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

Monday, 30 May 2011

The dangers of having a festival on your doorstep.

Ok. So not literally on your doorstep. Space, amongst other things, would be an issue. But 10 minutes away. So practically. Anyway, as amazing as it sounds (and was), there are issues. Events at our student union are either rappers, rnb artists, or of other genres that don't dunk my biscuit. When a half decent artist does roll into Hatfield, it's often dead as nobody has heard of them. When something like Slam Dunk festival (www.slamdunkmusic.com) rolls into our merry SU, it's time to make the most of it. Which is exactly what I did. Via the medium of alcoholic beverages.

By 4 in the afternoon, I was plum tuckered. The combination of an almost empty bar in one room, knowing a girl behind the bar which meant getting doubles for the price of singles, and ludicrously cheap bevvies dotted about the joint meant that I turned from sober student to drunken debaucher in a really short period of time. It doesn't help that, when in a drunken state, attractive bar staff can work their money grabbing tactics on me with no troubles.

"I'll have a JD and coke please"
"double? it's cheaper than two singles"
"I guess it is. Yes, a double"
"Would you like to donate to the staff tip pot?"
"Yes. I would. Here is a pound"

This was just one of many disastrous events that occured throughout, such as partying with a man triple my age during The King Blues' set, getting slightly confused when a girl from Front magazine was looking at her friend next to me and me thinking she was infact looking at me and performing a really camp wave, and talking to a man who claimed to be Senegalese and West Ham football player Demba Ba, regardless of the fact he wasn't nearly the same height or build. Or skin colour. I would imagine that this is a sign I should control myself a bit more. But then again, I wouldn't get to party with an old man, a Senegalese international striker, or get blanked by attractive girls. All of which are magic moments.

Over and out.  

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

The pain is a lie

Listen To Key Words

Last Friday, I went to the dentist. I had a 'minor' filling. I was required to come back the following Monday for a 'larger' filling. I thought, "what's the difference, right? It won't hurt anymore than the last, surely?"

"Would you like some painkillers?"
"I'm sure I'll be fine"
"If you look like you are in agony, I'll stop"

Agony? Strange choice of words. Why not 'slight discomfort'? Or 'little niggle'?

Apparently because having a drill go to work on your molar is not just slight discomfort. Or a little niggle. It is absolutely agony. I mean, I know it is a DRILL going to work on my soft innocent teeth but holy shit, is it painful. As if I cheated on Snow White and she told her Seven Dwarves to get some sweet, sweet revenge on just a single tooth.

"Did it hurt?"
"it felt...funny" (I wanted to retain at least some male credentials here)
"yeah. I drilled your tooth away"

Sickness AND pain now? Thanks doc.

1.21 GIGA...What?

Back to the future 3. Arguably the worst of the three. Sitting watching it on Sunday for the epic final scene, I was shocked as I remembered just how lame it was. Which is very. And then I was shown this by Lucy Bond. And shit got triple as weird:


seriously, what the hell is that? What is he even doing? I could understand if he was having a pretend tug or something, but a weird 'Neo from Matrix 1' gesture? Before The Matrix even came out? Answers on a postcard/comment if you please.

Over and out

Saturday, 21 May 2011


Pillowcase Blues

They said today was going to be the apocalypse. By they I mean some Hippie from the Southern States of the US of A. About as reliable a source as the Daily Star. But it didn't stop facebook and twitter jumping all over it and cracking some of the worst gags known to man, e.g. People are making Rapture jokes like there's no tomorrow... ha. But I honestly believe that here, at the end of Comet Road, Hatfield, the end of time has generally arrived.

It's five to eight. PM. Since 7am this morning, an alarm that sounds like a fire engine with Delhi Belly has been pounding away about 100 yards from my window. Alright, I got up at eight for breakfast, but every time I go back upstairs, it's there. Haunting me, like a lazy RingWraith with a hangover. Right now, I am worried for my ability to get to sleep tonight. Will it still be there? Probably, it is a Saturday and who wants to come and sort out an alarm when National Lottery Who Dares Wins with Nick Knowles is on (I totally love this show by the way). It's safe to say then, that it will be there. Piercing my ear drums. All night. And then I remembered the James De Gale fight is on. And everything is right in the world.

Dentist Disaster

Nobody likes the dentist. I don't. I love Pomegranate juice, and the weird Polish lady tells me not to have so much of it. How dare she keep me apart from my one true love in the juice world. But when you're laying there in the chair with a light brighter than the sun beaming in your face and two metal poking sticks hanging out of your mouth and the dentist starts asking you what you've been eating, how the hell are you supposed to respond?


"I don't understand you"

"I don't understand why you think I can talk when I look like an mouthy Edward Scissor-hands."

Not that she understood that. It was more of another "ugggwerghh".

I think she then purposely tried to make the check-up more painful and humiliating by trying to get me to spill the mouthwash out of my mouth onto my tiny bib she had given me. This failed. She wasn't beating me today.

A little bit dribbled onto my sleeve though.  

Over and out.   

Sunday, 15 May 2011

Phonebooth 2: The Reverse Charge Call

In our household in sunny Hatfield, our phone doesn't ring very often. There are many reasons for this. Very few people (including myself) know the number. We have mobile phones, and have no need for a landline. People don't like us/me. All are plausible. When we do get phonecalls though, it's always for a man named 'Malik'. Now, if ever there was to be a name that was created for the purpose of being used in a Mel Gibson buddy-movie, this is it. Picture it now, Empire State building, Malik holding a tanned Keira Knightley over the railings, threatening to drop her onto the street below, turning her into thick, Upper Class smoosh. Mel, preferably with the help of Danny Glover busts in, cracks out a few cheesy lines (I was thinking maybe that the film would be set on Easter Monday so that Mel could go for "Just another Malik Monday", but it's his call), and saves the day. You get it, I get it, he's a villain.

Only, it could be true. As we haven't had just phonecalls. We've had letters (which I open, even though I know this is illegal, as I like to try and piece together the stories of our previous tenants. Kim Lee for example regularly gives blood), and even the feds knocking on our door demanding his whereabouts. I don't remember much of him from when I met him when we first looked at the house, just that he was watching Spiderman 2 in a tiny room with 3 other men. Strange guy. Spiderman 1 is much better. 

Using the little detective skills I have (which is just occasionally sifting through junk mail about how he can receive a new rate on his credit card which I will be sure to inform him of) I can only assume his story is somehow linked to my friend in Spain, who I received an email from yesterday telling me to "fuck off being fuck", which must be either code, or he has been kidnapped and had his emails hacked into by who I can only imagine is the infamous Malik. It is safe to say that Sherlock Holmes got nuttin' on 'dis. I will not be writing back to my friend in Spain. And will continue pretending to speak Mandarin when anyone phones asking for Malik. Safety first.

Over and out.

Thursday, 12 May 2011

It shouldn't be awkward. It's a totally normal thing to do. And yet, defying everything, some see it as a social convention that one should never partake in: "How many people are eating?"

"Oh, just one". Good god, some of you may cry. You're eating alone? Well, yes. Men have been doing this for generations. Stryder is alone in the scene we first meet him in Fellowship of The Ring. When Obi Wan Kenobi went out for dinner, I doubt he had many dates with him. He was a hermit, after all. After a break-up, guys and girls are always alone, drinking away their sorrows... these examples are actually a bit lame, aren't they, being as 2/3 of them involve fictional characters. But you understand what I'm getting at. Nowadays when someone is eating alone in anywhere other than MaccyD's or KFC, it's like they have quite literally morphed into an elephant in order to become the proverbial elephant in the room. It's far more common to enjoy a Boots meal deal. And who can argue with that? Nice food and you always get pulled back by the whole 'oh with a Boots meal deal I always feel like I'm saving loads by getting all the expensive stuff like Tropicana or Relentless' ideology (Hoisin duck wrap, fruit bag, and vitamin water, if you were curious). But why should we not be able to enjoy a more upmarket way of dining just because we're on our lonesome? 

As someone who is fine with it, if I'm about the city, I'll always pop into my favourite noodle bar even if I'm alone. But that is just it. It's ok in certain restaurants. Noodles, yes. Fry-up, yes. Pub, just about. But then pizza hut? No way. Outback steakhouse? To eat alone in there is just about as socially unacceptable as wearing a Millwall shirt in the depths of Bow. Why is this though? Is it the food? The time taken to be in and out (because if you are alone, you don't wanna be in there for too long, right?). The formality e.g. whether it's a waiter affair or a order at the counter job, or even a buffet. I mean, I personally feel much better when alone at a buffet place. If I'm with someone at a proper restaurant and the waiter comes over to take our order, you can always do that classic look toward whoever your with followed by an inquisitive "yeah?" informing him that you have discussed with your guests and are now ready to peruse his wears, showing him that you are in control. Compare this to when your alone and he looks at you like you're some sort of paedophile, and I know what I'd go for. The possibilities are endless. But next time you're out, either pop in to a little quick restaurant and enjoy yourself, rather than tucking into the fifth Zinger Tower meal this month. Well, that or stare inquisitively at that weirdo on his own in the corner of Nando's.

Over and out. 

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

What's that? There's a clock that needs winding? I'm your man.

As any students, of university, A levels, or even GCSE level will know, revision is the most mindbendingly painful activity you can ever partake in. Regardless of how soon that exam is, quite literally anything seems more interesting than revision. You all know the score. Hell, earlier on I found myself sorting out the entire contents of each of the drawers in my room. To give you a picture of this, the drawers contain anything from dvd's and cd's I don't want (or as I like to call 'emergency presents'), cards for various different stores that I wasn't aware even still existed, and birthday and christmas cards (one of which wasn't mine. As in sent or received by. It was from a girl called Laura to a guy called Mike. I had no idea how this got here, but was suitably pleased that, judging by how regal the card was, and the high chance it didn't arrive, I may have caused a little bit of a row between Lozza and Micky). See, even babbling on about that is time-wasting rather than revising. It's just unbelievably boring. I understand it's point as we all need to refresh our mind when it comes to sitting in a room for 2 hours in complete silence and writing about one single mindnumbing topic. It just seems shit.
I mean, I'm not one who's all up for 'new teaching methods'. I had one teacher who, upon hearing Ofsted were coming round for an inspection, opted to do his entire class on powerpoint instead, using text boxes to 'reveal' hidden text. The class was riveting, naturally. I just wish there was a way to ensure that whatever we learnt in the first place just stays in our heads the first time around. In my case, maybe I should've paid a bit more attention rather than drawing dinosaurs in my notebook (/sketchbook) the first time around, but hey, nobody thinks of that at the time. Only ever when we're 3 days away from the exam. Anyway, Catchphrase is on and I simply can't miss it.

Over and out


I still haven't received an email back from the guy lost in Spain. I'm worried for his safety. Will keep you posted.

Friday, 6 May 2011

"You've chosen...wisely"

Spam emails aren't uncommon. An advert for viagra popping into our box (no pun intended) is a daily thing for most of us, and the good old spam box will usually suck them away (wow, again, no pun intended) and we don't have to deal with them. Yesterday however, I was greeted by this 'request':


My sincere regrets for this sudden request, things actually got out of control on my trip to Valencia, Spain. I came down here on Vacation, was mugged and all my belongings cash, cellphone and credit cards were all stolen at "gun point". It's such a traumatic experience for me. I need your help flying back home as I am trying to raise some money.

Am Cash Strapped at the moment. I've made contact with my bank but the best they can do is to mail me a new card which will take 2-4 working days to arrive here.
I need you to lend me some money to sort my self out of this predicament, will pay back once I get this over with.

Western Union Transfer is the fastest option to wire funds to me. Let me know if you need my details(Full names/location) to effect atransfer. You can reach me via email or the hotel's desk phone +34962463145

Mark Beaumont

Right then. I admired Marks (yes, I felt his sincere email put us on first name terms) email and decided that what else was there to do but send an email back to my new friend...

Dear Mark,

Please, do not be sorry for this request, it is normal, expected even, for one to be mugged in a country that has the third lowest crime rate in Europe. I would also presume that the money you no doubt left in your hotel room as a safety precaution was also stolen, possibly by the same villain or even the maid of the hotel, known for their anti-tourist perspective in a country arguably fuelled by said industry. As for the flight situation, I will willingly aid your cause. I have been working on a flying machine of my own, similar to that of the original design by the Wright brothers, which I am willing to pilot over to Valencia and take you to wherever in the world you wish to visit, although if you wish to join me further, I will be traversing the globe in a time period of 80 days and would love a companion to join me. If this option is not favourable for you, I will loan you £1.27. I would love to loan you more but, as you may expect, a flying machine costs a lot to produce and have only this small amount of money left. If anything, I need some money loaned to me as I am struggling to get by with the money I do have. In fact, would you be able to loan me some? I cannot pay any of my bills this month and I'm getting ever more worried that I won't be able to feed my young daughter. If you can, please, reach me on the same email address you originally sent this to, and we will sort out a method of transfer.

Thank you, so much.
Yours faithfully

Jack Hart

I feel my email was the perfect tone to convey my message.

Over and out

Sunday, 1 May 2011

"Matthew Perry: My Friends and me"

I don't know why I chose Matthew Perry to feature in the headline of this blog. I mean, obviously this is going to be about autobiography, and yeah, it was a good set up for a Friends pun which is the kind of thing you would see on an autobiography. Take Richard Branson's for example: "Losing my virginity". Ha. I get it. He owns Virgin, and losing ones virginity is the perfect shit that fits in someones vein telling of their own life, so it's a double meaning. (This isn't always the case. I mean, Jordan's autobiography is called 'pushed to the limit', and unless she's talking about her bra, or Peter Andre's patience, or her accountants stress levels...actually, I guess it's pretty perfect. Where was I? Matthew Perry, yeah. To sum that up, he had a show on Bio about his life, which was what gave me the idea to query this: if I had an autobiography, what would it be called? I mean, I've mentioned some already that tend to be puns on the writers life or work. I don't have a reason to write an autobiography, as I haven't done anything special, so really it's natural that no title is jumping out. Earlier on, a friend of mine called Nick joked he would call his 'The meat situation' in regards to the meat situation with our barbecue. So I thought, what if everybody's autobiographies had absolutely nothing to do with them whatsoever in any way. 

Jack Hart: The man in the silk gown

I have never worn a silk gown. I don't plan to. I don't overly know what silk feels or even looks like. But bugger me, what an awesome title. Look at all the mystery it provides. Like a smoother and slicker Michael Parkinson, when he was young and having banter with Ali that time. By the time my book had been snapped up by people searching for drama, romance, action, and raw emotion all in one 20 year chronicle of amazement, thanks alone to it's title, I'd be rich and they'd have one boring book (dependent on how boring they find my relatively boring life, of course). Maybe all autobiographies are like this though. I mean, I know Jordan is pumped full of more silicone than a rubber ball factory, but why does she think we need to know? Why do we need to know about how much better these peoples lives are than our own (wow, now Jordan seems like a bad example...) Maybe, we should stop focusing on other peoples lives, and try and make ours just as good. Then maybe, just maybe, twenty years down the line, we can write our own book. Not that I'd condone it one bit.

Over and out.