Hello, hello? It's me, Picasso.

Fucking bastard shitting fucking fuck fuck fuck FUCK. I fucked my English Language assignment, 4 marks off a pass. The fucking bastard could have at least given me a pass so I could fuck off and spend my time doing sometime I came to university to do in the first place, rather than this stupid fucking system where you have to try everything to get a ‘flavour for it’. No. I don’t want to any more. I’ve had a taste, it’s bitter as fuck and I don’t like it. But yet I have to do it, because to carry on to the next year of my English LITERATURE course I have to have passed a drama, sociology and Language module. It’s fucking madness. If they want to make literature students have a taste of something they’ve not come to do why the hell are they marking you to the point where if you don’t pass the modules you don’t get to progress to the parts of the course you actually came to do. I’m irate, I’m utterly devastated. I got a mark equivalent to a first on my fiction hand in, and I fail Language. The idiots on the top floor will see this mark, um and ar and stroke their beards before finally announcing that ‘my yes, he does seem to be getting a first pass in his literature module, however when it comes to Lexis and Syntax language understanding he simply doesn’t cut the mustard, how can we allow him to carry onto his straight literature course’. Makes me want to spit and scream. However I can’t. So for this next assignment I must increase my score I think by 10 or 15 marks. I’m going to shut myself away, consult with the lecturer, ask him to recommend books, send him first, second and third drafts, get him to help me craft this into the best fuck off essay I’ve ever written it’ll probably bore the shit out of me, and out of anyone other than him who’s going to read it but woop-de-doo once it’s done I’m fucked off out of it, I’ll be with my heroes and my comrades talking morals and ethics and finding new ways to believe in things. The language kids can keep treading their tired old path. My course matter changes every time someone turns the page, that’s immensely powerful. You can’t explain that with convention.

In other news I’m going to dress up like a pirate and go to my Student Union for the first time since freshers, even though it’s only over the road. I’m lazy and it’s usually empty. I just don’t want to be on my own tonight, because I’ve already cried to my mum over the phone about this, and I’m listening to Elliott Smith and that’s just not constructive.

I’m going to go to Birmingham tomorrow to buy presents for Nathalie, and my mum who’s awkward enough to have her birthday a weekish before Christmas. And for anyone else I can think of. Apparently there’s a German market on, so if it’s not a million pounds there might be something nice there worth getting too.

I’m just looking forward to going home and having Christmas and seeing everyone again. I was fine before this happened, it’s just fucked it all. Fucking fucked it.

Sighs and weeps.

Cheer me and you with some O-Zone - Dragostea din tei

A fantastic song, which when translated makes very little sense.

"You want to leave but you don't want don't want to take me,
Don't want don't want to take me,
Don't want don't want, don't want to take me.
Your face and the love from the linden trees,
And I remember your eyes."

Well why yes of course? I understand you Romania, ten four! The lyrics don't matter, get drunk or happy in which ever you chose. I'm going for chips. Shout the lyrics, numa numa yay, and you're in and around the right ball park.

Goodnight

x

eilahtan's words

Spending time. Indifferent. Lost focus. Loosing time not knowing time where has it all gone? Missing you. Missing touch. Taste. Times. Times together times apart. Times apart feel longer still. Times together don’t last as long as needed. Needs. Closeness needed. Need to feel your hand in mine. Hands. Hands smaller than mine. Softer than mine. Smoother than mine. Less bony. Less worried. Less time. More time spent on phones. More time spent writing. Tapping away. Tapping away on phones. Phones ringing. Phones vibrating. Making me happier. Making me think. Talk. Sad. Happy when alone. Happy when alone in a crowded room. Happier to be alone with you. In a crowded room. Crowded out. Crowded thoughts. Loss of concentration. What was said? I’m half deaf. Sorry. Music too loud. Still see your lips. Can’t lip read. Don’t need to. See you. Feel you. Touch you. Here. All I need is here. Feel safer now. Waiting for your voice. Waiting to see you. Four days. Four days till trains. Trains to take you. Borrow time. Beg. Lose yourself. Postpone. Wait anxiously. See your face. Light up. Colours vivid. Can smell again. It's you. It's now. It’s you I’ve been waiting for.

Summer pt3 Uni life.

And so to the final large development of the summer/early autumn, me leaving home and going to university. This has been a rather uprooting and traumatic time all round for me, and one that’s taken a while to get used to. Leaving everyone behind has been tough. Leaving Dickie after only just getting him back, leaving Mike who’s been my main man for the last few months and leaving Nathalie just when I was getting used to seeing her every day.

Most of all leaving my parents was tough, I love them to bits. Equal parts to annoyance.

Uni is fun though and I’ve made new friends and got to know people which has been fun. My course looks like it’ll burn my retinas out by the end of it all with the vast reading lists, but hey, I am reading English Lit. My lectures and teachers all seem thoroughly nice sorts, my tutor emailed me to wish me a happy birthday. I think I fit in here.

My university is no longer called UCE (University of Central England) however, I’m now a student of Birmingham City University, which sounds a bit grander and by the looks of it means we’re getting plasma screens put in the windows of the buildings. Hurrah for change eh?

Here’s evidence of my cooking skills,

Here's my cooking buddy Shaun



And the view of brum from my penthouse (complete with greyhound track)

Fun times await, I've blogged enough.

Night loves

x

Summer (Pt1) Leeds Festival

The months of august and September where particularly sparse writing times for me, for one I wasn’t really around a computer for too much of it all, and secondly I was too busy living the events and soaking them all up, I didn’t really want to ruin it all by rationalising it in my head. So now, in hindsight I look back on one of my favourite summers in a long long time.

Leeds Festival.

Leeds festival is good fun no matter what happens, that’s what we all had in our minds and to a certain extent that’s still universally true. I had to think this harder than most this year, because frankly the line up was sparse and obtuse. My favourite bands were clashing or on in mid day, people had gone mental for nu-rave and the beer were a ten pence cheaper. However, this all was eroded upon the first day of glorious sunshine and good old fashioned joshing.

Friday’s highlights included buying the guardian and thinking that Trent Reznor looked like David Gest.

Saturday’s highlight was seeing MAXÏMO PARK (sorry but they have to be in caps) blow the entirety of Leeds away with some as always jaggy art pop driven genius. I can’t hear them without smelling room oderiser. They just make me happy, they’ve got artsy lyrics about girls and love and roughly 14 amazing choruses. Me and Philip greeted each other on the morning after with –

“Five times five equals?”

“TWENTY FYYYYYYYYYVVVE!”

Amazing, topped off by a rather thin but ultimately sublime Patrick Wolf the day was one to be savoured.

Sunday came round with pangs of guilt and regret. I’ll tell you the tail but first you must agree not to judge me or condemn me until you know the facts. On Sunday I burnt my friend’s guitar. Right. “Bastard” you’re thinking and think you might, however here be the facts and in some way there is a redeeming logic to it all. Skip back a night to the Saturday of fun times, I’d had fun and as with fun, when 4am roles around you kind of get tired and in thinking that you’ll be up in roughly another 4 hours anyway it’ll be best to get some sleep. (Due to the transparency of tents, and the overzealous nature of Leeds campers). So when 5 rolled around and some CUNT sorry but CUNT was playing “Why does it always rain on me?” for the fifteenth time with boy band vocals added that perfectly rational part of my psyche snapped. I was not only over the edge of reason I was somewhere past Cuba lighting up a cigar and giving the US border guards a rounded V sign. I cracked that night in Branham Park. And I’m not proud of my exacting revenge.

Sunday passed without remark, the bands were average the cider was flowing and I’d finished off my box of wine, I’ll be very honest in saying I was very drunk. Yes very drunk in-fact. However not too drunk not to remember I had yesterday’s guardian in my tent that I hadn’t read yet and through utter despair at the line up headed that way with Sarah, possibly Hayley too. We arrived to find Phil, Nic, Georgia, Mike and Dickie. Possibly others were there, I’m not sure. They seemed to be stuffing grass into Luke’s guitar. Now call this full blown twatishness or sheer excitement but seeing my tormenter royally stuffed filled me with a passionate joy. And like most passionate joys when inebriated it bypassed my brain and went straight to my foot. And my foot went straight through the guitar. Oops.

I hadn’t quite intended it to all happen so soon, but then the memory changes and becomes confused and quite separated through myth and fiction. I can remember someone shouting “BURN IT” (this may have been me, though more than likely Phil) and I dutifully obliged, it seemed those fire lighters were in my pocket for the speed at which they were dispatched. The guitar was gone. No one claimed the deed, no one dobbed the other in. We passed it off as a moment of madness.

So there we go, judge me. (On a side note the guitar was a £9 child affair from Asda)

In true “American troops in Basra” style we decided not to just get our kicks but to incriminate ourselves with photographic proof.

So that was Leeds.

And here’s our truth.