Unfortunately things have been getting on top of me lately and I've had no time for this little slice of my life so I'm on hiatus 'til Monday where I will be back with more daily nonsense.
I'm sure you'll survive without me and chances are if you are reading this, you know me pretty well so -- GET YOUR ARSE TO THE AMNESTY GIG ON FRIDAY =]!
That is all.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
The Presumptuous Art of Assumption
"Look at that girl over there. Just look at her. She looks about 14, pushing that pram and looking like she's had smack for breakfast, washed down with a nice cuppa with 2 spoonfuls of cocaine to sweeten it up. What a fucking wreck. Bet she got knocked up by that guy over there, that one with the Big Issue stack in his arms. I bet her mother is a whore and her dad's a dealer. I feel so sorry for that baby having to be brought into the world by junkies. If only someone would think of the children in all this!"
Assumptions are wonderful things. Without them we wouldn't have stereotypes which are perhaps the most accessible source of humour - which we now call racism, shunning publicly all who conduct or are a party to such disgusting misrepresentation of the masses, yet privately log onto Sickipedia when nobody is watching and laugh our asses off.
However, most importantly I reckon, assumptions allow for human creativity to thrive and our own little delusions to develop which help see us through the day:
Take today for example, I saw a black man carrying a TV down the street, and I assumed th-[Message truncated by the British Police of Political Correctness].
Dammit.
Assumptions are wonderful things. Without them we wouldn't have stereotypes which are perhaps the most accessible source of humour - which we now call racism, shunning publicly all who conduct or are a party to such disgusting misrepresentation of the masses, yet privately log onto Sickipedia when nobody is watching and laugh our asses off.
However, most importantly I reckon, assumptions allow for human creativity to thrive and our own little delusions to develop which help see us through the day:
- You see two people walking down the street, hand in hand, looking as happy as Larry (a very happy man indeed!) - you then realise that one of them is a complete munter and assume that the other has to be either mentally retarded or cheating on them with someone who is in fact not a munter and is living at the other end of town.
- You realise that two teachers of opposing sexes talk frequently and have a laugh in their workplace, and so cannot possibly be just friends, but are in fact banging one another in the store cupboard during lunchtimes - the very essence of high school life thrives on such assumptions! - The paedophile teacher, the love affairs, the dodgy librarian, the teacher who still stays with their mother.
Take today for example, I saw a black man carrying a TV down the street, and I assumed th-[Message truncated by the British Police of Political Correctness].
Dammit.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
The Straight Art of Manliness
Okay, let's get it out there. I'm a going-on-19 year old who writes a blog daily with the idea in mind that when September comes round again I may be able to continue to speak and articulate myself in a coherent fashion for the duration of my second year at University. I also like musicals, the arts and cheesy pop, while at the same time detest the idea of watching a game of football, could count on two fingers how many beers I've had and actually enjoyed and don't see anything wrong with having hair which moves in the wind. According to some (read: many), I am not the straight man I believe I am, but in fact a slew of rather funny words that mostly seem to end in '-ter': a chufter, a poofter, or my personal favourite, a Harry Hoofter.
My sexuality seemingly is no longer in my hands if I outright refuse to watch 22 overpaid grown men run around a grassy field chasing a ball for 90 minutes. Frankly, I could not care less and can find much better things to do with half my day, and yet it seems to be a prerequisite for the straight British man, on top of some obscene obsession with vehicles which I am also yet to discover.
There are also many things which you are just simply downright not allowed to enjoy if you wish to be a straight man. Are you one of the millions of children who read and enjoyed the Harry Potter series when growing up, and still look back on with somewhat fond memories? Gay boy! Does the idea of a comic-movie adaptation secretly fill you with hope that they will hopefully get it right this time? Bender! ..And don't get me started on JRR Tolkien or Tim Burton.
But believe it or not I am indeed a straight male, with the girlfriend to prove it, despite the terrible hardships faced throughout my life which would seemingly cement my utter homosexuality - picking drama over karate, skiving PE to go to Music, reading books instead of knocking up 13 year old peers, playing badminton over football, choosing Smirnoff over Tennants. I think the majority of the group of males for which this entry seems directed would have had me down as been a lost cause from the word go -- mais, c'est incroyable!
Although this entry has tried to convey that there are two sides to every story and that you should not judge a book by it's cover, one can't help but think that the idea of watching 22 men gradually get sweatier over a period of 90 minutes in a situation where balls and tackles are involved just seems downright gay.
Benders.
My sexuality seemingly is no longer in my hands if I outright refuse to watch 22 overpaid grown men run around a grassy field chasing a ball for 90 minutes. Frankly, I could not care less and can find much better things to do with half my day, and yet it seems to be a prerequisite for the straight British man, on top of some obscene obsession with vehicles which I am also yet to discover.
There are also many things which you are just simply downright not allowed to enjoy if you wish to be a straight man. Are you one of the millions of children who read and enjoyed the Harry Potter series when growing up, and still look back on with somewhat fond memories? Gay boy! Does the idea of a comic-movie adaptation secretly fill you with hope that they will hopefully get it right this time? Bender! ..And don't get me started on JRR Tolkien or Tim Burton.
But believe it or not I am indeed a straight male, with the girlfriend to prove it, despite the terrible hardships faced throughout my life which would seemingly cement my utter homosexuality - picking drama over karate, skiving PE to go to Music, reading books instead of knocking up 13 year old peers, playing badminton over football, choosing Smirnoff over Tennants. I think the majority of the group of males for which this entry seems directed would have had me down as been a lost cause from the word go -- mais, c'est incroyable!
Although this entry has tried to convey that there are two sides to every story and that you should not judge a book by it's cover, one can't help but think that the idea of watching 22 men gradually get sweatier over a period of 90 minutes in a situation where balls and tackles are involved just seems downright gay.
Benders.
Monday, 15 June 2009
The Cautious Art of First Impressions
First impressions are terrifying things if you are the one trying to set one. I'll never forget feeling the exact same way before Fresher's Week back in September, where for the first time since I was about 11 years old I had to worry about setting a first impression to people. I had a pretty cushy time of it for years during high school where I could accept that anyone I wanted to talk to understood and accepted who I was, and yet that so abruptly came to an end. I suddenly found myself putting on some charade of 'normality' for those whom I had never met, because when it dawned on me that a situation was looming whereby people didn't know about my inherent quirkiness - I shat myself.
However, as the great philosopher Dennis Norden proclaimed often - "It'll be alright on the night", and indeed it was. A few rounds into Freshers drinking sessions and you realise that everyone is on the same boat and you feel like a tool for ever trying to act 'normal' in the first place - it suddenly dawned on me that these people were students, probably the weirdest species of human. Those who unashamedly still drown their meals in tomato sauce, who can still name every one of the 151 original Pokemon or who can wake up and decide what clothes to wear that day based on whether or not they smell wearable.
You can hardly go wrong with students. But it's employers that scare me.
With the Summer tiptoeing its way in I feel the urge to go out and seek more employment to pad out my week and have sent the usual wad of CVs off to the streets of Glasgow and the Freshers feeling of unease has settled in again. If I go in and be myself, I run the risk of letting slip that I can whistle the part of every member in the ULLAdubULLA ensemble in its entirety from Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of the Worlds, or that I can recite every word to Shrek and can do a pretty damn good impression of Shrek after a few drinks, and an even better one of Fiona a few drinks later, or that I firmly believe Swine Flu is the precursor to the Zombie Apocalypse, which will ironically be caused by the antidote for Swine Flu which is even more ironic because those who died of Swine Flu would have probably died from the winter flu anyway due to weak immune systems from growing up in Mexico, or worse yet, Paisley. Which, though I may be wrong, probably doesn't give off the right impression, right?
On the other hand, if I try and act 'normal' I run the risk of turning into a very quiet, reserved, downright bore who just says yes at the right moments in the hope that its what the interviewer is looking for. Ick. Frankly, I'd rather be broke.
I guess it's just all about balance and not dishing out the dollops of crazy all at once. Then again, maybe if/when I finally get an interview the interviewer will introduce himself to the tune of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Damn, what an ice breaker that would be.
Looked at the weirdo sittin' down on the chair / thought to myself, "Fuck yes, I'm in there!"
However, as the great philosopher Dennis Norden proclaimed often - "It'll be alright on the night", and indeed it was. A few rounds into Freshers drinking sessions and you realise that everyone is on the same boat and you feel like a tool for ever trying to act 'normal' in the first place - it suddenly dawned on me that these people were students, probably the weirdest species of human. Those who unashamedly still drown their meals in tomato sauce, who can still name every one of the 151 original Pokemon or who can wake up and decide what clothes to wear that day based on whether or not they smell wearable.
You can hardly go wrong with students. But it's employers that scare me.
With the Summer tiptoeing its way in I feel the urge to go out and seek more employment to pad out my week and have sent the usual wad of CVs off to the streets of Glasgow and the Freshers feeling of unease has settled in again. If I go in and be myself, I run the risk of letting slip that I can whistle the part of every member in the ULLAdubULLA ensemble in its entirety from Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of the Worlds, or that I can recite every word to Shrek and can do a pretty damn good impression of Shrek after a few drinks, and an even better one of Fiona a few drinks later, or that I firmly believe Swine Flu is the precursor to the Zombie Apocalypse, which will ironically be caused by the antidote for Swine Flu which is even more ironic because those who died of Swine Flu would have probably died from the winter flu anyway due to weak immune systems from growing up in Mexico, or worse yet, Paisley. Which, though I may be wrong, probably doesn't give off the right impression, right?
On the other hand, if I try and act 'normal' I run the risk of turning into a very quiet, reserved, downright bore who just says yes at the right moments in the hope that its what the interviewer is looking for. Ick. Frankly, I'd rather be broke.
I guess it's just all about balance and not dishing out the dollops of crazy all at once. Then again, maybe if/when I finally get an interview the interviewer will introduce himself to the tune of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Damn, what an ice breaker that would be.
Looked at the weirdo sittin' down on the chair / thought to myself, "Fuck yes, I'm in there!"
Sunday, 14 June 2009
The Messy Art of Maintenance
"Maintenance is all around", the lesser known cover of The Troggs' classic "Love is all around" by the Community Service Choir of Great Britain, contains probably more truth than the song upon which it was originally based.
Maintenance is all around, and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Without maintenance we would descend into sheer chaos far beyond the likes that How Clean Is Your House can portray - dust bunnies the size of buildings would bound around the land terrorising citizens, pavements would be hidden under layers of chewing gum and Microsoft Windows would take a week to boot into a functioning state. Remember to defragment your hard drive regularly, kids! And registry cleaners are your friend.
In fact, I'll bet if you recount most of your day today you'll find that maintenance took up the majority of your time. For myself, I: showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, tidied my room (the mother's ol' favourite), washed the dishes, restrung my guitar, cleaned my clothes, ironed clothes, updated my computer (maintenance!) and maintained my girlfriends happiness (I hope!) by phoning her. Hell, even my evening job as a bartender and waiter revolves around maintaining the quenched thirst of customers, maintaining cleanliness of glasses, utensils and maintaining stock in the fridges. Even right now, I am maintaining a blog! Maintenance, maintenance, maintenance. But it's pretty necessary, right?
The human race seems to be in some world wide game of Jenga. Everyone tactfully plays in order to maintain the integrity of the tower. However... anyone that's played Jenga knows how much damn fun it is to see that tower crumble in some form or another. Whether it is the students in the flat who decide to fuck it and not put the bin out for the 50th time in a row - despite being hounded by the cleaners, or the ever popular procrastination during precious study hours - there is an element of fun or excitement to live life on the maintenance-free edge. But as we all know, the Jenga tower has to be built back up again inevitably.
I reckon that the world can survive the little slip here and there by the odd person so long as there is still a good number of Dust Bunny Defenders protecting Mother Earth at any given time. However if everyone were to lapse at once, the effects would be catastrophic (similar to the idea that if everyone in China jumped at the same time, the world would go out of orbit*) - the world would instantly descend into a dusty, hairy wasteland full of BO, bad dental hygiene, creased clothes, overgrown plants and we would all resemble members of Scandinavian Death Metal bands.
So kids, wreak havoc responsibly.
Jenga!
*which is not true, by the way.
Maintenance is all around, and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Without maintenance we would descend into sheer chaos far beyond the likes that How Clean Is Your House can portray - dust bunnies the size of buildings would bound around the land terrorising citizens, pavements would be hidden under layers of chewing gum and Microsoft Windows would take a week to boot into a functioning state. Remember to defragment your hard drive regularly, kids! And registry cleaners are your friend.
In fact, I'll bet if you recount most of your day today you'll find that maintenance took up the majority of your time. For myself, I: showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, tidied my room (the mother's ol' favourite), washed the dishes, restrung my guitar, cleaned my clothes, ironed clothes, updated my computer (maintenance!) and maintained my girlfriends happiness (I hope!) by phoning her. Hell, even my evening job as a bartender and waiter revolves around maintaining the quenched thirst of customers, maintaining cleanliness of glasses, utensils and maintaining stock in the fridges. Even right now, I am maintaining a blog! Maintenance, maintenance, maintenance. But it's pretty necessary, right?
The human race seems to be in some world wide game of Jenga. Everyone tactfully plays in order to maintain the integrity of the tower. However... anyone that's played Jenga knows how much damn fun it is to see that tower crumble in some form or another. Whether it is the students in the flat who decide to fuck it and not put the bin out for the 50th time in a row - despite being hounded by the cleaners, or the ever popular procrastination during precious study hours - there is an element of fun or excitement to live life on the maintenance-free edge. But as we all know, the Jenga tower has to be built back up again inevitably.
I reckon that the world can survive the little slip here and there by the odd person so long as there is still a good number of Dust Bunny Defenders protecting Mother Earth at any given time. However if everyone were to lapse at once, the effects would be catastrophic (similar to the idea that if everyone in China jumped at the same time, the world would go out of orbit*) - the world would instantly descend into a dusty, hairy wasteland full of BO, bad dental hygiene, creased clothes, overgrown plants and we would all resemble members of Scandinavian Death Metal bands.
So kids, wreak havoc responsibly.
Jenga!
*which is not true, by the way.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
The Solitary Art of Creativity and Personalisation
Disclaimer: I seemed to take a little bit of an angry turn on this one and I kinda lost coherency. Not sure what brought it on.. perhaps too much Irn Bru. You have been warned.
This is my laptop. This is not your laptop. This is my laptop. D'you want to know why it will never be your laptop? Because this is mine. Even if you bought the same laptop, it would not be anything like my laptop. That's just ridiculous to think. Did you buy the battery that extends life? Did you replace the hard drive with a 320gb hard drive, add in another gig of ram, format the hard drive to 3 parts - a Windows, Linux and swap partition? Did you reflash the bios just to get the features you wanted? Probably not, because you're not bat shit crazy like I am. And even if you did, you still ain't got nothin' on me because I personalise the crap out my software too. Biyatch *snaps fingers and shakes head*.
But why do I find myself going to these lengths? Why is it so necessary for me to take something which everyone else has and just put my own little stamp on it? I'm assuming it is not a drastically uncommon thing for a human being to do - of course, why else would we have the ability to create in the first place? However, I just cannot understand people who can take things that are handed to them and expect to be happy with them in their general state. Why would I be happy with someone everyone else has? Surely I want my shiny new toy to be better than your shiny new toy?
And then there's the other end of the spectrum - those people who do not live for themselves, but instead are so mundane that they follow trends and fashions. What is the point? Why do I want to actively make myself look like the rest of humanity for that 'season'? Why should I be told that my t-shirt isn't 'in' right now and that I am only allowed to wear it when some fat bitch who dresses like a neon tramp tells me such?
Every human being is brought into this world as the most creative and limitless source of potentiality and the majority are happy to just be lazily told what to do, where to go, what to buy, what to wear, etc. It's a slap in the face to the time that you're frittering away. Sitting on your arse at home and interested in fashion? Make something pretty for yourself. Lazing about doing nothing but are interested in computers? Build one yourself. Wish to learn about music and find you have a little time to spare? Pick up an instrument. I'm not so naive as to think there aren't barriers for entry for some of these suggestions but if there's one thing I hate to see it's people wasting their lives - not all of the world's Top Imaginary Friends say you're gonna come back for another run at this game of Life and those that do say you might come back as an amoeba, or worse still, an MP.
Stop reading my damn blog and go do something with your life. (At least until tomorrow, where you can spend another couple of minutes here =])
This is my laptop. This is not your laptop. This is my laptop. D'you want to know why it will never be your laptop? Because this is mine. Even if you bought the same laptop, it would not be anything like my laptop. That's just ridiculous to think. Did you buy the battery that extends life? Did you replace the hard drive with a 320gb hard drive, add in another gig of ram, format the hard drive to 3 parts - a Windows, Linux and swap partition? Did you reflash the bios just to get the features you wanted? Probably not, because you're not bat shit crazy like I am. And even if you did, you still ain't got nothin' on me because I personalise the crap out my software too. Biyatch *snaps fingers and shakes head*.
But why do I find myself going to these lengths? Why is it so necessary for me to take something which everyone else has and just put my own little stamp on it? I'm assuming it is not a drastically uncommon thing for a human being to do - of course, why else would we have the ability to create in the first place? However, I just cannot understand people who can take things that are handed to them and expect to be happy with them in their general state. Why would I be happy with someone everyone else has? Surely I want my shiny new toy to be better than your shiny new toy?
And then there's the other end of the spectrum - those people who do not live for themselves, but instead are so mundane that they follow trends and fashions. What is the point? Why do I want to actively make myself look like the rest of humanity for that 'season'? Why should I be told that my t-shirt isn't 'in' right now and that I am only allowed to wear it when some fat bitch who dresses like a neon tramp tells me such?
Every human being is brought into this world as the most creative and limitless source of potentiality and the majority are happy to just be lazily told what to do, where to go, what to buy, what to wear, etc. It's a slap in the face to the time that you're frittering away. Sitting on your arse at home and interested in fashion? Make something pretty for yourself. Lazing about doing nothing but are interested in computers? Build one yourself. Wish to learn about music and find you have a little time to spare? Pick up an instrument. I'm not so naive as to think there aren't barriers for entry for some of these suggestions but if there's one thing I hate to see it's people wasting their lives - not all of the world's Top Imaginary Friends say you're gonna come back for another run at this game of Life and those that do say you might come back as an amoeba, or worse still, an MP.
Stop reading my damn blog and go do something with your life. (At least until tomorrow, where you can spend another couple of minutes here =])
Friday, 12 June 2009
The Lost Art of Looking Good
There's an art to looking good, and it is nowt to do with biology, genetics or chemical reactions - do you honestly believe that it is in the hands of scientists to tell is how good we look? Puh-lease. Gorgeousness, like all things worthwhile, is an art form ladies and gentlemen and today I was able to display my Picasso-like abilities to the general public.
However it must be noted that not everyone is inherently capable of following this method, and as with most art forms this is all open to interpretation and you may approach this subject differently - but whatever, this is my blog and these are my thoughts. To be eligible for my method (which, let's face it, will be the best method) you have to be utterly carefree about how you appear in a day to day situation. You're telling me you're the kind of person who sees nothing wrong with scruffy band t-shirts, cheap and cheerful clothes, worn jeans and can handle the idea of not wearing a brand or label? Come aboard padawan, and listen up.
With art, there are many ways in which one can approach and reach an appreciation of a work of art. One such approach is to appreciate the effort and work which someone has put into their piece, and it is this appreciation that we aim to exploit when wishing to look great.
The premise is simple - the lower your day to day standards are, the greater the increase will seem when you do decide to 'make an effort' - it is all about exceeding expectations. Take today for example, one of the first things my girlfriend said to me before going to dinner was that I looked nice. As much as I would wish it to be so, this is not (and never will be) a daily or remotely frequent thing. So what initiated such a comment? Here's my secret: I put on a shirt. A shirt, not instead of a t-shirt, but open and ontop of a clean white shirt. Sexy? Maybe. Hard work? Hell no!
The fact of the matter is that I do not make an effort day to day; the expectation is low. I don't see anyone important enough on a daily basis to show off a £50 pair of jeans or £40 shirt to, accompanied by my underwear with another man's name on them - I do not have to face the day with the feeling I have stole another man's boxers! This is not to say that I can't make an effort or that I am so socially retarted as not to know when to make an effort, but simply I do not see the point looking suave lying around the house.
However, this all works in my favour because when I do decide to do something so out the ordinary as try to look somewhat decent and exceed the expectations, it is suddenly picked up on by everyone and instantly, I'm gorgeous.
On the other hand, if you are one of those people who is "designer'd" out all the time and cannot live a day without looking like you have made some sort of effort, where does the art go? Where does the lost effort of throwing on that good shirt go? Suddenly it is expected of you to be on top form all the time. Can you exceed those expectations? Could you handle never having a day where you are especially good looking? Couple that with the damn pressure to be on top form constantly and you realise that you're an average looking, pressured and miserable motherfucker.
Score 1 for laziness.
Take that Calvin Klein.. I'll have my own boxers back now, cheers.
However it must be noted that not everyone is inherently capable of following this method, and as with most art forms this is all open to interpretation and you may approach this subject differently - but whatever, this is my blog and these are my thoughts. To be eligible for my method (which, let's face it, will be the best method) you have to be utterly carefree about how you appear in a day to day situation. You're telling me you're the kind of person who sees nothing wrong with scruffy band t-shirts, cheap and cheerful clothes, worn jeans and can handle the idea of not wearing a brand or label? Come aboard padawan, and listen up.
With art, there are many ways in which one can approach and reach an appreciation of a work of art. One such approach is to appreciate the effort and work which someone has put into their piece, and it is this appreciation that we aim to exploit when wishing to look great.
The premise is simple - the lower your day to day standards are, the greater the increase will seem when you do decide to 'make an effort' - it is all about exceeding expectations. Take today for example, one of the first things my girlfriend said to me before going to dinner was that I looked nice. As much as I would wish it to be so, this is not (and never will be) a daily or remotely frequent thing. So what initiated such a comment? Here's my secret: I put on a shirt. A shirt, not instead of a t-shirt, but open and ontop of a clean white shirt. Sexy? Maybe. Hard work? Hell no!
The fact of the matter is that I do not make an effort day to day; the expectation is low. I don't see anyone important enough on a daily basis to show off a £50 pair of jeans or £40 shirt to, accompanied by my underwear with another man's name on them - I do not have to face the day with the feeling I have stole another man's boxers! This is not to say that I can't make an effort or that I am so socially retarted as not to know when to make an effort, but simply I do not see the point looking suave lying around the house.
However, this all works in my favour because when I do decide to do something so out the ordinary as try to look somewhat decent and exceed the expectations, it is suddenly picked up on by everyone and instantly, I'm gorgeous.
On the other hand, if you are one of those people who is "designer'd" out all the time and cannot live a day without looking like you have made some sort of effort, where does the art go? Where does the lost effort of throwing on that good shirt go? Suddenly it is expected of you to be on top form all the time. Can you exceed those expectations? Could you handle never having a day where you are especially good looking? Couple that with the damn pressure to be on top form constantly and you realise that you're an average looking, pressured and miserable motherfucker.
Score 1 for laziness.
Take that Calvin Klein.. I'll have my own boxers back now, cheers.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
The Noble Art of Secret-Keeping
Some people simply do not realise how lucky they are. My girlfriend is one such person. She does not know how lucky she is. Yet.
Yesterday I had the honour of sharing an hour of my life with the great Jeff Wayne - composer of the electric and timeless War of the Worlds (1978) - and I believed for years that I was a fan of his work. Hell, I am a fan. My girlfriend, however, is a fan. A fan worthy of italicising. There is no one in the world quite so darn... bat-shit-crazy about Jeff Wayne and his work. Unfortunately, however, "The Man" had her in his conformistic clutches in the shape of the University of Glasgow's Bower Building yesterday afternoon and thus was unable to accompany me on my drool-inducing experience.
As tragic and heartbreaking as this situation may be, do not fret dear No One - Superboyfriend was at hand to right the wrongs of this tale as best as he could. At the end of the hour (which was spent at the Alien Wars exhibition in Glasgow), I approached the man himself; nervous, embarrassed and humble wreck, carrying a sheet of manuscript paper from my pad and a sharpie that I just so conveniently had on my person. Trying to mumble coherent sentences was hard enough, but I think I managed to convey the intensity of my girlfriend's love for him - be it through boredom or awe, a tear was shed at least. He was kind enough to scribe a birthday message for her on the pad -- a mere 2 weeks before her 20th birthday. Awestruck and starstruck I spewed a million thank yous before asking the kind bartender for the stiffest drink she had in house.
However, therein lies my problem: I had just met Jeff Wayne (which I think I have expressed excitedly to everyone I have been in contact with over the past 24 hours), I have a girlfriend who is absolutely crazy about him, and I just got Jeff Wayne to wish her a happy birthday. I do not think I could honestly bestow upon her any gift that could possibly match that and the idea of seeing her face light up at the sight is just so damn intoxicating that I may infact crack before June 24th. I am aware that it will be far better in the long run for me to keep my mouth shut but damn, this business is tricky! How the hell don't parents crack to their children at Christmas!?
And the best part? I have to somehow go to the concert with her tomorrow night (hence why Jeff Wayne was in town) and keep all this from her. For a full night!
I cannot keep secrets. Lying? Not a problem. Keeping a secret though.. It's like telling someone not to push the big red button.
And we all know how that one ends...
Yesterday I had the honour of sharing an hour of my life with the great Jeff Wayne - composer of the electric and timeless War of the Worlds (1978) - and I believed for years that I was a fan of his work. Hell, I am a fan. My girlfriend, however, is a fan. A fan worthy of italicising. There is no one in the world quite so darn... bat-shit-crazy about Jeff Wayne and his work. Unfortunately, however, "The Man" had her in his conformistic clutches in the shape of the University of Glasgow's Bower Building yesterday afternoon and thus was unable to accompany me on my drool-inducing experience.
As tragic and heartbreaking as this situation may be, do not fret dear No One - Superboyfriend was at hand to right the wrongs of this tale as best as he could. At the end of the hour (which was spent at the Alien Wars exhibition in Glasgow), I approached the man himself; nervous, embarrassed and humble wreck, carrying a sheet of manuscript paper from my pad and a sharpie that I just so conveniently had on my person. Trying to mumble coherent sentences was hard enough, but I think I managed to convey the intensity of my girlfriend's love for him - be it through boredom or awe, a tear was shed at least. He was kind enough to scribe a birthday message for her on the pad -- a mere 2 weeks before her 20th birthday. Awestruck and starstruck I spewed a million thank yous before asking the kind bartender for the stiffest drink she had in house.
However, therein lies my problem: I had just met Jeff Wayne (which I think I have expressed excitedly to everyone I have been in contact with over the past 24 hours), I have a girlfriend who is absolutely crazy about him, and I just got Jeff Wayne to wish her a happy birthday. I do not think I could honestly bestow upon her any gift that could possibly match that and the idea of seeing her face light up at the sight is just so damn intoxicating that I may infact crack before June 24th. I am aware that it will be far better in the long run for me to keep my mouth shut but damn, this business is tricky! How the hell don't parents crack to their children at Christmas!?
And the best part? I have to somehow go to the concert with her tomorrow night (hence why Jeff Wayne was in town) and keep all this from her. For a full night!
I cannot keep secrets. Lying? Not a problem. Keeping a secret though.. It's like telling someone not to push the big red button.
And we all know how that one ends...
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