every exam in the wrong seat, not only because it would mess up administration, but also because he is also blind/can't read so how he possibly completes any exam is beyond me. Anyway, the invigilator came over and asked me my name, which I told her and she took me to my seat where 'JP' realised that he was a fucking nonce and moved to his proper seat. I'd also like to point out that 'JP' later told someone that I was a 'dick' for moving him. I don't even know what to say to that. People like this shouldn't be allowed to be born.
So I sat down...
....and on my table
....was a fucking yellow anthology.
Wow. That felt very cathartic.
Thanks for reading. I hope you understand how stressed I felt and hate this complete idiot as much as I do.
Alex
So I got into school this morning for my English Lit re-sit with plenty of time and strutted off to the pavilion with my cronies only to find two boys with a yellow poem anthology. I thought this was strange as they are meant to be provided in the exam but the two boys insisted that they thought that too but had been told to get one anyway because the exam board weren't providing them this year. Whoever told them this piece of information is also on my hate list but we'll come to that later. So off I rushed (I don't usually rush so this was rather impressive) to go and grab an anthology from English. Only English was deserted. On the whole two floors, there was not ONE fucking English teacher. This is where I began to stress. So off I rushed (double the rush) to the staff room to see if I could find my English teacher.
Last year I wandered into the staff room looking for a physics teacher only to be quickly ushered out of the room by a rather dishevelled looking woman telling me that 'I wasn't supposed to be in there' so I was pretty apprehensive. I looked through the door into the staff room and I don't think I've seen that many teachers in such close proximity. I felt claustrophobic just standing outside the room, never mind inside it. It should be highlighted here that I don't think I ever intended to enter the room, only stand outside hoping to catch the teacher's eye. This hope was quickly dashed due to the shear number of people there. Luckily my form teacher was about to enter the room and my first instinct was to warn her of the danger ahead, then became more level headed. I explained my situation and asked her if she could go in and look for any English teachers for me. She preceded to take two steps into the room and crane her neck to see if she could see anyone. 'There's so many people in here, I don't know if I can see any English teachers Alex'. 'Brilliant, you just did exactly what I just did, thanks for the help', I said. Okay, I didn't really say that last sentence...I was too busy trying to stop my head from exploding. After a couple of minutes of looking and doing nothing she bucked her ideas up and wandered off to grab someone. She gave me a man I'd seen around school but didn't know his name. Apparently he was the 'English technician' but I seriously doubt the English department has a technician, unless there job was to sit around and do fuck all all day.
Anyway, this guy was again, completely useless. After 15 minutes of him searching and me shitting myself, Sally popped up and told me that everyone had gone into the exam. Thanks Sally. She then wandered off again. I wanted to die. Then, out of the blue, my guardian angel arrived: my English teacher. 'Miss Brady!', I called, running down the corridor towards her, arms open wide for an embrace, 'I need your help! Your technician is a complete imbecile, please help me find an anthology!', I cried. So she walked into the store room and picked up an anthology. The same store room Mr Incompetent Fool had looked in for about 5 minutes trying to locate one. They were on a shelf. In plain fucking sight. I wanted to kiss her, but there was no time for romantics, so off I ran to grab my equipment.
At the pavilion, the Sixth Form team and Sally were gathered around looking worried and being completely useless. 'Oh, got one? Good!' one of them said half-heartedly. Mrs Robinson came over and reassured me that I'd be fine and that I should just calmly walk down into the hall and that I had plenty of time. She was very nice. So off I trotted, happy that my ordeal was over and that I still had the majority of the time needed to complete the exam paper.
I entered the exam hall. Everyone was working and it was completely silent so I basically tip-toed down to my seat. I was row A and so headed to the left of the hall and then down, noticing there was a spare desk towards the front. Mine. Wait. I looked at my hand and a large black biro scrawl stared back at me: A7. I looked back. Someone was in my seat. Now, here is the point of my entire rant. This boy, who shall be known as 'JP' looked up at me and seemed slightly confused. I tried to insinuate as quietly as I could that he was in the wrong fucking seat but he just stared back at me like a sheep. I looked back towards what was probably A3, trying to reassure myself that if I sat in the wrong seat everything would be okay but I knew deep down that it wouldn't be. Sitting in that seat would be admitting defeat to this....there is no word for the stupidity of this person. Before you get all annoyed at me for thinking this kid was a complete retard, just think for a second. This person is unable to look at a board and go, 'Ah, I'm in seat A3'. No, that is too hard for him. He obviously just goes into the exam and just sits down somewhere. I don't even know if he was doing English, maybe he just wanted somewhere to sit. I'm also slightly confused as to how he's managed to get through every exam in the wrong seat, not only because it would mess up administration, but also because he is also blind/can't read so how he possibly completes any exam is beyond me. Anyway, the invigilator came over and asked me my name, which I told her and she took me to my seat where 'JP' realised that he was a fucking nonce and moved to his proper seat. I'd also like to point out that 'JP' later told someone that I was a 'dick' for moving him. I don't even know what to say to that. People like this shouldn't be allowed to be born.
So I sat down...
....and on my table
....was a fucking yellow anthology.
Wow. That felt very cathartic.
Thanks for reading. I hope you understand how stressed I felt and hate this complete idiot as much as I do.
Alex
Monday 9 January 2012
3 song covers I prefer to the original
Everyone goes on about how terrible covers of their favourite songs are. And usually, they are. I die a little bit each time some idiot little boy band tries to copy some of the music legends and basically hung myself when I listened to Kerrang's CD of Nirvana covers, but sometimes, SOMETIMES, I prefer the cover versions to the original. Of course, this is a matter of taste but as many of you know, I consider my taste in stuff to be far superior. I joke (sort of). So here are three covers of famous songs that I prefer listening to, along with the originals so you can compare. I won't be surprised if people don't actually listen to the songs all the way through because I wouldn't but whatever, this is more an attempt to put off revision. So enjoy! And of course, this is my OPINION. I know a lot of people who would crucify me for my choices but hey, free country.
3. (Original) Hurt - Nine Inch Nails or NIN to hardcore fans...which I'm not. Oh and Nine Inch Nails is one guy, not a band, which I found interesting when I found out. Fun fact.
(Cover) Hurt - Johnny Cash
I'd even go as far to say that I actually dislike the first version...it's just so boring. And the video for Johnny Cash's one is fantastic, it honestly brings a tear to my eye. Yes ladies, I am sensitive. Please form an orderly queue to the right.
2. (Original) The Man Who Sold the World - David Bowie
(Cover) The Man Who Sold the World -Nirvana (live)
I think David Bowie is fantastic. I really do. But it's Kurt fucking Cobain. Kurt Cobain. Sorry, I'm getting a bit flustered. He's just unbelievable. I'm probably bias because of my love for Nirvana but whatever: opinion, remember?
1. (Original) Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin
(Cover) Immigrant Song - Karen O with Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross
I put this at number one, not because it is my favourite out of the three (it's probably my least favourite) but because people will be like 'OMFG U R MESSIN WIT DAH ZEP' etc etc. I prefer this version, just because it's fucking cool and I've picked the video because the video is equally 'fucking cool'. Funnily, Trent Reznor IS Nine Inch Nails (remember how I said it was just one guy) and I voted Johnny Cash's version of his own song better. So, swings and roundabouts I guess.
Well there you go. Don't crucify me please. Hope you enjoyed listening to the awesome songs (especially the Nirvana one).
Alex
3. (Original) Hurt - Nine Inch Nails or NIN to hardcore fans...which I'm not. Oh and Nine Inch Nails is one guy, not a band, which I found interesting when I found out. Fun fact.
(Cover) Hurt - Johnny Cash
I'd even go as far to say that I actually dislike the first version...it's just so boring. And the video for Johnny Cash's one is fantastic, it honestly brings a tear to my eye. Yes ladies, I am sensitive. Please form an orderly queue to the right.
2. (Original) The Man Who Sold the World - David Bowie
(Cover) The Man Who Sold the World -Nirvana (live)
I think David Bowie is fantastic. I really do. But it's Kurt fucking Cobain. Kurt Cobain. Sorry, I'm getting a bit flustered. He's just unbelievable. I'm probably bias because of my love for Nirvana but whatever: opinion, remember?
1. (Original) Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin
(Cover) Immigrant Song - Karen O with Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross
I put this at number one, not because it is my favourite out of the three (it's probably my least favourite) but because people will be like 'OMFG U R MESSIN WIT DAH ZEP' etc etc. I prefer this version, just because it's fucking cool and I've picked the video because the video is equally 'fucking cool'. Funnily, Trent Reznor IS Nine Inch Nails (remember how I said it was just one guy) and I voted Johnny Cash's version of his own song better. So, swings and roundabouts I guess.
Well there you go. Don't crucify me please. Hope you enjoyed listening to the awesome songs (especially the Nirvana one).
Alex
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