Tales of daily life from a 20-something Student from London.

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

Walking in a winter wonderland

Autumn Wonderland

So, it's November the 1st. The Christmas lights have just been turned on in Oxford Street. I don't care that we still have almost two months to the big day. I love Christmas, and I don't care how early it is, I might just smash out the songs now.

It's a great time of year. Lots of parties, Christmas shopping in John Lewis, my birthday (not that it affects you that much), and people being really happy. As I write this, my housemate Peter has just burst into an impromptu version of All I Want For Christmas Is You, so it's clearly got to him. Christmas is a time of year that has everything. Romance, happiness, laughs, and even sadness when it's all over. I don't really have a reason for writing about Christmas. I have nowhere to go with it, but I got all seasonal all of a sudden. I'll try and write about something meaningful or funny now.


...I've not really got anything to write about here either. Is my life that depressing at the moment? How incredibly sombre. I could talk to you about going out dressed as Batman (for Halloween, mind). My non-existent love life. My dinner (Thai curry). Oh, wait, got something, you can carry on. I went to Freeze Fest in London this weekend with my pal Marcus. We had a great time and saw bundles of top bands like Everything Everything, Joy Formidable, and Summer Camp. What really stood out though was the amount of arseholes there. Whilst watching The Streets, some guys sitting next to us at the side got up and mad headway for the crowd. They'd been kicking this girls back and throwing stuff at her (oddly, they pulled, which puts 'nice guys finish last' into perspective I imagine) for a while, and being generally not cool. I saw them running back through the crowd towards us and guessed they'd lost something. They had. 

A brand spanking new iPhone 4s sat about a foot away from me. Shit. I could comfortably grab that and live like a king for the term. Spending money for Amsterdam, great presents for Christmas, and Dominos 2-4-Tuesdays for months. I reached over, and picked it up. I saw them frantically looking for something on the ground, and asked if they'd lost something.

"yeah, my new phone!"

"Here you go mate, found it a second ago"

He was gobsmacked.

"You're the most honest man I've ever met. If I was gay I'd marry you!"

"That's fine, I'm not gay myself actually"

I thought about what he said. Am I that honest? I mean, really, the thought of not giving that back to him never crossed my mind. But I'm not honest all the time. Especially with telling people what I really mean, or feel. I guess there's a difference between being good, and being completely honest.

Over and out.

Monday, 24 October 2011

Shark the herald, Angel's sing...

I was half tempted to write about the whole shark business going on in Oz right now. I'm not going to do that now, as I wouldn't want to offend anyone's views on it, as it could be a fairly tense subject. For anyone who doesn't know though, a shark (or sharkS) is killing people who swim too close to it's territory and, wrongly in my eyes, the government want to hunt it down. I'm not going to dwell on it, but I wanted to make my point on the situation that it's wrong to kill regardless (with that you can probably discover my views on the Gaddafi incident, but that's something I am definitely not getting into).

So, the biggest news story of the weekend was Man Utd. getting a hammering. Even people not into football know that's unlikely. I mean, 1-6? That's embarrassing. As much as they aren't my favourite group of people, there are probably one or two United fans reading this, so I won't dwell as such, and instead talk about a certain City player.

Mario Balotelli is a cultural icon. I make it fairly well known that I love the man. The man who gave a grand to a tramp. The man who threw darts at people out of the training ground window. The man who get's, on average, £3000 a month in parking fines. The man who 'mistakenly' drove all the way into a women's prison. And the man who, when seeing a young boy outside the training ground in midweek, took him back to school, confronted his bullies, and shouted at the headteacher for letting the bullying carry on for as long as it did. He certainly is an eccentric. 

During yesterday's derby, he confronted his doubters by displaying a t-shirt under his football jersey that said 'why always me?' I found this hilarious, and woke up today wondering how he would celebrate yesterday's monumental win.  My buddy just told me, prompting this writing, that he drove around Manchester in his Bentley giving any City fan he saw a big ol' high five. There was no reason. But he did it, as he bloody well wanted to.

Sometimes, it's nice to do a Balotelli. To just want to do something, and then follow up this want by just doing it. Fantastic.

On that note, I fancy a beer. I know it's early, but hell, WWMD (what would Mario do)?

Over and out.

Friday, 21 October 2011



Over the past two weeks, I've made a fair few snap decisions. Saying yes to something I would otherwise just say no to. Living with a bit of spontaneity. It's not a bad thing. Not at all. Only, the hangovers I end up with are. Take last week for example. I went to the shop with a hankering for a Muller Light (strawberry, for anyone interested in my yoghurt habits), and ended up coming home with Peter, both of us with a bottle of wine, singing Wherever You Will Go by The Calling, and going out to Indie night, waking up with an absolute stinker of a hangover. And I didn't even get my Muller. Last night was supposed to be an easygoing pub session with my buddy Marcus. Again, x amount of £2 JD and Cokes later, indie night. I'm not saying these are bad things. When you do something as spontaneous as this, you can meet some pretty cool people that you may otherwise have never met. It's nice to be spontaneous, so, as the man on the bus said to Danny Wallace 'say yes more'.


I don't do compliments well. Like, at all. Receiving them, that is. I don't know why this is. I just go blank whenever someone says anything nice. Earlier in the summer, for example, I had a 'The Doors, Waiting for the Sun' T-shirt on. A guy in starbucks obviously approved of my t shirt habits and said 'I like your t-shirt', to which I replied 'ah yeah, thank you, yours is cool too!'. This guy was wearing arguably the most generic red and white chequered shirt in the world. Like, every man and his nan own a similar shirt. To say 'I like it' was like saying 'I commend you for staying with that reliable number', and in truth, probably felt more like an insult, which would explain the incredibly awkward silence this created, so much so that he left (but that might of been because of the queue...I hope it was). The other day, a woman in the refectory told me she liked my glasses. On the spot, I was left with nothing to say but 'I like yours!' Needless to say, she was not one of the bespectacled among us. Bemused. But certainly not bespectacled. 

Over and out.

Saturday, 15 October 2011

It's been too long!

Yeah. Sorry. I know I've been kinda shit at this recently. But hey, let's pretend this isn't the kind of reunion like when you see an ex at a party and things are really awkward. Let's ensure this is one of those 'meet up with an old buddy, end up in a gay bar getting free drinks from a guy who apparently worked one shift there, then all end up in Camden' kinda reunions (I'm looking at you, Tom Hewitt).

Anyway, I hope everyone is having a great time doing whatever they're doing be it uni, work, or dossing around playing Fifa12. But I guess I should tell you an embarrassing story to make your Saturday morning reading of this more interesting, right? 


Recently, I went to meet one of my friends in London and, after a good night getting a bit merry, decided I'd grab the last train home. Coffee in my hand, I sat down on the train at Kings Cross waiting for it to depart. Having had a nightmare a couple weeks back where I ended up in West Horndon due to falling asleep (which regular readers will know about), I was determined to stay awake. Only the woman next to me didn't share that sentiment.

As I neared Hatfield, I did that awkward stand-up to hope she felt me stir and move accordingly. She did not. I coughed, fairly loudly. She was still solid as a proverbial rock, much like Ashford and Simpson's love. What was I going to do? Is it ok to like... poke her? Surely not. The train was slowing and the tension was building. It was now or Welwyn. I stuck out my finger and slowly jabbed her arm and, like a shot, she looked at me and had obviously got up on the wrong side of the seat. The train had stopped.

"Why are you touching me?!?" she shouted.

It was too late. I was already off the train. 

Over and out.

Monday, 26 September 2011

She's Fresh. Exciting (doodoodoodoodoo)

One thing I was not looking forward to on my return to sunny Hatfield was having to get a new student I.D. card. Unlike most student cards, our's are pointless. They have no expiry date therefore most places will not take them. They have practically no use unless you go to the gym, where it acts as an entry card. However, unless you touch it on a small plastic pad at the start of term, your student loan ain't comin' at ya'. So I had to make the trip to get a new one. 

It started ok. I walked into the I.D. office and began queuing. Apparently we get charged £20 for a replacement, but if we say it was stolen, it is free. Therefore, I decided I would simply lie. Fantastic. 

"Yeah, my I.D. card got stolen over the summer" I whimpered (in a manly way)
"Have you got the crime identification number?"


"Erm...no...because...it happened when I was in Belize"

Quite why I chose the small Central American country previously known as British Honduras as my fake holiday destination escapes me. I mean, I couldn't even make up a reason. In fact, the more I think about it, Belize? Really, Jack?

"You were in Belize? And they stole your student card?"
"And my wallet!" I said, holding my wallet. 
"Well, I should charge you, as there isn't any proof..."

Now, as she began to weigh up her options, I should have kept quiet. Maybe she'd just give in and say yes, here's a fresh card. But no. I had to make things worse. I looked at her, dead in the eyes, with a look of pure honesty and said:

"Please, Belize me!"

They say a picture can say 1000 words. The picture of her face said one thing. Pay up.

Over and out.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Oooooh, something to talk about.

The Only Thing To Fear Is Fear Itself

Whoever said that is totally wrong. This time of year, with someone who has my fear, is petrifying. Everywhere you go, the ground is scattered with potential frights. As you walk the most mundane walk possible, the world becomes a battleground. Your head darts between objects on the ground ensuring there are none of them about. Hugely worrying.

I, like many others, am ranidaphobic. This means I have a fear like no other of frogs and toads. So, let's get all the laughs out now. Yeah, they're nothing to be scared of, but hell, it is what it is. I think that my fear comes from when my Grandad was clearing a bush from our garden that had a frogs nest (yes, frogs nests exist), and he put them all in a bucket. I toddler waddled over and tipped the bucket, causing a torrent of beasts to throw themselves at me, clearly trying to harm me. I can only expect this is what scarred me for life. 

But yeah, the reason this time of year is so bad for it is because wet leaves look a hell of a lot like frogs. Like, a lot. You've probably never realised, but they do. In fact, everything could be a frog in theory. But I'll stop now. I'm making myself paranoid and there's an odd looking candle in the kitchen that I'm not ruling out...

Going Back To My Roots

I have never shyed away from the fact I am a huge geek. If anything, I'd argue I'm proud of it. For geeks, today could be seen as a hugely important day. Gears of War, the series of games that redifined third person shooters and helped launch the Xbox 360 to stardom, is getting its third and final installment today. A game that I played religiously is concluding it's epic story and we finally get to find out what happens to Marcus Fenix and the gang. It's a monumental event.

Honestly? I don't think I give a shit. I woke up this morning, knowing I couldn't afford it, but it really doesn't bother me. What has happened to me?!?!? I couldn't possibly be losing my inner geek, surely? A worrying thought, definitely. I think at some point today, the Super Nintendo or Sega Saturn will have to come out, to try and inject some geek into me. I will keep you posted on the success rates.

Oh and, yeah, for anyone who doesn't know, I'm rolling back to uni on Saturday. I've had a pretty amazing summer, and met some very, very amazing people. I still have like, 3 full days here, so if you wanna hang out, whoever you are, let me know! 

Over and out.

Saturday, 17 September 2011


So, I'm going to be boring again, and try and write something really profound (or at least as profound as possible after a few beers over dinner). I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't have much reason to be profound at the moment, at all, but I read a pretty interesting quote today and it really made me think. Before I tell you what it is though, you need to know that, suprisingly, it came from The Sun.

Apparently, a London Cabbie asked his passengers to write their little nuggets of advice on a clipboard in the back of his cab, that he would later write down in a little book. Celebrities wrote in there, drunks wrote in there (before you start, no, I was not one of said drunks), even children. But sift through all the ramblings and the typos and you may just find one special, profound sequence of words that mean something. 

"Don't mistake existing for living." So, there it is. May not be the bombshell you were expecting, but just think about it for a moment. How many days do you let go by where nothing exciting happens, and you sit around, watching repeats of Come Dine With Me and and drinking low strength orange squash? Not only that but how many of those days, where you simply 'exist', go by where you get the opportunity to do something. Even if it's to go to the pub, sit over the park, or join someone on a little excursion. Whatever it is, it's a whole lot better than sitting around and doing, excuse my French, fuck all. Well, it's living. If you take that opportunity to live, a thousand choices could arise that could lead to a million fun and amazing times. I know it sounds soppy, but maybe whoever wrote that message is right. We all need to live a little. Go out, see someone you haven't seen in a long while, drink one more drink and let the night go on a little longer, whatever else may approach you.

So, I've bored you with that for 5 minutes, but hey, you chose to read it! But can I ask you a favour? After reading all that, just take it in for a minute. When you've done that, practice what that person preached. Live a little. Right now, right this moment, do something you may not otherwise do. For example, tell someone something you'd never otherwise tell them. Text some buddies and find out if they fancy hanging. If it goes wrong, then who cares (I'll personally apologise if that goes wrong though). But if it goes right? That moment, everything might have changed for you. And that's pretty wild. 

Hey, at least it'll give your Saturday evening a bit of excitement!

Over and out.

Friday, 16 September 2011

TGI Friday


As you all know all too well, London attracts a LOT of nutcases, drunkards, and general oddbods. Maybe it's something I do, or say, or they can smell my fear, but I tend to have a lot of them gravitate toward me. Last night was no different. After a perfect evening in London, I got on the tube at Embankment, and curiously, there was just me and another guy in my carriage. He looked a bit haggard and generally shit and was reading a small book. Headphones in blaring some Two Door Cinema Club, I was blissfully unaware that he was talking at me. Emphasis on 'at'. 

When I did eventually realise, I took my headphones out to find the guy performing some sort of religious chant on me. I say that, it was probably just a bible passage, but it was pretty fucking crazy.

"Hey, buddy, come on, not really my thing"
"Open your mind, listen to my tellings"
"Ok, so, thanks for the offer, but really, I'm good"

I would normally have half accepted it, but I'd already seen a guy juggle three lemons and catch one on his neck less than an hour before, so I could not really have seen anything that even got nearly as enthralling. But what was coming next, I could not have expected. 

The man got up at his stop, but, before getting off, touched the book to my head and shouted, and I mean shouted, "CHILD" at the top of his voice. I was incredibly freaked out, but not enough to withstrain me from raising my hand in a masturbatory manner as the train pulled away. I'm open to the concept of religion, but maybe not in the same way as this guy.

e.g. nutter.



Ok, so, that's a fucking anthem. I absolutely adore The Hoosiers, but maybe they have a good point. Sometimes, we all wish things were simple and everything was spelt out right in front of us. And I don't just mean choosing between like, yes and no things. I mean having to choose what to do or say, when to do it, and to do it in the first place. If things were just spelt out, alright, it would be pretty lame, but at least we could just accept that that's what needs to be done, right? 

Whenever I make a decision to man up and say something for example, like everyone else, I'm sure, part of me wishes I'd never said it, and I could carry on blissfully unaware. Sometimes I wish that I chose not to have one more drink, that led me to do or say something I might regret. But I've learnt to accept that choosing a certain decision is exactly that. A decision. Not a mistake. Just a decision. At the time, it may not seem right, but a little bit down the line, it'll all come together, and you'll forget all about it. 

Over and out.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Sunday Sunday Happy Days.


Ok, can you work out what that's supposed to say? Anyone? Big Issue. The particular spelling above is made famous by the Big Issue seller in Shipley, Leeds, where a friend of mine from uni lives, who swears the seller pronounces it like that, and only says that (at first I questioned whether the seller was in fact a Pokemon, but realised that is doubtful, mainly due to few Pokemon having opposable thumbs, and partly due to their non-existence). 

Yeah, so this is all about the famous Charity Magazine, The Big Issue. Ok, so to start with, I'm quite the fan of the Big Issue. It's worth a flick through, has some ok interviews, and nine times out of ten the sellers are real nice guys and gals. But it only dawned on me today (/thought long and hard as I had nothing else to write about) how I've had some odd experiences with sellers. I mean, a seller in Cambridge once took me all the way to a McDonald's after I bought a magazine off of him. Which on paper seems lovely, but then he guilt tripped me into buying him a burger, which I couldn't really pass up, but also meant I could only afford a Happy Meal, which I was not happy about. 

Last month, when a tad tipsy, I gave the Embankment seller a fiver, and told him to keep the change. Apparently he wasn't a fan of this, so duly gave me two copies of the magazine to subsidise the £2 price point. I don't know what he expected me to do with two, apart from maybe me a crude, pop-up version of the magazine, but I had not the time, nor skill to perform such a task. 

I can also remember a time when I saw a guy body-popping using the magazines as props. It gets even more amazing when I tell you he was white, so the guy obviously had talent. In short though, it's a top magazine, with a top cause. The sellers are exactly that, sellers. It is their job, and not all of them are homeless. It's often used as a way to get hard-up people back on their feet. If you're out and about and you have a spare couple of Queens in your pocket, grab one, as you're doing both the seller, and yourself, a favour (yeah, I know that turned into a bit of a 'force you to buy' thing, but hey, it's a great thing to do!)

Over and out.

Thursday, 8 September 2011

Soppy Joe's

Ok, so this week I had my very first request, which naturally I was very happy about as it meant I didn't have as much work to do. My requestee wanted me to write a blog on the vague topic of 'love'. These are the results.

She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

To begin, I'm going to clarify that when I say love, I don't always mean:


Although I am a bit of a romantic, so that's nice, I sometimes mean:


E.g. when you're absolutely smitten by someone. Love can be a funny thing, although that is pointing out the obvious I'm sure. We've all had that moment where, as soon as you see someone, you are smitten. Their smile, the way they fiddle with their hair, they way they playfully joke around with you, there can be any number of reasons that you want to spend more and more time with them. I don't personally believe in 'love' at first sight, but I do believe, as I mentioned, you can be smitten.

Now don't get me wrong, being smitten, or in love for that matter, with someone and spending times with them is a wonderful thing, but just as it can give you an amazing high, it can throw you back down again, something we've all experienced in our lives. For any number of reasons this can occur. Realisation you aren't as close as you thought, problems from somewhere else, someone meets someone else, or even the dreaded 'friend zone', which worries me even talking about it, in a Voldemort-esque way. 

For me, the film 500 Days of Summer is my personal outlook on the situation. It's great when it's happening, and everything seems rosy, but it can all fall apart. 

But clearly, this negative outlook on love is not exactly one I share. Personally, I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic, who would go to Neath and back if it meant making that special someone happy. I have always shared the outlook that, if someone means a lot to you, you should do whatever means a lot to them. Look at me though, I'm rambling, I'll close this up. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, although love can grab you, spin you around, and throw you in a candy shop, it can just as easy pull you out of that candy shop and throw you straight into a puddle outside.

What you're really looking for, is that special candy shop. The one that locks from the inside, and wants to keep you there, too. And leave you feeling like this, all the time:


Deaf Leppard

I was in Camden yesterday, sitting in Starbucks. In the queue, I accidentally bumped into the guy in front of me, and apologised, to which he didn't turn around. I muttered a bit under my breath, which caused the woman in front of him to turn around. "Sorry", she said, "he's deaf". I immediately felt awful and went and sat down with my coffee, at the table next to the aforementioned couple. I wouldn't say eavesdropping is the right word, but I did have a cheeky listen, and watch in terms of the deaf guy, and it was clear how amazingly in love and close they were. This story may seem pointless, but I thought it really showed the whole 'love has no boundaries thing'.

Anyway, that's enough from me, I'll be back to mildly comical stuff next time.

Over and out.

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

University 'Characters' Part 2

Bit of a bumper student edition coming up. More characters as well as the agony that being on hold to Student Finance creates. Let's start with some characters.

University Characters

The Bookworm

It's your 21st birthday. You've organised a night out that would put the cast of The Hangover to shame. Bar tab, new shirt, private booth, cabs booked. It's going to be wild. 
"Oh, I can't make it, I got an assignment today and I want to get it out of the way."
No matter what the occasion, study comes first, without doubt. Fun is an unneeded part of the uni experience, and will rarely be suffered for the next three years. 

The Casanova/Casanovette

Like a Wolf in the night, the Casanova hunts his prey. The pub. The SU bar. The late night trip to Asda. He is always on the pull. When he finally lures them into his trap, he takes them back to his room, with it's awkwardly thin walls, so that you are ensured to hear every awkward noise, that does not sound unlike an actual wolf. And you are forced to look the pair of them in the eye as they leave the room the next morning. Again... and again.


Student Finance 

At some point in your uni career, you will have called these monsters up for advice or help, only to have them throw it back in your face after you've been on hold for the past 30 minutes, going from 7th in the queue, to 8th, to 5th, then to 19th. You've tried pleading with them, only to have them send you a form that requires you tick one box, sign it, and send it back. I'm ecstatic to say I have one year left of the demons, but what a horrendous year I'm sure it will be. Vodafone should consider adding 'student finance' to their price plans. And for all you non-students, here's what being on hold to them is like: 


Oh and c'moooooooooooon Engerland!!!!

Over and out.

Monday, 5 September 2011

University 'Characters' Part 1

Ok, so being as people are going to be starting uni/returning to it this month, I thought I'll write something about some of the total douches you're bound to meet during your time away from home...

The Phantom Flatmate

There are 6 rooms in your flat. It's two weeks into your first term and you've met 4 of your flatmates. You know someone is in room 6. You hear them stirring, late at night, rooting through the cupboards, listening to their tunes in the early hours when you have a 9am lecture. They never bring buddies back, never seem to cook at sensible times, never leave that room. But you have never seen them. And you never will.

The Borderline Alcoholic 

"Don't be a pussy, come on, let's go!"
It's a Tuesday evening. You have an assignment in for 9am Wednesday. It's drum and bass night, and neither of you enjoy drum and bass. But he is persistent. You both have to go out and get absolutely destroyed, or you will be forever mocked. Forever destined to suffer a night of taking care of your buddy and being his wingman, you swear never to commit to this again as you drag him in at 4am. Wednesday evening comes. 
"I owe you a drink from last night, pal!"

The 'tries real hard to be different' guy

We're not talking indie kids. Or goths. Or even those douchebag chino-wearers who wear snap-backs emblazoned with a basketball team they've never heard of. I mean that guy who wears something or does something that makes him so desperate to be different. The guy who wears a trilby WHEREVER he goes. The guy who eats the weirdest combinations of food just to get a response from flat mates. The fat guy that awkwardly mentions how fat he is, whilst reading through the Domino's menu. You will encounter him and instantly know you never want to be friends with him. 

Over and out.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That.

So I haven't got much to talk about, but I fancied writing anyway. So I decided I'd form a mish-mash entry about lots of things that have happened to me this past week, as well as other past weeks. So, just stuff that's happened to me. Here we go.


If you've seen me recently, you'll know I bloody love using the word torrid. It means 'really shit' so naturally it gets a lot of use from me. I was thinking though, it's common knowledge that the word 'ginormous' isn't a real word, and is in fact a combination of gigantic and enormous, but is torrid similar? Is torrid a combo of terrible and horrid? Or is horrid a combo of horrible and torrid?!?!? The drama is unparamount. 

Reading that back, I would blame none of you if you closed this tab right now and never came back to this blog, as holy shit, that was a bore. Apologies. I'll try something a bit more interesting to discuss next.

The perfect condiment for fresh fish

....that wasn't very funny, was it?

Going Hobo, down in Acapulco 

So, today was my last day at good ol' Superdry Romford. Sad times indeed. I'll miss out on some amusing banter, trying to get the two Friendly Fires tracks on the work computer into a dance playlist made up mainly of artists with 'van' or 'le' in their names, the awkward customer moments like when you walk in on them having a domestic in the changing rooms, the money to be able to do things....

why did I quit?

Over and out.

P.s. little bit of a beg and grovel here. If theres any chance you guys could click 'follow' or 'subscribe' or whatever it is on the right of this text to follow this blog, that'd be top notch. Further, if you could share it on facebook or twitter, I'd love you more than I loved you post clicking of the button. What a prize. 

Friday, 2 September 2011


When you're drunk, a lot of things seem like absolutely amazing ideas. Stripping and pretending to be a Nazgul from Lord of The Rings atop a transit van (looking at you, Bean), going to Romford when you have work in the morning and getting absolutely dump-trucked, and the king of them all, buying drunk food. As far as drunk food goes, my pals and I are bastions of Subway, with its warm, crispy bread, and lashings of Southwest sauce. 

Coming out of Opium (Buddha Lounge to the youngens...wow, I feel old), Sam Ham and myself decided Subway was the way forward. We traversed the length of Romford ready to get our hands on some sweet, sweet, sandwich. Only....

Closed....what the fuck. Our lives crashed down around us like a fat kid being told McDonalds was closed. No worries, we thought. We'll go McDonalds. But, lowe and behold, also closed. We had become the proverbial fat kid. 

"How about the MaccyD on the a127?" Sam Ham suggested. What a fantastic plan, bang in a cab, through the drive thru, and we're at home, with 20 Nuggets each. We found ourselves a black cab, and hopped in. Nothing could go wrong here, perfect plan.

By the time we had reached the McDonalds, about half way home, the meter had risen to roughly £16, and we were told we had to wait 4 minutes for our nuggets. Crisis. At this point Sam Ham was still suggesting we bail, which, although good for our wallets, did leave us hungry and half way down a motorway. Persevering, we waited, and arrived back at Upminster station with our nuggets in hand. The final total was £30, and we had somehow paid £7 each for the food. Fuck it, got my nuggets.

"I'm not even that hungry" said Sam Ham.

Sunday, 28 August 2011

Aberdeen, keep 'em keen.

First off, hope you're enjoying the proper shit new background of spilt beans. I loved it (well, it was the only file I could find under 300kb that had beans, unless I had an African man hoarding coffee beans) so I hope you share my sentiments. Good? Good.

The Dying Scotsman

In my relatively short life, I've not had much experience with Scottish people. I know two. They're lovely, but I doubted it represented the whole of the Scottish populous. I was more keen to think of them as crude 90's sitcom character Rab C Nesbitt (don't bother looking that up, the gag wasn't worth it). Sitting in The Punch and Judy in Covent Garden with my buddy Bean'ed, things were about to change. 

As Bean was buying another round, a round Scotsman was strolling along, slowly. The Flying Scotsman he was not. With nowhere to sit, I offered him my seat, as I was convinced the battered Mars Bars had destroyed his circulation. 

"Oh ayee, thank you me laddy" (ok, so he wasn't that stereotypical, but it's just better if I make him sound like Lorraine Kelly). We began chatting, as you do, and Bean rejoined us, as did Ally's (no, that really was his name) mate Ian. Turns out Ian was a diehard West Ham fan. From Aberdeen. So we got chatting about the in's and out's of Ally and Ian's lives, and Ally offered us a pint each. Then two. Then three. Until we were really feeling it. As far as random encounters go, this was a top one.

And before this goes any further, no they were not gay, or 'trying to experiment'. Their wives showed up and I gave them directions to a top Chinese in Greenwich and we got on our way, feeling a little bit merry, and more knowledgeable about Land Rovers, Scottish Football, and the price of a flight down to London (don't do it, go via Leeds).

Dog Days Aren't Over

I don't know about you guys, but to me, and also Bean, having a dog in a supermarket is a strange concept. After getting a tad merry thanks to Ally 'n' Ian, we went to M+S to grab a roll. A woman was strolling around with a Jack Russel in her arms, to which Bean declared 'Who brings a dog in a fucking supermarket?' I looked back to see her glare, furiously. Oh dear.

"You got a problem with my fucking dog?"

Oh god. How do you respond to that? By saying "yes, I do have a problem with you bringing an animal that rolls in excrement for fun into a place that sells fresh food?"

No, apparently.

"I just think it's a funny concept, that's all" Bean said. I was in agony through laughter. This went back and forth a tad until she 'gave up'. We left without rolls. When we saw the dog outside, Bean was convinced it was staring at him. I told him it wasn't. 

I was a bit scared, though.

Over and out.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Three Piece Shoot

As some of you may have guessed, I have had a lot on my mind recently, across all sorts of subjects. Thankfully, I won't let this blog turn into lyrical inspiration for My Chemical Romance's next album, and instead carry on with the same true to life stories I'm known and thought to be a bit better than average for. 

Hailed a cab?

Whenever I need to think about something, I go out into London and just stroll around, and see what I find. Often, I'll get out at a certain station and give myself a target to get to, and see what I encounter along the way. Today, I got off the Jubilee line at London Bridge, and decided I'd get to Oxford Street to buy a new hat (mainly as it was pissing it down with rain, which I thought was gods way of telling me I'm not the only one who's a bit down. So thanks, big guy). I walked the length of London's South Bank and stopped for lunch, which many people were doing. The rain made it unpleasant to be outside, even for a short period, so people were scurrying into the closest cafe' they could find. Along the South Bank are various winding streets, dating back hundred's of years. Although picturesque, they aren't exactly very safe...

I was about to cross a road when I saw a taxi zipping along far quicker than was safe (the green cross code hedgehogs taught me well), so I stopped, waiting for it to pass. Then, I noticed a man in a suit flicking through files and papers and all sorts of business related stuff step out into the road. I didn't overly want to shout, as he'd probably just turn around and have even less chance of noticing the taxi, so I ran after him, grabbed him, and dragged him away, to the tune of a loud beep and a Spanish tourist shouting at the taxi, much like a Spanish football commentator (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IivUVo4V1Wo&feature=related). 

At this point, I was feeling mildly heroic, and a little bit shocked, but not as much as when the man turned round to look at me, pushed me, and exclaimed 'don't you fucking dare try and mug me, you yob!', before briskly walking off (still without looking, hedgehogs need to find this guy and teach him!). I didn't know what to say and stood there a bit puzzled. People walked by as if nothing had happened, and I considered for a minute whether they'd have rather pulled him out of the way, or sat with him whilst the ambulance arrived and have an excuse to be late to work. Maybe that was my negative mindset thinking. I hope so, anyway. So off I strolled, not sure whether I should feel content, or offended. 

And Topman didn't even have any decent hats. 

Oh, and I just want to urge everyone to check out a band called 'Stornoway'. Saw them at V at the weekend, and they had a really tight set live, so I was unsuprised to find the album was a real good one. If you enjoy Mumford and Sons, you'll like these, as they're just as folky, but a bit more chilled out.

And one more quick thing, if you're interested in crime fiction, let me know over facebook or twitter (@_JackHart). Yeah, that's it for now.

Over and out.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Knight Train

"Shit...I'm so tired...It's only at West Ham, I'll just shut my eyes, easy 40 winks before Upminster"

Why the hell I thought this was a good idea, I do not know. Upon waking up to a loud beeping noise, indicating the doors were closing at Upminster, and about to leave, I was mortified. I have missed my bloody stop. Oh shit. What does this mean? Where am I headed? Why am I still drunk? What a nightmare. This is the first time this has ever happened to me, and I was unprepared. No cab numbers. Phone out of battery. This would be a long night. 

The train arrived in West Horndon. I got off, alone. Nobody was about, nothing was open. It was a ghost town. I found a bus bench, and sat down, contemplating my next move (This is where things get very strange, but trust me, like everything else in this blog, this actually happened).

I saw some sort of building over the road, with a small cabin outside. Inside the cabin was a security guard. I'd go over, get a cab number, use his phone, and I'll be fine.

*knock-knock* "sorry bro, can I use your phone?"
"Yes, come in!"

Ok, this is creepy, I thought, but persevered. I explained my dilemna, to which he produced an ipod charger, and began charging my phone. With the little battery I had, I managed to text my buddy Bean and, thankfully, he was still awake, so headed off to come pick me up.

"Fancy some food?"
"erm...yeah, if you're offering"
"Peri Peri Chicken?"

No. Way.

"That sounds great"
"There's coke in the fridge, too"

For the next 30 minutes, we had a mini feast, with Ravi throwing some food in the micro ready to dine, and discussed Ravi's work life, and where I had been that night. Ravi and I were now best buds. I was considering just staying for the night and watching his anthology of late 80's action films he had on the laptop but alas, Bean and Jason had arrived. I bid Ravi adieu, and got in Beans car.

Only this morning did I realise how strange that was.

Over and out.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011

Empire BigScreen Convention: A Lesson in Anger Management Part 2

So, if you enjoyed the awkward escapades that yesterdays entry brought to the party, I'm sure you'll love/cringe even more, at what happened to me on Sunday. I've opted to skip Saturday as, unlikely as it sounds, nothing bad happened to me! How about that! Anyway, on with the rest of the entry so you can all laugh at my misfortune.


After two days of pretty tiring work, everyone was at their wits end. More screens needed to be filled, and with Jason Momoa (the guy from Game of Thrones and Conan), David Tennant (Who?), and Warwick Davies, the dwarf from Harry Potter and Star Wars in attendance, it was sure to be absolutely Sergio Ram-os. 

It certainly was. Regardless, most of the day went well, until, just as we were about to retire home (/pub) we were called for one last job. Feeling a bit like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 3, I reluctantly agreed, and was sent to screen 6, with instructions to 'fuck off anyone who tries to wait outside for the next screening'.

Within minutes I had an overfilled screening of Cowboys and Aliens and a group of moany ten year-olds calling me a 'melt' because I said they were 'like, 2' (although one did get up in my grill and say 'actually, I'm 8', so top marks for him). I decided to take my life into my hands and confront the screen.

"Ok, so anyone saving someone else a seat, you're not anymore"

I thought that was perfect and I would silence the crowd, filling the screen and seeming like a hero to those people who otherwise wouldn't have got to see a shoddy action movie.

"What if they've gone to get food?"

...oh god...what if they have gone to get food? That's a perfectly legitimate reason.

"or the loo", another shouted.

I was crumbling. What do I say?

I won't repeat what I said, but my actions were commended, and the film was re-projected next door. Everybody was a winner.

Then I got very drunk as rounds of drinks were purchased, and sadly, mixed.

Just about getting over that hangover.


Ok, so being a film convention, I did meet some stars, so here's a rundown I'm calling 'Cock-Or-Not'. I'd also like some views as to whether that does sound like coconut, which was the gag.

David Tennant: Cock - Ignored my calls of 'DavTen' and looked unhealthily skinny. 

Dominic Cooper: Not - Had time for fans, and remembered names. Top boy.

Idris Elba: Not - Same as above, but absolutely stacked to the rafters making him nice and threatening at the same time.

The one who played Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter: Cock - Pushed passed me in a corridor, and didn't acknowledge my childhood crush I had on her. Yes, she was expected to know about that.

Jason Momoa: Cock - He may have been a nice guy, but wearing a shirt that's so far unbuttoned I could see his bellybutton, combined with Morpheus glasses and hair down to his bee-hind is not a cool combination. I had a nickname for him, which was Samoan Joe, but was too scared to mention it to him. 

And that concludes this two part venture into my weekend. I'm off to V Festival this weekend so you can guarantee I'll have an equally awkward weekend on my hands. 

Over and out.

Monday, 15 August 2011

Empire BigScreen Convention: A Lesson in Anger Management Part 1

I guess first off, I should explain A.) What BigScreen is, and B.) Why the need for anger management. Well:

BigScreen is a film convention that occurred the weekend of 12/14 August at the o2 Arena, with lots of new film footage, star interviews, panels, and exhibits. I offered to work there as a volunteer, and got the job, giving me free access to do (a little bit of) work.

Working at a convention like this naturally has it's downsides. It's a big thing to organize and is the first of its kind in the U.K, on such a big scale. This creates problems as not everything is going to go right. 

In my case, very little went right. Good for this blog, not so good for me.


I was put on the door to the largest screening. I had no idea what to do, and nobody was around to ask. Naturally, this instantly presents itself as an opportunity for utter chaos. It was. In this screen, there was a balcony, for the customers who paid looooads more for their tickets than anyone else. Ignorant to this, I began seating balcony viewers downstairs with the paupers. Within five minutes, it was looking like a throwback to 'Nam with people shouting and a petrified Vietnamese guy (he wasn't really Vietnamese, he was just the tech guy). Having realised my mistake, I thought that anyone with 'Kings row' on their tickets would have the best seats in the house, which I presumed to be the front row.

Now, at the age of 20 I should have realised I should never presume anything, as I sent 100 people to the wrong area. 

"Ok, so everyone I just sent upstairs...you need to come back downstairs...and all of you I've just seated...you're actually upstairs"

It was not a good start to the weekend. Nor was handing out 200 pairs of '3D' glasses that weren't 3D, but just dark goggles. 

More coming tomorrow

Over and out.

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

I need a new Muse

No, not the pretentious rock band, but something new to write about. If you read this blog regularly, you'll have noticed my average posting schedule was every few days. And recently, I've had trouble sticking to that. Which is totally my bad. But also the fault of the world. So here is a bumper blog of all the things I've been building up to talk about over the past week.

Changing Rooms

If any of you work in clothing retail, you'll understand the joy of changing rooms. A guy brings in a t-shirt we all know won't fit and professes 'I'm a medium though!', when in reality he was a medium two months ago before he discovered a deep love of KFC, Mountain Dew, and liquidised fat. Then we have to go and get them the size up. Or maybe two sizes up. When working the changing rooms at work, I like to keep them quite tidy, so I often go around and open all the curtains to ensure nobody has left a hanger, t-shirt, ripped-off-a-tee security tag, or something else of the sort around. Only, last week, they hadn't left anything in there as such...being as they were still in there.

I ripped open the curtain to find a slightly chubby Asian lad trying on a pair of jeans, where he was in the mid-way point of taking one pair off and re-applying the new pair.

(Basically, he was naked)

I was so shocked that I paused before closing the curtain only to hear him cry "...can you get me a size up" shortly after. I returned with some larger jeans and we never saw eye to eye after that. Eye to bum only. Oh dear.


Ok, this was definitely a necessary talking point, so haterz of the beautiful game, scroll down now. In particular, I want to discuss the idea of Fantasy Football. 

And the crudest team names possible.

Here are some favourites I've heard over the past week, and the teams they represent:

Fritzl Palace (Crystal Palace)
Raul Moatdrid (Real Madrid)
Werder Breivik (Werder Bremen)

Inter Me Nan (Inter Milan)

and my personal fave

Real Betty's Hotpot (Real Betis)

If you here any gems, let me know!

London Riots

They're bad. They're evil. As far as bad stuff is concerned that's as far as I'll go. But good stuff? Seeing the people of London come together to clean-up and fight off the hoodlums? Great stuff. People on Green Street were apparently holding off attackers this morning, all banding together to protect what they believe in. And they succeeded. It shows how people can be strong when in the face of danger, which is something we all need now.

It's still worrying though. But, unlike every other shop in Romford this evening, Superdry didn't close. Apparently they were worried, but not enough to close. Instead they sent along a man who looked like Bubba from Forrest Gump and had a broken foot. Really instils confidence in you.

Over and out.

Sunday, 31 July 2011

Jack and the Beanstalker

It's safe to say that, at least once a day, we have those awkward moments where we end up feeling like an absolute goon. Be it falling over a pile of shirts in the stockroom and planting myself firmly into a hoodie (luckily I was on my own at this point), starting a deep conversation with someone who wasn't actually talking to you in the first place (this time, I was drunk, and thought he genuinely wanted to talk about him losing his job to me. Instead of telling me to  'fuck off', I think he should have been touched), or in the case I'm going to talk about now, walking exactly the same route as someone for roughly a mile and having them speed up and constantly look behind them to avoid you. Creepy.

I mean, I didn't mean to follow her. I walked out of one comic shop and began walking to another. Naturally, to avoid competition, they aren't exactly close together, even in central London. I saw her in front of me and as she turned every corner, I realised I needed to go the same way. I can't blame her for getting creeped out. I'm a fast walker so it probably looked like I was trying to poorly chase her like a paedophile with a dodgy knee that can't run properly (just to add, totally not comparing myself to a paedo). She kept turning round and spotting me and the look on her face showed confusion and mild fear...maybe more than mild. When it turned out she was going into exactly the same comic shop as I was, I opted standing outside for a minute, but thought waiting for her outside to continue my stalking may have seemed a bit worse. I went in. I perused this weeks new releases, and went downstairs to see some other bits they had.

She was downstairs. Just the two of us. She saw me, and we did one of those 'oh no, we're walking toward each other, and we're both dodging the same way' things when she said 'are you after me?'

Naturally, my response was 'no, I'm not'.

"I didn't mean it" she whimpered.


Then a fat man came down. Then she left. I was clearly the more scared one at the end of this encounter.

Over and out.

P.s. Sorry for not being busy much lately. I've been busy doing absolutely nothing for most of the day, and even less for the other part. Life is a bitch.

Monday, 25 July 2011

Can'tCan'tCan't Kick the habit.

With a title like I've given this evening's blog, you may think it's about the tragedy of Amy Winehouse's untimely passing. As sad a matter as that is, I won't dwell on it, as I'm sure everyone needs a bit of a cheer up after the week that has gone by, so instead I'm going to talk about a more amusing addiction than heroin and cocaine.

Ham and sleeping pills.

Yes, you read that correctly. Over a cool ginger beer, Matt Hooton revealed to me that the sleeping tablets he 'needs' taste so foul when they touch his throat that he needed a way to try and nullify this. Cue various food stuffs. Now, absurd as this is, bear with me. First, he tried inserting the pill into a small cheese cube, which proved to really give him nightmares as the cheese kept on crumbling. Along comes cheese's natural ally, ham. So yes. Matt gets some ham and folds it around the tablet, ready for swallowing. How mad is that? Wham, bam, thank you ham, down in one. So, in a twist from the usual formula, I'm going to ask you, what unusual habits do you have? If any good ones come in, I might even write about them in my next entry. You can either comment on here, on facebook, or tweet me @_JackHart 

Also experimenting on a new style, I'm going to talk about this absolutely wild story I read on the web this week. 


It's a tad old now, but it's a great story that shows no matter how big a star someone is, they can still have time to show how much they appreciate fans. 

Apologies about entries being few and far between recently, as my life has been a bit boring. If I were you, come find me and force something stupid or annoying to happen to me so that I can write it down in a comical fashion.

Over and out.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

ChooChooChoo (most uninspiring title ever)

The East Coast trainline has become somewhat of a spiritual home to me. The £1.40 bottles of water that, although extortionate, don't exactly give you much of a choice as to go to a different establishment (although the prospect of 'back seat dealings' in a dark, dank back carriage where passengers are playing craps and clicking their fingers to a bassy beat). The odd toilet locks that leave you petrified that someone will walk in on you and your business. Even the plug sockets that don't have an on/off switch which annoys me and my slight OCD hugely. Having suffered a journey up to the Midlands with an annoying woman playing Bollywood at full blast through her laptop speakers (I was unable to engage with the lead character, possibly due to the language gap, but more likely due to a shoddy per-korma-nce), I was hoping for a better return journey.

Naturally, this was not the case. There I was, bright and early at Grantham station waiting for the 14.08. For half an hour, I mulled my coffee. Then, at 5 to two, horrow struck: I needed the loo. I was petrified I'd miss the train but just had to risk it. At five past two, I was out of the loo, and the train was on the platform, so I darted on. Perfect. But all was not right. A man was in my seat. 

"sorry pal, think you're in my seat there"
"No, I'm not"
I showed him my ticket

"That's wrong"
"clearly it isn't"
"I'm not moving"

This swung back and forth for a few minutes. Harsh words were exchanged. He was still sitting. I was still standing. Luckily, the ticket inspector arrived.

"This guy is in my seat mate!"

He looked at my ticket.

"You're on the wrong train"

The man sitting down took of his jacket. He made himself comfortable.

I made myself scarce. 

Over and out.

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Tuesday, 5 July 2011


I've mentioned it before, but holy shit, retail workers can be on the wrong side of the sanity tracks. I decided that I needed a new pair of shoes, preferably something plain, maybe grey or navy, so my first port of call was Schuh. After the usual awkward pleasantries a girl asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. Remember this moment. This is where you say "No, just browsing".

I said "yeah, something plain, maybe grey or navy" to which she immediately dived onto her database to look for some shoes that matched my description. I had been lured into her trap like a moth to a flame and now I was committed. "Any price range?" she said. Oh god, now I'm ever further into this path to the till-of-no-returns. What should I say? "Oh, anything under a tenner" would make me look cheaper than a (insert whichever city you want here to avoid offence) on a night out. I went with a max of £30 which she must have thought was a paltry amount as her lip raised a bit as though she'd been offered KFC on a first date (not that I know that look...) when she wanted, at least, Nando's. I had no intention of purchasing the shoes she then found me but I decided there was no way to bail now, so she brought them out.

I admit, they were a snug fit. I was being persuaded, slowly, to part with my cash, but I then snapped back into reality. What was I thinking? I couldn't afford these. But how would I get out? It felt like running away from the altar on your wedding day, but I had to. As soon as she took them up to the counter, I'd dart for the stairs. "Yeah, leave them behind the counter, and I'll head up in a sec", I said tying my shoes. Now was the moment! I was away! Halfway up the stairs, I could almost smell the freedom. 

"Excuse me?"
"You er.. forgot your wallet"

"...right...thanks...I was just going to get money out for the shoes y'see"

I never came back.

Over and out.

Friday, 1 July 2011


I don't quite know how to put this. I'm sure that's how the business moguls behind the popular candy brand started their pitch, too. Sitting their, drinking their Sunkist and eating their free sweets, and an idea so crazy, so unexpected comes to them, that they feel destined to take this idea as far as it will go. And then expand it. It started as small bags in the local Tesco. Then advanced to Waitrose. Then got their own online store. Normal store. Theme park. Football sponsorship deal. Travel company. Petrifying. 

M and M's now have their own physical shop at Piccadilly Circus. A shop that is dedicated to selling everything that is either M or M. I know what you're thinking, what can they possibly sell other than the sweets? This was my first thought, but I was swiftly told 'there are three varieties y'know'. Right. Three. Well, I appreciate the number of possibilities that peanut, crunchy, and normal create, but does this really mean that the West End needs a three-floor behemoth to stock them? 

As much as I couldn't bear to go in to such a strange place (I was pretty skint) I looked through the window into the pit of colours and kiddies to see teddies, phones, clocks, everything with those annoying colourful New Yorker arseholes on it than one could ever dream of. In a time of such economic downturn, who in their right mind thought this would be more profitable than a small shack that sold M and M's and a few novelty touristy items like a keychain with a crudely painted phonebox on the end or a t-shirt that says 'my parents when to London and all they got me were three different varieties of M and M's, a clock featuring said company's mascots, and this crappy t-shirt'. It would need to be a big t-shirt, but if you're buying them a bucket load of sweets, you can expect they'll probably fill it. I can even tolerate a one floor shop, but three floors? The rent must be bloody extortionate, and the lighting and so on. Utter madness.

But then again, I don't know why I'm complaining.... I kind of fancy some M and M's now.

Over and out.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

"It'd be rude not to..."

As far as formal do's go, I've not exactly got a good track record. When I was at the premier for 'The Dark Knight' a few years back, I took the free champagne to a new level (that level being 'Nobody should have this much champagne and then watch a film in the iMax as it will have disastrous effects on your viewing ability). During my year 13 prom, being one of only two people on a table of 6 that enjoyed a glass of wine with my meal (and, coincidentally, without a meal too) I felt it my civic duty to not let such wine go to waste. After all, wine isn't wasted when your getting wasted, or something like that. Last night, fate was set to intervene yet again.

Whilst sitting in Waxy O' Connors, a nice Irish pub just off China town, and watching another enthralling game of tennis, Empire Magazine sent out a tweet for a competition for five lucky winners to watch a VIP screening of gritty prison drama 'The Escapist' at the Soho Hotel. Winners would be greeted with a canapĂ© reception for them and their guest and a QnA session afterwards. This sounded to good to miss and when Pedro arrived to meet me, I received a reply letting me know I've won two tickets. Fantastic.  

Now bear in mind, this was around 4pm. I had already had a couple pints, and more were sure to follow before the showing. We arrived at the hotel looking a tad more casual than most other people and immediately I became incredibly self concious. I was not in my element here. Waiters were darting around the room offering us beers, duck spring rolls, mini fish and chips, and a strange paste that I decided not to touch, or eat for that matter. I had had a few of the delicacies (note: a lot more than few) when the waiter joked 'It'd be rude not to' when I was opting to take a further duck spring roll. Oh god, I thought, now I had to. I don't want to offend this guy, he had a waistcoat on, and all I had was a little badge that said 'admit one' on it. No way out. There he was, tray in my face, glaring me down with his simply quacking food luring me in. I'd had a few beers, how much more can a man take? I'm on the edge here, I thought, but valiantly battled on for just one more spring roll. 

Then it happened. In the plush arrival room of the plush hotel on the plush carpet, I had dropped an entire pot of tartare sauce off his tray, ruining the carpet and peoples condiment choices in one foul swoop. Pretty much everybody saw, too. I was ashamed, not only because I quite fancied the sauce myself, but I'm pretty sure a dab may have gone onto a mans shoe, which I opted not to notice.

"sorry..." I muttered
"...it happens all the time" lied the waiter.

In a moment of clarity, the Irish man from Film 2011 began to talk, and dragged everyone away from Tartare swamp to the screening room. Thank god for that.

So there I was. Drunk, but full, in a posh hotel in Soho. The curse had come true yet again, and had fulfilled its destiny. Safe to say though, the film was fantastic, and they gave us copies of the dvd, so I can lend it to anyone who wants a watch, which was lovely of them. So yes. To sum up, don't do what I do and get drunk at posh events. It's never smart. But then again, neither am I.

Over and out. 

Or maybe I should say, Tar-Tare?

Friday, 24 June 2011

Schnell! Schnell!

Ok. So it has become apparent to me that I have a fair few entries that revolve around running. Apologies for that, as I'm sure they do all bore you, but I feel the need to tell you about one more running mishap. 

Around this time every year, the local secondary school bring over about 20 German exchange students to experience the Cranham way of life. This year is no different, and as I ran over the bridge into Cranham, there they all were waiting at the bus stop. Only, I didn't know they were Germans. I just thought they were 20 teenagers who happened to also be wearing similar running gear to mine, which although seemed strange at first, I thought soon after that A.) I look dashing in my running gear (pun intended) and B.) it was a nice 'noon for a run. As I ran past, on the opposite side of the road, one of the assistant teachers, who was clearly English and just along for the ride / potential German date, began flagging me to come over. I had my headphones in and was intrigued, so I crossed. I'm sure you can see where this is going. 

I was looking at the Germans, puzzled. They were looking at me, puzzled. The assistant teacher was looking at me, expectant. I took my headphones out. I told her I was English. She told me my English accent was good. I told her it was because I was, in fact, English. A small German boy backed this up by saying 'I have never seen this girl in my life', which showed that his English needed work, but made the teacher realise her mistake and awkwardly tell me to get on my way. Now I promise never to write about running again. Unless I have to. 

Over and out.