Movin' On Up

Or to the left, or right. Definitely not down.

Let's just put it this way: I am, in a tri-directional way, ascending the ladder of web omnipotence.

You can find my new blog here: http://omid.timetorant.com

(Ta for the domain Gary!)

I'll be investing in a top-level domain name soon, and I'll keep you fully posted on any developments on the new site.

Blogger's been fun - and if my 'sources' are to believed, I've developed quite a following (albiet one of people who read but don't comment, but hey, who's complaining? (Me.)).

Anyway, I refused to let go completely, so all the old Blogger posts (this one not included) have been imported into my spankin' new WordPress account. Funky.

Omid

The Gangsta Shizzle

Music, just like excrement, is shit.

The reason for this somewhat sweeping, and, admittedly, fundamentally incorrect, generalisation is all because of the invasion of American ‘gangstaz’ who rap about ‘getting down wit dair hos, fo sho’.

I don’t envisage this being a particularly long entry; my opinions on hip-hop, rap, and whatever other pathetic excuses for genres that consist of either some burly black guy shouting about ‘his niggas and bitches, muthafucka’ while telling me to ‘shake dat ass’, or electronically-engineered ten-minute long headache-inducing ‘songs’ whose constituent parts are a “duhh duhh duhh” sound in the background, and a voiceover orchestrated by Pinky and Perky, are forever set in stone.

As you can probably guess, I don’t take too kindly to this sort of ‘music’; the main perpetrators are people like 50 Cent and Peepee Diddly (or whatever he’s called this week).

The former of the two was apparently shot nine times. Unfortunately, he lived to tell the tale, and make a video game whose main theme is, yep, shooting people.

Moving on…

It really is incredibly just how alike all these acts sound. There are, in my humble (but inevitably correct) opinion, two types of rap-hop (or whatever) – these are explained below.

The first is the “I’m going to shoot you and proceed to engage in sexual intercourse with prostitutes (pop a cap in yo’ ass den fuck ma ho’s)”. The videos for these particular types will obviously contain three main things (aside from the pimpin’ frontman himself, who will be clad in a white fur coat, have a cornrow hair-do, wear shades, fondle his cock all the time, and randomly shout “word” whilst making strange symbols with his fingers), which you should look out for if ever you’re unlucky enough to see one.

These are: 1) Semi-naked women waggling their arses, 2) “Brothas” in the background, usually saying, “Uh, yeah”, “Fo sho”, or “Shizzle ma bizzle, biatch”. And, 3) Of course, lots of gold chains, a white limousine, possibly a Jacuzzi, and various other materials with which the pimp goes about his business.

Getting back to my original point, the second type of video is traditionally performed by 19-year old ‘brothaz from da hood’ who consider themselves philosophers. This type will almost always contain the words “I’m sorry”, or “I want you back” or “I didn’t mean to sleep with her, my cock just fell out of my pants and then I fucked her”, in the title. They tend to document some poor hoodie-clad chap who’s lost his girlfriend because he slept with another woman. Or, as is more than likely the case, a whore.

Alternatively, he could have moved away from the area and be trying to use the song to express his undying love.

Wow, you’re really quite good at detecting bullshit.

Back to the subject at hand – this second type of song is usually accompanied by a video that, while substantially different from the other type, still follows a formula. This time, however, it’ll be something like the following:

Boy is seen leaving bar. Boy walks home through rain, hood-up and will be either a) making strange signs with his hands, b) keeping his hands in his pockets, or c) a bit of both.

He then goes home, and sits on his bed. Cut to girlfriend/ ex-girlfriend, who will probably look at a picture of the two of them together and start crying. The boy will then pick up a random object and throw it against a wall, clearly thinking that this will, in some way, aid his situation.

It’ll carry on in much this way, with the boy occasionally meeting up with ‘his brothas (from da hood, of course)’.

All in all, it’s a bag of shite. The videos for dance/ trance/ whatever, while I’ve never actually seen one, (probably because they don’t exist, as the songs are intended to be listened to by e’d up clubbers on a Friday night in Liverpool), will by definition be equally as bad. If the adverts for “God’s Bathroom Classics” are anything to go by, then they’ll simply consist of a few bikini-clad women dancing in front of an epileptic-fit inducing background.

Before I leave the topic, I’d like to go back to an aforementioned point – cock-fondling. Maybe this could help.

And one final point. I mentioned at the start that my 'sweeping generalisation' was 'fundamentally incorrect'. Indeed it is, there's a world of good music out there. People just need to wake up to it.

White Kids Acting They’re Black

If you listen to the Libertines, you’ll know where I drew the inspiration for that sub-title from. (And even if you don’t, you do now because I just told you).

Anyway. Tim Westwood. What. The. Fuck. Never in my life have I encountered (albeit on a TV) a more arrogant, cringe-worthy human being. Seriously, who does he think he’s kidding? Not I, my friend; for all his “bling bling”, “you da man” and episodes of Pimp My Ride UK, it really is quite easy to see through the homie-veneer to the small, spoilt mummy’s boy who goes round to his granny’s every Sunday for a roast dinner and a chocolate biscuit. “Big dawg” my arse.

Well, somewhere up the page I said I couldn’t see this becoming a long entry, but evidently I was talking rubbish because I’m writing this in Word (fitting, no?) and I’m almost on three pages at size ten Verdana.

So, I shall leave you with this humorous factoid:

“50 cent used to be known as Dollar. Then he met Mr. T”.

P.S. Yes, I really did listen to the Manics 289 times in the last week. So there.

Big Mutha [expletive removed]

Or, “Orwell would be turning in his grave”.

And with good reason too. The 12 social rejects they’ve rounded up this time seem even more mentally backwards, to say the least, than ever. They possess the conversational skills of a group of toddlers, and clearly have absolutely no shame. At all.

Let’s have a look at the housemates, shall we?

Bonnie. Apparently she has a penchant for fiddling with herself in public. She claims to be a care worker, which mean’s she works in a nursery half-heartedly giving screaming children bottles of milk and yelling at them to, “shat the fack up” while she tries to talk to Britney on her mobile.

Dawn. She looks dead (that is, dead. Passed away. Snuffed it) in her picture on the C4 website. Evidently she has little in the way of a life, as she spends her time reading textbooks and claims to be an exercise scientist (though this obviously means she just goes running quite a lot).

George. “He describes himself as stubborn, posh, and comical”. Quite how a stubborn, posh person could be comical eludes me, but there you go. Apparently he’s married to the queen or something.

Glyn. He boasts not only a weird name, but also a very strange face and is ridiculously arrogant. Good for him. He says he hates animals, which is paradoxical because by definition he therefore hates himself, yet claims to be wonderful. Right, then…

Grace. She appears to be being asphyxiated in the picture of her on the C4 website. She says she lives on her own, which literally translates as, “I’m a whore”.

Imogen. C4 claim she’s ‘sexy and edgy’. According to her ‘personal data’ she’s a bar hostess, which quite clearly means she’s a stripper. She also claims to have brains, but doesn’t like jokes because ‘she doesn’t get them’. I see.

Lea. I had to double check to make sure this one was actually a human before I started writing about her/ it. She says she’s a model, though Plastic Surgery Weekly is the only magazine I could possibly imagine her ever appearing in. Seriously, there’s sexy, and then there’s just plain wrong.

Lisa. A Chinese/ Mancunian chav who would appear to have no neck, and, according to her picture on C4’s site, claims to be “wild, crazy and sexy”. That is, until you actually see the picture, or hear her talk. Then she could be summed up as just “annoying”.

Mikey. He says he’s a software developer. What’s this? My god! Someone with a hint of intellect! Maybe so, but it’s somewhat wasted – he’s also a model, and his ‘party piece’ is using his mouth as a bottle opener. [Edit - thinking about it, 'software developer' probably means he thinks he has 'teh ubar hmtl skillz0rs'.]

Nikki. Described as a “wannabe footballer’s wife”, which essentially means she enjoys being screwed by chavs. She says she’s a model/ dancer – I think you can see where this is going.

Pete. He has Tourette’s. I’m all for equality, but really, you have to pity the guy – he’s being put on TV in front of god-knows how many million uneducated people who haven’t even heard of his condition and are just going to get a laugh out of watching him shout “tits” randomly.

Richard. There’s always one isn’t there? He’s gay, (it’s even more obvious than Dale “I want you to bust my colon” Winton), fancies Vin Diesel, and his utopian ideal is being sent to prison. Each to his own, ‘n’ all that, but really, why the hell would anyone, gay or not, want to be bummed by a fat, hairy, sweaty convict who’ll make you drop your soap and then shout, “You’d better bend over and pick that up”.

Sezer. Says he ‘hates politics and Tony Blair’; these two claims, however, are quite obviously mutually exclusive. If he hates politics, then he’ll have no interest in it, and thus he’ll know bugger all about Mr Blair. He’s also shaved half of one his eyebrows off, wears a gold chain, likes women, and used to be a boxer. Oh, and he says the three words he’d use to describe himself are “made of platinum”. Nope, they don’t come much thicker.

Shahbaz. He’s the as-required-in-order-for-the-show-to-be-politically-correct homosexual Asian dude. I’m only guessing he’s gay, but he likes knitting and Kylie Minogue, and calls himself a party animal. Obvious, no?

Well, there you go. Twelve more deluded hopefuls blindly seeking fame, which, for however the long show is on for, will be partially true. Then it’ll end, two or three will sell their stories to The Sun, buy a car or something, shag a TV presenter, and then fade into obscurity like everyone else.

If you want an entertaining take on Reality TV, read Dead Famous by Ben Elton.

G’night.

The End of an Era

Before I start (the first person to say I already have gets a slap), you’ll have to forgive me two small sins. First, the title of this entry is the literary clichéd equivalent of Linda Barker; if you don’t understand that, then don’t feel stupid – it took me about 5 minutes to decide on the structure on that sentence and even now I’m fully aware of the fact that it makes little to no sense.

My second apology is for the simple fact that the era in question, while it may be part-ended, is far from completely over. Perplexed? I thought not, but read on anyway – it’s more fun that whatever you were doing before you started reading (unless you were having sex, in which case, I retract my last statement. (Although, having said that, people have been known to compare the levels of excitement obtained from my blog to sex… *shot*)).

Anyway, now that I’ve got that neurological ejaculation of unnecessary bullshit out of the way, I’ll get on with what I actually started writing this entry for: the last day of school (sort of).

If you read the last paragraph (which I’m humbly assuming you did), you’ll be blessed with the knowledge that, at some point in the last week, school’s last day (sort of) threw itself upon me (and the rest of my year). And, surprisingly enough, you’d be right. The reason for the “sort of”, and also the explanation for my second apology earlier on, is that, while official, structured lessons might have finished, we still have to go in for revision classes and exams. What fun.

So, then, I've now wasted a somewhat substantial amount of your time raving about what I’m going to be talking about but avoiding actually talking about it, (see, I’m still doing it now and YOU are still falling for it!), and I have, needless to say, accomplished very little in the way of informative literature.

Ok, ok, ok. I’ll get to the point – the last day (sort of) of school. The first three lessons (apart from science, wherein 100+ students were crammed into two science labs for something of a ‘party’ (ok, it wasn’t that bad, we got free custard creams!)), took place as per usual. The afternoon, however, was a different affair entirely, as we all sat down in the hall to watch the leaver’s assembly.

This was orchestrated by the deputy head, who began with a slideshow of pictures of us from pre-Y11. Then, about half way through the presentation, the pièce de résistance – 4 manipulated photos of one unlucky person (Jack Bell, for future reference), in the form of “Ping-pong Jacky”, “Jacky Potter”, “Professor Jack” and another one which I’ve forgotten, created by me and Ashley (http://esurfers.co.uk).

The slideshow then moved on, and the final slide contained a masterpiece started by Ashley and finished by moi – a collage of photoswaps. Cartoon characters and TV icons mixed with the heads of people from school. It was greeted with something along the lines of hushed laughter, whatever that is. I presume this was because people were trying to find out who they’d been given the body of, (and well they might, certain manipulations included a tech teacher as the pope, Ashley as an orange body builder, and Jack (yep, him again) as Bender. It should also be noted that the maths teacher’s head was placed on the body of a Fimble, and, head tilted and arms outstretched, was positioned in such a way as she appeared to be checking out Jack’s crotch).

Following the presentation, people began to do their own acts. They were all rather good, and Emily, Heather and Olivia (who I’ve mentioned in another entry) performed a song.

Inevitably, as the assembly drew to a close, people began to cry. It was all very sad and emotional, and, while I managed to refrain from ‘shedding a tear’, writing about it would probably be considered voyeurism, so I’ll do an Eastenders and ‘leave it aaht’.

Moving on.

After the assembly, we (that is, a group of about 15 of us), relocated to the drama studio to eat cake. Me, Emily, and a few others turned up first, just in time to be met by a chavette of unprecedented scallyness, who, through tar-clogged vocal chords, asked me if I was gay. She then proceeded to ask us all if we had 50p to get a drink, and after we’d all replied negatively, she took a chocolate finger out of the cake and legged it.

Shortly afterwards, Megan (there you go, you got into my blog!), Ellie (and you!), and some others arrived. Then, like halitosis, the chav girl returned and was promptly told to fuck off by the aforementioned girls, before attempting to wrestle with Kathryn, who ‘took it outside’.

Either way, we all (finally) got round to eating the cake, which was, it has to be said, not only ridiculously tasty, but also amazingly crafted (it was shaped into ‘that car’ from Grease).

After I’d devoured more than my fair share, and we’d all lain about on the drama studio floor for a while, we went outside to play Frisbee. As time went on, Megan felt the need to take her bra off, in the middle of the field, and wear it outside her t-shirt, apparently because, “It’s painful”.

I then realised it was time to go, so me, Megan and Ellie walked back to art to get my stuff, and then on to the car park. I don’t whether to laugh or cry about the fact that my mum’s first encounter with Miss Griffiths involved certain pieces of lingerie being worn outside her clothes. Ah well…

Alton Towers

I had planned an entry for this based around the following thought, “I’m at home, while everyone is out doing whatever it is people do at Alton Towers (vomiting on to the people in front of them on Oblivion)”. However, creativity and inspiration began to wane exponentially from then on, so I decided against it.

However, it definitely deserves writing about, so here goes. As you may have gathered, yesterday saw pretty much everyone in my year (not me, though), go to Alton Towers. I didn’t go because a) it was too expensive, and b) the thought of having my face forcibly ripped from my skull and plastered onto a headrest while going three million miles an hour down a straight vertical drop doesn't really set my balls on fire.

Despite the looming death, it was a pity I didn't go, as it would have given me an opportunity to fulfil the ongoing joke between me and Ashley (or “Ushy” as the retarded Y9’s call him), of “coming on Rita” (albeit in a decidedly morbid manner that would require several people with spatulas to clear up). Childish though it may be, it saved many a science lesson from becoming a pit of dullness (quite a task, actually).

Onwards and Upwards

So, then, where do I go from here? After my GCSE’s, I’m heading off to Marple 6th Form to do Computing, Applied ICT (easy A-level), English Language, and Psychology. The last, though, apparently, isn’t very good, so I’m considering History instead.

I’ve sat here for five minutes thinking of a witty ending, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it just ain’t gonna happen. So, I’ll bid thee farewell. (Actually, I won’t, I’ll just say bye).

Bye.

Pizza Shut (The Fuck Up)

If three different adverts for the same food chain are advertised one-hundred times a day on seventeen different channels, how long does it take before one cynical teenager becomes so annoyed he feels compelled to write a blog entry about it?

The answer? Ooh, about ten minutes.

The more astute among you (i.e. those who can read), will have noticed that, in my last entry into this electronic home of witty cynicism and general contemporary pessimism (lots of isms there), I wrote about the Coca-Cola advert which is more annoying than being tied to a chair, having your eyelids held open with lollipop sticks and being forced to watch old Madonna videos.

Today(night)’s entry is once again, as you may have guessed from the opening paragraph, about adverts.

Pizza Hut recently came up with what is apparently an incredibly witty take on an old phrase, in the form of, “You do the maths, we’ll do the pizza”. Clearly this is just something that a bored marketing arsehole thought was clever, and who, in his (or her) moment of euphoria at being awarded another slice of pizza at the Pizza Hut HQ lunch, overlooked the rather glaringly obvious fact that mathematics has bugger all to do with the consumption of circular bread-based foodstuffs.

Not just this, but also the fact that the adverts themselves, once you’ve seen them once, are about as likely to make you want to go and buy a pizza as watching a cow getting skinned alive is going to make you want to buy a real leather sofa (possibly from DFS – home of the eternal half-price sale?)

There are (as far I know) three of said adverts. The first one features a family, fingers of some sort, and a waitress who deems it necessary to look smug and carry the tray above her head.

The second involves two families who play tennis. They're clearly all middle-class Tories, so that pretty much rules out that advert having any effect on me (apart from maybe kicking the TV in).

The third, and the one which prompted me to write this entry, is about a couple (Yvonne and John, we are reliably informed) who buy some pizza. Apparently, Yvonne has some new rollerskates, and poor old John has the box, and subsequently, Yvonne ‘treats’ John to some kind of pizza meal-deal, and allegedly “goes up three times on eight wheels”. Following the insertion of said pizza into said couples’ respective digestive openings (that is, their mouth, not their arse); we are asked some stupid question about submarining.

So, not only are Pizza Hut clearly stating, in a very visual way, that they don’t mind if you come round to one of their outlets and roll around on flashing rollerskates while wielding pizzas above your head (and breaking a few H&S laws while you’re at it), but they quite obviously don’t respect their customers time as they just wasted a precious 45 seconds of my life with some crappy advert which culminated in me being asked how often two social rejects like to dress up as sailors and go submarining.

Is it just me, or are adverts just shit? I want to go back to the good ol’ days of Honda’s “Cog”. That is a true piece of commercial genius.

I fucked God up the ass

Earlier today, in the midst of a frankly hilarious conversation with Gary (‘Nirvana’ on black0ps), I said I was going to blog about something. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what that was, and Windows Live Messenger has a habit of blatantly lying when it says it has the ability to make contact logs – they all come up blanker than a very black thing in the middle of Antarctica. So, while he finds that, I’ll talk about something else.

Infact, there’s a few things I’ve been ‘savouring’, so to speak.

• Why do Tesco insist on using superglue on their toilet rolls? It’s not a nice experience when, trousers at ankle level, sat on the toilet, you have to rip off half the roll to get it started. Then, of course, you either end up ripping it and pulling off sheets at half-width, or the two layers separate and thus you have to pull off the desired length twice, then attempt to reunite the two layers in lavatorial communion before committing them to do their job.


• The new ‘put the lime in the coke you nut’ advert. If you haven’t seen it, then please, allow me to explain. (Readers of a nervous disposition are strongly advised to scroll down).
  
  It starts with a scene in the coke factory, and man (hereafter known as ‘Man A’) happens to be holding a lime in one hand and a bottle of coke in the other. Quite why he has the lime remains a mystery. Seconds later, two thought bubbles emerge from his ears, containing pictures of the items he’s holding, as if to reinforce the fact that – yes – this is a lime, and this is a bottle of coke.
  
  Evidently, some tiny spark of inventiveness is triggered inside the man’s head, and he runs off to his boss (Man B) who, upon the arrival of Man A, shouts, with a raised eyebrow and a rather disturbing paedophilic smirk, “Now let me get this straight”, without even being told what the idea he is attempting to de-wrinkle is. This is also quite ironic because Man B is quite clearly a closet homosexual.
  
  The advert then leaves the alphabetically-monickered individuals and cuts to inside the coke factory again, and we see a balding conveyer-belt operator trying to demonstrate how get the lime into a coke bottle to a minion who clearly cannot comprehend the thought of lime-flavoured liquid, I imagine he is probably thinking, “Mmm, hamburgers.”
  
  The next thing we see is a convoy of coca-cola trucks leaving the factory, and, seconds later, a news reporter takes a swig of the amazing new drink and exclaims in rabid fascination, “Wow! This is coke – with lime”, just in case we hadn’t yet figured that out. The closing shot is of a picture of the lime-flavoured coke, or ‘come’ as I like to call it.
  
  It looks just like normal coke, exect for the glaringly off-putting fact that it’s bright green. This leads me to conclude that it is, infact, toxic waste and should be avoided at all costs. There’s also a scene with a tractor in, but I wasn’t sad enough to memorise the entire advert – just parts of it.


• There was definitely some other stuff, but I can’t remember what it was, and besides, Gary’s found the topic I was meant to be writing about.

The Gate is Open

...is the new slogan for Bulldog Broadband. Let’s rewind:

Some of you may be aware of a company called Bulldog. They do broadband, which, until recently, was available at a maximum connection speed of 8 – yes, 8 Mbps. Now, presumably because of the employment of over 5,000,000 new hamsters, gerbils and other assorted rodents (used primarily to generate such high connection speeds, but also as attackers to nibble through the cables of opposing ISPs), they are offering speeds at double their previous maximum – 16Mbps. For just £14.99 a month.

Sounds great, does it not? Well, yes, but anyone with even a vague trace of common sense will instinctively know there must be a catch. And, of course, there is. A rather large one; a 1Gb cap. So, you’ll be happily downloading at 16Mbps, and suddenly you’ll run out of bandwidth and presumably start paying absurdly high rates for every megabyte you download from then on.

This, however, is circumnavigational..able..whatever. Bulldog offers a £24.99 version of its 16meg broadband which removes the 1gig cap and lets you download as much as you want.

There is still one tiny problem though. The fine print kindly points out that the connection speed is subject to availability, line strength, quality, location, how many kids you have and what colour underwear you’ve got on. As you may have guessed, I made the last two up, but nonetheless the point remains – there’re probably about three people in the whole of the UK who can get the maximum connection speed.

If you go here, you can check whether or not your household is capable of receiving the steroid-enhanced connection. It would appear that most BT lines operate at a maximum of 2.2Mbps.

Yes, the gate may well be open, but only if you live in the field. And, yes, that analogy was shite, but you know what I mean.

Now, Gary, I believe we were discussing laying our own phone lines for ‘teh oobar aye-ess-pee”?

Oh, yes, the title – taken from the song ‘Patrick Bateman’ by the Manics. Obviously, it has absolutely no relevance to this entry, it just sounds controversial, and controversial is good.

Always Never

I did it - I got through the week with my sanity. Just.

The past four days (we get tomorrow off), have been hell, and as a result, I have a lot of things to complain about. First and foremost though, this:

Corel Draw is utterly, utterly shit.

If you haven’t heard of Corel Draw, it’s supposed to be an ‘industry leading’, ‘easy to use’ graphics program. Bollocks. Never in my life have I come across such a fussy, annoying and generally fucked-up program as this. From little things like the page flying miles out of view when you scroll with the scrollbar, to big things like it not displaying colours correctly. Really, would you use a piece of software that has a warning on it that the colours it displays ‘might not match PANTONE [http://www.pantone.com] identified standards’? No, I didn’t think so. So why then, am I forced to use it for my GCSE graphics coursework?

If you’re hungering for more reasons as to why it simply epitomises shite, then here’s a few for you.

Firstly, you have to play a game of electronic roulette when you try and start it – sometimes it freezes, other times it says ‘product installation unsuccessful’. When (if) it does start (that’s not necessarily a good thing, mind you), you’re presented with a seemingly user-friendly program. That is, of course, until you start to use it. You want to rotate something ninety degrees? No, you can’t have a keyboard shortcut; instead you have to open a panel on the right hand side, enter your value, and then hit ‘apply’.

Second, if you want to add a new layer, then you have to open the ‘object manager’ (which is a miserable attempt at a layer manager). Then, you have to right-click around randomly (or on a miniscule button in the right hand corner) until you get a context menu which offers you the option of adding a new layer. Obviously, if you want to hide or lock a single object, you have to give it its own layer, as you can only hide or lock layers, not individual objects.

For the third trip to the slaughterhouse, we’re going back to the colours. I’m being serious here, the red is orange, the blue is purple, and there’s some random colours thrown in for good measure, such as ‘storm blue’, which is a sort of brownish-purple. Oh dear.

Ok, imagine this: you’ve zoomed in close to make sure the line you’re drawing along the top of a rectangle is just right. You drag it along, and, as you scroll (at a ridiculously slow speed), the rectangle starts to duplicate itself. You let go, the picture goes back to normal, and you’ve moved about a millimetre.

Oh, and if you insert an autoshape, then go back and try to draw another one, it’ll reset to the default shape. Great.

Then there’re just some very, very random things. Like, the default nudge offset is 2.54mm, the maximum zoom level is 405651%, and when you import a picture, it’s physically impossible to view it without it being pixelated (though, of course, it prints just fine).
Now that I’ve got that out of my system, I can get onto more interesting matters. (Note how I say interesting – I mean, of course, ‘other’).

Monday was… three days ago, and I can’t remember what happened.
The only part of Tuesday I can remember, is staying behind to do graphics. Likewise, the only part of Wednesday I can remember is missing lessons to do graphics, and then staying behind to do - you get the picture.
I stayed behind tonight as well, for two hours. And (halle-fuckin’-lujah) got it all done. Except the question cards, which I remembered I’d forgotten the moment I walked out of school. Oh well!

In graphic-unrelated news, I was told by my English teacher today that I got the highest coursework grades in the class. I probably shouldn’t have written that, but there you go.

Musically, my Manics obsession is steadily growing, with my acquisition of number of B-Sides (thanks Chloe!), and the God Save the Manics EP, which is frankly amazing. They’ve also given me the title for this entry, and I’ve changed my sig on black0ps to this:

“Conservatives say there ain't no black in the Union Jack
Democrats say there ain't enough white in the Stars and Stripes
And we say there's not enough black in the Union Jack
And we say there's too much white in the Stars and Stripes”

If that offends you, then you shouldn’t be reading this. Go away.

I also got my self a James Dean Bradfield avatar, and I already own a ‘Brain-dead motherfucker’ badge and a Lipstick Traces t-shirt, so now the only thing left to do is wait for them to overtake Placebo on last.fm. It won’t take long.

I’ve rambled long enough, so I’m going to go play GTA and try and take my mind off the fact that I’ve just remembered I have a maths paper to do on Monday. I find standing on a tram and firing heat-seeking missiles at people is quite a good way to alleviate stress.

Bastard school.