I've not been tortured before. I didn't think it wise to get involved in international espionage and ask megalomaniac villains if I was 'expected to talk' while waiting for a space-age laser to cut me in two. So it's not often I've experienced pain as excruciating as the pain I'm feeling at the moment. Because out of the window of my new house, I can see the road that leads out of Medway.
When I went and visited Alcatraz Prison in San Francisco, a lot of people asked why they put a prison on an island. The obvious reason being that it's virtually impossible to escape (and so it proved despite a few urban legends), but the other reason was that so prisoners could see civilisation just through the bars in their windows, making Alcatraz not only escape proof, but also torture for the inmates.
Pretty much exactly how I feel.
This was meant to be a nice cheery little post about my new house and the first few weeks back at Uni. I've kinda started it in the most mellow and downbeat way possible. Some gratuitous swearing should get this train back on the rails.
So fuck me it's been a while. There's a lovely gap where September should have been. It wasn't even as though I was doing anything special. Just taking a break from writing totally irreverent and nonsensical shit on here to be honest. But now we're back with a brand new rap, in a new set of lodgings!
Whilst a number of people have moved into a fairly sensible house for their second year of university, we decided moving in above a kebab shop would be the best thing for our health for the next year. But I'm loving the new gaffe/crib/abode (delete appropriate depending on your social class). We've been here for 3 weeks and it's almost to the point of perfect student household. Large TV, Xbox with FIFA always in the disc tray, Sky Sports (albeit streamed through the Xbox), a freezer stocked with chicken nuggets and potato waffles and the ironing board still in it's original position. It's a far cry from Liberty Quays last year where I was awake more often during the early hours of the morning than a postman thanks to those wonderful fire alarms.
Whilst the first year of uni is all about moving away from home, being in an environment such as student halls still has you under the wrath of accommodation managers. Hell, I even wrote about the place on here (it was one of my earlier blog posts so it reads a bit like a
small child moaning) and got called into the Liberty Quays office. Well, I say called, they actually stopped my key fob from working so I was forced to go down reception and meet Darth Vader himself. My point is that even during the first year at uni you're still subject to ruling by iron fist.
In a house? Not so much. Not so much at all. Answer a few questions for the landlord/landlady and Bob's your uncle. Wandering around the house half naked feels like a breath of fresh air after a year of wondering what security guard at Liberty might stumble into your room to tell you to 'turn the noise down'.
I love the house. It's got it's little faults like the mouse traps scattered all over the place and the tiniest most pathetic sink in the downstairs bathroom or the fact there's a set of stairs to climb everytime we want to come back home. It's like trying to conquer the travelator at the end of Gladiators after a night out. But I don't mind. The lounge was big enough to take my drum kit, and that my friends, is the most important thing.
N.B. While not strictly relevant to anything, I thought I'd share this with you all. It's a comment from my
Sky blog and seeing as I've barely looked at it, didn't stumble upon this gem till the other day. A man/boy/invalid named Ryan decided he didn't agree with me and so published this. Enjoy!
'Enjoy making fun of the poor, do you?
I couldn’t help but notice your comment “It made me realise… how doing journalism is such a great excuse to be nosey and find out stories from the scum of the Earth without being beaten to death.”. Journalism needs intelligent, thoughtful people if it is to become a respected profession again, not cocky little gobshites like you.
If your team’s documentary – which was rubbish, by the way – had shown any insight into why Merthyr is so economically deprived and why a culture of hopelessness pervades the town then you might actually have learned something rather than pushing the same, tired “oh, aren’t those poor people rubbish” angle. Your tawdry documentary was one-sided and ignorant of the economic regeneration that is occurring in the town.
It appears that the money you are spending in fees learning journalism are not money well spent. Whether this is a reflection on you or the quality of the institution you are attending remains to be seen.'
