Aberdeen, keep 'em keen.

First off, hope you're enjoying the proper shit new background of spilt beans. I loved it (well, it was the only file I could find under 300kb that had beans, unless I had an African man hoarding coffee beans) so I hope you share my sentiments. Good? Good.

The Dying Scotsman

In my relatively short life, I've not had much experience with Scottish people. I know two. They're lovely, but I doubted it represented the whole of the Scottish populous. I was more keen to think of them as crude 90's sitcom character Rab C Nesbitt (don't bother looking that up, the gag wasn't worth it). Sitting in The Punch and Judy in Covent Garden with my buddy Bean'ed, things were about to change. 

As Bean was buying another round, a round Scotsman was strolling along, slowly. The Flying Scotsman he was not. With nowhere to sit, I offered him my seat, as I was convinced the battered Mars Bars had destroyed his circulation. 

"Oh ayee, thank you me laddy" (ok, so he wasn't that stereotypical, but it's just better if I make him sound like Lorraine Kelly). We began chatting, as you do, and Bean rejoined us, as did Ally's (no, that really was his name) mate Ian. Turns out Ian was a diehard West Ham fan. From Aberdeen. So we got chatting about the in's and out's of Ally and Ian's lives, and Ally offered us a pint each. Then two. Then three. Until we were really feeling it. As far as random encounters go, this was a top one.

And before this goes any further, no they were not gay, or 'trying to experiment'. Their wives showed up and I gave them directions to a top Chinese in Greenwich and we got on our way, feeling a little bit merry, and more knowledgeable about Land Rovers, Scottish Football, and the price of a flight down to London (don't do it, go via Leeds).

Dog Days Aren't Over

I don't know about you guys, but to me, and also Bean, having a dog in a supermarket is a strange concept. After getting a tad merry thanks to Ally 'n' Ian, we went to M+S to grab a roll. A woman was strolling around with a Jack Russel in her arms, to which Bean declared 'Who brings a dog in a fucking supermarket?' I looked back to see her glare, furiously. Oh dear.

"You got a problem with my fucking dog?"

Oh god. How do you respond to that? By saying "yes, I do have a problem with you bringing an animal that rolls in excrement for fun into a place that sells fresh food?"

No, apparently.

"I just think it's a funny concept, that's all" Bean said. I was in agony through laughter. This went back and forth a tad until she 'gave up'. We left without rolls. When we saw the dog outside, Bean was convinced it was staring at him. I told him it wasn't. 

I was a bit scared, though.

Over and out.

Three Piece Shoot

As some of you may have guessed, I have had a lot on my mind recently, across all sorts of subjects. Thankfully, I won't let this blog turn into lyrical inspiration for My Chemical Romance's next album, and instead carry on with the same true to life stories I'm known and thought to be a bit better than average for. 


Hailed a cab?


Whenever I need to think about something, I go out into London and just stroll around, and see what I find. Often, I'll get out at a certain station and give myself a target to get to, and see what I encounter along the way. Today, I got off the Jubilee line at London Bridge, and decided I'd get to Oxford Street to buy a new hat (mainly as it was pissing it down with rain, which I thought was gods way of telling me I'm not the only one who's a bit down. So thanks, big guy). I walked the length of London's South Bank and stopped for lunch, which many people were doing. The rain made it unpleasant to be outside, even for a short period, so people were scurrying into the closest cafe' they could find. Along the South Bank are various winding streets, dating back hundred's of years. Although picturesque, they aren't exactly very safe...


I was about to cross a road when I saw a taxi zipping along far quicker than was safe (the green cross code hedgehogs taught me well), so I stopped, waiting for it to pass. Then, I noticed a man in a suit flicking through files and papers and all sorts of business related stuff step out into the road. I didn't overly want to shout, as he'd probably just turn around and have even less chance of noticing the taxi, so I ran after him, grabbed him, and dragged him away, to the tune of a loud beep and a Spanish tourist shouting at the taxi, much like a Spanish football commentator (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IivUVo4V1Wo&feature=related). 


At this point, I was feeling mildly heroic, and a little bit shocked, but not as much as when the man turned round to look at me, pushed me, and exclaimed 'don't you fucking dare try and mug me, you yob!', before briskly walking off (still without looking, hedgehogs need to find this guy and teach him!). I didn't know what to say and stood there a bit puzzled. People walked by as if nothing had happened, and I considered for a minute whether they'd have rather pulled him out of the way, or sat with him whilst the ambulance arrived and have an excuse to be late to work. Maybe that was my negative mindset thinking. I hope so, anyway. So off I strolled, not sure whether I should feel content, or offended. 


And Topman didn't even have any decent hats. 


Oh, and I just want to urge everyone to check out a band called 'Stornoway'. Saw them at V at the weekend, and they had a really tight set live, so I was unsuprised to find the album was a real good one. If you enjoy Mumford and Sons, you'll like these, as they're just as folky, but a bit more chilled out.


And one more quick thing, if you're interested in crime fiction, let me know over facebook or twitter (@_JackHart). Yeah, that's it for now.


Over and out.

Knight Train

"Shit...I'm so tired...It's only at West Ham, I'll just shut my eyes, easy 40 winks before Upminster"

Why the hell I thought this was a good idea, I do not know. Upon waking up to a loud beeping noise, indicating the doors were closing at Upminster, and about to leave, I was mortified. I have missed my bloody stop. Oh shit. What does this mean? Where am I headed? Why am I still drunk? What a nightmare. This is the first time this has ever happened to me, and I was unprepared. No cab numbers. Phone out of battery. This would be a long night. 

The train arrived in West Horndon. I got off, alone. Nobody was about, nothing was open. It was a ghost town. I found a bus bench, and sat down, contemplating my next move (This is where things get very strange, but trust me, like everything else in this blog, this actually happened).

I saw some sort of building over the road, with a small cabin outside. Inside the cabin was a security guard. I'd go over, get a cab number, use his phone, and I'll be fine.

*knock-knock* "sorry bro, can I use your phone?"
"Yes, come in!"

Ok, this is creepy, I thought, but persevered. I explained my dilemna, to which he produced an ipod charger, and began charging my phone. With the little battery I had, I managed to text my buddy Bean and, thankfully, he was still awake, so headed off to come pick me up.


"Fancy some food?"
"erm...yeah, if you're offering"
"Peri Peri Chicken?"


No. Way.


"That sounds great"
"There's coke in the fridge, too"


For the next 30 minutes, we had a mini feast, with Ravi throwing some food in the micro ready to dine, and discussed Ravi's work life, and where I had been that night. Ravi and I were now best buds. I was considering just staying for the night and watching his anthology of late 80's action films he had on the laptop but alas, Bean and Jason had arrived. I bid Ravi adieu, and got in Beans car.


Only this morning did I realise how strange that was.


Over and out.

Empire BigScreen Convention: A Lesson in Anger Management Part 2

So, if you enjoyed the awkward escapades that yesterdays entry brought to the party, I'm sure you'll love/cringe even more, at what happened to me on Sunday. I've opted to skip Saturday as, unlikely as it sounds, nothing bad happened to me! How about that! Anyway, on with the rest of the entry so you can all laugh at my misfortune.


Sunday


After two days of pretty tiring work, everyone was at their wits end. More screens needed to be filled, and with Jason Momoa (the guy from Game of Thrones and Conan), David Tennant (Who?), and Warwick Davies, the dwarf from Harry Potter and Star Wars in attendance, it was sure to be absolutely Sergio Ram-os. 


It certainly was. Regardless, most of the day went well, until, just as we were about to retire home (/pub) we were called for one last job. Feeling a bit like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 3, I reluctantly agreed, and was sent to screen 6, with instructions to 'fuck off anyone who tries to wait outside for the next screening'.


Within minutes I had an overfilled screening of Cowboys and Aliens and a group of moany ten year-olds calling me a 'melt' because I said they were 'like, 2' (although one did get up in my grill and say 'actually, I'm 8', so top marks for him). I decided to take my life into my hands and confront the screen.


"Ok, so anyone saving someone else a seat, you're not anymore"


I thought that was perfect and I would silence the crowd, filling the screen and seeming like a hero to those people who otherwise wouldn't have got to see a shoddy action movie.


"What if they've gone to get food?"


...oh god...what if they have gone to get food? That's a perfectly legitimate reason.


"or the loo", another shouted.


I was crumbling. What do I say?


I won't repeat what I said, but my actions were commended, and the film was re-projected next door. Everybody was a winner.


Then I got very drunk as rounds of drinks were purchased, and sadly, mixed.


Just about getting over that hangover.


Afterthoughts


Ok, so being a film convention, I did meet some stars, so here's a rundown I'm calling 'Cock-Or-Not'. I'd also like some views as to whether that does sound like coconut, which was the gag.


David Tennant: Cock - Ignored my calls of 'DavTen' and looked unhealthily skinny. 


Dominic Cooper: Not - Had time for fans, and remembered names. Top boy.


Idris Elba: Not - Same as above, but absolutely stacked to the rafters making him nice and threatening at the same time.


The one who played Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter: Cock - Pushed passed me in a corridor, and didn't acknowledge my childhood crush I had on her. Yes, she was expected to know about that.


Jason Momoa: Cock - He may have been a nice guy, but wearing a shirt that's so far unbuttoned I could see his bellybutton, combined with Morpheus glasses and hair down to his bee-hind is not a cool combination. I had a nickname for him, which was Samoan Joe, but was too scared to mention it to him. 


And that concludes this two part venture into my weekend. I'm off to V Festival this weekend so you can guarantee I'll have an equally awkward weekend on my hands. 


Over and out.

Empire BigScreen Convention: A Lesson in Anger Management Part 1

I guess first off, I should explain A.) What BigScreen is, and B.) Why the need for anger management. Well:

BigScreen is a film convention that occurred the weekend of 12/14 August at the o2 Arena, with lots of new film footage, star interviews, panels, and exhibits. I offered to work there as a volunteer, and got the job, giving me free access to do (a little bit of) work.

Working at a convention like this naturally has it's downsides. It's a big thing to organize and is the first of its kind in the U.K, on such a big scale. This creates problems as not everything is going to go right. 


In my case, very little went right. Good for this blog, not so good for me.

Friday


I was put on the door to the largest screening. I had no idea what to do, and nobody was around to ask. Naturally, this instantly presents itself as an opportunity for utter chaos. It was. In this screen, there was a balcony, for the customers who paid looooads more for their tickets than anyone else. Ignorant to this, I began seating balcony viewers downstairs with the paupers. Within five minutes, it was looking like a throwback to 'Nam with people shouting and a petrified Vietnamese guy (he wasn't really Vietnamese, he was just the tech guy). Having realised my mistake, I thought that anyone with 'Kings row' on their tickets would have the best seats in the house, which I presumed to be the front row.


Now, at the age of 20 I should have realised I should never presume anything, as I sent 100 people to the wrong area. 


"Ok, so everyone I just sent upstairs...you need to come back downstairs...and all of you I've just seated...you're actually upstairs"


It was not a good start to the weekend. Nor was handing out 200 pairs of '3D' glasses that weren't 3D, but just dark goggles. 


More coming tomorrow


Over and out.

I need a new Muse

No, not the pretentious rock band, but something new to write about. If you read this blog regularly, you'll have noticed my average posting schedule was every few days. And recently, I've had trouble sticking to that. Which is totally my bad. But also the fault of the world. So here is a bumper blog of all the things I've been building up to talk about over the past week.

Changing Rooms


If any of you work in clothing retail, you'll understand the joy of changing rooms. A guy brings in a t-shirt we all know won't fit and professes 'I'm a medium though!', when in reality he was a medium two months ago before he discovered a deep love of KFC, Mountain Dew, and liquidised fat. Then we have to go and get them the size up. Or maybe two sizes up. When working the changing rooms at work, I like to keep them quite tidy, so I often go around and open all the curtains to ensure nobody has left a hanger, t-shirt, ripped-off-a-tee security tag, or something else of the sort around. Only, last week, they hadn't left anything in there as such...being as they were still in there.

I ripped open the curtain to find a slightly chubby Asian lad trying on a pair of jeans, where he was in the mid-way point of taking one pair off and re-applying the new pair.

(Basically, he was naked)

I was so shocked that I paused before closing the curtain only to hear him cry "...can you get me a size up" shortly after. I returned with some larger jeans and we never saw eye to eye after that. Eye to bum only. Oh dear.


Football


Ok, this was definitely a necessary talking point, so haterz of the beautiful game, scroll down now. In particular, I want to discuss the idea of Fantasy Football. 


And the crudest team names possible.


Here are some favourites I've heard over the past week, and the teams they represent:


Fritzl Palace (Crystal Palace)
Raul Moatdrid (Real Madrid)
Werder Breivik (Werder Bremen)
Inter Me Nan (Inter Milan)


and my personal fave

Real Betty's Hotpot (Real Betis)


If you here any gems, let me know!

London Riots


They're bad. They're evil. As far as bad stuff is concerned that's as far as I'll go. But good stuff? Seeing the people of London come together to clean-up and fight off the hoodlums? Great stuff. People on Green Street were apparently holding off attackers this morning, all banding together to protect what they believe in. And they succeeded. It shows how people can be strong when in the face of danger, which is something we all need now.


It's still worrying though. But, unlike every other shop in Romford this evening, Superdry didn't close. Apparently they were worried, but not enough to close. Instead they sent along a man who looked like Bubba from Forrest Gump and had a broken foot. Really instils confidence in you.


Over and out.

Jack and the Beanstalker

It's safe to say that, at least once a day, we have those awkward moments where we end up feeling like an absolute goon. Be it falling over a pile of shirts in the stockroom and planting myself firmly into a hoodie (luckily I was on my own at this point), starting a deep conversation with someone who wasn't actually talking to you in the first place (this time, I was drunk, and thought he genuinely wanted to talk about him losing his job to me. Instead of telling me to  'fuck off', I think he should have been touched), or in the case I'm going to talk about now, walking exactly the same route as someone for roughly a mile and having them speed up and constantly look behind them to avoid you. Creepy.

I mean, I didn't mean to follow her. I walked out of one comic shop and began walking to another. Naturally, to avoid competition, they aren't exactly close together, even in central London. I saw her in front of me and as she turned every corner, I realised I needed to go the same way. I can't blame her for getting creeped out. I'm a fast walker so it probably looked like I was trying to poorly chase her like a paedophile with a dodgy knee that can't run properly (just to add, totally not comparing myself to a paedo). She kept turning round and spotting me and the look on her face showed confusion and mild fear...maybe more than mild. When it turned out she was going into exactly the same comic shop as I was, I opted standing outside for a minute, but thought waiting for her outside to continue my stalking may have seemed a bit worse. I went in. I perused this weeks new releases, and went downstairs to see some other bits they had.


She was downstairs. Just the two of us. She saw me, and we did one of those 'oh no, we're walking toward each other, and we're both dodging the same way' things when she said 'are you after me?'


Naturally, my response was 'no, I'm not'.


"I didn't mean it" she whimpered.


"....good"

Then a fat man came down. Then she left. I was clearly the more scared one at the end of this encounter.


Over and out.

P.s. Sorry for not being busy much lately. I've been busy doing absolutely nothing for most of the day, and even less for the other part. Life is a bitch.

Can'tCan'tCan't Kick the habit.

With a title like I've given this evening's blog, you may think it's about the tragedy of Amy Winehouse's untimely passing. As sad a matter as that is, I won't dwell on it, as I'm sure everyone needs a bit of a cheer up after the week that has gone by, so instead I'm going to talk about a more amusing addiction than heroin and cocaine.


Ham and sleeping pills.


Yes, you read that correctly. Over a cool ginger beer, Matt Hooton revealed to me that the sleeping tablets he 'needs' taste so foul when they touch his throat that he needed a way to try and nullify this. Cue various food stuffs. Now, absurd as this is, bear with me. First, he tried inserting the pill into a small cheese cube, which proved to really give him nightmares as the cheese kept on crumbling. Along comes cheese's natural ally, ham. So yes. Matt gets some ham and folds it around the tablet, ready for swallowing. How mad is that? Wham, bam, thank you ham, down in one. So, in a twist from the usual formula, I'm going to ask you, what unusual habits do you have? If any good ones come in, I might even write about them in my next entry. You can either comment on here, on facebook, or tweet me @_JackHart 


Also experimenting on a new style, I'm going to talk about this absolutely wild story I read on the web this week. 


http://ohnotheydidnt.livejournal.com/51987158.html

It's a tad old now, but it's a great story that shows no matter how big a star someone is, they can still have time to show how much they appreciate fans. 


Apologies about entries being few and far between recently, as my life has been a bit boring. If I were you, come find me and force something stupid or annoying to happen to me so that I can write it down in a comical fashion.


Over and out.

ChooChooChoo (most uninspiring title ever)

The East Coast trainline has become somewhat of a spiritual home to me. The £1.40 bottles of water that, although extortionate, don't exactly give you much of a choice as to go to a different establishment (although the prospect of 'back seat dealings' in a dark, dank back carriage where passengers are playing craps and clicking their fingers to a bassy beat). The odd toilet locks that leave you petrified that someone will walk in on you and your business. Even the plug sockets that don't have an on/off switch which annoys me and my slight OCD hugely. Having suffered a journey up to the Midlands with an annoying woman playing Bollywood at full blast through her laptop speakers (I was unable to engage with the lead character, possibly due to the language gap, but more likely due to a shoddy per-korma-nce), I was hoping for a better return journey.


Naturally, this was not the case. There I was, bright and early at Grantham station waiting for the 14.08. For half an hour, I mulled my coffee. Then, at 5 to two, horrow struck: I needed the loo. I was petrified I'd miss the train but just had to risk it. At five past two, I was out of the loo, and the train was on the platform, so I darted on. Perfect. But all was not right. A man was in my seat. 

"sorry pal, think you're in my seat there"
"No, I'm not"
I showed him my ticket

"That's wrong"
"clearly it isn't"
"I'm not moving"

This swung back and forth for a few minutes. Harsh words were exchanged. He was still sitting. I was still standing. Luckily, the ticket inspector arrived.

"This guy is in my seat mate!"

He looked at my ticket.

"You're on the wrong train"
".....ah"

The man sitting down took of his jacket. He made himself comfortable.

I made myself scarce. 

Over and out.

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Pre$ha

I've mentioned it before, but holy shit, retail workers can be on the wrong side of the sanity tracks. I decided that I needed a new pair of shoes, preferably something plain, maybe grey or navy, so my first port of call was Schuh. After the usual awkward pleasantries a girl asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. Remember this moment. This is where you say "No, just browsing".


I said "yeah, something plain, maybe grey or navy" to which she immediately dived onto her database to look for some shoes that matched my description. I had been lured into her trap like a moth to a flame and now I was committed. "Any price range?" she said. Oh god, now I'm ever further into this path to the till-of-no-returns. What should I say? "Oh, anything under a tenner" would make me look cheaper than a (insert whichever city you want here to avoid offence) on a night out. I went with a max of £30 which she must have thought was a paltry amount as her lip raised a bit as though she'd been offered KFC on a first date (not that I know that look...) when she wanted, at least, Nando's. I had no intention of purchasing the shoes she then found me but I decided there was no way to bail now, so she brought them out.


I admit, they were a snug fit. I was being persuaded, slowly, to part with my cash, but I then snapped back into reality. What was I thinking? I couldn't afford these. But how would I get out? It felt like running away from the altar on your wedding day, but I had to. As soon as she took them up to the counter, I'd dart for the stairs. "Yeah, leave them behind the counter, and I'll head up in a sec", I said tying my shoes. Now was the moment! I was away! Halfway up the stairs, I could almost smell the freedom. 


"Excuse me?"
"Yeah?"
"You er.. forgot your wallet"
"...right...thanks...I was just going to get money out for the shoes y'see"
"...right"


I never came back.


Over and out.

MnMnM

I don't quite know how to put this. I'm sure that's how the business moguls behind the popular candy brand started their pitch, too. Sitting their, drinking their Sunkist and eating their free sweets, and an idea so crazy, so unexpected comes to them, that they feel destined to take this idea as far as it will go. And then expand it. It started as small bags in the local Tesco. Then advanced to Waitrose. Then got their own online store. Normal store. Theme park. Football sponsorship deal. Travel company. Petrifying. 


M and M's now have their own physical shop at Piccadilly Circus. A shop that is dedicated to selling everything that is either M or M. I know what you're thinking, what can they possibly sell other than the sweets? This was my first thought, but I was swiftly told 'there are three varieties y'know'. Right. Three. Well, I appreciate the number of possibilities that peanut, crunchy, and normal create, but does this really mean that the West End needs a three-floor behemoth to stock them? 


As much as I couldn't bear to go in to such a strange place (I was pretty skint) I looked through the window into the pit of colours and kiddies to see teddies, phones, clocks, everything with those annoying colourful New Yorker arseholes on it than one could ever dream of. In a time of such economic downturn, who in their right mind thought this would be more profitable than a small shack that sold M and M's and a few novelty touristy items like a keychain with a crudely painted phonebox on the end or a t-shirt that says 'my parents when to London and all they got me were three different varieties of M and M's, a clock featuring said company's mascots, and this crappy t-shirt'. It would need to be a big t-shirt, but if you're buying them a bucket load of sweets, you can expect they'll probably fill it. I can even tolerate a one floor shop, but three floors? The rent must be bloody extortionate, and the lighting and so on. Utter madness.


But then again, I don't know why I'm complaining.... I kind of fancy some M and M's now.


Over and out.

"It'd be rude not to..."

As far as formal do's go, I've not exactly got a good track record. When I was at the premier for 'The Dark Knight' a few years back, I took the free champagne to a new level (that level being 'Nobody should have this much champagne and then watch a film in the iMax as it will have disastrous effects on your viewing ability). During my year 13 prom, being one of only two people on a table of 6 that enjoyed a glass of wine with my meal (and, coincidentally, without a meal too) I felt it my civic duty to not let such wine go to waste. After all, wine isn't wasted when your getting wasted, or something like that. Last night, fate was set to intervene yet again.


Whilst sitting in Waxy O' Connors, a nice Irish pub just off China town, and watching another enthralling game of tennis, Empire Magazine sent out a tweet for a competition for five lucky winners to watch a VIP screening of gritty prison drama 'The Escapist' at the Soho Hotel. Winners would be greeted with a canapé reception for them and their guest and a QnA session afterwards. This sounded to good to miss and when Pedro arrived to meet me, I received a reply letting me know I've won two tickets. Fantastic.  


Now bear in mind, this was around 4pm. I had already had a couple pints, and more were sure to follow before the showing. We arrived at the hotel looking a tad more casual than most other people and immediately I became incredibly self concious. I was not in my element here. Waiters were darting around the room offering us beers, duck spring rolls, mini fish and chips, and a strange paste that I decided not to touch, or eat for that matter. I had had a few of the delicacies (note: a lot more than few) when the waiter joked 'It'd be rude not to' when I was opting to take a further duck spring roll. Oh god, I thought, now I had to. I don't want to offend this guy, he had a waistcoat on, and all I had was a little badge that said 'admit one' on it. No way out. There he was, tray in my face, glaring me down with his simply quacking food luring me in. I'd had a few beers, how much more can a man take? I'm on the edge here, I thought, but valiantly battled on for just one more spring roll. 


Then it happened. In the plush arrival room of the plush hotel on the plush carpet, I had dropped an entire pot of tartare sauce off his tray, ruining the carpet and peoples condiment choices in one foul swoop. Pretty much everybody saw, too. I was ashamed, not only because I quite fancied the sauce myself, but I'm pretty sure a dab may have gone onto a mans shoe, which I opted not to notice.


"sorry..." I muttered
"...it happens all the time" lied the waiter.


In a moment of clarity, the Irish man from Film 2011 began to talk, and dragged everyone away from Tartare swamp to the screening room. Thank god for that.


So there I was. Drunk, but full, in a posh hotel in Soho. The curse had come true yet again, and had fulfilled its destiny. Safe to say though, the film was fantastic, and they gave us copies of the dvd, so I can lend it to anyone who wants a watch, which was lovely of them. So yes. To sum up, don't do what I do and get drunk at posh events. It's never smart. But then again, neither am I.


Over and out. 


Or maybe I should say, Tar-Tare?

Schnell! Schnell!

Ok. So it has become apparent to me that I have a fair few entries that revolve around running. Apologies for that, as I'm sure they do all bore you, but I feel the need to tell you about one more running mishap. 

Around this time every year, the local secondary school bring over about 20 German exchange students to experience the Cranham way of life. This year is no different, and as I ran over the bridge into Cranham, there they all were waiting at the bus stop. Only, I didn't know they were Germans. I just thought they were 20 teenagers who happened to also be wearing similar running gear to mine, which although seemed strange at first, I thought soon after that A.) I look dashing in my running gear (pun intended) and B.) it was a nice 'noon for a run. As I ran past, on the opposite side of the road, one of the assistant teachers, who was clearly English and just along for the ride / potential German date, began flagging me to come over. I had my headphones in and was intrigued, so I crossed. I'm sure you can see where this is going. 

I was looking at the Germans, puzzled. They were looking at me, puzzled. The assistant teacher was looking at me, expectant. I took my headphones out. I told her I was English. She told me my English accent was good. I told her it was because I was, in fact, English. A small German boy backed this up by saying 'I have never seen this girl in my life', which showed that his English needed work, but made the teacher realise her mistake and awkwardly tell me to get on my way. Now I promise never to write about running again. Unless I have to. 

Over and out.

WinkWinkNudgeNudge

Winkler


Some people say that winks are a bit gay. I disagree. I think acknowledging someone with a wink is a pretty slick thing to do. It's effortless. Blam, eye closed and reopened in, quite literally, the blink of an eye. When I handed a CV into Superdry a few days ago, the guy who I handed it to responded with such an accurate wink that moved at the speed of a Puma on steroids, that I was blown away. I bloody wish I could wink like that. Why is winking a skill that is gifted only to a unique few, much like being able to do that hand thing out of Star Trek? Why can't everyone be as badass as famous, manly winkers such as Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones, Jeff Bridges in True Grit (ok, so he has an eyepatch, he still winks!), and the robot at the end of I, Robot? Where is the wink for the average Joe? Why is it that, when I try and wink, the right side of my face decides to cut out and leave me looking like some sort of half-grinning pervert. I'm 20 and it's still something that I haven't come to terms with.


Oh well. 
;)

I can do it on a keyboard.


Jobsworth


So, I got a job. Superdry in Romford are now the proud owner of a me. As far as interviews go though, it was a strange one. Did you know Superdry was originally spawned by two English chaps in peaceful Cheltenham? News to me, which didn't go down too well after I professed that I was aware of its ancient Japanese origins. It does say 'JPN' in big letters, after all. 




Over and out.

"Smile for the camera, now..."

As I perused a busy Lakeside shopping centre earlier on this afternoon, it came to my attention I needed (/wanted) a new pair of shoes. The current pairs I owned were all a bit garish, so a new, less colourful pair, were definitely on the cards. As I strolled into Schuh to find said pair, I was greeted by an enthusiastic "Hi, how are you?" "erm...yeah, ok thanks", I replied as I walked towards the Vans. I had a look. My fancy was not tickled, so I opted to leave. "Bye, thanks for coming, see you again soon!" beamed the smiling shop assistant.


Am I missing something? Why is everyone so happy? Well, okay, that's wrong of me to say. There could be any number of reasons. They could have won the lottery, but only won enough to go on a cheap night out where they can only afford Carlsberg, and so still had to work the day job. Or found out that Asda are yet again doing cheap Ben and Jerry's (I'm not guaranteeing that as fact though). But in particular, shop assistants. A hello is fine, nice even. But some of them treat you like you're a long lost relative who they haven't seen for ages and happens to be rich.

"Jack! How are you? SO glad you've chosen to shop in HMV, really I am, is there anything particular you need today? I'd be more than willing to delve into the small cabinets under the CD racks and have a look. Anything? Anything? Please let me help!"


As someone who used to work in retail, I know that managers ensure you greet the customer when they walk in. My weapon of choice when I was planted at the front of store was always a "hey man, how you doing". Notice the lack of question mark. It shows I acknowledge your presence but don't give a shit as to how you actually are. They know that, I know that, they know I'm there to help, everyone's happy. Not like those I saw today. If I'm honest, it put me off a bit. Greet me at the door if you like, but that's it. Having some fake-caring teenager at the front of store just lets me know I'm being watched. And I don't like that. Especially when I'm browsing the underwear section of Debenhams.


That was a lie by the way.


I prefer BHS.


Over and out.

Dew I know you?

As far as days go, today was not one of the best. I lost a job I haven't started yet. I found out I need to retake an exam even though I passed. I had to pay £1.45 for a Capri Sun. All painful events in downward spiral. I could moan for hours about these events. But no. Instead, I'm going to discuss the polar opposite. For this day wasn't full of bad. Instead, it had some good tossed in there for good mix. Like the unhealthy stuff in a salad, helping you have a nice meal and feel all healthy, all at once.

Pulling the usual 'sorry mate, can I just pop out of the station for the toilet?' trick when buying the Kings Cross to Upminster single left me free to explore the West End and visit a shop I'd heard about that sells all sorts of special (note: sugary as shit and not legally sold over here) treats. Due to a shop in Hatfield, where my uni is, selling Mountain Dew Original for 60p a can, I've developed somewhat of an addiction for the stuff and was hoping that this den of debauchery may have some of the other flavours. 

They did. Four different ones. All with a different zing (note two: probably just different amounts of sugar/goo from a Giant Worms tail like Slurm). Having hastily purchased one of each, and strolling toward Orbital Comics, I cracked out the first....then second...third...and finally fourth. I felt a little bit 'light' reading through a potential comic I may buy (/would never buy but fancied a read regardless) and the strangest thing happened. I mean, I'm not wholeheartedly saying this was the cause but my hayfever dissapeared. Not there at all. Nor is it now, at 8:05pm as I write this. I'm considering marketing my new found cure to Mountain Dew. There's probably laws protecting such a sugary concoction, but it's worth a punt at least. 

Besides, after it's worn off, I'll probably be a sneezing mess again. 

Over and out.

P.s. Do me a favour and follow this link:

http://apps.facebook.com/greenpoll/index/band/id/128

and vote for the Fifty Fours. All you need to do is click vote, so go and do it. You can even have a listen to them when you do it, how about that! So off you go. Buh-bye.

"Randy!"

All Washed Up

On Saturday, I decided I'd go out for a light jog before a night out in Camden. Being as my running shorts didnt have a pocket, I could only hold one thing, meaning I had to make the ultimate choice: Powerade or Ipod. Naturally, to keep me sane for 3 miles, I opted for the Ipod. 

This proved to be an awful choice as the heat on this Saturday afternoon was sky-high, and by the time I reached the top of Avon Road I was ready to collapse. But next to me, I saw an unlikely aid appear. 4 lads in a Corsa with a Super Soaker. Perfect, they'll shoot me, cool me down, and I'll be ready to go, and they'll think they're causing me to get all wound up. Here we go, I thought... Except it didn't happen. I looked at the passenger in the eyes as he realised how I was shrivelling like a prune and double bluffed me, instead choosing to leave me high and dry. The bastard. As I carried on slugging it home, I had to admire his dedication what he was doing, even though I was probably as red as the car that was so kind as to not soak me. 

Then the car came back round, and he shot me in the face with it. The bastard.

Over and out.

P.s. yeah, not been blogging much recently. I've been playing a LOT of Fifa. More to come this week...

The dangers of having a festival on your doorstep.

Ok. So not literally on your doorstep. Space, amongst other things, would be an issue. But 10 minutes away. So practically. Anyway, as amazing as it sounds (and was), there are issues. Events at our student union are either rappers, rnb artists, or of other genres that don't dunk my biscuit. When a half decent artist does roll into Hatfield, it's often dead as nobody has heard of them. When something like Slam Dunk festival (www.slamdunkmusic.com) rolls into our merry SU, it's time to make the most of it. Which is exactly what I did. Via the medium of alcoholic beverages.

By 4 in the afternoon, I was plum tuckered. The combination of an almost empty bar in one room, knowing a girl behind the bar which meant getting doubles for the price of singles, and ludicrously cheap bevvies dotted about the joint meant that I turned from sober student to drunken debaucher in a really short period of time. It doesn't help that, when in a drunken state, attractive bar staff can work their money grabbing tactics on me with no troubles.

"I'll have a JD and coke please"
"double? it's cheaper than two singles"
"I guess it is. Yes, a double"
"Would you like to donate to the staff tip pot?"
"Yes. I would. Here is a pound"

This was just one of many disastrous events that occured throughout, such as partying with a man triple my age during The King Blues' set, getting slightly confused when a girl from Front magazine was looking at her friend next to me and me thinking she was infact looking at me and performing a really camp wave, and talking to a man who claimed to be Senegalese and West Ham football player Demba Ba, regardless of the fact he wasn't nearly the same height or build. Or skin colour. I would imagine that this is a sign I should control myself a bit more. But then again, I wouldn't get to party with an old man, a Senegalese international striker, or get blanked by attractive girls. All of which are magic moments.

Over and out.  

The pain is a lie

Listen To Key Words


Last Friday, I went to the dentist. I had a 'minor' filling. I was required to come back the following Monday for a 'larger' filling. I thought, "what's the difference, right? It won't hurt anymore than the last, surely?"

"Would you like some painkillers?"
"I'm sure I'll be fine"
"If you look like you are in agony, I'll stop"

Agony? Strange choice of words. Why not 'slight discomfort'? Or 'little niggle'?


Apparently because having a drill go to work on your molar is not just slight discomfort. Or a little niggle. It is absolutely agony. I mean, I know it is a DRILL going to work on my soft innocent teeth but holy shit, is it painful. As if I cheated on Snow White and she told her Seven Dwarves to get some sweet, sweet revenge on just a single tooth.

"Did it hurt?"
"it felt...funny" (I wanted to retain at least some male credentials here)
"yeah. I drilled your tooth away"


Sickness AND pain now? Thanks doc.


1.21 GIGA...What?


Back to the future 3. Arguably the worst of the three. Sitting watching it on Sunday for the epic final scene, I was shocked as I remembered just how lame it was. Which is very. And then I was shown this by Lucy Bond. And shit got triple as weird:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zq5-6PkVGCg&feature=youtube_gdata_player

seriously, what the hell is that? What is he even doing? I could understand if he was having a pretend tug or something, but a weird 'Neo from Matrix 1' gesture? Before The Matrix even came out? Answers on a postcard/comment if you please.


Over and out

Apocalypto

Pillowcase Blues


They said today was going to be the apocalypse. By they I mean some Hippie from the Southern States of the US of A. About as reliable a source as the Daily Star. But it didn't stop facebook and twitter jumping all over it and cracking some of the worst gags known to man, e.g. People are making Rapture jokes like there's no tomorrow... ha. But I honestly believe that here, at the end of Comet Road, Hatfield, the end of time has generally arrived.

It's five to eight. PM. Since 7am this morning, an alarm that sounds like a fire engine with Delhi Belly has been pounding away about 100 yards from my window. Alright, I got up at eight for breakfast, but every time I go back upstairs, it's there. Haunting me, like a lazy RingWraith with a hangover. Right now, I am worried for my ability to get to sleep tonight. Will it still be there? Probably, it is a Saturday and who wants to come and sort out an alarm when National Lottery Who Dares Wins with Nick Knowles is on (I totally love this show by the way). It's safe to say then, that it will be there. Piercing my ear drums. All night. And then I remembered the James De Gale fight is on. And everything is right in the world.




Dentist Disaster


Nobody likes the dentist. I don't. I love Pomegranate juice, and the weird Polish lady tells me not to have so much of it. How dare she keep me apart from my one true love in the juice world. But when you're laying there in the chair with a light brighter than the sun beaming in your face and two metal poking sticks hanging out of your mouth and the dentist starts asking you what you've been eating, how the hell are you supposed to respond?

"ugggwerghh"

"I don't understand you"

"I don't understand why you think I can talk when I look like an mouthy Edward Scissor-hands."


Not that she understood that. It was more of another "ugggwerghh".


I think she then purposely tried to make the check-up more painful and humiliating by trying to get me to spill the mouthwash out of my mouth onto my tiny bib she had given me. This failed. She wasn't beating me today.


A little bit dribbled onto my sleeve though.  


Over and out.