Pink Plastic

I have been reliably informed that my latest blog reads like a emotional 13 year old girls diary. I, in retrospect, agree and have taken it upon myself to do better. No more bitching and moaning from me.


So I had another driving test and it went brilliantly. This time instead of evil old Santa Claus, I was presented with a new examiner..... a lady examiner. With my charm and powers of seduction I thought to myself, (and aloud to my instructor) there was no way she could fail me. Not with a smile like mine. I could ignore the priorities at roundabouts, I could forget to change down a gear, I could even hit the curb and she would still pass me. Not only that, she would also fall at my feet and beg me to drive her to the nearest premiere inn for an hour of passion.

I'm pretty sure she must be married to Brad Pitt or something because she was, as it turned out, resistant to my bedroom eyes. Either that or she's a lesbian. The notion that she might actually be a single, straight woman and find me unattractive is simply inconceivable. Women loving me is like maggots loving apples. It's just in their nature. If I begin to believe otherwise I'm not sure my ego could take it.

It seems that roundabouts are incorrectly named. The wording 'roundabout' suggests a vagueness that does not suit the situation.

Harmonica: "How far away is the station?"

Moist: "Oh the station. I know. Well, it’s aROUND ABOUT a mile in that direction."

Whilst driving today the lovely examiner politely requested that I take a right at the roundabout ahead. I came to the natural conclusion that I would go in ROUNDABOUT the right direction. Apparently this is "dangerous". I also decided, given the slap-dash naming of the 'roundabout' that I would wait roughly, about, approximately, aROUND ABOUT the correct amount of time for traffic approaching from the right to manoeuvre. Who decides why Mr Rover gets priority over me is a mystery but one certainty is blitzing it out in front of him is also considered "dangerous." Well let me tell you something DVLA. Life is dangerous and if you can't deal with the driving titan that is me then you better get off the roads. Driving isn't for pansies. I laugh in the face of danger, and gear changes, and steering.

Anyway where was I? Oh yeah. Roundabouts should actually be called Exactabouts. Then I would know precisely how to deal with the situation. Had the beautiful lady to my left announced,

"Moist, I want you to turn right at the Exactabout coming up ahead. Bear in mind that it’s an EXACTabout."

I would have acted appropriately

"Oh so you want me to change down a gear, get a nice early look, approach from the right hand lane then wait for that Rover to go. Got ya."

Was that so hard DVLA?

I have booked another test. (am also considering a change of lucky pants)

Driving test attempts. 3

Failed attempts: I'd rather not say.

One piece of fantastic news is that I have now got my laptop fixed and pornputer is back on the nightshift. The computer techies at uni live on the top floor of the tallest building on campus. Much like Dracula’s tower and the hunchback of Notre Dame’s cathedral they are separated and shunned by normal society. I approached with caution. Not wanting to feel out of place or computer illiterate, I attempted to discuss the problems my computer was having without using the phrase

"I watched a whole load of porn and now it’s beyond fucked."

Instead, I made an effort to copy as much as I could from films that I had seen with computers in, like The Matrix.

“Yeah, I think what happened was it got all corrupted and shit. I mean it used to have like, a load of gigabites and all the rams and now it’s just like it has no rams at all"

I don't think they bought it. However they were really pretty sweet and for the small (gulp) price of 70 smackeroos I have all the rams back.

GIGABYTES on my hard drive; 250

Moistometer: 7/10 pretty freaking moist outside

BAD GIRLS

January exam period is well and truly underway now. So of course I’m going out more than ever. I am currently sat, hung over, in my room with Lucy after a day, attempting to revise. Writing this entry is an admission of my failure. In an endeavour to appear studious I have created the ideal working environment. Anything from the level of desk clutter to the lighting of my room creates the potential for ten to fifteen minutes of procrastination. I even created a work play list which is brilliant. Think: Mills Brothers, Pink Floyd, Eddie Vedder, Elbow, Moby, Rolling Stones and you will get the idea.

After a good hour or so of Feng Shui-ing my room I sat down and looked through the reading list for my Media Panics module. This was followed by a long look on You Tube for relevant revision material with numerous detours to look at Blackalisious and dub step videos.

When I actually managed to get down to work I was left enraged by some of the feminist literature I encountered. I really don’t want to appear sexist but… ( and I appreciate that usually a statement like this is almost always used as a qualification for saying something outrageous like I’m not a racist but, or I’m not a sex criminal but) I find it difficult to deal with the endless reams of man hate that my course forces me to read. What do these academics want from me? According to most anthropology and sociology as a man I am the cause of all women’s suffering in the world. The whole thing had me contemplating an amature sex change. Now I’ve done my share of shitty things to women in the past, but I’ve also done some pretty bad stuff to men. In my view that’s equality; apparently not. Actually, (according to Men’s Work, Woman’s Work) equality will only be achieved when men are wiped out and women recreate artificially.

At the moment I spend my days being told what a bastard I am by women in books and my nights being told what a wanker I am by women in clubs. It doesn’t really seem fair. If men have it so much better I’d like to find out how, so I can make the most of it.

Days in the same pants: 2 ½

Days in the same shirt: 3

Days in the same jeans: Unknown

Moistest WOMAN of the moment: Paula Radcliff

Crunch Corner

Back at university now..... still stuck on Pornputer.At sports universities it is essential to join a gym. Even the fattest and scrawniest people have a membership and I'm no different. It's a really unusual environment and despite being as hooked as everyone else here, I can say with some certainty that I am in no danger of becoming a 'gym freak'. When you enter the gym you leave the real world behind. Things that matter on the outside like happiness, intelligence, looks and money no longer seems important. It's you, you're muscles and you're cardio against everyone else’s. The new world brings new laws. These laws are enforced by gym police or 'Personal trainers'. Unlike regular police; who fight crime and give hoodlums a thump every so often, gym police sit gormlessly behind computers or stand around pointlessly stretching, occasionally sneering at the civilians. If you are lucky enough to overhear one speaking then the conversation will almost certainly involve how muscular they are.

It is all too easy to get caught up in the competitive atmosphere. It is equally easy to get caught out. The treadmill is particularly bad for this. In the real world if someone is faster than you they jog past and that’s that. The defeat is quick, painful and momentary. On the treadmill however, you’re harrowing defeat is rubbed in your face the whole time your conqueror bounds along beside you. To avoid this I have been know to put the speed up to 19 km per hour for a bit just so everyone around thinks I’m a cross between Usain Bolt and Paula Radcliff. Obviously this speed is unsustainable but sometimes the illusion works. However every so often something awful happens and the person jogging beside me takes a sneaky look at my machine and notices that I’ve only run 300 metres. At this point I am in a bit of a pickle. I’m tiring horribly, stranded miles from an impressive distance at a speed I cannot maintain. The disgrace of slowing the thing down to a sensible 12 km per hour is too great. Stopping it all together isn’t an option either. That way the fucker next to me knows I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up this pace though; I’m not actually Paula Radcliff. There is only one course of action. I continue absolutely deadpan for 10 or so seconds after the initial peek from Mr Nosey in order to give the impression I could effortlessly continue at this pace for some time. Then fake a mild injury. This is done by suddenly grimacing and slamming the emergency stop button. Whilst the running mat bit slows down I hop about a bit as if it’s painful to put weight on my foot. Once it’s stopped all together I give my leg a rub and stretch my foot as professionally as possible. Then I walk out, gym session over. By doing this I have successfully avoided embarrassing myself in front of all the other gym goers. To them I am still a finely tuned athlete. Obviously I am still left with the inner shame that I had to fake pulling a muscle to avoid any real exercise.

P.S Don’t judge me for faking an injury. Footballers do it and they get paid 50 grand a week.

Whoever did this...

It has come to my attention that something terrible has happened. Some sick bastard started the second layer of our Fox's luxury biscuit selection before the top layer was complete. This is a gross and unacceptable breech of confectionary law and it will not go unpunished. It is difficult to fully describe the disgust I felt when I peeled back the corrugated black card layer separator only to find the white chocolate wafers with praline filling had disappeared. I now know how it felt to unearth Tutankhamun’s tomb and then be horribly cursed. I must continue my life, doomed to eat biscuits only partially covered in chocolate or the shitty digestives.

The cookie incident left me demoralized but I have still managed to make some progress with the first of my new year’s goals. I have decided to be a banking fat cat and now that’s been decided all I have to do is wait for the banks to offer me a job and I’ll be puffing Cuban cigars and gulping whisky in no time.

My Purple Pepper Grinder

Today was truly dull. I went for a run and wrote about four hundred words of my dissertation. That was it. At the age of 16, Wayne Rooney was scoring goals in the Premiership. Boris Becker won Wimbledon at 17 and at 21 my Gran was raising a child! I’m 21 and the closest I have come to raising anything was when some mould grew in my gym bag.

With this in mind, continuing to simply write about my day to day exploits seems a little self indulgent. I recently watched Public Enemies and it became apparent after about three minutes, that my life isn’t nearly as interesting as John Dillinger’s. So I have decided to give myself some New Years goals to work towards for the decade to come. I’m not about to start robbing banks but hopefully they will spice things up a bit

My Goals

1. Become filthy rich
2. Get a smoking hot wife (must also be more intelligent than me and have a sense of humour)
3. Pass my driving test and get a big shinny car that makes everyone assume I have an enormous penis
4. Become famous within my field, but not soo famous that people shout at me from across the street.
5. Eat in a Michelin stared restaurant then go straight to McDonald’s and buy a McFlurry
6. Buy a house with a Jacuzzi
7. Meet the Prime Minister
8. Write a genuinely good play
9. Watch Tottenham Hotspur play at Wembley stadium
10. Go to a Movie Premier
11. Collect over 20 different pepper grinders

I’ll keep you posted with my progress.

At the start of David Copperfield he talks about whether he will be the hero of his own life or not. Don’t worry this isn’t about to get philosophical and I didn’t read the book or anything clever like that. I just saw the beginning of the film on the telly and thought the question was interesting. Who is the hero of my life?

Well that’s easy. It’s Jennifer Aniston.

Moist man of the moment

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Elton John

It has been a long time since I last wrote. For this I apologise. Christmas is always a busy blur of eating, family and alcohol and this year was no different. I have also been prevented from updating by a particularly aggressive computer virus, a virus which was almost certainly caused by the huge volume of pornography flowing through my computer’s electrical veins. With one laptop dying from computer syphilis I have been forced to use my old laptop, ‘Pornputer’ for day to day activates. Pornputer was christened after I received a brand spanking new laptop as part of a government grant. The idea was that the new expensive computer would stay virtuous and work hard, while Pornputer would be a horrible slut of a laptop that whored its way around the internet and stored videos of naked ladies. Unfortunately, one fateful night the temptation of seeing ‘Hot Blonde gets a mouth full’ in a higher resolution was too great. Did the expensive glossy new computer have Norton internet security?

Of course it didn’t.

The rest, as they say, is history. Ironically Pornputer has ploughed on regardless. It must use some kind of extra thick internet condom because it survives even the most outrageous short movies. Christmas has been pretty great in general. I have almost entirely avoided working on my dissertation and I have seen a lot of friends and family. New Years Eve was a bit of let down, but when isn’t it? Everyone stands around a clock or a television and waits for twelve. I’m not trying to be a party pooper or a poor sport but twelve o’clock happens twice a day. It’s like each year we wait to see if the world will explode at the strike of midnight. To our surprise it doesn’t and so we all go home disappointed. I’m probably just being a moody little bastard because there were no ladies around to woo. We ended up in the most horrendous pub trying not to make eye contact with the drunk, overweight, middle aged women on the prowl. At midnight I was left to think about how at that exact moment, just about every girl I ever fancied or ever would was probably tongue deep in some other guy. It all comes down to being in the right place at the right time and I was probably as far from the right place as was physically possible. I wouldn’t feel too sorry for me though, I watched a whole lot of very high quality television over the Christmas period. ‘Muppet Christmas Carol’ and ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ are my personal favourites for the festive season but I’m always open to new and exiting ways to avoid seeing the Queens Speech or the Corrie Christmas special.

Woozilla 1/10 A drunk older women took a shine to me…… she was about 20 stone and had brown teeth.

Moist man of the moment: Beaker from the Muppets

Drunkometer: 8/10 Christmas has left me with pickled insides.

Moistometer 9/10 all that bloody snow and it didn’t stick around long enough for a White Christmas!