On Christmas morning, my stocking yielded presents edible (chocolate money, Yorkie bars), presents boring (toothbrush), present funchie (bubble mixture, v. nice socks) and presents strange. (You know those rolled up things that you blow, and they unfold and make horrible noises? Well, four of them.)

Downstairs, I received more presents than I'd predicted: five CDs, file paper, smelly stuff, further chocolate, a framed picture of a flower (from my great aunt, of course), the most funchie teapot in the world ever (it's designed to resemble a pot of Marmite) and a cheque. For a hundred pounds, yoj. I still felt a bit jealous of Noj, though. The mobile phone he asked for not only cost forty pounds less than expected but came with a free handheld television!

My parents were (as usual) less thrilled with their horde though. Dad groaned as he discovered bottle after bottle of white wine and got a scarf that he kept insisting was an altar cloth. And Mum received a vicious-looking hook for hanging a bunch of keys on, shaped like a manky pear.

After a quick listen to "Kid Indestructible" by 28 Days (one of the two CDs I asked for as a result of reviewing for the university radio station; two of the others [a Cardiacs album and "The Crow" soundtrack] were ordered as a result of knowing Bryn), I had to face The Annual Torture Part 1: church. Naturally, I removed the badge that says, "Piss Off" from my coat first.

Next came The Annual Torture Part 2: Dinner With The Grandparents, most of which was spent playing with a jumping blue plastic frog that came in a cracker. Between that and The Annual Torture Part 3: Tea With The Grandparents, I read most of The New Illustrated Rock Handbook. In the evening, I watched "Four Weddings And A Funeral" and "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" with the parents and played Trivial Pursuits. (I came second.)

On 26th December, I tried to rewrite "Your Woman" by White Town, using Maestro, a very primitive music program for the Acorn, but got bored after the first four lines. Then I spent eight and a half hours recording "Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone" off Radio 4, so Bryn could listen to it on the back to London from my house. (Given train problems and costs, he was going to go by bus, but since I already had a ticket, train for me.) Oh yes, I beat my previous record in Bloxed (obtained 3 days earlier) and got to level 65.

On 27th December, I got to level 67 on Bloxed! Other than that, nothing remotely interesting happened, except Soppygit phoned and we spoke for an hour and a half.

28th December went reeeeeeeeeeeally slowly.

29th December: Day Of Yoj! i.e. Bryn's arrival!

Well, the day was mostly of paaaaaaaain, really. I'd arranged to meet Marion in Carlisle at one; we'd hang around for a few hours, then I'd meet Bryn at 4.30. So when my parents asked me if I'd go to the shop and do a bit of work beforehand, I said, "Nay trublem, Kenneth."

But shortly after I'd arrived, I got a text message saying, "BUS BROKEN DOWN MIGHT BE LATE" only not as accurately spelled. Then, a few minutes later, Marion called to say she didn't feel up to meeting me. The upshot of it was, I stayed at the shop for seven and a half hours, growing steadily more impatient. Invoices couldn't distract me. Even while playing Minesweeper, my eyes remained fixed on the bottom right corner of the screen. Every now and again, I would moan something along the lines of "Je voudrais un Bryn" to anyone listening.

Eventually, I discovered the train (yes, no longer a bus but a train) was due to arrive at 5.30. Since the weather conditions were poor, and I dislike driving alone at the best of times, Dad offered to drive me to the station. However, at 5.10, the necessary setting-off time, he disappeared. I couldn't find him, and Mum was also clueless as to his whereabouts. It was 5.25 before he finally emerged, by which time I was pacing back and forth in anxiety.

However, it eventually happened: Zed and Bryn's yojful reunitation!

In the evening, we watched three episodes of "Red Dwarf". Or rather, I watched three episodes; Bryn watched one and a quarter before falling asleep. (Unsurprisingly: he'd stayed up until two the night before, and risen at four.)

The next day, we did very little in the morning, but went to Carlisle in the afternoon, after ten minutes of ice-scraping. I found a new pair of fishnet tights - yoj! - which were cheaper than my last pair, and we saw "Pokémon The Movie: 2000".

Don't look at me like that. Ever since the end of October, when we saw "This Is Spinal Tap" at the cinema in town, and discovered that this foul creation was soon to be unleashed upon millions of poor parents whose cursèd children don't remember the days when characters on TV spoke intelligibly, Bryn has been saying, "I must see it!" and I have been saying, "You're not going with me, mate". I saw ten minutes of an episode once, which was more than enough, and I am naturally wary of all things popular.

However, since he agreed to buy my ticket, I agreed to watch it. Before the film started, there was a cartoon called "Pikachu To The Rescue" or something. By the end of it, my fingers were itching through a raving desire to strangle Pikachu.

Luckily, during the film itself, there were sufficiently fewer "Pi-ka Pi-KA!"s. And it wasn't actually that bad. Not good enough that I'll be dashing to see the third one (because something tells me the craze isn't over yet), but if someone insists on me going, I could be convinced.

During the day, on 31st December, we did absolutely nothing. Well, we didn't go anywhere: I thought about going for a drive, but the weather was on the groll side. Instead, Bryn played with our Korg MS2000 a lot (about the nearest thing to a Moog synthesizer you can get), which he enjoyed so much that since getting back to university, whenever asked, "How was Christmas?" he answers, "Christmas, I spent with my family. New Year, I went to a metal club up near Scotland." Everyone inevitably asks, "What were you doing there?" to which the answer is, "Zed lives there. I got to play with a MS2000!" (To which the answer is, of course, "What's that?")

In the evening, we did indeed go to a club: The Twisted Wheel, in Carlisle. I'd never been there before, because according to everyone I knew it was a scank dodgy place of duuuuuuume! However, I'd gathered that it played rock music, and in the Gazette, it said there'd be free entry on New Years' Eve. (As it was a Sunday, clubs in Carlisle didn't have permission to charge.) So along we went, and . . .

It was really good!

Neither hot nor crowded. A mirrored wall, and black walls with neon astrological symbols painted on them. The attitude was good - there was perhaps two seconds of moshing - and some of the people were downright friendly. And, most importantly, good music! Recent metal, a bit of weird-but-funchie ska, and some classics, although Bryn and I were the only people who danced to "Paranoid" and "Born To Be Wild", possibly because the average age of the clientele was twelve.

Well, not quite, but at least half the people there weren't old enough to be. Not that I minded; it just makes me jealous, because I didn't get to go when I was younger. (Due to none of my friends sharing my more alternative tastes and my parents not permitting me to go clubbing until I was seventeen.)

The following day, the weather was nicer, so we travelled to The Places Essential To Zed's Past - the castle where I used to live, The Chamber Used For Annual Torture, my primary school and Hadrian's Wall (destination of 90% of school trips. Cumbria is a nice place to visit, but no one in their right mind would live there. My parents, as proven earlier on in this entry, are not in their right mind.) We also went to Gretna Green, but nothing was open except the tartan shop (since it was New Year's Day) but that was fairly interesting in itself. In trying to get back to Brampton, I accidentally ended up on the motorway, which was a bit scary, since I'd never driven on it before. Once I was on it, though, it wasn't too bad. Finally, we went to Castle Carrock. There is absolutely nothing to see or do in Castle Carrock, which is a little village not far from where I live, but Bryn wanted to go there, since he insisted its name was "Carstle Carrot".

On Tuesday 2nd, I woke up with a stomach ache. I thought it would go away if I ate something and / or ignored it, but by midday, it had become agonising. Bryn, thinking it was trapped wind, gave me some Rennie capsules and Andrew's salts, both of which made me burp a bit and scream a lot, louder than I thought I was capable of. He liked it though.

Have I ever mentioned that he's A Bit Strange?

My mother came home from work and couldn't think of any remedies other than a hot water bottle. It worked though; after an hour and a half of dozing on the sofa, it felt fine, and Bryn and myself watched two and a half hours of "Dragon Ball Z". In the second twenty-five minute episode, Goku and Frieza began a duel.

By the evening, however, the pain had returned. I writhed through "The Lost Boys" and moaned in "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" (although that's not unusual, given the intelligence of the average contestant) and had a double dosage of Andrew's. Again, it did no good, and the screaming went up a pitch. "Cool!" said Bryn.

I spent the night unable to sleep, going to the toilet every twenty minutes and groaning. Eventually my mother got up. I was hoping she'd bore me into a state of slumber, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Nevertheless, I dozed off at around four.

An hour and a half later, I woke up. The stomach ache had vanished, but the same pain was now in my back.

This proved even more agonising, since the lukewarm-water bottle could no longer be positioned advantageously. I finally managed to sleep for another hour, and woke up to find the pain had divided itself between the two locations.

Determined not to lose another day, I took Bryn to Omega Music, where he fell in love with a drum kit. I still have to buy him a Christmas present, but I think that might be a little outside my price range, staff discount or otherwise. In the afternoon, we went to Gretna Green again, where we explored the museum. It was quite good, except there was no heating in order to preserve some of the artefacts and there was probably a negative temperature outside, so I shivered like crazy.

We returned to Brampton and watched "Dragon Ball Z". Goku was still fighting Frieza. I went to the doctor's in the middle of it and she discovered the problem was a blood infection! She prescribed me some pills, but they did very little.

Nevertheless, I went ahead with the plans for that evening: a geenic reunion, of sorts.

It was a lot less insane than the first three. Zed, Will and Roe did not walk around Brampton at 5am (mostly because Will and Roe weren't there - Will was busy and Roe was uncontactable, since he wasn't at home, and his mobile phone account had been cancelled due to them working out that he was using a chip to give him free calls for a year). The group did not return to the car to find the car park gates locked (mostly because the car park didn't have gates). And Chris did not spend three hours trying to persuade Helen to sleep with him (mostly because Helen wasn't there).

However, we had a pretty good time, all in all. We went for a meal and saw "The Sixth Day" at the cinema. Despite it featuring not just Arnie, but two Arnies, it v. good, although I couldn't watch the last half hour of it, since I felt too achy and shaky. Then we went back to my house, where we sat at the kitchen table for a couple of hours discussing The Beatles and underwear.

After that, Chris went home. The significant thing was, just before he left, Smill said, "It's been good to see you again." ?!?!?!? In the three and a half years they've known each other, when has Smill ever said anything remotely nice to Chris?!?!?!? He was quite taken aback, although they had been constantly talking at a million miles per hour all night. Later on, when Smill had gone to bed, and Bryn and myself were talking to various people on MSN Messenger, Chris appeared online and declared that he really liked Smill. Awwwww, three years after I wrote The Bagot he fancies her again!

On Thursday, I felt slightly better, but lethargic nonetheless. Smill left, I gave Bryn The Brampton Shopping Experience (over in ten minutes) and we watched "Dragon Ball Z". The second last episode was titled "Frieza Defeated!!" but by the end of the next part, Frieza was still on the go! Then, in the evening, I insisted that we dye our hair. (Me and Bryn, that is. Frieza doesn't have hair.)

My hair came out looking relatively black, while Bryn's maintained its previous shade of Dark Brown With Lighter Bits. However, within a couple of days, mine had changed to Just A Slightly Darker Brown Than Before. Grr. Semi-permanent dye my little toenail. (Actually, don't. It would look kind of strange.)

On 5th, we returned to Canterbury. The train journey wasn't as long or boring as the last. I read "The Secret Dreamworld Of A Shopoholic" (fluffy but enjoyable) and "The Beano" (I was v. worried by a photo of a boy's head accompanied by the caption, "Why is he so bored? He's got no body to play with!" Seven year olds really shouldn't be playing with themselves . . .) I also got a phonecall from Soppygit.

I spent the next two days living at Bryn's house, since I couldn't get the key to my room until today. We watched a lot of Buffy and went to a party, which was fun because everyone else got v. drunk or v. stoned or v. both, which can be highly entertaining when you're completely sober. (As a new year's resolution, I have gone teetotal. After a little experimentation, I have discovered that alcohol is expensive and has no positive effect on me whatsoever.) I got invited to join the Socialist Worker Student Society for saying we should scrap money, and a postgraduate philosophy student was so impressed by my rhetorical question, "If the universe is expanding, what is it expanding into?" that he wrote it down for future reference.

Wednesday 10 January 2001

Yojy yojy yoj yoj yoj! How happy I am! Allow me to bounce up and down in rejoicement!

What's up? you may wonder. Look at the date, in its British format. 10/1/01. Do you know how long it's been since we've had one of those? Not since 29th February 1992! Special!

Yesterday morning, I went into Canterbury. The main reason was to acquire some drugs (legal ones, mind - university hasn't changed me that much), but on my list of things to also get were more punk badges, PVC shorts and a spiky dog collar.

Shopping adventures! Keweliez!

After picking up the pillz, I went to The Piercing Studio, where I expected to find the latter two. However, shorts were not to be located (at least, not in the colour that I desired [pastel pink with neon green stripes]) and nor were spikys. But I did encounter some black PVC beyond-elbow-length gloves. Très kick-ass. (Or grab-ass, to be more accurate.) I had to have them.

I then headed for Third Eye 2000, but on the way there, I was accosted by a woman by a clipboard. "I'm doing a market research survey," she exclaimed. "Would you like to take part? It's really cold, isn't it, you can sit inside for ten minutes!"

Since I didn't have anything better to do, I agreed to be quizzed on bottled water.

The questions started out normally enough. "How often do you drink bottled water?" and "Which of these brands do you drink?" But it soon moved into the territory of "Would you greet this brand like a complete stranger, a casual acquaintance, or a close friend?" and "Which of these claims to be the naturallest of the naturallest? Which of these types was made in Transylvania?" and "What sort of bottled water do you think a shy person would drink? What about an old person? A sporty person?"

I also had a bit of trouble with the questions asked for statistical purposes. I mean, do I count my TV station as Border or Meridian? And how many people are there in my household? Four? One? Seven? Four hundred? Oh well, I got a free notebook and pen for my troubles.

I then resumed my journey to Third Eye 2000, where I bought ten punk badges: seven Sex Pistols ones, another slightly different one saying "P*ss Off" (they had those saying "F*** Off" too, but I thought that too offensive), one saying "Punk's Not Dead" and an Iron Maiden one. Then, I went on to Funky Monk's, hoping to find a spiky there.

But first, I spotted The Dress.

As I wrote in an e-mail to Smill, "My mother will disown me. My former teachers will have heart attacks. Bryn will ask the dress out."

So we can say it's good. Black and made of PVC (are we noticing a pattern in my taste in colours and fabric here?), with a zip all the way down the front, crossed by buckles (which not only look funchie, but prevent anyone from undoing said zip).

Furthermore, I found a PVC coat (anyone want to place a bet on the colour?) that only cost £9 (since the lining was torn), so I got that too. It was only when I was half way back down the high street that I realised I'd forgotten to look for spikys. So, I returned, but was unsuccessful. Grr. Why is it not possible to get a plain black strap with silver studs on it? As for spiky bracelets, why do the people who make them not acknowledge that skinny wrists exist?

Oh well. I headed for the bus stop with a silly smile fixed to my face. All through my lectures, I was thinking, "Want to wear The Dress!" Luckily, I didn't have too long to wait, since it was indie night at The Venue. As Nearvana, a Nirvana tribute band was playing, I had intended to take their advice and go as I was (as I were, as you want me to be, as a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.) i.e. in jeans, the offensive Nirvana shirt, and trainers. (I thought it would be nice to be able to dance without killing my feet, head-bang without losing my balance, and not have to steer well clear of the moshers for once.) However, the acquisition of The Dress put an end to this plan: there was no way I could not wear it for two and a half weeks (when there's a provisional trip to the Electric Ballroom).

And so verily it was worn (avec gloves and fudge-off boots and fishnets) and verily it earned me comments. "Yay!" from Soppygit, since as a result, she was able to wear my leather mini-skirt. "You could have made an effort," from Mike. "Wow! Looking good! I didn't recognise you!" from Amy. "I want it!" from Janan and Vicky. And "Can I wear it?" from Bryn.

Having said that, I didn't have a great night. The music was on the depressing side, I couldn't get into Nearvana since I had to spend the choruses ensuring that I didn't get squidged, and Soppygit was well miserable, so she, Ibid and myself left early.

Oh well. Roll on The Electric Ballroom! (I'm sure it won't mind.)

Saturday 20 January 2001

Fact of the day: PVC has a profoundly weird effect. It turns idiots into total idiots. Last night, on the rock society pub crawl, a bloke said, "Wow! You're all in PVC!" and he and his friends couldn't resist the urge to stroke the arms of my coat. Then, on my way back from Bryn's house this evening, some geen yelled, "PVC! PVC!" Most odd.

Ok. Developments since I last wrote. I am getting v. annoyed at UKC. Firstly, the campus shop didn't have any margarine for at least three days, except one packet of terribly foul-looking organic stuff. Mimph!

Secondly, I am getting exceedingly sick of having to buy calculators. When I was eleven, I had to purchase a scientific one, since my Maths teacher continually reminded me that my blue plastic one looked like it had come from a packet of Cornflakes. Then, at seventeen, said scientific one vanished, and I had to buy another, only for the first to turn up a few weeks later. When I started at Cambridge, I was forced to buy their recommended calculator. And now I learn that I need a different one again. Mimph!

Not much happened last week. I finished The Evil Computing Assignment Of Death, which has been looming over me since before the Christmas holidays. (Bryn sitting at the next computer and reading bits of my 1998 journal entries didn't help my concentration much, and probably really scared Lara, who I was working with, but we managed it.) Bryn and I went into Canterbury, each found a CD we wanted, bought them, and gave them to ourselves as belated Christmas presents from each other. And I finally met Andy, Soppygit's Friend Who Likes My Alice Cooper T-Shirt. Twas well strange. On Thursday evening, Soppygit introduced us. A few hours later, I passed him in the corridor. And the following morning, when I went to help my classmate Kika with The Evil Computing Assignment Of Death, I found him helping her too!

This week was slightly more interesting. On Monday evening, Soppygit, Ibid, Bryn and myself went to Keynes Bar, a mildly futile exercise, since three of us don't or hardly ever drink and mostly just talk to each other. (Bryn, meanwhile, got hit on by one of his male friends.) Nevertheless, in spite of losing Bryn (in the technical sense of the word; he wasn't interested in his admirer) and Soppygit constantly complaining about the smokiness, I rather enjoyed myself, and skipped across campus afterwards verbally rewriting "Teenage Kicks" so it concerned traffic cones:

"Student pranks are hard to beat / Every time I walk down the street / A traffic cone in the middle of the road / I take it back, to my abode / I like to hold it, like to hold it tight / Cause it's so big and orange and white!"

On Tuesday morning, I went into Canterbury, for the third time this term. I didn't really want to, but I had to get Mum a birthday present and Bryn and myself more hair dye (the effects of the last lot had almost entirely worn off). It was a somewhat scary experience. Partly due to the vast number of people trying to sell me The Big Issue (I eventually bought one and carried it prominently); but the main panic occurred in Vision Express. I asked a woman for some information about contact lenses, and she said she'd go upstairs and get it. During the course of the minute I waited, four other assistants asked if I was being served. Heech!

After lectures, Soppygit, Ibid and myself attempted to find an unoccupied pool table, since we never get a chance to play in the evenings. However, our mission was unsuccessful, so we settled for doing strange personality tests at Quizbox. Strange, as in, one had the single question, "If you had an egg, where would you put it? A. In a tree. B. Beside a road. C. Beside a river. D. In a cupboard." Um, ever heard of fridges? Egg boxes? Cakes?

On Wednesday, Soppygit, Ibid and myself embarked on the terrifying mission of Trying To Find Somewhere To Live Next Year, not helped by the fact that there's only three of us, whereas most houses accommodate four or five. (The possibility of the person we spend most time with moving in with us is out of the question. Soppygit and Ibid couldn't cope, our "relationship" poses a potential problem, and in any case, as a fourth year, he can live on campus.) Anyway, we found two numbers we could ring, and I rang them.

The first, although listed on a poster that advertised "40 houses" had run of property. Heech! The second, however, said there were a couple of houses left and took Ibid and myself to look around. They were fine in every way, except for one factor: they were quite a distance from campus, and none of us fancied the prospect of walking there alone in pitch darkness. Mimph.

That evening, Bryn and I made a suicide pact. Well, it would have sounded that way to anyone listening to our continual "I want to dye!" and "Time to dye!" jokes. This time, the stuff worked. I'm still not used to myself with black hair, and I'm not convinced it suits me, but I've heard nothing but good feedback.

On Thursday, seeing films at the cinema more than once turned into a habit. Last term, I saw "This Is Spinal Tap" three times. (Weird discovery: Spinal Tap have a page-long entry in "Rock: The Rough Guide", and at no point does it specify that they're fictional.) That day, I saw "Snatch" for a second time. And next week, I'll probably see "Eyes Wide Shut" again. (Bryn wants to see it - having viewed the trailer with Nicole Kidman naked in it - and since it scared me senseless last time, I'd like to watch it and be able to pay attention to Kubrick's apparently marvellous directation.)

After "Snatch", the usual suspects and myself went to The Venue for eighties night. There was a band called "The Eighties Experience", who dressed as various different groups and performed songs by them. I quite liked the Duran Duran, Adam And The Ants and Blondie bits, although I was v. annoyed at "Deborah Harry" for wearing a PVC coat just like mine. Soppygit, however, was so impressed that decided that her ideal career was to be in an eighties tribute band.

On Friday, I made my fourth venture into town this term, to make an appointment to get contact lenses fitted and house-hunt. This was only partially successful: in Vision Express I was told I would need my prescription before that could happen (grr) and most of the estate agents had signs saying, "No student property left" or "No rented accommodation" in their windows. I managed to get one list of properties though.

I was also attacked by survey people, again, this time wanting my opinion on scented candles. I told the woman who approached me that I had a blocked nose and she let me go, but the man convinced me that it didn't matter and told me I'd get paid two pounds. So, I agreed, and he led me into a hotel. "How old are you?" he asked. "Nineteen," I said. "Twenty?" he asked. "Good good. And you do buy scented candles, don't you?" "No." "Pretend you do, ok?"

I then spent what seemed like forever answering questions about scented candles. There were eight to smell, and I had to answer the same fifty questions about each. I also noticed Charlie, Catherine and Leah in the room, two of whom are my corridor mates. Hmm, not exactly getting a very wide sample of the population here . . .

Eventually, I was paid, but in the form of a Boots gift voucher.

Argh! Every Christmas, I get given a Boots gift voucher, and it takes until the following December to get rid of it (usually through buying someone else a present). Annoyinger still, I had just spent over two pounds in Boots, but now I had no need to go there.

Oh well. Still a profitable day, since I didn't use the bus, and the only thing I bought was a bin for Bryn's room, for one pound. He is v. scared that I'm trying to domesticate him.

In the evening, twas the aforementioned pub crawl. Despite the subzero temperatures (I eventually borrowed Bryn's coat, which weighs as much as I do, since he is unaffected by temperature), I had quite a good time.

Favourite quote:

Bloke Who Everyone Has Been Calling "Bloke In Deftones Shirt": My name is f***ing James!
Everyone: F***ing James?

Soppygit, on the other hand, did not, since she hates pubs. You might wonder, why the smink did she go on a pub crawl then? I did, to the reply, "I don't mind, but only if I have something nice to look at."

Huh! I was mortally offended. (I'm not sure it's possible to die from an insult, but it sounded good.) I was dressed to kill (and nearly did murder Ibid when she accused me of being soppy. Soppy? Moi?) and Soppygit said outright I wasn't nice to look at?

Oh well, it's good to know PVC doesn't affect everyone . . .

Monday 29 January 2001

I've mentioned Slimelight before, but never written about it in glorious technicolour. Well, it's more like glorious monochrome, on the ground floor at any rate, and upstairs, you'd have to call it techno-colour. But you know what I mean. Here goes:

Slimelight is a nightclub in London, which runs from 11pm to 7.30am on Saturday nights. It sounds like a long time, but it's v. convenient: a lot of clubs close at about 3am, but this means hanging around in the cold for ages, waiting for a dastardly night bus, since the tubes don't start running until 7.30, and then sitting in a station for a few hours before the trains start again.

It's considered the best goth nightclub in Britain, a description I'd be inclined to agree with, despite having only been to one other. It plays goth and related genres downstairs and industrial and techno on the upper floor. It has a website here.

However, what it says doesn't really do justice to what it's really like. For a start, it has a distinctive smell. Most clubs just leave you with smoke in your hair, but there's more to this odour. It hits you as soon as you enter, and two showers later, you still smell of it.

Then there's the way people dress. Put it this way: at The Venue, Bryn and I are among the most interestingly dressed people there. At Slimelight, we're two of the more boring ones.

And then there's the toilets. Although they exist for both genders, there's always men in the ladies'. (There's also a few people you're not sure about.) Girls go to the toilet in twos at all nightclubs, but at Slimelight, they actually go into the same cubicle . . .

Bryn and I went twice last term, and before long, we had developed an itch to go again. We were most annoyed to be far too far away to attend on New Year's Eve, when it lasted twelve hours. They played "Song 2" and "Dead Stars" at midnight, although Anna The Goth reports they later started playing Abba. Heech!

On Saturday 20th, the intention was to spend a day in Camden, then go Sliming. However, since we stayed up after the pub crawl the previous day to watch Buffy, we woke up late and decided to forego the Camden bit.

For the first time, I had the sense to wear my trainers and UKC sweatshirt for the journey. Which was fortunate, since it was hellish. Actually, the opposite, since it was FLIPPING FREEZING! The train was late, which was bad enough, but then we had to get a bus for the middle section of the journey, and while waiting for the second train, Bryn started complaining about the cold. The significance of this? Bryn claims to be immune to temperature. He can dance for hours while wearing a coat, and the previous night, he had happily walked through Canterbury in just two t-shirts and PVC trousers (which offer no protection from the icy air at all). Now, he stood in said coat, whinging. The messing about also made the journey slower. Usually we reach Slimelight at about eleven thirty; this time, we just managed to get the final tube at twelve thirty.

Slimelight was very, very good music-wise. Usually, I stay downstairs until they play something too mopey, and then ascend. This time, however, it was hard to go to the toilet or get a drink, so plentiful were the songs I had no choice but to dance to. They played a lot of crossover industrial, which I'm getting into in a big way, which may sound strange, coming from someone who wouldn't dance to anything that wasn't The Cure, Yoj Division, Depeche Mode, The Smiths and the like. Mind you, that was at The Martyrium, where staying inside for longer than three songs was impossible, due to the heat. Even so, songs that annoyed me at earlier Slimelights sounded good.

I also managed to survive for longer than usual. The first time, I fell asleep at about three till four. The second time, I slept from three to six (cleverly, in front of the speakers on the industrial floor). This time, I lasted until five. For once, I got a place on a sofa (the other seats destroy one's behind), but I couldn't lie down due to the ex-long-distance-lorry-driver-who-now-works-for-an-organic-food-company sitting next to me, so I half-slept while vertical. And in front of the speakers, I might add. I felt terribly dizzy and started shivering (wearing a dress with no sleeves is not clever in January, even when inside). At 6.30, I finally managed to face the music (literally) again, and danced.

Getting back to Canterbury was interesting. We left Slimeslight lightly later than usual (due to me changing my shoes), so we had less time to get back to the station. Then Bryn cleverly got on the wrong tube. It was going in more or less the right direction, but meant we had to change again, and wait. Luckily, the wait was shorter than specified, so we just made it onto the train we wanted. (Lingering in the cold station for an hour did not appeal.)

However, once more we had to get onto a bus and then another train. Exhausted, I kept hallucinating. A girl wanted to give Bryn and myself AIDS and succeeded. Bryn owned a voodoo doll that looked like me. Bryn got me a Slimelight membership card from a London Underground ticket machine. The train was a plane.

In spite of all this, I love Slimelight. I really do, and can't wait to go again.

Not much of any import happened during the week. I learned that it was possible to catch diseases from characters in films (I watched some of "The Green Mile" on Monday night and couldn't sleep due to much the same problem as the protagonist had) and Soppygit found someone new to be soppy over, but that was about it. On Friday, however, I missed my single class (which wasn't terribly important anyway) so I could go to Camden with Bryn.

This was the first time I'd been there, and quite an eye-opener it was. I'd expected some shops filled with Stuff Of Coolness, but not quite so many. And then there were shops filled with things I didn't even know existed. Cyberdog would be one of them.

I was after two things. As I've mentioned before, I've been after a spikey dog collar for a while, but all those in Canterbury were too big for me. However, there was a shop full of spikey collars, bracelets and belts, and the guy who ran it readily punched an extra hole in the collar I bought.

The other thing was a pair of New Rock boots. (The sort with three-to-four inch thick soles with springs in them.) At a mere 5'2", I naturally want shoes that'll make me taller, but all high heels massacre my feet. More to the point, I had been lusting after Bryn's and his ex's for a number of months.

The only off-putting factor was the price. However, Bryn bought some wrist-guard thingies that glow in ultraviolet light, which cost £80 (one of which later got damaged when he fell over at The Venue, which doesn't even have UV light), so I felt my investment had to be worthwhile. And so I paid £150 for a pair of shoes.

Argh! I felt so terrible! I spent that much on a digital camera, and more on my camcorder, but I'd never spent more than £35 on an item of clothing. A sixth of my student loan. Two weeks' rent. Enough to buy at least ten albums or twenty five books or twenty eight entrances to Slimelight and membership or a hundred birthday cards or five hundred Mars Bars from Eliot Shop.

And immediately after leaving the shop, we were approached by a man asking us to donate to Water Aid. (Interesting fact: its single, which was released in the mid-eighties and didn't make the charts due to being eclipsed by another charity record, was produced by my half brother.) We stood under his umbrella for a few minutes (if you ask me, their best policy would be to ship all the waterless to England, where there's more water than we know what to do with), listening to his speech, and then were asked if we were interested. We said no to on the grounds that we were poor students. Well, I was a poor student at that point, but how could I have spent so much on boots when the same money could have provided water for thousands?

The boots are v. v. cool, even if they do take five minutes to put on or take off. I now understand the Aerosmith lyric "Now I sleep with my boots on." They're so cool that once the inch-long blisters on my feet subside, I'm going to wear them all the time. But still. How could I?

Bryn and I went for a candlelit meal at Ask, a trendy chain restaurant. The Electric Ballroom opened at 10.30, but we'd arranged to meet the other rock society members going there at 9. However, that still left an hour to kill, so we went to the cinema, intending to leave half way through the film, "Traffic", which we chose solely because there were only two films starting at 8, and that had the higher certificate.

Unfortunately, it was so good - v. tense and interesting visuals - that we ended up staying all the way through, and it didn't finish until 10.45. However, we found the rest of the UKC contingent all right, outside The Ballroom. Apparently, in the pub, they'd encountered Macaulay Culkin(!), who still looks like he did at the height of his career. (Wonder how he got served?) He's in London to be in a play. How the mighty have fallen.

I didn't get to dance until about midnight. It was a bit of a wait before I got in (security is pretty tight). Then I had to put on the PVC dress, which involved boot removal in small cubicle = ouch. (Boots are also pretty tight.) Then I had to wait ages to deposit my stuff in the cloakroom. Still, it wasn't a bad night, although it didn't feel long enough, compared to Slimelight, since the place shuts at three. They played an eclectic mix of music. There were all the goth/industrial staples - "Dead Stars", "You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)", "Du Hast", that sort of thing, plus a v. funchie industrial version of "New Year's Day" by U2. But then there was a definite smattering of metal, light-and-unrecognisable 80s-sounding stuff, and "The Bad Touch" by The Bloodhound Gang. Unlike last time I got less unwanted attention (the boots possibly scared people off), although one guy repetitively asked me if I wanted a pint of Stella.

When we left, Bryn and I had to watch 234234 buses go past before the one we wanted arrived. We went to the cybercafé outside Victoria Station. Note: if you are ever stuck in London at night, go there. It's not very warm, and the chairs aren't very comfortable, but it's only £1 to surf the net for four hours. We read my journal for two and a half hours (something Bryn's been doing for quite some time now. He's up to January 1999), then caught the first train back to Canterbury.

We stayed in my room until 10, then acquired Soppygit and went to a house we'd made arrangements to see, with the intention of moving in next year. However, fifteen minutes after the appointment was supposed to begin, no one had turned up, so we called the estate agents, who informed us that the house had already been taken. Mimph.

Spent the day sort-of sleeping (I was surprisingly not tired), then went to a party. Except for getting to see Nick The Vice President in a dress and learning that most of the songs I'd liked the previous night but didn't know were by Nine Inch Nails, it was unremarkable. On Sunday, Soppygit, Ibid and I spent the day with The Nanaba, an old friend of Ibid's who'd come a-visiting. After that, nothing remotely interesting happened until Tuesday night, when I went to The Venue, but that's another entry.

It's kind of weird that after spending my whole life in the same two outfits and never going out, these days I can't seem to write about anything but pubs, clubs and clothes.

Wednesday 31 January 2001

On Tuesday night, Soppygit, Ibid and myself went to The Venue. Ibid looked ravishing in what she refers to as "my semi-divine skirt" or "my future husband" and Soppygit looked miserable, as she usually does on indie night, due to them not playing particularly good music.

Then Mr Dover, who she's been raving about for the last ten days, put in an appearance. (He's not really called that, but you can deduce his real name from the other nicknames Ibid and I considered giving him: Mr Der, Mr Hur and Mr Evolent were among them.)

I didn't have a great deal of hope. Although he seemed to like her as a friend, I'd got the impression he was equally flirtatious with other girls. He did invite her to a lecture - sweet, if not the most romantic of locations for a first date. Still, I was worried that it would never come to pass and I'd have to hear, "I like him sooooooo much! I wanna hold him, wanna hold him tight!" for several weeks, as I did during the last obsession.

However! As soon as he arrived, she abandoned Ibid and myself in order to talk to him. We started dancing, and a little later, noticed them looking quite intimate. The DJ played "Teenage Kicks" which Soppygit had been wanting to hear, but I'd told her it wouldn't be played, since you don't generally get much 70s punk at indie night. When I looked at them again, during "Anarchy In The UK", they were getting off with each other.

"I hope she doesn't get all sentimental over 'Anarchy In The UK'," Ibid remarked, as we speculated what song had been playing when the first kiss occurred.

"What about the song before that?" I said. "'Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn't Have Fallen In Love With'?" But it turned out to be "Teenage Kicks". Unfortunately, Soppygit now has my version stuck in her head:

"I wanna call it on the telephone / But it won't answer, it's a traffic cone / All my friends think I'm totally mad / But it's the best fun I've ever had / I want to hold it, want to hold it tight / Cause it's so big and orange and white!"

When I got back to my room afterwards, I found I'd received a text message from my online friend Helen telling me that she'd just engaged in enyojable dodginess. Cool! I thought. Two happy couples in one night!

The following morning, I was woken up quarter of an hour early by a phonecall from the estate agent. They told me that the house Ibid, Soppygit and I had been planning to look at that afternoon had been taken, but there was another one we could see.

After my first class (which I'd been dreading - we're trying to prove that for any two regions, there's a straight line that bisects both, eep! - but it was ok) I checked my e-mail, and saw that P (whose journal I'm rather addicted to) had updated. I visited his website, read the last two updates, and heech! His boyfriend had declared he wanted them to live together and get married!

I was thrilled that so many people were happy, but the day was set to get even better.

After my only lecture, Soppygit, Ibid and I set off to look at the house. On the way there, Soppygit revealed that things had gone v. well with Mr Dover. He fancied her too and they were meeting that night.

We found the house without difficulty. It was conveniently situated between campus and the town centre and Ibid was most thrilled by the pine tree outside. (She is a first-degree country bumpkin.) During our wait, a number of other groups of people turned up to look around.

The interior was great! Big cosy lounge, big kitchen/dining room, three large bedrooms and a smaller one, bathroom and toilet. "We want it!" we immediately told the woman showing us round (knowing from experience how fast properties get snapped up).

"There's some problems with the bathroom," the occupant told us. "But they should be fixed over the summer."

"We still want it," I said.

"You'll have to go to the estate agents and confirm it there," the woman said.

"Can't I phone them?" I asked.

"No, you have to go there in person, and each pay a £75 registration fee."

Tight or what? Nevertheless, we set off into town, worried, because the other viewers seemed to like it too, and one group had a car. Soppygit wanted to run, but since neither Ibid or myself are as athletically inclined as she, we let her sprint ahead.

When we arrived, we discovered that we each had to pay separately (Ibid had been planning to use her cheque book) so Soppygit and I dashed to the nearest cash machines. We managed to secure the house ok, although the registration fee turned out to be £88, and we each have to pay a £300 deposit within the next week. Heech!

Oh well. We had a house, and a groovy one too!

Soppygit returned to campus, while Ibid and I hung around in town, since I had a contact lenses appointment a couple of hours later. There was a sale in HMV - three videos for £15, which I took advantage of. (Disregard the fact that I don't have a video machine here, and the one I used to use at home is now part of Omega Music's security system.) I also found an atlas in a discount bookshop, something I've been wanting for several months. We went to Sainsbury's, where we parted company, and then I went to Vision Express.

What was that I was saying about the service in there? Forget it! I was there for five minutes before anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to me. Then they took a couple of measurements of my eyes, discovered they'd changed significantly since my last eye test and that I'd need another one. But there wasn't time to do one that day; I'd have to return on Friday. Grr.

"Duh-duh-duh durr durr duh-duh-duh!" I heard the sound of a mobile phone receiving a text message. I looked up and saw Bryn.

We left the shop. "This is going to sound strange," he said, "but do you still want to become my girlfriend?" (A wish I'd voiced in the past.)

"Ye-es . . ." I said.

He showed me a small box and opened it. "Since you lost your ankh . . ." he said (referring to the necklace Twi had given me for my birthday, which had recently vanished, never to be seen again). Inside was silver ankh on a chain.

I thought gasping, "It's beautiful!" only happened in stories, but apparently not.

He put it on me; he bought an Enigma album in HMV (Shock! Horror! Scandal! President of rock and metal society is closet new age music fan!); and I admired the ankh in a mirror in Claire's Accessories. Then we went back to UKC and spent the evening cuddling and watching Star Trek.