Hmm emma, i'd like to satisfy your want of gossip but unfortunately there isn't any. Here is what everyone has been up to:
Steve foster: Working on biochemistery ALL THE TIME and eating morrisons pizzas.
Steve Reid: Playing turok (almost completed) and mariokart (holding records on bowser's castle). Spending days on the couch. I just left him at the dry dock where he is celebrating riazz birthday by wearing a guinness hat and 'dancing' to chesney hawks (good to see him on form again). He has also got a job stewarding at the same company as me (god help the punters, we'll kill them all)
Me: I'm in a goth/metal band called trial by terror. Reading a lot of Lawrence (His love was like a fox, a fox of fire in the snow, the snow aflame with fire, fire and snow in the fox fox and snow aflame) Realising I need a 78 average to get a first this term. Ouch!
Lou: being steve's girlfried, going a little mad occasionally, doing incredibly well at english (76, 76 and 66 exam results)
Naomi: Watching foreign films. Being a cultural studies student.
The house has fragmented a bit. There is tension between lou and naomi. Naomi is living with her boyfriend will next year, steve and lou are living together, stevie is probably going to malaysia and I am living with a bunch of peple i just met in the dry dock (possibly). E mail us about your frenchiness.
I was going to request a song I've been listening to a lot recently in the club I'm going to tonight. Unfortunately i think it might be in bad taste now...
Spanish songs in Andalucia
The shooting sites in the days of '39
Oh, please, leave the vendanna open
Fredrico Lorca is dead and gone
Bullet holes in the cemetery walls
The black cars of the Guardia Civil
Spanish bombs on the Costa Rica
I'm flying in a DC 10 tonight
Spanish bombs, yo te quiero y finito
Yo te querda, oh mi corazón
Spanish bombs, yo te quiero y finito
Yo te querda, oh mi corazón
Spanish weeks in my disco casino
The freedom fighters died upon the hill
They sang the red flag
They wore the black one
But after they died it was Mockingbird Hill
Back home the buses went up in flashes
The Irish tomb was drenched in blood
Spanish bombs shatter the hotels
My señorita's rose was nipped in the bud
The hillsides ring with "Free the people"
Or can I hear the echo from the days of '39?
With trenches full of poets
The ragged army, fixin' bayonets to fight the other line
Spanish bombs rock the province
I'm hearing music from another time
Spanish bombs on the Costa Brava
I'm flying in on a DC 10 tonight
Spanish songs in Andalucia, Mandolina, oh mi corazón
Spanish songs in Granada, oh mi corazón
This term I just don't seem to be able to keep my blog up to date. I suppose it's partly because I'm just trundling along at uni with nothing particularily special going on and partly cos I'm just too lazy. Anyway, here is what I'm doing at the moment:
1 Looking for money/jobs/- I have hit the limit of my overdraft and the bank will not expand it, thus rendering me with only nine pounds to my name. I am hoping to start a human guinea pig trial soon to get some cash.
2 Playing mariokart- Far too much mariokart. Blue shell blue shell!
3 Refusing to acknowledge that I'm going to graduate soon- I don't need to look for a house/job, right? It'll sort itself out, won't it?
4 Failing to write songs
5 Eating nutella
6 Being single
7 Looking forward to Morrissey/British sea power gigs.
Anyway, hello to Emma, hope france is good and that you haven't got married or anything without telling me. What are your plans for next year? The flat seems to be fragmenting at the moment so fuck knows where anyone is living. I may go back to liverpool after graduating, it's all up in the air at the moment.
Back Again I understand why people complained about the text on my site now, for some reason it didn't display in miniscule on my computer until a few days ago. To me it was just petite, not Ronnie Corbett sized.
Anyway, what I have been up to:
20% Watching TV
50% Playing Mariokart and Turok on the Game cube.
10% Unaccountable (drunk)
I'm starting to worry about finding a career at the moment, since I'll soon be turned out of university like a small bird being shoved by it's parents out of the nest, and have about as many employment related skills as the said bird, minus the ability to fly.
My course is pretty cool this term. I'm going to my first DH Lawrence seminar tomorrow (I should have went to one last week but was too hungover), and I'm also studying Larkin, who looks like he'll become my favorite poet.
I Remember, I Rememberby Philip Larkin
Coming up England by a different line
For once, early in the cold new year,
We stopped, and, watching men with number plates
Sprint down the platform to familiar gates,
'Why, Coventry!' I exclaimed. 'I was born here.'
I leant far out, and squinnied for a sign
That this was still the town that had been 'mine'
So long, but found I wasn't even clear
Which side was which. From where those cycle-crates
Were standing, had we annually departed
For all those family hols? . . . A whistle went:
Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.
'Was that,' my friend smiled, 'where you "have your roots"?'
No, only where my childhood was unspent,
I wanted to retort, just where I started:
By now I've got the whole place clearly charted.
Our garden, first: where I did not invent
Blinding theologies of flowers and fruits,
And wasn't spoken to by an old hat.
And here we have that splendid family
I never ran to when I got depressed,
The boys all biceps and the girls all chest,
Their comic Ford, their farm where I could be
'Really myself'. I'll show you, come to that,
The bracken where I never trembling sat,
Determined to go through with it; where she
Lay back, and 'all became a burning mist'.
And, in those offices, my doggerel
Was not set up in blunt ten-point, nor read
By a distinguished cousin of the mayor,
Who didn't call and tell my father There
Before us, had we the gift to see ahead -
'You look as though you wished the place in Hell,'
My friend said, 'judging from your face.' 'Oh well,
I suppose it's not the place's fault,' I said.
'Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.'
Toads by Philip Larkin
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils
With its sickening poison -
Just for paying a few bills!
That's out of proportion.
Lots of folk live on their wits:
Losels, loblolly-men, louts-
They don't end as paupers;
Lots of folk live up lanes
With fires in a bucket,
Eat windfalls and tinned sardines-
they seem to like it.
Their nippers have got bare feet,
Their unspeakable wives
Are skinny as whippets - and yet
No one actually starves.
Ah, were I courageous enough
To shout Stuff your pension!
But I know, all too well, that's the stuff
That dreams are made on:
For something sufficiently toad-like
Squats in me, too;
Its hunkers are heavy as hard luck,
And cold as snow,
And will never allow me to blarney
My way of getting
The fame and the girl and the money
All at one sitting.
I don't say, one bodies the other
One's spiritual truth;
But I do say it's hard to lose either,
When you have both.
I am so bored. So very very bored. If someone wanted to drive me mad all they would have to do is give me infinite leisure time. I'd be mad within a week.
Tomorrow I'm going to go to an optional lecture for my course, which should hopefully bore me enough to appreciate the boredom I'm currently enduring.
I can't wait to finish uni. I'm so fed up of books. I'm fed up of learning information that is hardly useful and seems to amount to other peoples opinions most of the time. I'm tired of listening to wankers talk like they're Lenin himself on Marxism when they know fuck all. I'm tired of Roland Barthes. I'm tired of listening to dreadlocked girls and mulleted blokes witter on about 'narrative voice' in seminars. I'm tired of smugness. I'm tired of namedropping authors. I'm tired of gap years in fucking Cambodia. I'm tired of post-modern irony (whatever the fuck that is). I'm tired of daytime TV. I'm tired of not getting up before one for the last week. I'm tired of snakebite and black. I'm tired of people wearing scarves in clubs. I'm tired of bad dancing. I'm tired of The Guardian. I'm tired of hedgemony. i'm tired of Hienz soup. I'm tired of blagger jeans. i'm fucking tired of suit jackets.
I think i'm just tired of students...
If someone gave me the option of either earning my degree the traditional way this semester or by eating all twenty or so books on my course, I'd happily have half of 'Happy Days' by Samuel Beckett stuffed into my mouth before you'd finished this sentence.