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Sweet mercy, what is going on?!

If you plan on visiting Harold Hill before the 6th January and value your retinas, wear sunglasses and keep your eyes ahead of you.

But this problem is not confined to Harold Hill, as we drove up my own road, we were nearly blinded.

It is bad.

It is wrong.

It is...

CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS GONE MAD!

This problem has been growing exponentially for the last few years. Possibly the problem this year was the introduction of inflatable 8-foot monstrosities, increasing the volume of decorations without actually having many more decorations.

Now is not the time to be epileptic. Flashing lights, singing snowmen, neon Santa statues, light-up icicles and poor shrubs buckling under the weight of flashing cables that 'decorate' them.

Oh dear. It's all got a bit silly, hasn't it? Mind you, that's not something I can really say with conviction to my American readers (all two of them), who have suffered such festivities plus some real snow all their lives. Thank God for the Gulf Stream, or it could have been worse over here.

Do we need it though? All these flashing lights and inflatable snowmen, all the bright decorations and seasonal cheer? So much energy, both electrical and physical, is wasted on making houses visible from space that people forget about other things. I'm referring indirectly to that couple who were found dead after their gas was cut off because they couldn't afford the bills. I know Christmas lights didn't cause that, but it still makes you think.

 
So I haven't been here a while, I had a ton of homework and then some trouble going on. But I'm back now, pack up the party.

I'll get as quickly to the point as I can. University fees and political correctness, I can't stand either. And when they go hand in hand incenses me more.

So Tony Blair plans to introduce top-up fees. Why? 'Educaion, education, education,' he says. Bollocks! £3000 extra a year at university after he got rid of grants that enabled the less well-off to actually get an education. He's making it for the privelidged again, which is a horrendous after his boasting about equal opportunities.

The man talks out of his arse. It is a disgrace. He says that everyone should be able to get an education, go far in life and fulfill their potential. How are us mere mortals supposed to go far with over £12,000 of debt? He never had it hard, he has no right to make it hard for the rest of us.

In the top 13 universities, 39% of pupils come from 7% of schools, those 7% being the private ones. It isn't fair, and it shouldn't be allowed to happen. But it is, and it does.

Little me, in my comprehensive school 6th form, with my 7 A*'s and 4 A's, am predicted high grades at A-levels and am being encouraged to apply for Cambridge. I'd love to go, I'd love to learn and I'd love to do well, but that will be impossible if I can't afford it. It would have been difficult enough without top-up fees, so I was going to take a year out to save up. But now, due to top-up fees, I would be even more in debt if I saved up.

Go straight in, be in debt for the rest of my life or wait, pay top-up fees and be in debt for the rest of my life.

And then there's another thing. On our provisional UCAS forms it asked if both or either of my parents/guardians had been to university. What right do they have to ask that? So they can gauge if they think we're suitable to go to as well? Neither of my parents went, but I'm not telling them that. In fact, I ticked all three boxes and wrote next to it 'THIS QUESTION IS UNFAIR AND OF NO RELEVENCE'. Bloody social status.

So I told people not to tick this question on their forms, but for most it was too late. Never mind, maybe there would be another opportunity.

"You won't have second lesson today because you're doing Alis tests."

Alis tests, like Yellis tests for GCSE students, predict what grades you'll get. For GCSE there was a literacy and numerousy test. I was all prepared to give the meanings to silly words, but no, you just had to fill in the personal details and future plans.

I stroke my imaginary beard ponderously.

So they want to know my post code, my ethnicity, my parents' occupations, when they left school and what job I aspire to have. They then want to know where I see myself in the future and whether I will go to uni.

I so wanted to write 'BOLLOCKS' in big letters across it, it was unbearable.

But I restrained myself. These things annoy me, so I try not to play up to them. It said that the part about my parents was optional, so I opted out. On the 'where I see myself in 10 years' multiple choice part, it had a line for you to write your own prediction, I wrote 'In debt because of university fees - Most Likely'. For all others I gave the answers 'Unsure', 'Unlikely' or 'Definitely not'. On the section about what careers I would be interested in, I again answered vaguely for all except the one I could write; 'See how it all works out - Most Likely'.

This politically correct, social analysing, working class-persecuting crap really does annoy me. Maybe it's the socialist values I harbour, or maybe it's just that the reality of the situation is seriously flawed. They spout so much about equality, where's the equality in stopping those with less money from achieving what they're capable of?

Stick your top-up fees where the sun don't shine, Mr Blair.

 
Ahh, I feel much better today. Sorry for yesterday's outburst, but I think I kind of needed it.

Thank you for understanding/tutting and saying I ought to be grateful for what I have.
(Delete as appropriate).

 
I hate cutsie forwarded emails.

While I'm at it, I hate having organised religion forced on me, I hate being sent on pointless missions, I hate people assuming I don't go to a lesson because I 'don't feel like it', and I absolutely hate being spoken down to by my statistics teacher when she doesn't teach us the fucking work.

I'm having a bad day. In fact, I'm having a bad week, and it's only Tuesday.

It started on... must have been Sunday. I think I was grumpy Saturday because I had no time to myself all day, what with work and being expected to go out afterwards. No real problem, I think it just made me tired on Sunday.

Monday I had a load of work due in, but I was told that I was going to youth club with Sam and Mandy for some 'thing'. When I get told I'm going to Harold Hill, I expect to stay in Harold Hill. I don't want to go to some Christian youth event. I may be a youth, but I ain't Christian, and don't plan on being so ever again. It was bad enough last time. I lost my religion properly, I don't plan on finding it in some dingy church.

I told everyone that I wanted to go home. They said that now I was there I may as well stay. How about bollocks?

The sum total of it is, I had a shit evening and didn't get home until gone 10. I went straight to bed.

Monday. Statistics. Sadistic. I hate the subject, but I think I hate my teacher even more. She gave us a test the other week, which we all found immensely difficult, and then we got them back to find that she'd marked wrong the basic principles that SHE taught us. She was the one who told us to start at -0.5 on histograms, whatever the situation, she's the one who then proceeded to tell us we were wrong. I told her that she had told us this, she smiled patronisingly and asked me how I could have -0.5mm of a borehole. That would be a lump, but that is not the point. She taught us that, she should stand by her methods or teach us properly. We're going to ask for a new teacher.

I went to my sister's house and had a good old PMT-fuelled cry. I couldn't get in touch with me boyfriend because his phone was missing, which was not helping.

Then I had double physics, to make matters worse. I like physics, I just don't like being taught A-level work off sheets.

Various orchestras then endured, which I only survived by eating lots of chocolate and having a good old bitch with David.

Then this morning, still feeling overly hormonal and sufficiently wretched to warrant throwing a chair through a window, Mancey sent me on the most pointless of errands: tell the upper sixth that they have to sit on the stage. What kind of a stupid message is that?! They'd all already left the out-building, they would know that there would be no room on the balcony, and they would go to the stage because they are not stupid. I walked back to the sixth form block, was told to go back to assembly, locked myself in a toilet and cried. Been doing lots of that recently.

I did not need it, so I went home.

These aren't my only problems, there is another big problem that I don't really want to tell you all, but I was hoping that writing this up would make me realise how trivial it all is. I know this is trivial, two of my friends have parents with cancer, I know someone who gets beaten up by their mum, I know someone locked in a cycle of drugs and stealing, I know someone still trying to come to terms with her brother's suicide. But my major problem is major, so please don't piss me off in the next two weeks until it's sorted, or I may just have to do the chair-window thing for real.

 
Well, I went and got me a job and a boyfriend, so I haven't had much time for anything else recently. Sorry! There will be time soon!

 
Wow, hate mail. Isn't it fun?

I replied to it all appropriately.

I don't really have anything to write, but I felt guilty for not having written up here for ages. I've had quite an eventful time since i last posted anything on here, not anything that I'm going to tell you about, mind. But I have discovered how good a theme tune 'Bat Out of Hell' by Meatloaf and 'Poison' by Alice Cooper are for driving too fast down country roads. Fun fun fun!

Can you think of anything I can write on here? I might have another theological bout at some point, I'm feeling vaguely religiously churned, not sure why. I haven't been burning goats again, honest!

Yeah. Not much for me to write. Updating Thing had to be put on hold or a while, I couldn't think of anything for a few days, and I was having too much summery fun. I'm now having too much autumnal fun as well, but enough of that.

I've just waffled for about 6 inches. Shoot me.

Not literally.

 
That horrendous new Christina Augillermaleria-or-however-you-spell-it song is currently on the radio, and its general impression is that girls are stronger than boys, you can rise up blah blah blah the usual feminist teachings. If a bloke was singing a song for blokes to the same effect, it would be sexism.

So tell me, women may sing about the empowerment of women, but what of the other half of the human race? If Gareth Gates started singing about how men can rise up and get somewhere in the world no matter what, his career would be even more over than it is already. Does that seem wholly unfair to anyone else? And extremely sexist by its own definition?

What are we teaching our children here?

Hi little girl. You will probably face some discrimination for being naturally weaker than your male counterparts, but the law is on your side. Don't let your gender hold you back, you are as much, if not more, than any man will ever be. You go girl, smash that glass ceiling! (I go an all girls school, I have had that speech many times, and most of it is direct quotation.)

Hi little boy. Due to nothing that is your fault, you will have many sexist jokes called after you, you may be turned away from something in the name of positive discrimination, you will be accused of leering, oggling and lusting after women, and you will not be able to retaliate without being called a sexist pig.

Don't whinge at me for being sexist against women, I'M A GIRL. But I am a mildly annoyed girl. I could use my gender (and my chest) to get myself through certain parts in life. In fact, I already have a few times. But it has got to the point now where if a woman goes in for a job against a group of men and she doesn't get hired, she can play the sexism card. That isn't empowerment of women, that's exploitation of men. The two are definitely not the same.

I know that if you look back in history women have had a pretty raw deal. Girls were believed too stupid to need to go to school for a very long time. Even though the country prospered noticably under several of its queens (and smouldered with protestants under others), we are often taught of the follies of kings rather than the faults of queens.

There is a distinct lack of female input in the fields of art and science through history. Marie Curie and thingy who discovered DNA are the only two I can think of right now, and there are only about 3 female poets in an Oxford English poetry book I have, though that was written when women were still getting a lot of stick. This doesn't mean that there were no clever women in history, but it doesn't automatically mean there were hundreds of them hiding in closets bursting with new ideas, either.

One thing I find no justification for is denying women of the vote, and even when that was corrected it took however much longer to get equal voting rights. Yes, women definitely got the blunt end of that pencil.

There is the issue of promiscuity too, whereby it seems more acceptable for men to have multiple partners than it is for women. Why should men be allowed to sleep around but not women? Countless PSE lessons are speaking there. This is an outdated view now, I've found, because half the time everyone is sleeping with everyone else. The pill gave women more freedom, yes, and young mothers are nothing new, Jane Seymor of Henry VIII fame was only about 17 when she had Edward. Just because they're not married doesn't automatically make them irresponsible or a slut. If they are a single mother, that is what we now have the CSA for. But then you get women who exploit that system, getting pregnant whilst claiming to be on the pill, so their unfortunate one-time partner has to pay for something that is no fault of theirs for the next 18 years. This is using sex in the wrong way.

I know there's that whole glass ceiling thing, where you can see where you want to be in life once you get that job or that promotion, but can't because you're a woman, and I know it still exists. But things are getting better remember, for genuine cases there is the European Court of Human Rights, where you can take yor case and shove it up your employer's arse, and all the more for real cases. But people are using this to their own gain, and that just isn't right.

But most of that is past now. Maggie and her Knickers of Steel could never have reigned if discrimination were still as rife as some would have us believe. We can't live in the past because if we did, the inequalities will still exist, but would be more hidden as men get irate from being called sexist bastards or told they think in their pants every time they tell someone they look nice. How often are women scolded for staring at men's arses? And don't deny it, it happens a lot.

The unfairness of it can be condensed into a joke I found once, and I think I used it on Thing a while ago.

What do you call it when a guy talks dirty to a girl?
Sexual harassment.
What do you call it when a girl talks dirty to a guy?
£3.99 a minute.

In trying to become equal with men, some women are attempting to take over the position of dominant sex. Instead of clawing their way up, they are dragging the poor men who get in their way, down. Wasn't the point to get treated fairly rather than treat others unfairly because of their opposing gender? Do the words 'become what they set out to destroy' spring to anyone else's mind?

 
Don't think me rude for not mentioning a certain anniversary today, call it letting the dead sleep.

Talking of dead sleep, I could do with some. I am so knackered. I had the day off school today because this 'flu thing I've had is beating me. I was winning yesterday at about midday, then totally lost the lead I had by 6 o'clock. Now I just feel pooey and can taste stale dribble in my mouth. I think I'll have some ribena.

...

Ah, that's better. Well, since I last spoke to you, I have returned to school. I've only actually had two lessons so far, geography and citizenship, and so far so good. I think. I don't know about today, I've missed my first maths lesson which I was oddly looking forward to as I quite like maths. Never mind, got it tomorrow double.

So. What am I going to talk about to you today? Not too sure really, I'll have a think about it. Let's see...

No, nothing. If you have any ideas, please tell me, as I'm too ill and too tired to work it out.

 
I have really bad backache, be nice to me.

 
Now, I've been meaning to write this moan up for absolute yonks, as the existence of these objects has niggled me since their creation. They are pointless, ridiculous, impractical and generally stupid, and I loathe them passionately. They are a bane on my existence, but offer humour whenever someone who owns them finds themselves in a compromising position, such as stuck in a door.

I am talking about rave pants. I hate them.

I'd better explain what they are to the unknowing of you before I carry on. Rave pants, or octopus pants, are those trousers with the stupid tassles hanging off. Just wasted strips of fabric attached to a pair of baggies. I personally think they look ridiculous, but just about everyone, including everyone who has no right wearing any form of baggies, is wearing them.

What is the point? A waste of fabric, they must weigh a ton, and their potential for getting stuck in stuff is phenomenal! Just imagine when it rains (and I appeal to the baggie-wearing community to back me up here), they must soak up a large portion of the town. The tassles would absorb the rain as it falls as well, adding to the liquid content, making it all the worse. I've walked home in big baggie jeans with half of Romford up my legs, but they must be worse.

And then there's the issue of them getting stuck in things, wrapped around stuff, and tied to things by sneaky people like me. Only once have I been tempted, mind. But let me tell you a little story: in Helen's ICT class, there was a girl wearing rave pants. Every time she stood up, she took the chair with her.That can't be very good can it? What if she'd been in a mixed exam and got up with the first set of people going, and the chair clattered all over the floor? Very annoying.

But why are all these trendy people wearing them? They sneer at the alternative population, then take an idea and mutilate it. It's like when 'In the End' got too much radio play, it was alright before, and then it just got silly. Not that I endorse or even enjoy Linkin Park (see: Reanimation, cross-reference with: Bad Sounding Attempt to Make Money). But do you get what I mean? They mock us then wear baggies. Yes, their baggies are ridiculous, impractical and available in white, which is a big mistake when paintguns are so readily available too, but baggies belong to the alternative scene. You see hip hop people wearing them too, but you shouldn't see wannabe trendy musically flawed hypocritical arseholes wearing them, even if they do have loads of stupid tasselly things on them.

And don't even get me started on the bloody punk revival that currently fills Top Shop.

I won't rant for too long though, because my opinion is outweighed by the volume of the damn things. But I will tell you my cunning plan for rave pants and their owners: you know the Jubilee line on the London Underground? Well at Wterloo there are two sets of sliding doors when you get off the train, one set on the train itself and the other set on the platform. Put as many rave-panted people on the train, then make them all get off at Waterloo. The train doesn't stop long enough for that to happen, so someone will get stuck in the doors. Mwahahaha!

 
That bruise? Still there. It's gone yellow now, so not so cool but never mind.

And what the hell is up with the weather? This is England! Where is our thunderstorm?! And don't say it might be here tomorrow, because the heat is unbearable!

I am done.

Today, for no apparent reason, I feel like promoting till work. Now, anyone who has ever had to operate a till for any period of time will know how mind-numbingly shite it is. Let's face facts, people, till work sucks. It sucks, that is, unless you have a mobile phone and no customers. Today, thankfully, I was only on the till for about half an hour in the late afternoon, in which time I served a grand total of 5 customers. That's an average of 1 every 6 minutes. And the most expensive transaction was £2.68. That is what I call a slow afternoon. In that time I sent and received 10 text messages, keeping me thoroughly alive despite the heat and dodgy music. No, there was no point for any of that, but I'm happy so ner to those of you that I don't like. Barbeque tomorrow, should be something to write about there...

 
Raa! How have you all been? I was good, until SOMEONE knocked me over when we were ice skating yesterday, and caused a large (but very cool) bruise on my chin. Going home looking like you've received a left hook is not the best of ideas with my parents, especially with the size of this lump. Damn you Jonny, you deserve more than a smack in the eye!

And the other day I went to see my friend in a ballet production of Sleeping Beauty in Westcliff, and Sleeping Beauty had just fallen down asleep after pricking her finger, her family and friends gathered round in shocked silence, when a little girl in the row behind shouted out, 'She's dead!' Classic.

But anyhoo, I'm sure there was something pressing that I was going to talk about. Not Wagon Wheels or Nesquik again, but I think it was food related. Or foot related. Hmm.

No, it was dance music. I was going to complain about how dance music just ain't what it used to be. Last night was the disco, and they were playing lots of old stuff, and I mean really old. I'm talking back once again for the renegade master old. And older. Sounds of my childhood! The stuff rocks. I'll be telling everyone that if they're looking for devotion, talk to me, show me show me show me baby. You've got to give it to me give it to me give it to me. Or perhaps not, but I love all that, because it was good and reminds me of tons of cool times.

And then it all went wrong somewhere around '96 I think. Originality went out the window, and all the good DJ's took too many E tablets or something, because it got shit. Now don't write telling me that that's when it got good, because I thoroughly disagree. You are entitled to your opinion, but this is my page so ner. The Hotstepper came and went, we ceased to Jump Around at inappropriate moments (except me and Bill, that is), and loads of good stuff from the days of musical yore was sampled and murdered. I'm talking Loving You for example, which was sped up and mutilated, loads of nice classical tunes were stripped and fudged with, and, possibly worst of all, they found power ballads and... used them. You can take those Broken Wings and shove them up your arse for all I care now! You killed a perfectly tacky song! Unforgivable.

What happened? Did the raves stop? Did ecstacy try floating and the shareholders were too in love with each other to make it work? I don't know. Does an underground 90's dance movement fester in the dark as we speak? Or shall we never again feel the urge to tell the world that we Can't Get No Sleep? In fact, I'm not even sure that that's what that song was called. No! I'm forgetting!

I guess it's one of those tastes and people changing kind of things. I mean, you just don't hear so much Brit-pop indie kind of stuff anymore, but I'm sure it still exists. I get the feeling that I'm one of the only people who actually misses this stuff though... I'm a Dreamer!

 
Lovely people! How long I have neglected you! Well I have actually been quite busy, I do have a few excuses, but not really enough. Several of them involve Christianity, surprisingly. In brief, there were two nights in a tent involving lots of tea and some Christian rock, 50 odd kilometres on foot with two more nights in a tent and a massive rucksack, a sleepover at the youth club preceded by a session of being Bible-bashed (I shall apparently burn in Hell) and then a whole day in a park in Chalkwell with even more Chistian rock!

Godly.

But enough of that, I'll probably write something on Thing about it, if I ever write anything on that page. I went shopping with Helen today, and thought of a few things, so maybe today can be like a super entry. It probably won't, actually, but we'll see how it pans out.

The Problem With Wagon Wheels

We all know that as we grow up and get bigger, some things seem to get smaller. Rooms in other people's houses shrink, stairs become easier to climb, and food becomes less filling. The most pronounced example of this that I and several other people have found, is with Wagon Wheels.

Now I have always had a big mouth. There's a picture from a few years ago with my entire fist in there. I hold a record among my friends for most chip shop chips, most Hula Hoop crisps and most marshmallows stuffed in my mouth... not all at the same time, mind. But when I was about 8, even I could not fit an entire Wagon Wheel into my mouth. Not even I, with my personal black hole could fit a whole Wagon Wheel in my gob, I had to break it first. I still had this problem two years later at the tender age of 10. Then I didn't, for some reason, have Wagon Wheels for absolute yonks.

So there I am, sitting on my mate Cheryl's sofa, when she walks in with a tray full of Wagon Wheels. After squealing girlishly in delight (something only chocolate and a few select other things can make me do), I grabbed two. I peeled back the plastic in anticipation, opened as wide as I could, and pushed the Wagon Wheel into my mouth.

And promptly almost choked.

It fitted! With room to spare! What was going on? That never happened before! I didn't understand. Munching thoughtfully, I considered why this might be.

1. My mouth had grown a lot since I was 10. I'm only a little person (standing at a proud 5'5"), and though that Wagon Wheel-less period covers my growth spurt, it is conceivable but unlikely that my mouth would have grown that much. I mean, that much room to spare? I'm talking about two more Wagon Wheels plus three Gold bars. I think not, which drew me to my second, highly predictable conclusion...

2. Wagon Wheels have shrunk. Not having had the forethought to measure the diameter when I was 10, I cannot prove this, but I am not alone. My own father has declared that they aren't as big as they used to be, and his 'used to be' predates mine by about 35 years. Ponderous. But is there a third explanation?

3. I'm tempted to say something involving space-time phenomena, parallel universes, alien abduction and a vortex for good measure, but that too is unlikely, or at least no one noticed when it happened. Could it be that we have just grown up and Wagon Wheels have stayed the same? I'm leaning towards saying yes, but that would just be boring. Where's the fun in normality? In desperation, I have come up with this third meaning:

Because this is Britain, loads of things were done differently about 50 years ago, which they've only recently bothered to go back and correct, or at least change so it isn't so good for us. Example 1: changing Jif to Cif to be in line with the rest of Europe. Example 2: the EuroMix dance mats only having half as many songs as a load of other coutries. One person in particular was not inpressed when he found out, were you Mr Curry? Never mind. But working on this principle, I reckon, and we're getting into conspiracy theory territory here, that once upon a time we had the same sized Wagon Wheels as the rest of the world, ie America. Then one day, when someone was feeling extra nasty, they decided that we British weren't up to that enormous Wagon Wheel experience, and they made them smaller. Perhaps out of lack of money, lack of biscuit or lack of compassion, I don't know. But this they did to us, hoping no one would notice.

Or maybe bollocks.


Now for the second part of my post. I think all this recent Bible-beating I've been getting has made me realise just how scary and controlling organised religion can be. Not that I have anything against anyone's faiths, except perhaps when those beliefs involve burning black people or beating up women, you get my point. But there is a difference between preaching and crusading, and this has become most noticable in the few weeks a new guy has been running our youth club. It all started to go wrong a few Fridays ago...

Youth club only has about 15 people in it, and half of us sit about sleeping, bitching and not believing in God. It was always Jesus-orientated, but if we didn't believe, it wasn't pushed. It was a kind of "we know you don't care, but on the offchance that you ever do, we're here for you". But when one of the leaders left and we met his replacement, our days of open-minded slouching came to a theologian-shocking end.

We had to talk about our first experiences of God. Sunday school for most of us. Right. There followed a sermon on the wonderfulness of God, which I only listened to half-heartedly. It got worse, though. At the sleepover last Friday, we had to talk about some statements, and one of them was about the existance of and belief in God. Now, as a non-believer, I stood up for myself against the new guy, because the way he put it made it sound as though not believing in Christ automatically made you an ignorant and stupid pleb. So nerr to him I says, telling him that yes I do have beliefs, they just aren't the same as his. Slightly more than 5 minutes of arguing followed as me and Karl, fellow non-believer (he spent 5 years in a church school, who can blame him?) argued our case against his views. Personally, I think we won, as we got the last word.

Maybe he just doesn't know how to talk to young people. Ben, who had been running it before, hadn't pushed the issue. He's a dude and religious, which is a difficult balance to achieve, but he manages with style and a Swedish fiance. But new guy does not! His beliefs seems to involve no personal interpretation of the Bible, only meanings he's been told, and in saving his own soul, he seems soulless. Has his own religion destroyed him in the name of salvation? Or is he just a sheep in the non God/shepherd way?

Please don't send me hatemail accusing me of being a Christian-hating close-minded arsehole, I was brought up a methodist. These are opinions, not insults.

Love you all!

 
Raa! I'm in a public library doing not very much on the internet! All humour sites filtered nooooooooooooooo! It does suck relatively well, but never mind, this is supposed to be used for proper purposes. Never mind. I'm working on updating Thing, but every day I leave it another week of entires pile up. I don't know how that works. Anyhoo, I'll see you all later properly, bye byee!

 
Ok my darlings, just a quick note that I'm telling everyone - eat brocalli and porridge. I am currently anemic and it is not fun. I'm dead tired and bruising like a good'un, and the tablets are nasty. I look like a Fight Club extra on my arms and legs.

I hope you got that kids, get plenty of iron, or you'll end up like me. If that happens...

May God have mercy on us all.

 
Sorry, my computer has been being an absolute bastard. I wrote this 2 weeks ago.

Sorry I haven't written anything these last few weeks, I had exams on 8 consecutive school days. Two left now, and I have until Friday to cram and stuff. Then I'm free!

Since I was last here? Nothing much really. I'm reading the Belgariad again, I thoroughly reccomend it if you haven't read it. David Eddings, he's a dude. And lots of cool websites. I'll put some of them up on Thing when I finally update that poor neglected site.

The world is cooler than you think, even if the soundtrack is a bit disappointing.

But today I'm going to talk about something that happened while I was on the til in the shop, at about half four yesterday. After she had bought three African dresses, I got talking to this lady. She had already mentioned to another lady that she was 63, and she was doing pretty well for it. She complimented me on my folding and asked what I wanted to do as a career. Honestly, I have no idea, so I just said rock sciences. She asked me my birthday, then, with a distant look in her eye, told me that I ought to be doing something with money or computers. She told me that I liked the arts, in particular dancing, and that my personsl standards are too high. She said I shouldn't be confined by the limitations of my siblings before me, and that I should keep climbing until I reach a peak of my own choosing. She said I ought to be in command, and be known. She said I ought to write, but not be confined in a corner, because that would just make me depressed. That was why I shouldn't do science, because that would just bore me, and I need to be around people. She thought that handling money would a vital part of my career, and that I should maybe do something with management. She suggested the fruad squad, because I want to help people and that would give me a chance to use my monetary skills. She said I would marry a capricorn, or maybe a virgo. It was pretty damned scary to be studied quite accurately by a small woman I had never met before.

To bactrack: I'm predicted a quite good grade in maths, I took IT and music as my options, I have dance lessons, I'm the youngest of four, I make up stories for the children I babysit, I don't like being alone for too long, which can be seen by the amount of text messages I've been sending during study leave, and I've always wanted to help people. I know some of these, especially the last two, are quite general and felt by a lot of people, but the whole analysis was startlingly true. I think the only thing that was particularly innaccurate was about money - I hate money, and would lock all mine up in a bank if I had any, and then trade in barter. But she told me all this just by me saying I'm a taurus, and it was detailed rather than just generalisations.

I don't read horoscopes, I've always seen them as cobblers. It is impossible for the entire world to be split into 12 categories and behave that way all their life. Millions of people are not going to experience the same problems in the same ways purely because they were born in the same month. They are always written really vague and open, like 'You will have bad luck today'. Well no one ever has a perfect day! Planets and stars seem too far away to have an effect on us, and I can't think of the last time I got anything useful from astrology. But that's what this was - a horoscope kind of thing. Was it that this woman, who had travelled so far and met so many people, could tell what kind of a person I am from my star sign alone, or am I just plain obvious? I do have a bit of an honesty issue, I wear my moods like I wear hats: bright and noticable, and I make a point of sharing my grief sometimes. Most of the fortunes I've ever had from Mari came from the books she reads about star signs, and bore no resemblance to my personality in the slightest. Is astrology learned from life and not books? I got the feeling that this woman had learned from something a bit more involved than a book, because you can't learn everything from books, and you can't know a person just from their birthday. There was something very rare about this lady, Agnes, but I think I'll remember what she said, because she could tell a lot about me without me telling her a single thing.

 
Well, apart from being a very naughty panda and not writing here for absolute yonks, I've been doing lots of thinking, from the origins of the universe to the hitchhiker's guide to the very same thing. Somewhere in the middle there was The King dying on The Throne, and it all began with a matter of etiquette.

Toiletiquette

When Sir John Harington presented the water closet to Elizabeth I all those years ago in 1589, she was horrified, but who could have predicted the social impact of his simple invention. The lavatory, the loo, the bog, the dunny, the john, the crapper, the porcelain telephone to God and, in Elvis' case, the throne, the toilet has affected every one of us. Every home has one, everyone needs one and we all use them. From the holes in the ground in rural Africa to the holes in the ground in central France, even the porti-cabins in building sites, there is no escaping the loo.

But little did he know the rows that would be sparked from the seat. Wars have been fought over lesser things than leaving the seat up, and I'm sure this battle in the ongoing war of the sexes will never be won. But all these problems could be sorted out with one tiny weigh-up of probability.

In our house there are currently three girlies vs. two blokies. Statistically, not taking into account who may or may not have gone previously as the information is unavailable when you rush in busting yourself, when my father or brother go to the toilet, it is 3 times more likely that the next 'producer' will be female. Therefore, the toilet seat ought to be put down. That is the theory, at least. Many a time have I strolled into the loo, and then nearly fallen in as I realise a moment too late that the seat is up and i didn't notice. It is wet-bottomed like these moments that have caused me to produce this entry.

But if I, my mother or sister go to the toilet, the chances of who go next are equal, and it is here that the logic kicks in. Blokes face the toilet when going, girls do not. The same way that male dogs cock their legs and bitches don't. Blokes see that the seat is down, put it up and get on with their merry business. It is an automatic reaction when you are female to turn around as soon as you get it, so you don't see the seat situation.

The conclusion to this pointless waffling? If you are femalisticly outnumbered, put the seat down!

Yes, the exams are getting to me.

 
I am such a bad person! Since I last wrote on here, there has been the biggest protest in Britain's history, I've been to another Frenzal Rhomb concert, I've played for the queen, there has been a mutiny at school, a war has been fought, I've bluffed my way through Fingle's Cave in front of 200 parents, I've had my eyes gummed shut, SARS has claimed over 300 lives, Easter, and Ronnie O'Sullivan has scored a maximum in under 7 minutes. I'm so sorry!

So, from the top. There was a ruddy great protest in London, you may have noticed at the time. OK, so it was over two months ago now but I've been busy! I've handed in all my coursework now so I can tell you what's been going on in our humble town. This all links in with what happened at school a month later, so here we go. Big protest, right. Photographs show it was 2,000,000 people but the government says 1 million. Not such a bad thing, but it didn't make much difference to the powers that be. I know a load of people who went on it, and they were very annoyed. Two in particular.

Cutting to the chase, on Wednesday 19th March, political upheaval was broiling at school. You could cut the conspirative air with a knife. Planning, scheming and uprising were waiting to bubble over. It was going to be the next day, something big, something loud, and something during assembly.

The school cancelled assembly.

The conspirators would not be stopped. At 8 o'clock on Thursday morning, plans were changed, positions moved and the frontline strengthened with a hail of notes from parents allowing their children to go to the dentist during first lesson. Those of us who could not leave (i.e. Jenny, Vicki and me) sat in the form room, waiting for the 9 o'clock bell, when all hell would break loose.

Well, all hell actually broke loose at about 10 past. We had gone to first lesson, chemistry, which we take at the front of the school. We crowded round the window, watching and waiting for the first hit of the now mutineers. There was a hush outside, then an almost biblical tide of 600 girls surged forwards. Baring in mind there are only 800 girls in upper school, it was quite a sight to see. Teachers tried to form a human shield at the front gate, but they would not be stopped. 300 made it over the fence on the first wave, and 300 returned as The Head came out. One of the ringleaders ran back, waving the wavering to run for it, but Mrs Phillips collared her. Screaming to her that this was for the freedom of her country, our heroine led 200 of those watching out the front. We watched as they ran for freedom, most of them running for home, and smiled as two teachers screamed 'Vive la revolution!' They were later given slapped wrists.

This was not all. With the school down to 300 people, lessons were somewhat deficient. We sat in chemistry and spoke about the war we had heard declared on the World Service and huddled round the wireless for anymore developments. Phillips came in and told the teacher off for not giving the 12 of us any work, which he found rather funny. We got out some textbooks, and carried on.

The lesson was over and we were heading for our benches when the air took on a strange tinge. No more palpable unrest, more a kind of... lighter fluid. The bell began to heave its fire sigh, and we lined up in our forms on the field. The builders had drilled through a gas pipe, and the one day the teachers needed to know who was in, was the one day they had absolutely no idea.

We later found out that about 60 people had protested at the town hall, only 12% of those who ran out. The other 88% had either gone home, gone to their friends' houses, gone shopping or gone and got drunk in a park. As if 500 girls from Romford would go on a protest!

The two ringleaders had gone up to London for the sit-down protest in Parliament Square. One of them was being subdues by a policeman, so she swung her bag round and hit him, and nearly got arrested for it.

Work done that day: minimal.
Things learned about teachers and pupils from our chemistry teacher: enriching!
Moral of the story: vive la revolution!

To backtrack slightly, Frenzal Rhomb were excellent live, as usual, and it was murder getting there by train. The Not Katies are already on P-Rock, so look out for them, and Captain Everything were cool live. On the whole seeing bands thing, I may have seen InMe before they were signed, but I haven't got a clue as to what they look or particularly sound like, unlike everyone else in the world.

Playing for the queen? Well, she came to Romford (strange woman) after someone from Redden Court School complained that she hadn't visited Havering on her Jubilee Tour. I personally don't blame her. So she came, on March 6th, to Romford and to St Edward's Church in the market place, and needed musical accompaniment. Enter us, playing Bach's Concerto for Two Violins very quietly. I was playing so quietly in fact, that I'm not sure if I was playing at all.

Similarly with Fingle's Cave by Mendelsson. We were half numbers in the viola section because one girl couldn't play it (and you think I could, Em?), and the section leader was down the pub. Mind you, I think he deserved that after being enslaved by Mrs Norris for however long... I think it's somewhere near 10 years. Possibly more. So yes, I bluffed my way through that very quietly. But what really annoyed all of us was that we were told to be there by half 7, and me and Helen actually were, but we weren't on until gone 9! How ridiculous is that! Plus we had to sit in the actual hall while it was all going on, so we couldn't even bitch about it. Bah.

I then proceeded to get a cough, a cold and conjunctivitis, so I had snot coming out everywhere. It was bad. And messy. As my MSN name stated, a bad day for facial orifices.

Snooker has since started (muted yay), and Ronnie O'Sullivan got a 147 in the first round, then lost the match. We now support Marco Fu, Tony Drago (though I think he's already out) and Steven Lee because he looks so cuddly. Paul Hunter got through the first round in Battle of the Beautiful People, and our dad's money is on him.

'Tis my birthday on Friday, I expect large presents and cake, party the weekend after possibly - parents going away! All good stuff. Not sure I've had many revolutionary thoughts since my last post. A few thoughts on the impossibility of things, some tea in John Lewis, another story for my little ones and some alterations to the Cosmological Argument. More when I'm free again, estimated around the 26th May. My first exam is on the 8th, then the 14th, and then they really get into the swing of things on the 19th. Don't wish me luck, I'd rather you sent miracles. Toodle-oo and kisses to you all!

 
Yes, you may throw rotten fruit at me, I haven't been on here for so long. But I am drowning in a sea of coursework, so you might not have a very good target as I bob up and down among the waves. I had a brainwave as to what to talk about on my next post, hopefully this weekend, but more later. And sorry about the next survey, I had to change a load of it, so maybe it will also be ready for the weekend. Don't expect much until Easter, and then I can give you a better idea of how much time I'll have to waffle.

Sorry my lovelies, but I'm trying my best.

 
Happy February! Sorry I'm nearly a week late, I've been catching up on my sleep between school work.

So, last Friday was the first snow day for 11 years at FB, and I spent it blissfully at home. There wasn't enough time or decent snow to build a friend for Reginald, but never mind, he won't notice.

I don't really know what to write, I just feel as though I've been neglecting you. I'm actually whacked, so I don't think this will be much longer as I'm struggling with my consciousness. I need to sleep.

The graphic representation of the sandwich survey has takn longer to do than I thought it would, but it's nearly done! For the next post I might do a bit about a conversation I overheard the other day. Do Americans have irony?

 
My my, how long it has been since I actually wrote something on here! I am a bad person.

I did actually write two things to put on here, but neither were very good or in any way interesting, so none of that here. Instead, I'd like to give you a quick update of things and then talk about a conversation a few of us had yesterday.

First of all, it snowed! Snow actually fell! This was on Wednesday 8th, and it was brilliant! I had three snowball fights, including one with a load of kids I don't know, and made a snowman called Reginald.

Secondly I've had most of my mock results back, with a large smattering of A*'s, so I'm very pleased indeed.

I've decided to stay on for 6th form, and had a trip behind enemy lines into Coopers. Eesh!

And finally, before launching myself into possibly the most stupid monologue ever, I just had a big mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it and more chocolate on the side, and it was delicious.

Now, this issue was raised in an English cover lesson when it was discovered that one of the thesauruses did not have a 'g' section. No 'g' section, you say? No, no 'g' section. The 'g' section was completely missing, but there was nothing wrong with the spine, indicating that it had been made like that. What, we pondered, would the world be like with no letter 'g'?

I hope you figure out how our train of thoughts was rolling, or you just won't get this.

One problem that one girl there instantly faced was that there would be no G-strings, nor any thongs, and the colour green would have a different name, or just not exist at all. No G in the musical scale would really fluff it up, but with no 'g' Mr Glinka could never have cursed the world with his damned 'Russlan und Ludmilla' overture. Everyone would talk like Essex girls, doin' their shoppin' and workin' and stuff. There would be no shag rugs, no shaggy dog stories and no shagging full stop! We would have no genitals, so there would be no virgins, and no G spots.

A severe lack of Greek tragedies would have meant that Romeo and Juliet was never written, while 'The League of Gentlemen' would never have graced our screens. A large portion of the English language would be missing because of the Germanic link, but there would be no languages at all anyway! England would lose a letter (and always lose the football), and the world would forfeit grapes and grapefruits. With no grocers there could be no groceries, and there being no galleons or guns might affect world history a little.

Possibly worst or all: a few of the Monty Python cast would have gone mysteriously missing. No 'Holy Grail' and no 'Meaning of Life', but at least we would still have 'Life of Brian'. But someone else would have to be Brian, as Graham Chapman would be waylaid under a different name.

Harry Potter would be fine, but JK Rowling might have a bit of trouble. Lord of the Rings would hit a rock and become what sounds like an advert for a superior washing machine: Lord of the Rinse. Kirk Douglas could never have played the Spartacus, and Metro Goldwyn Mayer may never have produced all those wonderful musicals with Judy Garland in. Frances Gump would have had no more luck.

We would have no guts, no haemoglobin and no legs, and there would be no gravity to hold us onto the non-existant ground; we would be hollow, legless, bleedin' bein's floatin' in space. Then we would all quickly explode, becuse there would be no gases!

There would be no God, nor could the Big Bang have taken place, so nothing would exist at all, especially not the Romans, who invented the letter in the first place.

So, you see, 'g' is a very important letter, and I wouldn't be exaggerating too much if I said that the survival of mankind depends on its continued existence.

It was a cover lesson, cut me some slack!

 
Happy new year, blah blah blah, loud fireworks, hope you're well.

I'm too tired for formalities.

Argh! I'm knackered! This is what happens when you stay awake until 5 in the morning kids, so don't do it. I wasn't even trying, but that didn't stop my mind from being conscious.

Insomnia. It hurts.