Some time ago I mentioned that my housemate, Seth had disappeared for a couple weeks without as much as a phone call. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he called? It was a mystery. When Seth returned from his bizarre absence he began acting very strangely. He was quieter, his hair was fluffier and I couldn’t be sure but I thought his eyes were closer together. Also he absolutely refused to tell us where he had been. The closest we got to an explanation came when Seth said he’d been ‘busy’ at home and that he was back now, so it didn’t matter. As a huge fan of The Sopranos my immediate assumption was that Seth had killed someone, either that or he was working for the FBI, but I couldn’t be sure. There wasn’t very much on the television that week and I couldn’t be bothered with the gym so I decided to play Sherlock.
My investigation techniques were varied and extremely complex but mostly involved nagging at Seth to tell me what had happened.
“What happened? What happened? What happened?” I would repeatedly enquire politely.
“Like I said, I was busy! Nothing happened.” He would reply, exasperated
“You killed a man didn’t you?!”
Nobody else seemed to care where Seth had been which made several of the classic interrogation methods that I wanted to employ difficult. For example, ‘good cop, bad cop,’ wasn’t an option. Instead I went for the ‘really fucking repetitive to the point where it’s unbearable cop’. It didn’t work and after running out of ideas I was forced to give up on my enquiry and just start pretending I knew what happened.
We first started making up lies about Seth on a particularly miserable hangover morning. The night before I had managed to stay fairly sober and guide an absolutely wrecked Seth back home to bed. B-dawg, Pete and I went to KFC and realized over a bargain bucket, that if Seth didn’t remember the night before, we could tell him he had done things he hadn’t and he would believe us. It was perfect (and a little confusing to write down). If you can make someone believe that they did something they didn’t then it might as well be true. So when we got home from KFC we told Seth that he had kicked a young girl in the back and ordered her to “get out of the way.”
After a little convincing he believed us and a fantastic new hobby was born.
‘memory filling’
You should try it!
Since that original lie, our friends and neighbours have all believed that Seth is some kind of sociopath capable of kicking babies off motorway bridges. So a couple of months (and a few lies) later, when I said that the reason Seth was missing was that he had shunted an old woman over with his car and he had to stay at home in order for the police to interview him, nobody even batted an eyelid. The truth was far more exciting, or at least exactly as exciting.
A week or two after his return, Seth sauntered up to the house with a new car...
He was greeted with filthy looks from those who thought he had rammed an old lady, while the rest of us all wondered why he had a new car. He couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
I was getting a lift in his new Peugeot and he finally admitted it. Apparently he was driving like a wanker and flipped his old car down a hill, writing it off in the process.
Mystery solved.
I’m not sure though. I still think he killed a drug dealer, put the body in the boot of his car and dumped the whole thing in a river.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Thirteen and Up
Each time I move back home I feel a bit more claustrophobic. Obviously seeing the family is great but relying on mum and dad is a bit 40 Year Old Virgin. When you live with your friends you can stagger in at five in the morning, play some Rolling Stones tracks with the base turned up and start mouthing off about how much of a goon John Terry is. This does tend to piss off the housemates a bit but after a hug or two we all move on (except MEH). It’s different back at home. The kitchen is off limits after 10pm and there is no talking while either, Antiques Road Show, Eggheads or University Challenge is on the telly. Unfortunately awesome bands such as The Stones have been pigeonholed along with American sit-coms as, “horrible racket.” My dad has an incredible ear for modern music; any jingle played above four decibels will be greeted with any of the following phrases.
“What is that horrible racket?”
“Turn that rubbish down!”
“Shut that racket off, I’m getting a head ache!”
This usually results in one of the three most immature responses you can imagine. Pick any of the following,
“Oh my god, it’s so unfair!”
Turning up the music really loud
or my favourite...
Exaggerated sigh followed by a “FOR FUCKS SAKE.....” then a door slam.
The problem is that once my parents start treating me like a child I behave like one. It’s like how when a sane person is accused of going mad and nobody believes that they are sane, they go insane. In fact it’s exactly like that. Well done Moist, good metaphor.
The worst bit is that all my complaints are horribly ungrateful. Seeing as they have paid for all my food, shelter and education for over twenty-one years the least I should do is shut up while my parents watch educational television. Even if The Antiques Road Show does make me want dig myself a deep cold grave, I should really allow them that small pleasure in peace.
I blame Universities. Building up huge student loans isn’t the best way to gain independence and so I’m going to be scrounging off the rents for a year or two yet. Bloody top up fees, I bet James Bond didn’t move back in with his mummy and daddy Bond after he finished studying guns and spying at Cambridge.
Today my family went for a ‘welcome back Moist’ meal (see I really am an ungrateful shit.) Much, to my displeasure, I got ID’d. Considering I was already feeling hopelessly dependant this was a worst case scenario. What made it so much worse was that the GIRL that did the deed couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one herself. ....She didn’t even ID me to my face. Back-stabbing ID slut.
I ordered a Peroni and she walked off to get the manager. Two minutes later Mr Manager appeared and said,
“Excuse me, can I ask your son for ID?” with a wankerish look on his face.
He didn’t even ask me. What a fuck face.
It was like your girlfriend dumping you, via a text to your dad. That wasn’t quite such a good metaphor.
I bet Maximus from gladiator didn’t get ID’d at my age and if he did, I bet Mr Manager didn’t ask his dad for ID on his behalf. Maximus would have stabbed the manager’s face off. By the way, if you’re reading this and you don’t know what I look like, I’m six foot and four inches tall, with a big beard. Plus I’m outrageously ripped and look about thirty.
....sort of.
“What is that horrible racket?”
“Turn that rubbish down!”
“Shut that racket off, I’m getting a head ache!”
This usually results in one of the three most immature responses you can imagine. Pick any of the following,
“Oh my god, it’s so unfair!”
Turning up the music really loud
or my favourite...
Exaggerated sigh followed by a “FOR FUCKS SAKE.....” then a door slam.
The problem is that once my parents start treating me like a child I behave like one. It’s like how when a sane person is accused of going mad and nobody believes that they are sane, they go insane. In fact it’s exactly like that. Well done Moist, good metaphor.
The worst bit is that all my complaints are horribly ungrateful. Seeing as they have paid for all my food, shelter and education for over twenty-one years the least I should do is shut up while my parents watch educational television. Even if The Antiques Road Show does make me want dig myself a deep cold grave, I should really allow them that small pleasure in peace.
I blame Universities. Building up huge student loans isn’t the best way to gain independence and so I’m going to be scrounging off the rents for a year or two yet. Bloody top up fees, I bet James Bond didn’t move back in with his mummy and daddy Bond after he finished studying guns and spying at Cambridge.
Today my family went for a ‘welcome back Moist’ meal (see I really am an ungrateful shit.) Much, to my displeasure, I got ID’d. Considering I was already feeling hopelessly dependant this was a worst case scenario. What made it so much worse was that the GIRL that did the deed couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one herself. ....She didn’t even ID me to my face. Back-stabbing ID slut.
I ordered a Peroni and she walked off to get the manager. Two minutes later Mr Manager appeared and said,
“Excuse me, can I ask your son for ID?” with a wankerish look on his face.
He didn’t even ask me. What a fuck face.
It was like your girlfriend dumping you, via a text to your dad. That wasn’t quite such a good metaphor.
I bet Maximus from gladiator didn’t get ID’d at my age and if he did, I bet Mr Manager didn’t ask his dad for ID on his behalf. Maximus would have stabbed the manager’s face off. By the way, if you’re reading this and you don’t know what I look like, I’m six foot and four inches tall, with a big beard. Plus I’m outrageously ripped and look about thirty.
....sort of.
Friday, 26 March 2010
Back With A Bang
It’s been a while.
When writing a dissertation, doing anything other than writing you’re dissertation feels like a sin. That sin could be eating, drinking, watching TV, cleaning, washing, or even writing a blog. For the last six weeks the closest I’ve come to putting on fresh clothes has been leaving dirty garments on a hanger for a couple of days, spraying them with lynx or CK 1 if I’m going out, and re-wearing. After about four wearings, clothes join the other discarded outfits on Mount Attire.
Mount Attire started out as a foothill of socks and pants I had worn but hadn’t yet worn to the gym and were therefore, still eligible for reuse. Four weeks before the hand in Pant Mound became Garment Hill. Then with two weeks to go, I finally gave up on hygiene all together and created Mount Attire. In a miracle of fashion fusion, Mount Attire stands at around three foot tall and spans four square meters. The view from the summit is fairly spectacular. Sadly the whole lot is going in the wash tomorrow. The end of term has arrived and I’m off home to eat food that doesn’t come out of a plastic box and use soap that doesn’t smell like hospital.
I have been busy since I last wrote. For a start I had another driving test. This time, I didn’t fail...... Unfortunately I didn’t pass it either. I turned up at the test centre totally prepared for another soul destroying half hour joy ride around Leicestershire only to be greeted by my old friend Santa Claus.
“Hello.” He said as he walked up to my perfectly parked Focus. “Sorry, you’re examiner is on strike, now fuck off!” Well he didn’t say fuck off, but that’s how I’m choosing to remember it. A strike, can you believe it? So I still can’t drive.
In other news I have continued my struggle with alcoholism. The filthy habit has taken me around the country on benders of varying intensity. I managed to visit Birmingham, which as it turns out, is a pretty awesome night out.
Moistometer: 9/10
I also managed to pass out before midnight at my buddy P-dizzle’s house party in Devon. I partied too hard, too fast and learned a valuable life lesson. However, by far the biggest night out was DISSERTATION HAND IN NIGHT or being slightly less dramatic, last night. I drank whisky with a straw; I ate pizza off the floor, I spent far too much money and I woke up in a beautiful ladies bed. It was pretty brilliant.
I’m sure you want the lowdown. Well even if you don’t, you’re getting it. Handing in your dissertation is a strange feeling. You spend every waking moment thinking of nothing else (thinking about it doesn’t necessarily mean working on it) and then all of a sudden it’s gone. So after ambling around twiddling our thumbs, my course buddies and I decided that it would be a good idea to start festivities early. We indulged in a cheeky Big Mac and Mcflurry combo and began the slow numbing process. Predictably, the drinking got out of hand and I ended up buying round after round of Sambuca shots, then things went a little hazy. I ended up “dancing” with a girl from my course (Coop) and I use the term dancing loosely. I was swaying on my heels and waving my arms around while she repeatedly put her hand in my face and mooshed it like a lump of blu-tac. It was incredibly romantic.
We ended up walking home via a late night takeaway. She really wanted to get pizza and chips, which I paid for and she didn't eat. We were innocently enjoying our feast when, out of the blue,our culinary adventure was rudely interrupted. We were joined by three protein munching, Abercrombie wearing lumps of meat, hell bent on ruining my life. One of the morons (Wasp) happened to be related to a famous rugby player. He was a real piece of shit and worst of all he was determined to steel my woman. Now Coop and I are acquaintances at best, but when Wasp started hitting on her I became convinced that she was the one. It seems Wasp’s wooing technique mostly consists of putting down any nearby male and sadly I was well within range. I would love to say that after his first dig at my expense I got up and punched him right in his stubbly face. I didn’t. I don’t fully remember if I got Wasp to fuck off by making a snide comment about him being the lesser sibling or if he just got bored of belittling me but he did eventually fuck off to whatever cess pit he came from.
After that I walked Coop home and she invited me in. (SUCK IT WASP) Everything was going swimmingly, but when I went for a wee I got stuck in the toilet; it took me a good five minutes of fiddling with the lock to break out. It was quite embarrassing really. When I rejoined her in the living room, Coop invited me up to her room. I was amazed by the invite, even after I had been in the loo so long, she must of thought I was pooing.... I wasn't, honestly.
Not wanting to be rude, I joined Coop in her room but then, unbelievably, I didn’t hit on her. That’s right, I was a gentleman. In some intoxicated epiphany I realized she was far too drunk and so we had a nice nap in her bed. I woke up in the morning and made my way home. Not quite as interesting as it sounded was it.
probably should have made a move.
On the plus side I can just tell people I slept with her. Technically it’s true. We did sleep together and it’s not my fault if people make assumptions.
.....Only joking.... sort of
When writing a dissertation, doing anything other than writing you’re dissertation feels like a sin. That sin could be eating, drinking, watching TV, cleaning, washing, or even writing a blog. For the last six weeks the closest I’ve come to putting on fresh clothes has been leaving dirty garments on a hanger for a couple of days, spraying them with lynx or CK 1 if I’m going out, and re-wearing. After about four wearings, clothes join the other discarded outfits on Mount Attire.
Mount Attire started out as a foothill of socks and pants I had worn but hadn’t yet worn to the gym and were therefore, still eligible for reuse. Four weeks before the hand in Pant Mound became Garment Hill. Then with two weeks to go, I finally gave up on hygiene all together and created Mount Attire. In a miracle of fashion fusion, Mount Attire stands at around three foot tall and spans four square meters. The view from the summit is fairly spectacular. Sadly the whole lot is going in the wash tomorrow. The end of term has arrived and I’m off home to eat food that doesn’t come out of a plastic box and use soap that doesn’t smell like hospital.
I have been busy since I last wrote. For a start I had another driving test. This time, I didn’t fail...... Unfortunately I didn’t pass it either. I turned up at the test centre totally prepared for another soul destroying half hour joy ride around Leicestershire only to be greeted by my old friend Santa Claus.
“Hello.” He said as he walked up to my perfectly parked Focus. “Sorry, you’re examiner is on strike, now fuck off!” Well he didn’t say fuck off, but that’s how I’m choosing to remember it. A strike, can you believe it? So I still can’t drive.
In other news I have continued my struggle with alcoholism. The filthy habit has taken me around the country on benders of varying intensity. I managed to visit Birmingham, which as it turns out, is a pretty awesome night out.
Moistometer: 9/10
I also managed to pass out before midnight at my buddy P-dizzle’s house party in Devon. I partied too hard, too fast and learned a valuable life lesson. However, by far the biggest night out was DISSERTATION HAND IN NIGHT or being slightly less dramatic, last night. I drank whisky with a straw; I ate pizza off the floor, I spent far too much money and I woke up in a beautiful ladies bed. It was pretty brilliant.
I’m sure you want the lowdown. Well even if you don’t, you’re getting it. Handing in your dissertation is a strange feeling. You spend every waking moment thinking of nothing else (thinking about it doesn’t necessarily mean working on it) and then all of a sudden it’s gone. So after ambling around twiddling our thumbs, my course buddies and I decided that it would be a good idea to start festivities early. We indulged in a cheeky Big Mac and Mcflurry combo and began the slow numbing process. Predictably, the drinking got out of hand and I ended up buying round after round of Sambuca shots, then things went a little hazy. I ended up “dancing” with a girl from my course (Coop) and I use the term dancing loosely. I was swaying on my heels and waving my arms around while she repeatedly put her hand in my face and mooshed it like a lump of blu-tac. It was incredibly romantic.
We ended up walking home via a late night takeaway. She really wanted to get pizza and chips, which I paid for and she didn't eat. We were innocently enjoying our feast when, out of the blue,our culinary adventure was rudely interrupted. We were joined by three protein munching, Abercrombie wearing lumps of meat, hell bent on ruining my life. One of the morons (Wasp) happened to be related to a famous rugby player. He was a real piece of shit and worst of all he was determined to steel my woman. Now Coop and I are acquaintances at best, but when Wasp started hitting on her I became convinced that she was the one. It seems Wasp’s wooing technique mostly consists of putting down any nearby male and sadly I was well within range. I would love to say that after his first dig at my expense I got up and punched him right in his stubbly face. I didn’t. I don’t fully remember if I got Wasp to fuck off by making a snide comment about him being the lesser sibling or if he just got bored of belittling me but he did eventually fuck off to whatever cess pit he came from.
After that I walked Coop home and she invited me in. (SUCK IT WASP) Everything was going swimmingly, but when I went for a wee I got stuck in the toilet; it took me a good five minutes of fiddling with the lock to break out. It was quite embarrassing really. When I rejoined her in the living room, Coop invited me up to her room. I was amazed by the invite, even after I had been in the loo so long, she must of thought I was pooing.... I wasn't, honestly.
Not wanting to be rude, I joined Coop in her room but then, unbelievably, I didn’t hit on her. That’s right, I was a gentleman. In some intoxicated epiphany I realized she was far too drunk and so we had a nice nap in her bed. I woke up in the morning and made my way home. Not quite as interesting as it sounded was it.
probably should have made a move.
On the plus side I can just tell people I slept with her. Technically it’s true. We did sleep together and it’s not my fault if people make assumptions.
.....Only joking.... sort of
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
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