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Monday 4 February 2002
My grandmother's funeral is currently taking place. I wasn't invited, much less expected to be there. My brother, who only went back to university yesterday, and could have therefore easily stayed at home an extra day wasn't invited either. Now I'm shaking violently. I'm freezing in my full length leather coat and a sweltering computer room, my teeth are chattering, I'm having difficulty moving the mouse. I can't eat. My stomach and back are in a great deal of pain, my legs hurt when I walk and my arms ache every time I try and lift something up. Time to go to sick bay, I think. Later I have just been to see "Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back". It is not often that I am incredibly grateful to my brother, but I am tonight. Had he not spent the entire Christmas holidays declaring everything to be 'f***ing clown shoes', I would now be crippled by the combination of an agonising stomach ache and a dangerous quantity of laughter, for that is exactly the sort of odd thing that would have me in hysterics. It was highly amusing as it was, and it was probably a mistake to force Bryn to climb over Tall John, Sleeve, Soppygit, Rock Soc Chris and Ibid so he could sit next to me. I thought I might need him to cuddle me and hold my hand, as I did last time I went to the cinema when I was so ill that I almost let Aevil Chris drive me home afterwards. It was a mistake because when Bryn is amused, not only does he laugh like a dolphin for several minutes, but he requires something to bang his head against. He was very amused, on several occasions, during the course of this film and since my head was (slightly) closer at hand than the desk (remember, boys and girls: like all the greatest entities in the world, the campus cinema leads a double life! By day, it is the undistinct Cornwallis Lecture Theatre 1; by night, it is The Marvellous Cinema 3!), that's what he used. Since I had a headache, ow. Earlier on, I thought my vision was going blurry, but it's just Bryn's monitor being unreadable. The keyboard's usually on the table / shield, but Bryn went a-re-enacting yesterday and hasn't replaced it yet. So the only way to use it is to rest it on your knees, while sitting on the bed, which is quite distant from the screen. When Bryn glanced at my friends page and saw this post, he said, "I hate w**king up?" "Waking up!" I corrected him. "Oh sorry. I heard this really sick story today." And he proceeded to tell me about a Physics postgrad who always had used tissues on his desk during his lectures, and during a game of truth or dare, he confessed as to why they were there . . . ewwwwww. Bryn and I decided this guy was primarily responsible for where Physics students got their bad reputation from. (Question: is it a bit strange that someone who will say 'w**king' without hesitation won't say 'b*st*rd'? I thought so.) Sorry. Hope none of you were eating then. But you know what they say, a sick mind in a sick body. Also, I did just see "Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back". So I'm not even remotely responsible. I've got to stay up until midnight because Bryn's at The Beercart Arms (as you can see, we don't go in for the whole 'looking after invalid partner' thing) and I've got his keys and he can't get into the house without them. Nevertheless, I don't think rambling in my journal is the best way to pass those hours. Apart from the fact that I'm probably boring everyone senseless, if I lean forwards my stomach aches, but if I sit upright, my back experiences teh pane. I'll have to lie down. Thursday 7 February 2002 I know a lot of people who are really good at spelling, but spell "weird" as "wierd". I have often wondered why, but last night I had a revelation. What's that mantra we're taught sometime before the teenage years? ""i before e, except after c!"" The i and e in 'weird' most definitely do not follow a 'c', and yet the i is not before the e. Then again, the word is "weird". Of course it can't follow normal spelling patterns! More interestingly: a few years ago, me and Twi were amused by the prospect of Germany branching into .nu domains. What would the end with? .nu.de! (As you can tell from all Twi's URLs, she is as amused as I am by such possibilities.) Last night, I started to wonder if there were any countries who's domain names ended .an. I checked today - Angola and Antigua didn't seem logged on enough to have endings of their own, but Andora's ended .ad, so I typed in www.gov.an, and wahey, the Netherlands Antilles use that domain ending. So what if they started having .org domains? (Bear in mind that in my dull northern accent, when 'an', 'en', 'on' and 'un' are at the end of words, the generally all sound like 'un'.) Obviously you could have ample porn sites such as swelling.org.an, and SPAM sites like enlargeyour.org.an. Also slash-writing advice sites like formykossakedontusetheword.org.an. And Chris could have his homepage there: formyeighteenthbirthdaymyparentsgotmeabig.org.an, with mirror site, wanttoseemy.org.an. But there are ample other possibilities! Music shops! mouth.org.an. Actually, that could well be a porn site too. Mass murderers! shouldiuseaknife.or.gan. Sites about history! thisisasecondworldw.org.an. German interest sites! gutenm.org.an. (Although why you'd want those in the Antilles, Mykos only knows.) Greek mythology sites (again, why?): medusawasag.org.an. As for band websites . . . The Sex Pistols would have sweettuneshedplayonhisbeeping.org.an. Alice Cooper would have imy.or.gan. (He has a song entitled "I'm Your Gun", with the lyric "Pull my trigger, I get bigger".) Rammstein would have dasistbuchstabiertaugennicht.org.an. And of course The Smashing Pumpkins would have to have billyc.org.an! Saturday 9 February 2002 There was a French gay porno film on at Cinema 3 on Thursday and Friday nights, and since I was still v. ill I couldn't go and see it. Ibid did (yes, I know how fortunate I am to have found a housemate that also likes gay porno films) and said it was q. good. Grr! Ibid has just come to my room, unable to concentrate on her work due to Soppygit and Sleeve being soppy in her presence. It's incredible that some people can reach the age of twenty and twenty one without finding out what a room is. Also, Bryn has expressed a desire to kill Sleeve if he says, "Soppygit's soooooo cute" one more time - he said it repetitively on the rock soc pub crawl I couldn't attend last night. Ibid prays that her cynicism remained intact. I decided to cast a spell of cynicism, just to be on the safe side. So I found the most cynical objects my middle desk drawer contained, and carried it out. I arranged three badges in a triangle on the floor (the eternal triangle / "two's company, three's a crowd"). They were: ""Punk's not dead"", a Sex Pistolian picture of the queen, and "Piss Off". I held up my bottle of urinary infection pills over the triangle, played a bit of "Du Hast" on my bottles of dark nail polish, dialed 666 on my mobile phone and opened my most unsoppy perfume: ""Eau Du Toilette"" (sadly, I couldn't sprinkle it), while chanting cynically. Willow, look out! Later Soppygit asked if I wanted to see a film at Cinema 3 tonight. I've been feeling ok today - I walked into town earlier and only felt minorly dizzy due to lack of food - and since, of all the films that I've seen there this term (and there's been at least ten), I reeeally wanted to see this one, AND I had to miss the gay porno film, I agreed, and endured it with barely any difficulty. I enyojed it, too, despite the inclusion of a Dawson's Creek cast member whose British accent was rather . . . not there at certain moments. Twas called "Me Without You" and concerned two best friends growing up. British and mainly set in 1978 and 1982, if you know anything about me, you'll know that this combination alone is enough to get me salivating before I see any skinny men in safety-pinned together rags and women in berets. There was one brief scene in a lecture theatre and I thought, "Why can't my classes look like that?" Oh for a time machine and an Internet cable that could link my BBC to the future! As for the soundtrack: The Only Ones, Adam And The Ants and "I Just Can't Get Enough"!!! Soppygit and I were singing along in the next-to-back row. (I refused to sit in the back row, because Sleeve was with us, and I don't want to encourage them in their soppiness. Sleeve insists he was not wholly pathetic last night, but wholly sloshed after six pints, but as I type, he and Soppygit are at The Venue. On a Saturday night. Which means a horrible squash of trendy geens, wiggling around to diabolical cheese plus smatterings of house and gar(b)age (and not the Shirley Manson sort). This is Sleeve we're talking about, devout disciple of The Church Of Rock, Metal, Indie And Grunge. So if voluntarily plunging himself into this cavern of dume - and paying for it - isn't total devotion and therefore EXTREME SOPPINESS, I don't know what is. Then again, he'll claim he can survive anything if there's alcohol.) (I, for my part, am sleeping alone tonight, thankyouverymuch, since Bryn refused to cuddle me last night for no apparent reason. He will be more than content polishing his helmet - that is, his actual re-enacting one - in front of countless "Gundam Wing" episodes. Hopefully, normal proceedings will be resumed tomorrow - 'cause he's got nine episodes of "Ranma" series 2 on VCD.) On the way home from the cinema, I got attacked by a shrubbery. Sunday 10 February 2002 Aw, bugger. Soppygit and Sleeve have split up. All this torture - Sleeve's professions of soppiness, and tales of their far-too-far in advance plans for Valentine's Day - for nothing. Sleeve kept asking me what I was going to do for Valentine's Day. I kept insisting, "Nothing! I don't believe in this soppy commercial bumph!" I'll have to listen to Motorhead - it's traditional - and probably "Du Hast" too just for good measure. Then I may well join Ibid in watching "Amores Perros" - an extremely violent film whose title translates "Love's A Bitch". However, this morning I woke up with inspiration for this year's poem for Bryn. Apologies for dodginess and soppiness. Why You're Better Than A Werebear
Though I like it when I do, I don't HAVE to turn your own head.
Even with two werebears, they only get on my tits,
You make me laugh more often, you've a better sense of dress
Not one of my werebears has an Animesoc card.
You might have more than one head, but I can't call you two-faced.
Tuesday 12 February 2002
Last night, at the Beercart Arms, a girl came up to me, and said, "Can I kiss you?"
Thinking she meant on the cheek, I said, "Ok."
And she started snogging me! Then she went away again.
Help! I've started giving out lesbian vibes!
THE NEW VNV NATION ALBUM HAS COME OUT! w00t! What's with everything exiting the closet these days, though?
Although my subconscious is still clearly over-heterosexual. LAst night, I dreamed I was seeing a bloke who played bagpipes behind Bryn's back. Bryn dreamed that we got married. Eek.
Tonight, after seeing "The Piano Teacher" with Ibid at Cinema 3 (a very strange and disturbing film, in which the main character takes a blade to one of her, um, private parts and bleeds profusely), I was exceedingly sick of central campus. I'd been there for the last twelve hours, mostly in Eliot Computer room, and it was making me feel nauseous. Having recently spent six consecutive days at my house, I just wanted to be back there again. So I returned, rather than hanging around for another two hours, waiting for Bryn to leave Animesoc.
When I got to the house, there was a programme on TV about married couples who've never had sex, so I watched that. It was followed by a documentary about Rasputin, my favourite historical character! Yoj!
There was a bit where a letter he wrote to Nicholas II was read out. As this happened, "Actor's voice" appeared on the screen. Really? Even though he was born in 1869, I thought Rasputin was still alive and translating his correspondence into English with a put-on foreign accent as I watched! What a swizz!
Speaking of foreign accents, I've got this new Maths lecturer. In his lecture today, at least one person was laughing at every point in it. His handwriting was bad enough - half the time his 'x's looked like that Greek letter that resembles a curly capital E with a squiggle underneath; the rest, they had horizontal lines at their top and bottom. But he kept going on about "vactors" and their "camponents" and, worst of all, their "transponses". He also managed to say "Ok?" about fifty times in a row and kept calling mathematical expressions "guys": "This guy plus this guy equals this guy". Ooh, male pregnancy. He also kept making really weird jokes at his own expense. I've got him twenty three more lectures too . . . but even though I spent the lecture copying Lydia's Linear Algebra notes from last week, I actually learnt something, which is more than can be said for the sessions with Ye Olde Lecturer With The Byutiful Scorttish accent. Coolness!
Sunday 17 February 2002
Sometimes Ibid and I have long conversations about our feelings towards the various letters of the alphabet. "I hate 'u's, always following 'q's around everywhere." "'t' always seemed a bit vicious, like a dagger."
I've never particularly been fond of 'o's, and it's nothing to do with playing too much Angband, an ASCII D&D computer game, because 'o's are orcs, which I love killing, and 'O's are ogres, which have never given me much grief. Only at 4.30am this morning, though, did I work out why.
They are evil. If you're sending a text message, and don't have word recognition turned on (which I don't: popular as Zobo Creat has become, I don't think "enyoj" and "Nodnol" are in my phone's dictionary), what combination of numbers do you have to press to get an 'o'? 666!
After that revelation, I had less than five hours of sleep and dreamt I was going to open an earring shop.
Monday 18 February 2002
Oh no. Soppygit will be inconsolable. Her beloved Walter Winterbottom has died!
Speaking of Walter, I saw a film about his hometown, Kirkthorpe On The Spleen, last night! It was called This Filthy Earth and it was the most horrible dirty film I've ever seen. I don't mean horrible in terms of gore, although the entrails of the protagonist's pet cow were fairly disgusting. And I don't mean dirty in a sexual way, although bestiality was involved (luckily, the perpetrators of it were other animals of the same type). But everyone in it was angry, ugly and insane (rightly so, since all Kirkthorpians are inbred) and everything in it was caked with mud. It was an experience though.
Tuesday 19 February 2002
Coolness! At 8.02pm tomorrow night, a historic event will take place. Something of this kind has only happened once before, and it will never happen again. The time will be 20:02 20/02 2002. In Britain anyway. Silly American who decided to name months before days, never thinking about the lack of twentieth month. Oh well, I guess 20:02 02/20 2002 is also fairly funchie.
At the Beercart Arms last night, I barely danced at all - just to "Corporate Anthem" by Arkam Asylum (which I brought along - the DJ liked it, mintness) and about four other songs. There wasn't much else I wanted to dance to anyway, but most of the night I was talking to Matt Who I Always Thought Was Called John (I hold Bryn responsible, since he thought Ramsay was called Marshall and still gets Soppygit and Ibid's names the wrong way round) and other folks. Including That Girl From Last Week who apologised profusely, was highly embarrassed, and incredibly scared when I told her that I was going out with "the scary bloke in the long leather coat". I eventually managed to pacify her, though, and we had a conversation about basques.
Saturday 23 February 2002
Last night, I set foot in Canterbury's mainstream cinema for the first time since 10th November (when I saw "Harry Potter") to watch "Monsters Inc". Or "Monster Sink", as I rechristened it, so it might serve more than one purpose in life: as a sink for monsters, a sink made out of monster and a really big sink, as well as a highly amusing film.
My companions for the night were Bryn and Ibid. The cinema has been scarily refurbished since I was there last, so when I went to the toilet, the lock on the door actually worked! Unfortunately, the foyer remains arranged so that you can very easily lose people behind pillars. Also, my ticket cost a rip-off £5.50 (a 50p increase since last time, and two pounds more than the campus cinema). Boo! Literally!
During the film, I reached the conclusion that all my closest friends have rather disturbing laughs. Soppygit's is worrying in its frequency and volume. Ibid's consists of a cackle followed by very heavy very fast breathing. When Bryn is seriously amused (a state I put him into when I told him that Chris played the organ), he grabs the nearest thing (usually me) dangerously tightly for a minute while he chortles, and eventually starts to go "Ek ek ek ek ek!" Then again, when laughter overwhelms me, I'm incapable of talking for at least five minutes - and I get flashbacks. Today, I started giggling, remembering the time when Bryn turned into a touch and tell machine: "Can you find he nose? You have found the nose. Can you find the scrotum? You have found the scrotum. Can you find the left nipple? You have found the left nipple. Doodly doodle doo!"
I'm usually quite good at getting on with stuff. I think, homework and revision-wise, I'm the most conscientious person at UKC. But I've been meaning to do my laundry (and Bryn's, though it's not that I'm assuming the stereotypical role as domestic female - it's simply because my washing machine is free to use, and the Park Wood ones aren't, and he did sort my computer out earlier) for the last six hours, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I really, really need to do it, because I've been forced to wear the same pair of knickers for the last six days and the same pair of socks for four. (Sorry, you really didn't need to know that.) And I need to do it soon - so I can unload the washing machine before I leave the house until Monday, which is sure to take place within the next three hours. I would ask one of the housemates to do it for me - they've unloaded my washing before - but ask them to handle Bryn's underwear, clean or otherwise? Now that they do not deserve.
It's not that doing the laundry is particularly difficult. It's just a question of bunging everything in the machine, putting some powder in, turning a dial and pressing a button. And my clothes don't require that much sorting out - I've got one bag that all needs washing, and two that just need certain unwashable items - like my PVC dress and stripey tights - removing. But I need to take off those that I'm wearing at the moment and find some others to wear. And I hate getting changed at the best of times. I sometimes spend the entire day in my pyjamas because I can't be bothered to get dressed. It's not that I'm particularly fashion conscious, but there's something about the act that requires an amount of energy I do not possess. To make matters worse, Sleeve's just come into my room (I know, what's *he* doing here?) He's left again, so it's not qualms about getting changed in front of a bloke I'm not going out with, but he brought in an icy draught. Cheers, mate.
And now Bryn's arrived. He's not too bothered about the laundry, he's happy for me to do it on Monday, but he's desperate to go back to campus. And I really really need to get changed first. Angest!
Ohhhhhh, where are my PVC trousers? How can I lose something that big and that shiny in a room so tiny? (Rhyme! Even if it doesn't particularly scan.) Mimph! Has Ibid's Mum (who stayed here for two nights earlier on this week) stolen them? What a disturbing thought!
Monday 25 February 2002
Yesterday, Bryn and I went to his parents' house. It got me out of Canterbury, at long last, and I didn't even have to pay for the privilege. In fact, I made a profit, since his stepsister drove us there and back, and his parents fed me until I was on the verge of going pop. Bryn, his stepsister, her fiancé and myself must have said, "No, honestly I'm fine" and "I'd love some more, but I can't eat another thing" at least fifty times. Each.
In the evening, Bryn and I rented "Down To Earth" from the Park Wood video machine. It was quite possibly the least substantial film I'd ever seen. When the credits started, I was like, "Is that it?" It was funny at times (Bryn had a couple of his dangerous laughing fits), but the plot? If you don't want to know it, don't read the next paragraph!
Bloke wants to be a comedian. He's entertaining off the stage, but can't seem to be himself when on it. He dies, before he's supposed to, and he temporarily accepts the body of an evil middle aged businessman, on account of the fact that he knows the girl he fancies. He rights all the businessman's wrongs, succeeds as a comedian, and gets the girl. Then, because he only had that body temporarily, he has to have another one, meaning he has to start from scratch. But, again, he succeeds as a comedian and befriends the girl. Endy story. So where's the great difficulty in that? Obviously it was painful for him, but he didn't have any choice in the matter. What he needed to learn was to be himself, and he did this with ease, whatever body he was in. Oddness.
Matt gave me back my Arkam Asylum CD last night and it was just a few millimetres too big to fit in any of my pockets. I could have given it to Bryn, King Of The Pockets, He Who Had A Huge Rammstein Poster Rolled Up Inside His Coat When We Saw Them, And After An Hour And A Half Of Moshing It Was Still In The Condition He Got It In, but I thought the CD case was likely to crack if he was hit in the wrong places. So I asked AJ to keep it in her backpack . . . and yeah, I forgot to get it back at the end of the night. Oh well, perhaps she'll listen to it, and be bedazzled by its brilliance.
I stink of smoke. Tis most odd. Yeah, I went to the Beercart Arms last night where people were smoking. Ben spent ten minutes on the walk down trying to light his cigarette in gale force winds. Some bloke came up to me, asked, "Were you here last week?" dropping ash in his pint as he did. Luckily, it floated, so he was able to flick it out. But I spent no more time in the close proximity of smokers than usual. When I wasn't on the dance floor, I mostly talked to Sleeve and Alex and co, who don't smoke. And usually, the smell fails to cling to me. In fact, a few weeks ago, I was walking round campus the day afterwards, caught a whiff of someone's cigarette, and had pleasant memories of the previous night before as a consequence.
Oh well, nothing a shower can't fix.
Dans l'autre news:
When I help supervise Sadistics classes, top-to-toe in skintight PVC with a whip in one hand and handcuffs in the other, there are two others supervisors. One is Lydia, who's in my year. The other . . . well, we seem to get someone different every week. It doesn't make much sense, because surely each person is free at that hour every week? And surely it would be better for one person to assist every time, so they'd become more familiar with the course? I think me and Lydia must scare them off. Anyway, yesterday, the other supervisor was The Lecturer With The Really Strange Accent. Who proved my latter theory, because when I had a mental block over upper chi-squared percentage points, when I questioned him, he hadn't a clue about them. Anyway, he rambled to us constantly, about the holidays he'd been on - "I really want to go to the Peak District" - among other things. Included was the comment: "I find the Scottish accent very hard to understand." Um, Scots would have extreme difficulty comprehending him! Ah, I shouldn't mock. He's the best lecturer we've had in a long time. Sadly, it turns out his part of the course finishes in a couple of weeks, and it's back to the other sleep-inducing lecturer. If it wasn't such a dodgy idea, I could really do with him spending a few nights in Bryn's room, because I. Can't. Flipping. Sleep at the moment.
At the Beercart Arms, I was most impressed by the selection o' music. Last time I complained that there weren't enough goffic or classick stoof. This time, there was loads. The DJ played Nine Inch Nails without me having to make a request. And "The Ace Of Spades". And "Disposable Teens". The penultimate song was "I Hate Everything About You", which they've never played there before, but it was groovig. Only seven people danced to it, compared the thirty on the dancefloor for "Killing In The Name Of", but Bryn and I knew most of the words (my brother sang it on the karaoke machine my parents had borrowed from the shop for my twelfth birthday party) and sang it at each other. And the final song? "Poison"! It was raining when I left, but it was rather nice really.
I never realised how entertaining washing machines were until yesterday. You may recall the troubles I had with ours back in September, which resulted in my having more lilac clothes than I really wanted. Yesterday, however, on the way down to The Beercart Arms, I left the party to throw Bryn's laundry in the machine.
I eventually turned up about half an hour late. During this time, AJ and Sarah The Vice Goth had asked Bryn, "ubi est Zedda?", only not in Latin. He replied, "She's at home, doing my laundry." In reality, starting the wash had taken less than a minute - the real time-killer had been talking to an invalid Soppygit, who set off to sick bay with Jo when I finally left. But AJ and Sarah, not knowing this, were most outraged at this sexism!
More to the point, when we got back, I unloaded one carrier bag's worth of underwear from the machine, and gave it to Bryn to start hanging on the radiator, while I got out the second lot. Soppygit was oop and aboot, and she grudgingly permitted these items to be displayed so publicly. When I finally left the utility room - "Uh, these aren't mine," Bryn said, holding up a white pair o knickers.
"They don't look like mine," I said, since mine, after all, are lilac.
"They're mine!" Soppygit exclaimed.
"Hey, how did your knickers get into Bryn's room?" I asked, though they'd clearly been left in the machine since she last did her laundry.
Bryn was v. embarrassed. "I honestly didn't mean to put my hand inside your pants," he said. Bwahaha!
Tuesday 26 February 2002
Woooooooooooe!!!!!!
My beloved has died!
No, not Bryn. Why would I care if he died? He’s been calling me “My little poo poo” all evening. Gack. He really should see someone about his coprophilia.
Anyway, my poor dear wonderful incredible backpack is dead! ANGEST!!!!!!
I’ve been thinking about my backpack lately, because I'm sad like that. On Monday, just before I was due to supervise, I left my backpack in the lecture theatre while I went to the toilet. I took my coat with me, since it cost £150 and had my wallet in it, but while I was doing me business (eek, coprophilia is apparently contagious!) I suddenly felt anxious over my ostensibly less valuable backpack. If someone stole it I would fail second year.
Since I only go home about once every three days, and I can’t get into Bryn’s house unless he’s with me (which only happens in the evening, since he has lab all day), I carry all my subject folders around with me. And since my existence is governed by the law of sod, I keep all my notes in those folders, because if I leave some out, I’m sure to need them.
This year, I’m doing eight modules. I keep two modules in each folder. This term, up until last Friday, I was studying five modules. Therefore, I carry three thick binders, containing twenty weeks’ worth of handouts, notes and homework (and some revision notes, cause I’m a swot) in them. If I lost them, I wouldn’t have the will to try and make sense of someone else’s notes and start my revision notes again, never mind be able to afford to photocopy that many pages.
My only solace is that my backpack is instantly recognisable, since it’s covered in obscure band names. Also, no one would want my notes. Still.
Since I’m only having lectures for four modules now, today, I thought, “Tonight, I shall take the unnecessary binder out of my bag.”
But, when the time came for me to leave Animesoc (after watching "I! Me! My! Strawberry Eggs" which is highly dodgy, but I like it), as I picked up my bag, one of the straps went snap!
There’s no way on earth I could fix it. I can’t sew at the best of times, and I definitely can’t sew well enough to get the strap to hold. Maybe Mum can help me out when I go home at Easter, but for now . . . It’s too heavy for me to carry on one shoulder. I stumble around, and the other strap’s likely to go soon.
Wah. I haven’t had my backpack for a huge amount of time – two and a half years, it was an eighteenth birthday present. But I’ve used it virtually every day since then. It went to Cambridge with me. I took it to work every day. It went with me to Nodnol (in the days when Nodnol was a long way away), and Austria, and Canada, and America, and France, and Belgium. It went with me to UKC. I’ve taken it to Slimelight. On account of it, random men in Camden market, the Electric Ballroom and the campus shop have spoken to me! It’s like my best friend . . .
And it’s not going to be easy to replace either. The campus shop used to do fairly cool backpacks (only offensive in their UKC logos, which could be hidden by badges), but now they just do triangular ones. Which might be highly trendy and light and comfortable, but frankly, they couldn’t hold a single binder. And most backpacks I see around seem to be either cloth (v. good for sewing patches onto, but not v. strong looking) and / or let the rain in. (And there’s been plenty of rain to let in lately.) I’m going to have to go into Canterbury tomorrow and see what I can find . . . but I’m not very hopeful.
I repeat: woooooooooooe!!!!!!
In stranger news, UKC is covered in weird stickers. In the lecture theatre where Animesoc was held, there were some saying, “Bedroom”. In the women’s toilets, they said, “Beauty Parlour”. And on the door to the men’s toilets it said, “Reading Room”.
Also, when I came in here (Eliot Computer room), the guy next to me was playing Adom, which is like Angband, only better. According to him anyway. Coolness! I may not be the saddest person at UKC after all!
Wednesday 27 February 2002
Grr. It was fine this morning, but now it's chucking it down. I could potentially put off going into town to get a backpack this afternoon, but I need to go home, since it's The Pit tonight and I need to get something to wear. Ok, I'm wearing a t-shirt and trousers at the moment, and I've got a skirt and a t-shirt at Bryn's place, but the trousers are boring, the shirt at Bryn's place is dirty, and I wore this shirt and the skirt on Monday night, so they just won't do. Not for the first lady of the rock society. So I'll have to go outside for at least half an hour at some point during the next four hours.
Also, I've lost my lunch. Not in the disgusting sense of the word, I've just somehow misplaced it. Mimph.
Later
The weather cleared up, so I went into town. But I still have something in common with a modern vacuum cleaner: I’m bagless.
My trip yielded some dazzlingly pink tights (Ibid and Matt will be unable to update their livejournals after tonight, for they will be blinded) and a pink feather boa. (Well, I’ve wanted one for ages.) But a backpack was not to be found.
I wasn’t really sure where to look. The only backpack I’ve ever bought in my life, I got in the Card Centre in Brampton (why they had one there, I do not know), but that was just a bit too far away to visit. The rest were all birthday presents from my Mum. I actually phoned her just now, to ask from whence they came, but she was at the dentist’s.
I found some el cheapo ones on the market stall, but at that point I realised my anti-fashion consciousness was going to be a big factor in this quest. If a backpack shall be mine, it must a goffic sort of colour. Black, purple, drab green, navy blue, or, of course, PINK!
Ibid had recommended the department store opposite Past Times. In there, I found a black backpack with grey straps and a pot leaf on it. That’ll do, thought I, but when I checked the price tag, it said, “£50”. Nay way, I was out of there. “If you’re looking for cheap stuff, try the market,” an old man said to me. “It’s well expensive in here.”
In the camping shop where Bryn spends half his life, I found a black one. But that too was £50. Giving up, I went to Third Eye 2000 (where a bloke asked me where I'd got my boots) so I could try on a System Of A Down hoodie I’d seen there earlier. I decided against buying it – if the logo had been on the front and the words “SYSTEM OF A DOWN” had been on the back – the seemingly sensible way round - I would have, but noooo. But when I went to the changing room, I noticed a sign saying that there were bags for sale upstairs.
I didn’t get to investigate instantly, because the woman working there said, “Hey, we’ve seen you in here a lot, you’re one of our best customers. Will you try on some new clothes we’ve got in?” I was rather surprised, because I only go in there once or twice a month, and all I can remember buying is a Hitler European tour shirt, some postcards, a lot of badges, a spikey bracelet, an anarchy shirt, a NIN hoodie, some nail polish . . . actually, that's quite a lot, considering their prices are sky high and most of their clientele are still at school. Naturally, I agreed, and I tried on a top that was made partly from mesh, partly from fishnet and partly from lace. It looked silly for a second, and then funchie. Too expensive for the time being, though, I decided. I also tried on a top with a ridiculously low neckline and slashed arms held together by long silver barbells. That looked less groovig, but the shop assistant wanted it for herself anyway.
Finally, I went upstairs. They had a black backpack there, but the front pocket was really silly – very thin and fastened all the way round with Velcro. Not terribly good for keeping my walkman in. Naaaaah.
So I went home and to the shopping page at darkwave.org.uk to try and find some gothic backpacks. But the only ones they had were those that look like insects. Which are highly cool, and the measurements sounded ok, but they don’t quite seem big enough in reality. Also, I was forever knocking clothes off racks in shops with my olde backpack, never mind something more bulbous.
My Mummy has returned from le dentist and offered to look in some catalogues for me. But until then, I must somehow endure the backache.
Thursday 28 February 2002
Insane British Lecturer: Bayesian Statistics are like gay men. Quite popular, but not accepted by everyone.
Zed (outside Bryn's house): Can I come in?
Graffiti-ist #1: Shirkers of the world unite!
Poster: Porn star? (Suggesting what you might come as, when attending a P party. Which sounds highly dodgy, but simply means you have to dress as something starting with P. Another of the ideas is PINK! Think I could do that!)
Zed's Mum: Hello, Omega Music?
Zed: Hello!
Lecturer With Weird Accent: Da bloke with da beard. Beard. *uses hands to form imaginary beard around chin.* I don't know how he do zat.
Zed: I can give you access to Bryn's equipment. *sees dodginess* Er, not that you'd want it.
Bryn: And if it's not there when I come back, I'm going to stick a two foot long dildo up your bottom so far it'll poke out of your mouth.
*Zed walks into room*
Ben: My girlfriend dumped me this morning.
The Pit last night was incredibly good. For me anyway. Soppygit and Sleeve were having both having Incredibly Bad Times, on account of each other's presence, but I remained hyper. They played lots of good music and I think I was high on other people's pot smoke again, since I was rambling away to everyone about my underwear and stuff (I generally come across all quiet and shy) and I was drumming the tune of "0Killing In The Name Of" on the speaker long after the music had stopped.
Me and Ibid spent a lot of time in the toilets, as is usual, and avec AJ, we made Modern Art out of pink (PINK!) toilet rolls. We went outside to howl at the virtually-full moon. We stood on a balcony, peeling bits of sellotape off the banister, and tried to throw them into the bin on the storey below, failing miserably. And we did our usual dance moves:
Faith (the Limp Bizkit version obviously)
Poison by Alice Cooper
The Pit just isn't going to be the same next academic year when she goes to Finland.
A lot of people were most impressed by my levels of pinkness. Anna The Goth, who's one of those goths whose only concession to colour is to wear a miniscule amount of purple now and again (last night, she had purple and black roses in her hair), was most distressed. However, she did compliment me on my assymmetrical legs: one was plain pink and the other pink with black fishnet over the top. "You know what this means?" Bryn said. "You've been complimented by a goth. Which means you're a proper goth now." "Argh!" I replied. She also asked me how the hemp I managed to do it? To me it seemed fairly obvious: put on tights first, put on suspender belt, attach single fishnet stocking to it and stuff surplus suspendings down tights. And she wasn't the only one to ask. Coolness! Mind you, it made going to the toilet a bit annoying.
Lots o' random conversations. Some bloke came up to me, asked, "Is your name C*****?" and of course, I replied, "No, my name isn't a really weird looking swearword!" Ok, I actually said, "I suppose so." "Do you have any weird nicknames?" he asked. "Most people call me Zed," I said. "What's your name?" someone asked him. "Bob," he said, after a slight hesitation. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Well, no," he said. "Bye!" And he went away again!
The feather boa fared remarkably well. AJ has no eyebrows, but she does have a habit of amassing everyone else's stuff, and last night, she'd decided to return it all. I got my Arkam Asylum CD back, for those of you concerned about its security, and she gave Dale his purple boa back, which she's had since the first Pit o the year (28th September!) When he put it on, it proceeded to moult all over the place, but mine shed remarkably little. Nevertheless, one girl (about whom Bryn had his doubts as to whether she was wearing any underwear, since her skirt was full of holes and only a pink(!) translucent underskirt and wide-holed fishnets were visible through them) picked up bits of both, and stuck them in her hair. It looked funchie!
One thing I learned though, though. Do not headbang with a feather boa tied around your neck. You get fluff in your mouth.
However, the night's conclusion was not at all satisfactory.
See, for several weeks now, Anna The Goth has been going on and on about how she's going to see The Mission on 1 March. I was envious (I couldn't afford it), but I could cope with it. After all, I saw VNV Nation, Covenant and Rammstein last term, and she didn't and I saw her turning green beneath her make-up.
However, yesterday, I finally read the e-mail that HIM online sent me. (Hmpf, they were meant to be sending me a free CD and they didn't.) And it said that HIM are supporting The Mission! Nooooooo!
Now it was looking like I was going to have a fairly good night anyway, because there were going to be some metal bands playing at UKC. However, this morning I received three angry e-mails from Someone Official saying, "Keynes JCR was left in a disgusting state last night and There's No Way In &^%# You Rock Society Eediots Are Using It Again On Friday!!!"
Muh? We cleaned it up, just as thoroughly as we always do and they're usually well impressed with us. When we left, Matt2 and some of his friends were in still there, pushing each other back and forth on the sofas, but when we left, we told the receptionists that anything else that happened in there wasn't our fault. The floor was disturbingly muddy - I have no idea why - but surely nothing a vacuum cleaner couldn't fix?
Please cross your fingers, because otherwise I'm going to be Very Angsty and you shall bear the brunt of it! Bwahaha!
In other news, Lecturer With The Weird Accent is a flipping cheapskate. Most lecturers, you know, like, *give* us lecture notes. But not him. He puts them on his website, and expects us to download them and print them off. Thirty three pages at 5p a go = £1.65. Quel rip off! Worse still, they won't even load, so I can't even look at them, never mind print them!
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