'Oh my monkey. You went to the gate,' was the consoling response of my girlfriend as I started telling her about my night out on the town. Why are you sounding so concerned, I thought. I had a really a good night. It turns out that metaphors for drinking can often be misleading.

Our Saturday night started with dinner at Zen, just off ul. Świętorkzyska, where my girlfriend and I dined on what seemed like the cheapest meals on the menu. (I stand by my belief that there is nothing wrong with that, I'm not shelling out 70zł for a meal when I can get a perfectly good one for 30zł.) After dining in the poshest restaurant I've visited since I arrived here (where there was a distinct scarcety of clientelle, all of which were at least 10 years older than us), we parted ways. I was to go drinking (to the gate apparently) with a newly made, English speaking friend.

'Have you ever drank in a place like this?' Asked my friend Rob. We were stood outside of a ministry of some sort, in the middle of the city. 'Well not quite, we used to drink in bus shelters back home. And that was a few years ago.' I responded. We picked up some super cheap, super strong lager from a shop and stood in the cold, drinking awaiting the arrival Rob's friends.

Within about fifteen minutes, the first of Rob's friends showed up. In a black Jaguar (an S or X-type, I can't tell from the front, as the label is on the back). 'It's his Dad's,' Rob said, reassuringly. I've been somewhat confused by the slightly alarming difference between the rich and poor of this country. Exiting the car, in shirts, jackets and skinny jeans, my apprehension of going to a Ghetto Blaster night at 55 (in my own jacket and jeans) was subsided. Hell, I might even fit in, I thought to myself.

About four or five cans later we were visited by some more friends, and then some more friends in a blue car, with a distinct label on the side of it: Policja.

'They can't do anything really. We're all 18,' was Rob's comforting advice. It turns out that public drinking and visits from the Old Bill tend to go hand in hand with each other. 'Plus Adrian knows these guys,' added Rob. I was still a bit nervous to hand over my British passport, half pissed and barely knowing the people I was drinking with. Ten minutes later the police were gone and we were on our way to 55.

Situated in the Palace of Culture in the centre of Warsaw, I wasn't surprised to find a massive queue streaming out of the club, as we arrived at about 23.00. Using our British charm, Rob and I strolled up to the door. 'Twenty, right?' I asked in English. Apparently that's enough to get you to the head of the line in Poland. In the right places, I'm sure.

55 was exactly as I expected that night. Folks of my age, younger and older, dressed in the attire you'd find in the pages of Vice or on an episode of Skins. Neon t-shirts, skinny jeans, plimsolls, the job lot. The music was just as fashionable. Jesus, this whole city is more fashionable than the culturally retarded town of Newquay that I hail from.

Being English (and having no cigarettes, as I left them in my coat) afforded me the chance to meet lots of new people. Cool kids smoke: fact. All of whom I cannot clearly remember, as by that point I was completely trolleyed. Either way, I know for sure that I was having a good time. Before I knew it, it was around 4am and my friends were looking to head home. Not wanting to be stood around like a lemon, I followed them to the door, safe in the knowledge that when I would wake the next morning I would be feeling infinitely worse.

Blah blah blah, my internet doesn't work. Blah blah blah, the universe is against me. I have written reems and reems of Word documents about how everything seems to be pissing me off. After banging my head on my cabinet for the second time today, I think the best thing to do about it is shut the fuck up and get on with being dicked by the universe.

Plus, if this is all I write on the subject, when it fails to post I shouldn't be so pissed off. Man, I need a smoke.

I’m not going to let this get to me. Or at least that’s the plan. I’ve got an hour between students at Peritus and need to find a way of occupying it. I decided it was time for a change of scenery, so instead of going to Globalisation Café (a.k.a. w biegu café on ul. Marszalkowska) I headed for Traffic Club on ul. Zgoda. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of going for coffee and cigarettes (as well as internet access) at Traffic. They even have English newspapers.

Giant steel gates blocked the front door of the shop. I deciphered a sign with ‘11’ on it as ‘Store closed til 11, staff training,’ or something to that effect. Sod it, I thought and headed for my usual haunt. A lady stood waiting at the counter was completely indifferent to my call of ‘przypreszam’ (excuse me) and stood impassively as I bundled between her and a chap sat on a stool opposite (who did hear my attempts at social manners). Turning to go upstairs to the seating area, I was met by something I assume means, ‘Upstairs is closed at the minute.’ In need of coffee and a place to write (now with a new subject to tackle) I find myself in a coffeeheaven. However, I don’t know how to connect to the network here. By the time this is finally posted, I shall be back at my flat in Solec. [Yes, I'm now sat at home, playing poker as I post this.]

The irony is that this series of misfortunate events was going to be the topic for today’s entry. It’s just that I’ve had a fresh set to write about. My days are filled with things not going as planned or the way I’ve expected. For example, I can predict the exact time of buses from my stop at Metro Politechnika. They depart at the exact moment it takes me to get to the crossing on the other side of the road. It’s like the trains are scheduled precisely; so that as I ascend the escalator to the street I can have a full view of my bus approaching the stop, stopping for passengers, leaving the bus stop and then stopping at the traffic lights that I cross to get to the stop that it has momentarily departed from.

It’s these kinds of things that happen like clockwork that I find myself consumed by. My task is not to be deterred by this constant barrage of bad luck. (It’s like playing poker for an hour and getting dealt 7-2 off every hand. Ironically, this bad luck doesn’t seem to affect my poker.) I have to remind myself every day that: Isn’t it a little odd that despite my bad luck, I’m receiving it in an Eastern European city? The same city that has: found me enjoyable and well paid work, a cool flat (that I pay considerably low rent for) and oh yes, the most insane, intelligent, funny and beautiful girl in the world? Yes, it is a little odd.

I have to remind myself of the amazing things that I have in this town. Because I’m the kind of person that lets missed buses, poor internet connections and social interactions get on his nerves. Essentially, I need to let shit go and focus on the good shit. Because my shit is the best.

Fuck knows what I may have written if McCain won.

Ok, so now I'm back in the flat I can write a few more words without anyone staring at me. (People seem to stare at me, don't they know it's rude?) I've had a couple of classes and some lunch and I'm feeling at least 48% better than I did when I wrote the first bit at around 10 o'clock this morning. In fact, I'm in such a good mood I'm going to stick a picture up (it's been a while).




How can one be unhappy when high street banks up and down the high street have giant images of John Cleese? A reliable source has told me that he appears on television commercials speaking in Polish. Now that's a good work ethic. I hope it inspires me to learn Polish a bit quicker. You never know when you might need to say, 'To nie jest martwy, to śpi.' = 'It's not dead, it's sleeping.'

And while I'm online I can check the results of today's Mystery Chocolate Game. The Mystery Chocolate Game is something I've devised to quell both boredom and hunger. In the supermarkets here, they have a massive range of different chocolate bars (quite cheap ones too). However, due to lack of image/English language labeling or flavour, I don't know what I'm buying. Today I had one that on the label looked like caramel, but didn't taste like caramel. Or anything else to that matter. So before I check the trusty Poltran website, I'm going to say Zabajone is... pineapple.

I don't know why, as I know pineapple is ananas, but it's the closest taste I can think of.

Shit, Poltran can't help me. Maybe this will: Wikipedia.

I'd never have guessed that.

The incompatability of technology with myself is starting to prove itself a reccurrent nuisance. For the past few days this has not just been limited to digital technology. The stove at Olivia's place refuses to light when I require it, rendering my need for caffeinated beverages thwarted. The toilet, when required to flush does not, leaving whatever I've left behind on display, ready to greet the next user of said toilet. Stopping into a coffee shop to use the services of both coffee and wireless internet access (because the wireless at Olivia's refuses to play nice with me), my enjoyment of the latte is diminished by the prospect of another incompatible wireless network service.

Facing said problems, my only outlet for frustration related ventilation is this Notepad that I'm using (with the honest expectation of an iminent system failure, leading to my laptop to crash). If it worked on Windows 3.1, it seems to work fine with me.

I should count myself lucky that I can rely technology to crash on me [the lights in the cafe just dimmed as I typed that]. To live in a world where I knew not of alleged high speed internet is a daunting image, that I trust keeps people in the third world and the 19th Century awake at night. That these technological sabotages only seem to affect things that exclusively affect my life, is also assuring. The train that I rode into town serves my benefit, but also that of the 1.7 million Warszawians. Which means that works just fine. The electricity that powers the lights, escalators, ventilation systems and communication devices of the shopping centre, seems to be working perfectly. This allows businesses to run smoothly, and the dozens upon dozens of security guards to stare accusitavely at me as I wander from shop to shop - the kind of glare that a dark skinned man with a backpack full of electrical equipment may face at one of the many transport hubs in my home country.

So what shall I do with myself while I wait for the technology to sort itself out? Well, there's not a lot I can do at the minute except wait. Type my angst ridden thoughts in a Notepad window. And maybe kill a few hours playing Minesweeper and Solitaire.

Fucking Britain, I can't escape its ineptitude even when I'm almost two thousand miles away. I shouldn't be surprised by my current predicament, we are talking about Her Majesty's handywork after all.

Yesterday, we decided it would be a good idea to head to the British Embassy to get some information on me living and working in Poland. The polite (or maybe not polite, I can't speak Polish) security guy told us that we needed to go to the British Consulate. At this point, I made a bet with Ol - 1zł says that the consulate send us back to the embassy.

So this afternoon we headed back into the city. First we went to the British Council, where the Polish girl at the desk misunderstood me and told me to email a CV if I wanted a job at the Council. After Ol's intervention, we found out that we had to go to the Consulate around the corner.

At the Consulate, or rather the reception of the building the Consulate is housed in, the security guard told us that we needed to make an appointment. How do we do that? He gave us a piece of paper with the London address of the Polish Embassy and a few website addresses.

Hmm...

Checking the website, which gives information on: recording a birth/death, retiring and applying for residency in Poland, I'm still a bit stumped. What if I hadn't brought my computer with me? Am I the first British person to come to Poland to work, ever? All these stupid questions. And no stupid fucking answers. Just yet.

Fucking Britain!

What a difference a weekend makes. It's Monday morning, in the last 72 hours I've gone from Stansted to Interzone, and after only two hours sleep: made it to Warsaw.

Friday: All the joys of low budget* (not including taxes, airport and baggage charges) airline travel. Somehow, I found myself asleep for most of the flight. One minute I was looking out to the clouds 30,000 feet above the earth, the next I see the tarmac of Łódż airport's runway through the window. The round of applause customary for Poles to give after a successful landing assured me that I was awake, alive and in Poland.

Saturday: To ease the pain of being dragged around the shopping centre Manafactura, in Łódż, Olivia decided that some drinks were in order. Two White Russians and two shots (apparently the standard measure is 40ml, we ended up with 50s, essentially double what I'm used to back home), made wandering around in circles looking for shoes all the more bearable. The booze also fueled my shock when I realised that this tram

wasn't any ordinary tram, but a modified road going tram. The dude who gets to drive it has the best job in the world: He drives from one end of the plaza to the other. After two or three minutes, covering about 400 meters at around 5km/ph, he stops for a cigarette break. That's it. Genius.

Anyway [I've just realised what time it is, and have to get a shifty on], in the evening we went to the TV studios to see the Klaxons.

The gig was different to any I've been to before. It was some Pepsi sponsored event promoting local music (with about a dozen bands playing a song each) with awards or something. What this meant was we stood waiting for about an hour while each of the bands collected their awards. Then through the soundcheck. All the while we could've been at the bar drinking, instead of standing like plums. Regardless, the Klaxons were kick ass. After their set, we wandered around deciding what to do, which meant that I could only catch a glimpse of Primal Scream. This didn't stop me from telling Bobby and Mani, 'Good work guys,' when I saw them in the VIP bar after the show.

Sunday: By the time we got back to the hotel and got to bed it was about 4am. We were back up at 6.00 to check out and get the train to Warsaw. Not getting any sleep on the hour and a half journey, we finally passed out when we got to Ol's place. Not content with showing me half of Poland in thirty seconds, Ol decided that we should go to the ballet. Facing an ultimatum of, 'If you get bored, I will rip your balls off,' I was a little surprised that I didn't find it boring. What with being a guy and everything I will use the phrase, 'I don't want to sound like a queer or nothing' but I really enjoyed it. Coming from Newquay, where the height of culture is renting a video and drinking a bottle of Lambrini, the ballet was really mesmerizing. How those guys bend that way is incredible. The only down side was being sat in the same section as a bunch of school kids, fucking kids. They deserve a slap. And seeing the male dancers junk through their sprayed on tights, that wasn't particularly pleasant either. But at least I could move my eyes from smuggled bananas to the camel toes on stage.

Monday: I'm now sat in a cafe, and instead of searching for language schools to approach to work for, I'm sat here writing this. Time to go.

Train time again. I'm sat waiting to depart on the 0925 to Stansted Airport. I never realised how busy Liverpool Street Station is, having passed it daily to and from Front.

I've just been to Fedlix's to have a last minute smoke. Not wanting to be caught as a drugs trafficker, I left the two spliffs worth behind. As a token of my appreciation for him having me stay, if not quite to plan.

Felix and Nick (whom I saw on Stepney Green) are going to be moving out in the next month, so they say. Whatever the plans for Christmas and New Year may be, it'll be cool to catch up with them on more peaceful surroundings.

Time to rest before the fun of checking-in and security. Looks like the poker is as close as it has been for a long time. And they've been going a lot longer than me.

Time to upsticks once more. I've been at the Empire for all of two hours, and not a lot has happened. This is hardly surprising. The announcer just before 0700 made a statement about this being the most hands at a final table (#384 is in play). God knows how long they've been heads up for. A lot longer than I could ever manage.

Alekhin seems to be dominating pot after pot at the minute. Which ever way Juanda moves, Alekhin has an answer, be it a reraise, check raise or a check raise bluff showing five high. With practically a 2:1 chip lead, it looks like this is going the Russian's way. And fair play to him. I'd have a moan about being young and poor, in the company of high rollers here at the Empire, but this guy is a year younger than me and is going to make some big money at some point this evening. He's even got the sweet Full Tilt hoody (send me one please) .

I've necked a comped cup of brown water, and now it's time to ride out to Whtechapel and get my shit from Fedlix's place. Given time for a brew and a smoke at his, I should be getting my ass to Stansted. I'm in Eastern Europe for lunch.

I left Newquay just after 20.25 last night. About an hour after I found myself waiting in the cold in Par, about an hour later in the company of a self confessed 'BNP Nut' in a smoky waiting room in Plymouth.

Just over an hour ago, I awoke to find that my legs did not work. No ordinary pins and needles, my friend, we're talking full on paralysis. Not the best way to start your day. After minutes of hitting and shaking, I summoned enough blood to my bones to manage going to the toilet.

Rolling into Paddington just before 06.00, I found an open coffee stand and manage to bag a grilled croissant and coffee for less than three quid. On its own the croissant would've been 2.84, so I guess I can't bitch about the state of the brown water, having paid a mere .15 English pounds for it. Still, shit coffee is shit coffee. I'm looking forward to better caffeine experiences overseas.

Having wolfed down the French breakfast, I turned the laptop on to see if the WSOPE Main Event was still going on. Kicking myself (I tried to get hold of my friend Chris to wager a prop bet on whether I'd make it in time for the conclusion of play), it appeared that the game was going healthily, heads up between Stanislav Alekhin and Full Tilt's John Juanda.

And that's where I find myself now, just shy of 07.00, watching the action over the balcony in the hub of Leicester Square's Empire Casino. It's a bit smaller than I expected, but hey, I come from the rich background of playing in college cafeterias. For before 07.00 on a Friday morning there's quite a few people milling about (as you'd expect at a major final. Come on, this is my first one), but the number of people watching outside of the cordoned off area numbers all but a dozen.

I'm assuming the lucky folk who avoid sitting with me in the nosebleeds are friends and family of Alekhin and Juanda. But going by the smell coming from my pocket, it's probably best that I sit here out of the action. I don't recognise any other folk down in the middle, not a single person from Dennis and (even more concerning) no pros to spot and/or bother. I guess (if I'm looking at the right people with laptops) I can see gsqwared and change100 from PokerNews.com. They're famous, I know their work.

Well that was a stoned calamity of Google map HTMLing. Although I'm quite impressed by the subtle irony of Barcelona appearing (quite a few times).

About three weeks ago my friends Duncan and Harrie decided, after a heavy night of drinking, not to drive around Cornwall on a surf trip, but to hitchhike to Morocco for a trip. This is their Facebook group. They've made it to Barcelona at this point in time. Quite handily.

If Dunc's previous camera work (Shooting The Breeze) can keep up to its high standards in the face of days on the road, with thieves and bird shit to be put up with, then this is going to make a hell of a film. As I'm sure the guys are having one hell of a good time doing it. If any two guys are going to make it to Morocco with fuck all cash or planning, it's going to be these two.

Third time lucky
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Well, that goes to show how computer illiterate I can be if I put my brain into it. I am in fact here

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and not

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here. Now my fingers are crossed so that works all right.

I'm still down in Falmouth
View Larger Map, wondering whether this Google map thing has worked or not not. Anyway, it's time to eat, no scratch that; time to write.

The day has been spent lazing about, smoking and watching TV and waiting on a delivery. Which has since arrived has led me to get off my abstract arse and write something. This trip to Falmouth has been a welcome one from my unwanted return home. Only three more nights in the county, four in the country. Getting baked with mates, it's a welcome situation.

Right, time to eat. And maybe study in a bit. But probably smoke some more.

Coming home. It's not something I'm too fond of. I can't say that I'm from a broken household, in fact, despite the years that I've had growing up by the sea with a stereotypical nuclear family (with the pleasures of compulsive gambling, alcohol dependency and manic depression), it would appear that I stand somewhere in the middle of the line of mediocrity.

I should be writing this update from somewhere in my nation's capital city. The ever so slight hangover bothering me should be the result of a night's celebratory drinking for completing two weeks at Front. It is neither.

Once again I find myself on the bus to Falmouth. The shit hit the fan in London. After a week (of a believed two week stay) with my friend Felix, I was ousted by his housemates. With little money and no friends to provide shelter, my only (feasible) option was to get the first train back home. It's been less than a week since this happened, but I feel that enough time has passed to assess my shortcomings. I'd like to think that I've calmed down somewhat as well.

...

I've been sat with my laptop (strategically positioned on my lap) for half an hour now and it seems that I still am not able to comprehend (or at least write about) what went wrong. The embarrassing fact is: I failed. I set out to do something and it did not work. My plans relied on the help of others and that was not provided to the extent that I expected. Whereas I was angry at those who put me in the position of failure (that's you asshole housemates) on Sunday, the truth of the matter is it is my fault for believing in anyone but myself. The irony is after fucking up to such an extent, I'm not sure I have my trust in my own abilities either.

I'm lucky though that I'm not reduced to a withering fool, curled up in the corner of some tube station, gripping on to my possessions. I'm lucky that someone believes in the world, and more importantly (to my selfish focus) believes in me. It's easy to forget what you're capable of when you don't do anything for so long, and I think that's been a problem that I've been facing in the last we.. Oh God, this has fallen into a JD from Scrubs kind of self assessment, wrap up summary. Let's make this a bit more Coxian:

Shit went bad. I foolishly thought I could rely on others. Through the help of someone that is not me (Ol, my love, so technically an extension of me) I found my way back home. The distrust of others (through my own, and those I have relied upon in this country) has become abundantly clear. This is why, in one week I will not be afraid to go to a foreign country to try again. I may not have such a grip on their language as I do on my own. But I have the vaguest belief that if I can have some time for and trust in people, I might just get some in return.

And lo the holiday was over. It was Monday. The day of work. The day of Workie Scum to shine. Or rather, keep quiet. It was deadline day. And his better sense told him to stay out of the way.

It had to come at some point, fucking London transport. There, I said it. I went there all right? After not getting too much sleep last night, a result of picking up some green, going for a few pints and then a few hours after the pub smoking what was left of the green; I decided to get the bus. 'Insert coins, choose ticket,' read the instructions. After putting in three pounds and not getting a single ticket out, I was a little bit irked. The only solution I reasoned, was to get an Oyster card from the station across the road. With three pounds for the card plus the credit I put on it, I was about ten pounds down and I hadn't even got on a bus yet!

The stupid ticket machine and trip to the tube station caused me to rock up to the bus stop once more at about 9.50am. 'Don't be late or we'll wet your chair.' I remembered from the instructing email from Joanna, the Editorial Assistant. Bollocks, I thought, dressed slightly like a homeless person (not the best fancy dress I've ever come up with) and considering a day spent with a wet arse or spent on my feet. '13 minutes,' was the claimed time of journey given by London Transport. At about 10.30am I got into the office. 'Nice fancy dress,' laughed Joanna. Good job I didn't stick the dress on, I thought. And took comfort in my dry, but slightly wonky office chair.

The day was spent doing remedial tasks. I've made a lot of tea and coffee. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll manage to remember who wants what. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll have more interesting tasks at hand.

I may be extremely tired and a bit hungry, but at least the hangover has finally gone. Gone too has the stress of getting to London and being unable to get hold of my friend Felix. Felix, who I had come up to London to stay with. I've just noticed that once again I have limited battery life, this may be another brief post.

Over a coffee at Waterloo, I managed to be contacted by Nick, Felix's house mate. After spending just over £6 on coffee and a pouch of tobacco, I lugged my backpack (clothes, computer, coat and everything) and my guitar to Euston where I met Nick. Instantly my mood picked up from hungover stress to optimistic relief.

The tube wasn't exactly fun (what with the luggage and the public), and by the time we arrived here in Whitechapel my bones and muscles were aching. However, since the cup of tea, glass of squash (which practically went down in one), a cigarette and an episode of The Simpsons, I am feeling much, much better.

The red light is on the side of my laptop, and I can't really be arsed to plug it in or carry on writing. I'm gonna get some rest, I'm going to be writing quite a bit in the coming weeks.

The following literature takes place at about lunchtime on Friday

The low battery light has come on. I don't have much time.

The adventure has begun. After Tuesday's decision by Harrie and Dunc to drive to Morocco, a slight alteration to the plan - they're going to hitchhike, and an afternoon of getting supplies in Salisbury, the mission is on.

I've just got on the 14.20 to Waterloo, which I'm taking as far as Woking. Dunc and Harrie have just set off from the station to go back to Harrie's to pack and then hitch to Woking. I wonder who will win this race?

The 'mobile' internet is as frustrating on a moving train as it is in a stationary house. One minute there are 2/3/4 bars, next there are none. Fuck possible causes of cancer. We need telecommunications dammit!

I've just received an email from Joanna at Front, giving me directions to the office and a few do's/don'ts. I'm going to have to do some fancy dress shopping tomorrow when I get to London. That or see if I can fit into Olivia's dress. Battery dying... Losing power... Khan!

It's way, way to late to write. Omelettes and cigarettes is all that are on write now/ This make sense later. I hope.

They have to sleep.

You know it's not good when you resort to smoking bits of stalk that you find on the floor in your room. Fortunately, tonight the bit of stalk was offset with a bit of green I found on my bedside table. It's been sat there for at least a month. I can't believe I've never noticed it, resting under my Brass Eye DVD.

The findings came as a relief, as I returned from an hour of busking in my usual spot by the art shop in Newquay. Wounds from last night's drinking were still apparent as I walked down the hill. Despite spending the afternoon laid out on the sofa watching US Open tennis and Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends, drifting in and out of consciousness; I was still feeling knackered at 11pm. Plus after last week's over emphatic singing (which resulted in the loss of my voice for a few days) my throat isn't getting the best recovery from the battery of alcohol and smoke that passes through it. Within the first song I knew I wasn't going to last long. A lozenge and some pleasant punters eased the first half hour by, but both had evaporated by the time I called it quits at around 11.45. With around enough money earned to buy an eighth, if I could only afford such luxuries.

On Wednesday, I passed two major milestones signaling the end of the summer. Before jetting down to Falmouth, I handed my week's notice in at Somerfield. To my amusal the managers were having a meeting when I arrived. Knocking on the door (which has a window in it, thus making they're presence in a meeting immediate to me), I was greeted, as a blind person or one with mental difficulties, with the observation: "We're in a meeting." Condescending tones, as store policy, added for affection. "We'll be done in an hour." Added to assert authority. "I can see that, I just need to give you this letter." I said, placing said letter on the table. I left with a grin of mirth, with the knowledge that I were to end this term of insult at the hands of middle aged, middle managers.

By about midnight on Wednesday, I decided to call it quits at the Q Bar. For the ninth or possibly tenth week in a row, nobody apart from myself made use of their Open Decks. For being the only fucker to play, I've been kept in casual employment on a free drinks all night deal. A deal that is pretty shit, in any cases, but especially so in my case of traveling over from Newquay to do so. Two jobs down in the space of eight hours. A personal best.

On Thursday, after a few hours of snooker and a few pints, I popped into Somerfield to pick up a well needed snack and my hours for the last week. In a repeat of last week's piece of managerial ineptness, I found that I had been given no hours. At around quarter to four, following a drinking and catching up session with my mate Harrie from uni, I decided to call in sick. Fuck them. If they're going to play nasty with me, I can play nasty with them. I would pay good money, and probably cringe at the possibility of hearing the drunken slur I left on the store's mobile's answerphone.

At about one o'clock. Minutes after the departure of Harrie and his friends from work. I received a call from Somerfield. (I was supposed to work at 12.30.) "Tim, you know you're supposed to be in today." Said the voice on the phone. "Didn't you get my message?" I asked in return. Apparently not. No surprise there then. A five minute chat with the manager, who I've yet to meet properly resulted in my explanation of the series of cock ups that has left me with my roguish opinion of the store. It sounded like Russell (I believe him to be called) had a hint of understanding of where I'm coming from.

And so with my only income being from busking, it's taken me til this afternoon to appreciate a simple truth. I'm a professional musician.

Checking my inbox for any word from Front (might have to just show up at the offices), I just had a comical misreading of one of my emails. It read: 'Win a trip to see where Iron Man was made'. I thought to myself, what sort of location is Birmingham for a holiday?

I'm this very second doing the live card dance. It's a term that I've just coined, as I pushed all in with K 10 and hit one of my live cards (matey had A 8) to survive. It's a pretty simple one, but to those not fluent in the poker lingo I can see how it'd possibly be confusing. Especially as I'm not really dancing. I'm lying down in bed, with my laptop resting on my crotch. But you don't know that. Ah balls, you do now. Never mind.

Talking of being fluent in things. I'm no where near fluent in Polish yet. I don't know if I've mentioned on here (cos I don't read it, I'm not quite that narcissistic to do that) I'm learning Polish, to aid my attempts in going over there, taking their jobs and shagging their women (well, one of them to be precise).

It's a little bit complicated at the minute. As I'm still in the first week of my four week course. I say course, when in fact I mean 'book'. Which is designed to be completed within four weeks. (28 lessons, 28 days in four weeks... They haven't met me before.) I've been at it [I haven't been 'at it', I'm on my own aren't I?] for (insert another live card dance) about ten days and I'm still get the hang of the first three lessons. I've even been getting help via MSN from the missus. The thing is, Polish, like most other languages in the world, has different genders of words (masculine, feminine and neuter) as well as different endings for words depending on their use in a sentence.

And they say English is the hardest language in the world to learn.

Bollocks.

I've been speaking and writing in English for fucking ages. It's a piece of piss. I can understand there are plenty of numpties out there who can't quite handle it (usually those of which it is their first language), but still, everyone speaks English. Therefore, it must be easy.

Stupid comments aside, I reckon after the next four weeks of studying (and I'm pretty good at it it, when I put my mind to it) and a few weeks of being surrounded by it it'll be łatwy. Easy.

It's now about 3.00am and I'm starting to wonder whether the coffee I had earlier was de-caff. And whether orange and cranberry juice mixes all right. It wasn't, and it does. My tournament has ended in success (after coming back from being short stacked 5 handed, and a marathon heads up against a luckbox). I think I'll have one more game and carry on studying. I don't have work til tomorrow evening.

Ok. So this one's called: The Best Feelings Ever.

I kind of drew up a rough sketch as to how to write this on the way back from the store. It's now 7.00am. Craig and the Old Man have gone to work. I've just trekked to the Post Office to get some baccy from the newsagents, to skin up. Full Tilt has been fired up. It's time again to write.

I came up with a startling observation on the bus. It's not the magnitude of your feats, but the degree in which you perceive them, that have the bearing on your overall stakes of happiness, and fulfillment. For example, on the bus, I found myself quite chuffed knowing that at my disposal was a sweet magazine, some sick tunes to listen to and the finest chocolate digestives that would never see a cup of tea. I was, essentially, overwhelmed with self adoration. I'd made it.

Which got me thinking. What else brings such feelings of achievement. Walking up the high street at 6.45 in the morning to get baccy to make a wee bifta is one. I confounded myself in a crapulent sense of well being by: buying an apple from the grocers and giving it to homeless chap and making a rollie for Jesus, the coolest homeless/guitarist type I've ever met. Now I wonder home, stoned and write. That's a pretty sweet feeling.

I thought back to yesterday. Seeing Lauren and the old women she lives with (Vicky and Annabel). And that I made the right decision to get out and live my life. Weird fuckers.

And that at any given point, I'm capable of being either: an elastic sharp witted tool, a grafter, a guitarist, a human boy that is constantly on the verge of breaking into song/tears because of the ridiculous state of happiness (tickets booked, ready to rock) and boredom (another month without her!). I'm in a constant limboid state. An emotional deep fat fryer. Don't ask me to explain that metaphor. I'm just hungry.

Eight words. Five more than the usual three, six more if you say it in Polish. But the effect is just as... [I've been drinking] effective.

Under the commands of the hottest, smartest, funniest (and the list goes on) girl to have ever walked the Earth: I appear to be writing this blog again.

But what the hell do I write about? If I try to write anything too impersonal I'm discounting the last two and a half months of my life. If I don't, I whore my private life out to the internet and an inaccountable (and probably small) amount of people. Time to follow the trends of contemporary culture, write about my life as it's the most important thing going on in the world today [see The Sun and Jade Goody]. Let's be a media whore.

Since my last post I've had approximately one more month in the company of my fine lady. All good reason for not writing (on here in any case) in my book. It's quite a time consuming business entertaining someone you can't take your eyes off. Writing a blog would be quite tricky too with an averted gaze. As for the last five days in which she's gone, I don't think I could manage to write anything substantial without a 'boo hoo she's gone' kind of context.

I say that, but essentially, I am still as pissed off that she (you, my only reader) has/have gone. For two months I felt alive. There were reasons to wake up in the morning, to go to work, to go busking, to eat, to do the washing up and of course to go to bed. The strange thing is, although I'm alone in England again, the reasons are still there.

They are not as immediate. They do not come into my store when I'm in the darkest of bad moods and cheer me up, they do not make me laugh by making stupid sounds and pulling silly faces, and all the things that an uptight, unpaid writer can write about, but won't, because that would be too easy... It's pretty simple: I'm completely in love.

So yis. I now have plans (of some sort) as to what to do with myself. Following the directions I've taken from getting a degree in the old journalism business I'm going to go to London to whore myself out (read: intern). After that I am going to go to Poland to be reunited with my lover. Then who knows. I don't. And that's how I like things. If I can manage to find work over there and adjust to a foreign way of life, fucking way to go. If not, I'll try and make a go of it in London. Has anyone ever heard of someone with one of them going nowhere in life [sic]?

But even if I wind up in a worse supermarket job, with two power crazed middle aged old women treating me like their manslave. I'll still be happy and have something to live for, I'm in love.

"You're watching World News Tonight, I'm some guy in London", "I'm some dame in Washington" and I'm Tim Horner in Newquay.

Nuts to writing anything inanely intelligent tonight. It's just gone 3.30am, I've got two Full Tilt poker windows open, I'm checking my emails, watching News 24 and writing this. Details can be obtained at a later date.

Hmm... Should've read my last post before I started writing this one. I have no clue as to what kind of state I left this Tramspotting convention. Ah flip, it must be late. BBC 2 has just gone to Ceefax. Seriously, I don't pay my License Fee to see random pages from the old Ceefax. I pay it so three middle aged men can arse about in foreign countries in expensive cars. I pay it to see highlights of national sporting figures failing spectacularly. I pay it so that when I occasionally listen to Radio One, I can hear Jo Whiley bang on and on for weeks about some shitty bands playing songs (probably not even their own) at some shitty free festival on the other side of this strange island nation.

I believe the last words written on this bad boy had something to do with me putting in a day's work at a cheese factory and DJing (?). This conclusion has been reached as I only seem to write on Wednesdays. Which as a writer is a bad habit I seem to have slipped into. I just have too many non writing related things to be doing now that I've left university. Like work in Somerfield (the latest of my remedial jobs, secured by the attainment of a degree in the media sector), busking to drunk people outside the kebab house in town, playing two tables of poker (well now one, stupid overcards not hitting) and quite enjoying the music that accompanies BBC 2's presentation of old school Ceefax (affectionately known as the poor man's Internet). I take back my previous rant. Despite the ire caused by Jo Whiley, the Beeb is pretty sweet. Fuck, this is starting to read like a normal blog. I think I've been paying too much attention to playing the cards. Actuall

It is at this point that the writer ingeniously re-re-raises a bullying big stack pre flop. The bully turns out to have Aces, which hold up against the valiant scribe's Jacks.

What I was about to say was: Actually, I think I better focus on the poker, as I've reached the final table - more words will follow. The irony that the break was going to occur, but occurred due to less fortunate reasons is appreciated (I grew up in the nineties, tale end of Generation X). Not quite as much as I'd like though. For clarity that's the enjoyment of the ironic situation I'm talking about, not the year in which I was born. Maybe I didn't get a chance to go and see Nirvana in their brief and awesome reign, but I get to be old enough to appreciate them and young enough to not have the burdens of... well, being old, owning a house, having a mortgage and kids.

Alas, I become aware of the rambling nature this prose has taken. The mission to avoid regular blogging standards (either boring, uncontrollably stupid or both) is achieved. And I think I'm starting to feel a bit sleepy.

Seeing as it's Wednesday tomorrow I imagine I'll be on here again. Hopefully not writing to drown out the sounds of friends having sex on the floor above, and hopefully with some more purpose. I might mention something that I've done recently or if you're lucky you might get some really stoned thoughts. (I got a 2:1 by getting baked. I also think it's worth mentioning that this has all been written in a sober stupor.) Three weeks on the lash. It had to end at some point. This one will do.

As I tap away diligently on my keyboard it dawns on me that I have yet to write a post about Glastonbury.

I guess, 'Got wasted. Smelled,' doesn't make for good writing. Nor good reading. It's been a few weeks now so I guess what memories I have have faded into the grey matter. Never mind.

I've got used to writing about other things anyway. Like poker. And the bane of my life that is technology. I'll stick to what I'm good at.

For reasons unbeknown to me (or the 3 network), my mobile phone has stopped working. This is quite a bother. For the reason that Orange are a useless excuse for an Internet 'Provider', I cannot access the Internet from my laptop using their 'Wireless' router. This is also a bother. I'm quite bothered.

My course of action in remedying this injustice is two fold. On the Orange front I shall do absolutely nothing. Except accept that trying to do anything will be a waste of energy and spirit. If you Google 'Orange broadband is shit' you'll be presented with numerous pages written by disgruntled consumers. You'd think someone at Orange would get the hint. Perhaps it's in their company mission to piss off every person in the UK. They seem to be doing a pretty good job of it. The mobile on the other hand. Well there's not much I can do right now except wait for my brother to show up with his 3 phone and figure out if it's my SIM or my phone that is fucked. Because that's 3's only answer to my problem.

I think I might start a premium rate tech support line. 'Switch it off and back on again. That's £29.99 please.'

Jesus, Full Tilt Poker, that's why I came on here. But why am I in Firefox putting my log in to Blogger? I don't know. Let's do both. It's what you're good at. We've seen that. There's evidence of that. Not sure if the evidence works for it or against it; but I'm pretty sure it's there. Damn, now he's gone with the music. I have to open my trusty DSS DJ program (for mixing and generally more fun options than iTunes and Windows Media put together).

The irony, DSS, for all DJs that are claiming Jobseeker's Allowance from the DSS. I should be. I'm seeking employment. I should get money for that bitch of a pasttime. Saying that, I've just come over to Falmouth to DJ in exchange for a night's worth of beer. It's not really work but it's a paid (in sorts) activity. If the amount I drank tonight is more than the bus fare I'm good. I think I'm good.

So yes, time to get writing on here. I'm not sure when I last put some words on this page. It must be quite a while as I've been preoccupied with much better things than writing. And that's quite a statement considering prior to this break from my blog, the only thing going for me was writing. The degree, the gauge of sanity. I love writing, even bollocks like this, but this is something else.

To destroy the illusion of one flowing stream of thought, I have to note a rather annoying fifteen minute pause in the writing that occurred between this paragraph and the last. I've been involved in a few hands and a little bit of banter via Facebook and MSN with Mags. The cunt.

What's been going on then? Well, I moved back to Newquay. Briefly stopping off at my folks' for a few hours; I've since been in the company of one unbelievably awesome young lady. This is why I haven't been writing. I'm either having fun, laughing my ass off or recovering from the two. Except for tonight that is. For reasons I've previously mentioned.

And I think that's about all I can manage for this evening. I promise I will write a generic music blog post about Glastonbury at some point, but I really can't be arsed to go into too much detail right now. Got cards to focus on.

Damn the cigarette holder doesn't fit a joint in it. That's about the only down side to it. The pluses are that it does keep smoke out of my face (I tested it while playing the guitar), it looks fucking cool and it was given to me by the most amazing, amusing, attractive and erudite (thank you Bret and Jemaine for that one). Ol also brought me over a load of foreign football shirts (I had no Summer til now, ta) and a sweet tie with a tank design on it. Amazing.

It's the first Monday back in Newquay, I have just posted my last post that must have been written at some point on Saturday. Sitting in front of the screen shouldn't be top on the to do list, but I've entered a two table sit n go and writing is seems like the better option to dumping $5 and going to the pub. I need to be fashionably on time.

Yesterday I left Falmouth and arrived in Newquay. As did Ol. I don't much feel like writing my private life over the internet (that's what photos on Facebook are for). But I will say it was good.

Anyway, my joint is running low, as are my chips. I've got a beautiful girl and a cold beer waiting for me in town. Good night.

Ah fuck it. This blog has had to be written in Notepad because my computer has reached new heights of base line slowness. I'm transfering a file on MSN and it seems to have completely eaten my meager connection speed.

Without the bunting or fanfare, this a landmark blog. Like all the good ones I'm writing it instead of seeing to more important matters. The landmark: my last post as a student of University College Falmouth. The more important matters: packing/tidying/eating.

There's an element of multi-tasking to my methods, as it turns out that the laptop did some update thing last night and every five minutes tells me to restart the system (which I can't do because I'm transferring files, keep up).

Last night was the last one in town with the guys and girls. Not my last night, that's tonight. But it was a good one and sad one equally. This morning we reconveined to have a final Wetherspoons breakfast together. We then went to Argos and got Casio watches (I've totally got in early on the trend. I got mine last year!). The circle is complete. I've graduated, I've had my farewells, now all I need to do is leave. Well, I need to pack and tidy up first, but I've explained that.

In a half assed bit of reminiscing, I've realised that I've learned quite a bit over the last three years. About myself, about people, about life and about writing. I'd never imagine a few years ago that I'd be able to sit at my desk (lying in bed) and bash out 500 words in a matter of minutes without having to add superfluous fluffy bits of excuses and padding to my words. Just stick to the point. The odd tangent is welcome but can be outstayed. Keep it sharp.

And I think that's a nice place to leave it. There will be more words by the Art School Writer in the future. Words of greater relevance, humour, insight (hopefully) that more and more people will read. That's where I need to head next, a platform with an audience. But as my transfer has just fucked up, I can let the laptop restart and get on with more important matters. Like getting out of this place.

It has been a joy, of immeasurable standards.

It seems like as good a time as any to do some writing. Since I finished the course, the writing has slowed down considerably. After about three months of non stop typing and thinking, I think it was time I took a week of or something.

Anyway, I got my results on Friday and I am rather chuffed with myself. My year of consuming more alcohol, drugs and general mishaviour (than the first two years put together) has resulted in me achieving a rather deserved 2:1. To think that had I applied myself fully I could've easily attained a first is quite an odd one, yet not one to bother me. I came here to get a 2:1 and have a good time (though maybe not in that order). As well as the drinking and partying I've also had a winter break in Poland, skinny dipped and bathed with friends, busked, laughed (a great deal), cried (not so much) and all things in between. This has been a good year.

I've spent the night at a party telling the same stories to people over and over again. What I did, what I'm going to do... I feel like an actor doing loads of junkits. It's slightly bizarre.

What is also bizarre is that I'm still up writing and playing poker at 8.45am. This after feeling and looking like death earlier, declaring my efforts to stay off the beer tonight (which I did, to an extent; wine and Jim Beam & Coke). I will start taking it easy. I need to. I have energies to be saving for more enticing activities this weekend. Perhaps I'll just donk out of this tournament and get my head down.

I'm doing this for doing this's sake. Tapping 'blogg' into the Address Bar didn't see the following 'er.com (+Ctrl Enter)' appear. Something is up.

I've got internet and I'm feeling like writing something. That's the top and the bottom of it.

Not sure if I wrote on here about t'internet problem (I think that's a suitable yet not cheesy opportunity to use Mr Kaye's addition to the English language), what with not having access to it. My 3 mobile broadband totally fucked me in the ass. Yes, I had to provide my own lube. Basically, what happened was: The dashboard thing that told me I was connected to 3 Mobile Internet told me I'd used 300 odd Mbs. I get a message saying I've used 30.37 (approx) extra. What is this message saying? I phone them up. 'You've used 303.7 Mb over my 1Gb limit and now you owe us £30.' Or something to that effect. Motherfuckers.

So that's how I've not been online often. The whole ending my degree has helped to keep me away from the glare of dull LCD displays.

Why did I come on here? Oh yeah, to write. I'm a bit stoned and I think that's why. But now Mags has put Blazing Saddles again and my attention has again drifted. Good to be back on here, however shortly.

Damn swine the computers. Or computer, as in the special needs child of a computer I am using. It appears that running Firefox with three tabs open and trying to download a file (all of 2Mb big) is too much to ask. Why is it that as technology gets better, faster, smaller, cheaper (that might have something to do with it), it also becomes more irritating?

That's a bit of a throw away thought at the minute, for I have no brain power for those sorts of debates. No debates. I have minimal functionality in the noggin departments at best of times and considering I'm just starting a fourth day of end of college celebrations, I wouldn't expect any deep thoughts for a while.

Right, I'm just rambling now. I'll blame it on the tennis. Too much time in the sun. People with surnames beginning with X and ending in J. No, I'm just looking for excuses now. Blogging for blogging's sake. I know. I'll put some pretty pictures up. Cheers Ol x.



There we go: something to write about. It had to happen sooner or later. I've been trying to find where I post all my stuff online, so it can be linked to on here. Windows Live Space or SkyDrive or something to that effect. Having three Hotmail accounts isn't making it any easier either. I've found folders of college files but not Tramspotting ones. Where did I put it last? I must've had it around here somewhere. Click, no. Click, no. Click... yes. Right. If that's worked properly there should be some sweet pics on here, which means my job is done and I can shower off the sweat and smell of defeat from tennis.

God damn, I shouldn't have spoke bad about computers or any product associated with Bill. Bloody computer karma has just kicked me in the balls, making me wait five minutes to upload an MP3 that doesn't even work. Arse. No music today. Haven't got time to be fucking around with this. I've got English students to be getting drunk with.

Two posts in two months. Anyone would think I've had things to do.

Turns out I have. Since Friday I've been making the most of free time. Friday was the final deadline for college, and despite consuming a large amount of alcohol/others whilst working my ass to the bone over the previous fortnight, it's quite pleasant to drink without worrying about work.

Hell, it turns out that I haven't had five minutes to drag my sorry cursor to my 'Blogger: Dashboard' button. It's been some quite consuming work. I'd better get a decent grade now.

Anyhoo, it's way too early in my day at this very moment. I've awoken on a sofa to some pretty boring talk from England players about Wednesday night's game against the USA. I suppose there isn't much exciting to talk about prior to such a big game. Can't wait for the press conference ahead of the friendly against the mighty Trinidad and Tobago.

I was gonna start putting a bit more effort into my posts. A spring clean as you would. Perhaps now I've got some time to think to myself for five minutes, five hours, five months, five years (still haven't quite got over finishing the degree)...

The point was: I'm gonna try and make an effort. Get some pics and music up here. Make it look like a decent blog (no point in writing decent copy if no one is going to read it). Make it a decent blog. So here are Today's treats, a poster I pinched off the internet which needs some slight detail editing (i.e. make it for my party) and some sexy tunes from the Sexy Party's playlist.


Alfredo Luna - Claudine 69
The Herbaliser - Sensual Woman
Malcolm McLaren - About Her
Justin Timberlake vs Metronomy - SexyBack (Tylerfedchuk Indie Edit)

The television set is looking more and more appealing. My attention is flickering between it and my computer screen. That doesn't seem to be just now, but for the last few weeks. Anything seems to grab my attention more than the reasons for being sat in front of the laptop. Not good when you've got a fuck load of college work to do.

God, I can't even be arsed to write this. My blogging and writing seems to be at an all time (well, not all time, I'm pretty sure I couldn't write this well in 1989) low.

To quote Chris from Skins once more, 'Fuck it'.

Two weeks, no writey? Not on here I'm afraid. Been way too busy last minuting my dissertation (over the past week).

Shan't be long on here neither. Got shit to do. But rest assured I'll be getting on with self doubt and cracking tunes circling my mind.

I wish I had time to write more.

Love

Three times in one night? I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

Ah fuck it. If there's a better place than their own blog for someone to brag about their skills at the poker table I haven't heard of it. Dejected and tired, and somewhat fed up of reading the same shit over and over and over again, I decided to fire up a single table sit n go. One last roll of the dice for the night. That and after the annoyance of going out ninth (top six paid) in the last game and the horrendous drunk session I had last Thursday, my bankroll seriously needed a kick in the right direction. And it got just that. Woo hoo! Back up to the major league level that is $100, I can feel a degree of pride for having a three figure bankroll again.

Notes to self for future reference: Don't play like a twat. Play the game to win it, not to try and win as many hands as possible. Don't play drunk. Don't play tired. Don't play games unless you've got time to commit to the end. Don't lose concentration at the final stages. And don't cry like a baby when you make a stupid move and luck doesn't go your way (re: last post to some extent).

Right, time to sleep. Too much to do tomorrow to be on here all night. Ah fuck, half three? I can be up and at my 'desk' for twelve. Easy.

Eye off the ball. I took my eye off the fucking ball for two seconds and just threw away an hour's work. The poker hand mentioned in the last post came from a 45 player tournament. I had just made it to the final table, mainly by playing tight and aggressive and paying more attention to my text book (and this blog of course). But final table time, time to switch on. I turned open my book and got all of thre sentences in to a new chapter. I look up. Pocket eights. Middle position I raise (blinds: 200/400) to 1800. One caller. The flop comes J-2-6 rainbow. I think about it for a minute. He wouldn't have just called with Aces/Kings/Queens. Jacks highly unlikely, that would warrent a reraise to avoid a danger flop. A-K, A-Q, A-J or a pair lower than 10s. I shove, he calls and has me covered by about 1,000 with KING FUCKING JACK. What the fuck is he calling big pre flop raises with that shit? I don't hit either of my two outs and I'm out. Incensed, enraged, but I've learned a lesson. And they're worth cash. If not a currency.

Over a week without a post? Yes, my life has got increasingly boring in these past few days. (Phew, Jacks held up against A-K all in pre flop.) Anyway, I write this post lying in bed with the window wide open to allow the smoke to drift into the cool night air. I don't want my room smelling of smoke now do I?

I'm reading the joyous subject of gender politics for my dissertation and acting out the role of the 'masculine' in one form or another (there are many forms of masculinity that negotiate with each other and blah, blah, blah) by playing poker (a very manly past time) and smoking Marlboro reds (real Cowboy killers). Plus I'm eating what is possibly my first ever cuisine creation (not that manly a thing depending on your social circles), the 'Triple Cream'. It's basically a Jacob's cream cracker with double cream smeared on top (one and two is three, get it?). Hardly a snack that the girls will be running for. Running from more like. And if anyone's asking, no I'm not stoned, there's just nothing in my kitchen. Barre some cream and some crackers.

Skipping to the point as to why I decided to get my sorry ass to Blogger: I've just come straight (via the intro blurb) from my Hotmail where I've just emailed one of my tutors. What caught my attention was the user specific advertisements that appeared on the page. Now having written to my tutor about my dissertation (on poker in a roundabout way), I wasn't surprised to see an ad for William Hill's casino website. The matter of the source of how they know I'm a sick sad gambler is another thing. Did they read my email? Did they check my cookies? Do they know that I've got Full Tilt Poker running? Either way they've got me hook, line and sinker as a target demographic. Nice one internet for invading my personal information and selling it to the highest bidder. Too bad that information on me you got (male, twenties, gambler...) also applies to the other ad you threw upon me. Too bad I've already got a fucking TV License!

Bit more light hearted today. I can't spend my time being angry, or wasting other's time with it. Oh, shit, I just realised I was going to write a rant. It's a funny one at least!

For the last week or so, the good people at Ipsos MORI, the research company, have been hounding me on the phone. At least once a day I receive a call, tell them I'm busy and hang up. Don't they get the message? Then this morning I got a survey in the post from them. Fine, I give in. I'll fill out the fucking form. I'm not letting some robot process five minutes of my good time into data. You can enjoy it too. Here's what I put for the Positive and Negative aspects I've found from my course.

Positive: The course has provided me with opportunities and contacts, but I'd probably have made the opportunities and contacts regardless [of the course]. In hindsight, the course has made me sickenally aware of the lack of employability in my field, which is a good thing to know; having shelled out £15,000 for it. I have met some very good people along the way.

Negative: I don't really see what I'm paying for. You turn education into a business and that's what you get. I feel like a customer that has been duped by a dodgy car salesman. The course I took could have been done by the Open University as is the amount of contact time I have had with my tutors. This is how stimulating the course is, I can't be bothered to fill the box to the brim with anger.


(Big empty space) Empty space where I'd rant if I could be fucked.

I wish they made the box bigger as I could've gone on for pages. Seriously, if I hadn't had made the friends I have here I wouldn't have bothered from the start. Everyone I meet who says they're interested in journalism has their image of it shattered. That's what I've learned. It's a fucking sham. And that goes for college education as well.

You know what? I can't be fucked to write a response to the deleted comment. The internet has details of too many people's personal lives. I'd rather have privacy to some extent of existence.

How do you do it? How do you stop acting like a twat?

I can concede that at this moment, my actions are somewhat influenced by a number of drinks consumed so far this evening. Don't get me wrong, I'm not using that as an excuse. But it would be foolish to ignore that factor.

My head is all over the place at the minute. As usual that comes from a combination of college worries and ex issues. The fact that I can't seem to get the latest episode of Lost doesn't help.

I was this (imagine the gap between two fingers of a Kit Kat) close to calling it a night, when I heard my house mates arrive downstairs. Not wanting to be a sad sack, I went down to see what all the fuss was about. A man contest ensued, with shots of vile super strength liquor flowing. Despite the presence of an army boy, I think I did alright for the effeminate skinny geeky lads. I'm still alive and wasting money on online poker. They ain't.

So it's one more hand and then bed. Or as close as, cos I'm in a tournament. I just don....

I just ran into Aces on a steal. Cock it. Fuck the cards and fuck the world that they inhabit. I'm going sleep where no one can beat me. Except a psycho with my house keys.

I've adjusted to getting up at around two. That's not to say that I've been getting up early on a regular basis, just when I have to. But it's something that I need to cut out. Looking at my last post I can deduce that I must have got to sleep at around four or five a.m. but that's still a decent seven/eight hours kip. I need to stick to that as a maximum, I've been sleeping way too much recently. Should my life ever pass before my eyes I'm sure the majority I see will be lucid dreams. I need to start living more. My other problem is that it takes me a good hour to wake up, get out of bed and shower. My life needs more structure I think.

The first way to tackle this I realised last night, was that I need to keep a notepad and pen on me at all times. Really, the amount of information that passes through my brain and leaves no traces or stains behind is alarming. It's only taken three years of a journalism course to realise this, but the first thing I did today was go out and buy a pocket sized pad. I had my heart set on a nice fancy moleskin one, but having little time to shop about I settled for a cheap one from Smiths.

My shopping excursion then took me to Enjoy Boogie Woogie, where to my disappointment they didn't what I wanted. I've been after a waist coat for a while (in a Russell Brand, Jack Sparrow kind of look). The only ones they had were nasty wedding suit types. Not my cup of tea. The charity shops were my next port of call, where I found a very fetching brown velvet suit jacket. There's a few in Boogie that have caught my eye, but they're like £15/£20. Luckily the one I spotted in Cancer Research was a fiver. It's been a while since I treated myself to a jacket. Five pounds? I can spend that in two minutes at the bar.

Anyway, (going off point there) despite not having notepad last night I managed to write (quite eloquently may I add) on the back of my hand to listen again to Giles Peterson. So now I'm trying to do some reading and listening to some sweet tunes from last night. Ah wait, I'm writing this and not reading ought. Christ my head is all over the place. Cam had some fucking strong green.

And I completely forgot why I started this post. I just found a word I didn't recognise in an essay, 'panoply'. I think I'm gonna start a word of the day kind of thing, it can only help my writing right?

pan·o·ply /ˈpænəpli
–noun, plural -plies.
1. a wide-ranging and impressive array or display: the dazzling panoply of the maharaja's procession; the panoply of European history.
2. a complete suit of armor.
3. a protective covering.
4. full ceremonial attire or paraphernalia; special dress and equipment.

Definition nicked from Dictionary.com

I must have spent more time writing that post than I realised. My curry has cooled down because I'm writing this tosh.

I think somewhere between the drinking and smoking, almost passing out and stumbling home; I formulated an evil plan to work all my college projects around DJing and an underground magazine. For sure, I'll have to write some bollocks for another specified market but work is work. Something I'm not too good at. Food time.

Another idea that has been hatched so far is that because I've got such an addictive personality: drinker/smoker/gambler/degenerate hedonist. I can get out of one pattern and into another (like when I started smoking to stop playing fruit machines at sixteen): get high from pulling coffee and cigarette fueled all nighters. I only seem to keep to irregular sleep patterns. Really, you spend one night up until six fooling around with someone and being up writing at gone five doesn't seem so bad.

But as I know, I need to man up, grow a pair and get on with my fucking dissertation. But hopefully in a day or so it'll be the focus off a caffeine induced bender. And I do have to remember that I'm an adrenaline junkie at heart.

For once, I'm glad that for whatever reason it is, I can't format this page to have a title. Too varied and rambling will this post be, I don't think I could tie it down to a few witty words. Please note that because I'm writing this in I.E. there might be spelling mistakes cos I haven't tried to turn it on, unlike the just as rubbish Firefox what does have a spellcheck.

That got a bit geeky, And on another geeky note (why have I started with the geeky? If this should ever be editted, put this not at the start) but, yeah, I got rid of Norton for Avast and all of a sudden Soulseek works again. Good times. I heard a track by this band at a party a few weeks ago and it sounded sweet and fresh, but yet familiar. A week later I find it, purely by coincidence on a blog. So I find the album and then about a day later realise I already had one of their tracks on a mix CD. Well done Cribs, I love it.

So there's the music ad geek news done. I've had another busy one. Despite the fact I've eaten fuck all all day, and am supremely tired after spending the night getting hammered at a gig/club/random 17 year old kid (and his mates) place/gone home with a random girl/gone to the library/drank tea/watched the disappointing England game/talked shit in the pub/Djed at a dead bar that miraculously turned into a lock-in/sat smoking pipes and playing the guitar with Cam listening to Giles Peterson. Yeah, it's been a good one.

I must eat now. Post will continue...

Too much poker for one night. It's not often I'll allow myself to say that. In fact, if I didn't have to go downstairs to get the charger for my laptop I'd probably carry on playing. That's becuase despite the appauling run of bad beats (let me rant about them in due time) I've come out on top tonight.

Now I'm not one to moan, ah fuck it, of course I am. I'm a) a man, b) British and c) a good enough poker player to make himself look like a tit by saying things like "I can't believe he hit his up and down straight/flush/over pair" (although I don't think that many bad players could comprehend that possibility). I've just been feeling the wrath of the poker lords recently with lower kickers hitting, being out drawn by river chasers and my least favourite: having the board higher two pair to give me a shit kicker. And in the last game I just played, I lost count of the number of times three handed I'd get a walk with either A-A, K-K, A-K, Q-Q in the big blind, but find the guy under the gun raise me whenever I held junk. It was like playing on Absolute Poker or something. Really, the two guys I was up against just wouldn't go out. The blinds were at 250/500 and they held on to their stacks of 1/1500 for what seemed like an eternity.

But heaven forbid, I finished the job. It's made me feel good to know that despite the shit that gets thrown at me I can still get the job done. Hell, if my battery doesn't run out before I finish writing this I can check my progress on SharkScope. And I think that's a pretty good metaphor for life considering it's gone 4.30 in the morning. Fuck, I might have to re-read this whatever time I get up tomorrow afternoon to realise it's not all that bad. And sometimes in life I can do what I set out to do. Fuck, that red wine has got me all Disney!

The lack of a recentish post tells me that I need to get my arse in gear. Even if I'm just writing to avoid writing, I know that I'm in the right frame of mind and place, even if I am slacking off. The last week has been a mess and I've got nothing done. Zero. That doesn't quite mean lying in bed and sleeping for eighteen hours a day. It means that for some stupid fucking reason I haven't been doing the work I so desperately need to. I could slap myself in the face for being such a fucktard.

Time to finish the cig and get some books out. I need to get shit done.

I'm writing at eight o'clock in the morning. Tonight is the bubble party. I haven't gone to bed tonight also. I've not written shit in days, but the plan is there. Plus I'm not too concerned about it. There's been an intense online poker session; during which I cane out about $3 up and watched Stardust and Good Night, And Good Luck. That's a good five hour session at least.

I've also done some research which involved message/chatting up some rather attractive girls from around Falmouth. Before the epic poker session I played (or DJed at least for the last half hour. And that was after the Woodlane poker final, that I made a deal in the final three (which took a good four-plus hours). I'm a bit tired now.

Yeah, no more witty lines for today/night.

I knew as I was writing last night about finding direction and being slightly productive that it would be a short term thing. It's not that I've done nothing today. I've come up with some things, just not very big things, clever things or many things and it has all been done at quite a slow pace.

There was a reason I set my alarm for 12.30 last night. I wasn't sure what it was, but I did it anyway. At 12.30 I rolled back to sleep. Twenty minutes later there was a knock on my bedroom door. 'Hello, we're here to do a viewing. Are you decent?' That was it. Having barely any clean clothes and no underwear to my disposal, I threw on a hoodie and a pair of ill fitting jeans and escaped to the living room. After fixing breakfast and showing some latecomers around the house (still dressed quite badly), I received a text as I was putting a laundry load on. 'Do you fancy a jam?' It asked. 'Only if I can bring my dis and my guitar' I replied. 'Yes and yes', was the response. Cool, I thought. It's only 2pm and I can get to work, as opposed to the usual start twelve hours later in the day.

We played guitar for about an hour or so and thoughts of writing subsided. So when the idea of going for a pub dinner came up I willingly obliged. Then the opportunity to go spinning staffs and playing a bit more arose. I took that option too. Tired from the most exercise I've had in about a month, I went round to another friend's house for a cup of tea and a cigarette or three. I got home after 11 and tried to get to work. Then it was twelve. One soon followed and I found myself watching the Late Night Poker final (which to my shock was only the first bloody half, I'll have to tune in next week!). So now it has gone three and I've done a tiny bit of reading. I need to be up at ten to show my tutor what I've done. I can explain the re-shuffle of my plans for the dissertation, but I don't think he'll care about that. He wants to see work I think. So do I.

Once again I find myself at my mate's at gone 2 o'clock in the morning. Not an uncommon occurence on a Monday night (or any other night considering my recent drinking patterns). This time however, I am working again. Or at least not right now, I need to escape from it for a few more minutes. Just tap out some words that flow easily from my head, instead of braining over every sentence, then double guessing its delivery and relevance. (Although I've just re written the last bit of that sentence to make it sound better.) I feel once again some direction in where it is going, but I thought that the other night and earlier this evening found myself at a dead end (hence the trip here).

The bloody storm is playing havoc with the internet, phonelines must be down or something. Some sites I just can't seem to connect to. The infallibility and omnipotence of the tinterweb seems somewhat diminished tonight.

Whilst changing my Facebook status (as you do when you're avoiding work) to my current situation of slowly getting work done, but being delayed by the storm (in access to websites, as opposed to leaves on the line or some shit) I had to check the spelling of the word 'blaming'. That's what happens when you spend so much time thinking too much, you forget how to spell simple words. Anyway, I clicked into my Word window and wrote the word 'blaming'. It happened to land in the sentence: 'They can profitably produce publications for quite small groups of blaming people whose shared interest may be as obscure as smoking cigars (Cigar Afficionado) or keeping carp (Koi Carp)’ . Well, it made me chuckle. God, I have been writing too long.

God damn it I'm dying. There's a constant stream of mucus dripping from my nostrils, my tonsils feel like they've been attacked by the claws of an angry kitten, my head is throbbing and my limbs ache as if I've been carrying a pie-eating champion to a county fair. I've got a cold. And I can live with it. But to my female housemates it's manflu and they're calling the funeral directors for me.

So yeah, I'm feeling a bit shit today. It's no different from most days where I feel like shit, except that this time it's not self inflicted illness. I feel cheated. The other thing is, why do you always get ill at the most inapproriate of times? I was supposed to get up and crack on with studying today, but I found it impossible to rise from my slumber. I've now got an hour until work and have achieved an hour or so of slack stuying in the library. Looks like I'll be doing homework in the office at the shop. After work I've got friends that I haven't seen for a while to catch up with for a few beers. Tomorrow I've got a repeat performance of studying then work and then partying and Sunday it's just a nine hour stint in the shop. It's hard enough when I'm feeling healthy!

Finally, a right decision. And it was made by someone else.

I arose at around half three (following last night's lateness), feeling like shit and found plenty of distractions. Showering and eating breakfast seemed to take forever. I also discovered some chores around the house that needed doing.

The plan was to go to a friend's tonight to do some college work. This is because I find it impossible to do in my own home. By the time I got myself dinner I found out that my mate couldn't help out tonight. I had previously declined a 'come drinking' text from other mates because I had work plans. Chasing up the drinking plans, I find out that they have also fallen through. Looks like I might be able to keep myself in and do some writing this evening. That'll be a first. Although Spurs v PSV is on. There's only twenty minutes left, I'll get on with work in a minute.

It's gone five o'clock and I'm up blogging. I've just returned from a friend's where amongst other things such as playing the guitar, smoking and drinking, I also partook in a slight dabble of the blog. My college work blog Art School Writer?. It's quite bizarre having two. I think I'm getting addicted, I'll have eight before Easter!

I've got this far and forgotten the point of why I started writing. That's not much use. Should mention Q Bar and that I did some DJing. I'm part of the Q Collective apparently. I can see myself getting distracted by that quite easily, what with the head first diving into my music collection and the time consuming, nay, time erasing process of burning tracks on to CDs and playlists on to cases. I have however, on a positive in a work-related way, come up with a great idea for a few features to write and am slowly getting back into the dissertation managing to both a write and think about it with slight interest.

It's now half five-ish, I should sleep (although I don't have to get up in the morning for anything). I think I'll have a quick session on the poker and line up some tunes for next week.

My inability to do anything right is starting to become abundantly clear. Well, I say 'starting' like it's recent revelation when in fact it's been playing on my mind for a number of months now. It's just that I haven't really found any hard evidence until now which would support a decent moan.

I've just returned from the pub after watching Manchester United play a boring 90 minutes against Lyon. Fortunately, they won 1-0. That's not the problem. Last week I came home deflated and some what miffed after seeing them pull back a 1-0 deficit to draw 1-1. One hundred and eighty minutes of my time that I could have spent otherwise. (Like studying for once perhaps.) But as a loyal fan I followed their progress regardless. The last three matches that I haven't been able to watch (due to either my shitty job or the stupid licensing laws that prohibit live televised Saturday afternoon games) United have won 3-0 against Fulham, 4-0 against Arsenal in the cup and destroyed Newcastle 5-1. Oh yeah, I managed to catch the first half of the 2-1 defeat to City in the derby. Funny that. To recap then, I've missed three games and 12 goals, but seen two and two.

This seems to have a haunting resemblance to my luck in general day to day life. I decide to do something, it turns out to be the wrong decision. I decide not to do something and it turns out that I should have. Now yesterday I said that I wasn't going to go drinking with my friends and do some school work. Instead, I dumped the school work and went drinking which resulted in no work, a rather long hangover and a night (and the majority of today) where I should be being productive. Whilst in the pub I received a text message inviting me to do some more drinking (I stuck to tea throughout the game, it's probably what kept me awake). I responsibly declined and am now getting my creative juices flowing writing this. There is a one hundred per cent chance that when I see my friends tomorrow they'll tell me what a great night I missed out on and how I should have been there because INSERT UNLIKELY BUT DESIRABLE SITUATION HERE.

Work related avoidance.

I need to write 2000 words on representations of masculinity (and other such bollocks) in poker magazines for my dissertation tonight. It was meant to be done about two weeks ago maybe. Two months ago perhaps. Yeah, that's it. I was supposed to do that over Christmas. But before I get to work on that I need to get in the mood.

That's why I've logged on to a $3.25 multi table tournament. Before that I had a smoke. I really hope I go deep otherwise work is either gonna be no fun, or not done. And that's the worst thing. I could in theory put it off til tomorrow. I just need it out of my head. I'm sick of having stuff stuck in my brain, my brain refusing to allow myself to get my arse in gear and put it down on the screen. I must be masochistic or something, because I feel like shit, head fucked and I can't seem to get myself off it.

So either way: I end up cashing in the tournament and decide to celebrate or I don't and get seriously pissed off, don't do any work and go and get drunk.

Tournament update: Well I just hit a few hands and got up to around $14,000 by pushing and calling all ins with pretty good cards. Then, because I wasn't paying attention (writing this bloody page) I called an all in with K-J without checking to see how much it was. It was half my stack. He had and A-Q which held up and now I've got to start again. Luckily, whilst writing this and not playing so distractedly (I invented that word), I've managed to sneak back up to $10k.

Well the good news is I'm celebrating. The bubble burst with me sat comfortably against it's moist warm insides. How much I win is another matter. Someone just took down a monster and now has three times my stack, and I'm lying in third out of eight!

Wow, that was stupid. I get A-Q in the small blind, folds to the button who calls, I raise 4 BB, big folds and dealer calls. The flop comes down K-9-7, completely missing, I push which is for over half the pot. Dealer takes his time and calls with K-10. No Ace on the turn or river and I've just cocked up a good chance for a better cash. Fuck putting off work for drinking, I'm having another game.

I was stood outside Tesco, around the side and out of the wind; finishing off a smoke and generally looking suspicious when a thought struck my mind. This is a mildly amusing use of my Monday afternoon, I wish I had some kind of epiphany or thought more profound than the current situation I've found myself in.

I stood awaiting some sort of premonition, but I'd just finished smoking and it was cold. Sod it, I need food, I thought.

Now I'm lying in bed in front of my computer, without the thought I was expecting.

Ah fuck it, I'll finish off the bag.

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

First of all that Southern Comfort ad. It's a mystery to me. Who are they trying to market it to and why is it so fucking annoying? It really pisses me off when things like this happen. It's like having a good friend seeing a really annoying/offensively ugly girl. You feel robbed. That things aren't the way they should be.

My other bitch today is my appalling form on PokerStars. I opened an account the other day and have so far only managed to cash once in a sit n go. Once in about a dozen games. It's fucking depressing. The one time I made it to heads up, the cheeky fucker I was playing against made the bold inquiry 'are you always this lucky?' and 'is this the last time you've made it to the final two?'. What cheek?! I mean, I made a few draws, but it must be that I've slipped in my play if he thinks I'm a total novice. I'm both shocked and disgusted. My distractions from work should be enjoyable, not offending and annoying. Perhaps I'll take up a new hobby.

And there goes another sit n go. I'd spend more time writing bollocks online, but my head is pretty fried from writing bollocks for my dissertation. Something is telling me to get a restraining order put on my laptop. All this staring at LCD displays can't be doing me any good. I wish I was in a position to do anything about it, but when you're four months from the end of a degree you don't get much wriggling space. And that's what is annoying me the most. In a few months I'll (hopefully) have a degree and nothing to do with it. Now I'm supposed to be working away at it and I don't want to. I guess I'll just have to bite my lip and put up with it, I seem to get by doing that with the rest of my life. A constant nagging of anxiety and boredom, borderline depression, you know the usual middle class student shit. I just get on with. I need to just get on with my work. Maybe I can convince myself that I'm really excited by the work. Just lie to myself, that'll be good for my soul. As opposed to feeling down and over thinking stuff. Wait a minute, that's an idea from Malcolm In The Middle. Malcolm became stupid like Reece to impress a girl. Perhaps I can just switch off my head and get on with it. But no, I need my head to do the work. Fuck this is complicated.

Bit of clarification (should anyone stumble upon this).

I've shipped some writings from another blog I started on to this one. They're a bit out of order but never mind. Spring cleaning isn't one of my strong points. Just be glad (that's me) that I haven't deleted the scriblings all together.

Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Getting old

News 24 rolls across my television screen, but it needs to be muted. Full Tilt flashes up once again, bearing me gifts such as 2-4 off suit and if I'm lucky 2-4 suited. My attention is easily drawn from tasks. It's something that I need to look into. Not in a drugs'll fix it, Ritalin kind of way. Actually, I don't have an idea what causes it or an appropriate remedy. It's seems I am picking up on ailments recently. I think I'm getting old.

The plan was to write about a heavy session on Saturday night, but even that seems a bit too egocentric for a blog. Needless to say (I'll give you the short version) I drank two bottles of Tesco's £2.50 red wine and then took too much speed. I helped out a guy who was too fucked to get home (it was freezing and I was rather feeling quite friendly due to the substances, although it has come to my knowledge that I was being a bit aggro earlier on).

Anyway, without being able to get any sleep during the day, I got to work feeling just the slightest bit ropey. The plethora of tea, coffee and Lucozade that I drank during the day seemed to get its comeuppance as I fought to get to sleep in the early hours of Monday morning.

Fortunately, I've had nothing on today. I have though plowed through a bit of college work, which has made me feel a bit less guilty about not doing much over the weekend. And... oh shit, you see? I'm banging on about things of the least of interest, even my own!

Anyway, long, boring, rambling story short: I'm becoming an old person. I'm not out on a Monday and I seem to have picked up the old peep's narrative style.

Posted by Tim at 01:15 0 comments
Saturday, 24 November 2007
night writing pt1

There is a strange mist in my room. As I look towards my lamp, away from my laptop which omits the sound of whatever tunes the random (or 'shuffle' as it is now known) button decides, past the poor hole cards that Full Tilt is throwing in my direction and my breath that hangs in the cold; I notice that it has cleared. Well, there goes my inspiration for tonight's writing exercise.

iTunes flicks on to another song, it sounds familiar but only by artiste. It's Ben Folds, but I don't know the tune. I check to confirm that it's a track off Supersunnyspeedgraphic, because I haven't got around to listening to it properly yet. But no. It's something from Songs For Silverman. Was I really not paying so much attention when that CD was on rotation previously? Apperently so. Never mind.

This is the kind of irrelevant thoughts that fill my head as I lie trying to get to sleep. [Oh great, just been dealt the Hiltons. Decent raise preflop. Safe flop. Another bet and the pot is mine. Why can't they be that good to me all the time?] Where was I? Oh yes. Of course, had I really been trying to get to sleep the light would be off making it near impossible to see the room fog (I'd just had a cigarette, there's some sort of resolution for you) and I wouldn't have had my computer turned on, making it improbable that I'd be listening to a random Ben Folds track.

I say irrelevant, but the trying to get to sleep thoughts rarely are. If I really was as busy as I suggest, there could be the possibility that this would be the time when my thoughts caught up on me. Perhaps I only half think about things during the day and I receive the other half as I lie waiting for sleep, like some kind of Victorian telegraph, or the old pages of Ceefax where you'd have page 4 of 5 on the TV guide and the present times programming would obviously be on page 3 of 5, so you'd have to sit and wait to find out while the 3 pages of useless information passed by. My life is Ceefax? That may explain why I have a somewhat half arsed knowledge of the weather (it's blue, but should be green in the afternoon); but although I'm going through a quiet patch, no women has appeared as freakish as Bamber Boozle's missus.

No, wait a second, there is a mist in my room. I must have been looking in a slightly different direction before. Maybe I was blinded by the intensity of the 60w bulb, but as I looked over to the corner of the room: carefully guarding my eyes behind the lip of the duvet, I could definitely make out the forming of a minature cloud like substance in the air.

Now that I've aired out some of the junk in my head it's time to try and go to sleep again. I wonder what pointless or profound thoughts I'll have instead of drifting off to a peaceful slumber. Maybe I could invent a notepad that you could use in your sleep or diminished state of conciousness. Perhaps a dictaphone would work? No, I don't talk in my sleep. Or do I? I could find out by recording myself sleep. But I think I've got better things to do tomorrow than listen through a seven hour recording of silence (or non silence) just to find out. Yes, sleep, I need sleep.

Posted by Tim at 03:21 0 comments
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
No distractions

About a month ago I did an interview over the phone with Rusty Hodge from SomaFM. It was for a part of my course called Negotiated Portfolio, in which we compile a portfolio of work which we are supposed to negotiate with titles to sell. Anyway, I was under the impression that that meant actually selling work. After weeks of trying to figure out who to pitch said article to and receiving no replies in my inbox, I found out that that wasn't the case.

With fuck all work done so far this year, it is now time to write the article. I've eaten, I can't be bothered to wash up. Shit, I just need to to write the damn thing. So this is my warm up writing. Getting the brain in gear. A few pints down me to lubricate the brain and a bottle of £2.50 Tesco wine to keep me going. £2.50! I'm as shocked as you are, but in all honesty it tastes all right.

My phone is downstairs and I'm not leaving the room or falling asleep until the article is written. No distractions!

Posted by Tim at 19:39 0 comments
Monday, 19 November 2007
There are a thousand things I could, wait no, should write down. It seems ever increasingly recently that writing should be my calling, be equally and quite frustratingly, it seems that it is not. For to be a writer one should write. Hell, that's most sensible thought to pass through my head in days. And here is where my self defeating problems begin. I don't give myself time to write.

As a tap away these thoughts, it becomes painfully clear that tonight (Sunday) is the first night that I haven't had a drink in a week. I seem to be indulging in the vices of writers: drinking and smoking heavily (in both cases), but not willing to do the hard work either before, during or after.

Reading a post from my favourite blogger Tao Of Poker, the busy life that Pauly describes himself of having puts my own to shame. But it at least inspires me to think about what's going wrong in my own hectic existence. I have around three hours of contact time at university, yet within the extra (going on the scale of 9-5, five days a week, with an hour of lunch daily) 32 hours that I should give myself to study, I seem lucky to score more than three or four max. I bitch about how little time I have to do stuff and then realise that I sleep too much. I sleep way too much. Due to my financial situation I've recently had to take up a job. Meet McColls Falmouth branch's newest supervisor. Yeah, I'm 23 years old, have never had any experience in the realm of responsibility in my life and you're entrusting me your business? Well, I'll give it a shot thank you. Especially for the extra 50p per hour I can make doing it. As long as you don't try and screw me around for overtime too hard.

So, I've got a job. I'm trying to give myself more time towards college. I'm going to have to cut down on my daily sleeping allowance. I need to stop spending so much time and money on alcohol and socialising, but at the same time still receive the benefits of alcohol and socialising: meeting interesting people, sleeping with the attractive ones. I need to start eating better, but then everyone says that. Although, I do need to buy a decent cook book. Beans on toast is starting to get a bit repetitive. A bit like my writing at the end of the day. The plan was to write about the Jello Biafra show. It's taken ten minutes of venting to remember what I set out to do. This is why real journalism will not be killed by blogging: editing. I could delete the last couple hundred words, but seeing as I'm only wasting my own time, I think I'll leave it.

Aside from the obviously corrupt businesses that Biafra talked about. The horrific tales of Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan. The subject that he touched on that has stuck in my head is the constant abuse of media on society. Kids with unremovable iPods. Myspace and its 'emotional trophy cabinet' mentality. People unable to communicate without the use of technology (how ironic, as he writes it in his blog!). We allow ourselves to be tied, to be restrained by the things that are meant to make ease of daily tasks. Thus, we don't achieve anything, but distraction from our goals. Technology is replacing reality. Keeping a firm grip of our attentions, whether it be a poke on Facebook or a fiend request on Myspace, while the authorities poke us out of our civil liberties and human rights. Shit, I think I just put together a decent sentence. Admittedly, stolen from someone else, but that's how ideas work. They grow, adapt, pass on.

And it's with that shameless, smug, self achieving thought that I'm going to check my Facebook and go to bed.

Posted by Tim at 00:30 0 comments
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Already Sliding

If I could write a good explanation as to why I haven't updated this in two weeks, I could consider myself a good writer. If I could empty my head via my fingertips and relate the mixed up thought processes I have, then I would consider myself a good writer. If I managed to analyse every thought, as opposed to letting them thrash around my mind while I try to sleep, I'd consider myself a good writer.

Considering the way things are right now (and I think we now the way this is going), I can't. In the space of a week, everything I thought no longer seems the same. The way I look at things is now different. The way I act and hold myself is somewhat reminiscent to the immature, unlearned, pre-jaded but depressed teenage self. Whereas for the last four months I've been enjoying life, dabbling in hedonistic ways, feeling free of the shackles of lazyness and boredom; I find myself bored, tired and lonely. I've got no motivation for anything. Tonight I fucked off drinking with a friend (a friend who I should mention is my ex, and what would've been a rather awkward session, but nonetheless), for what I hoped would be a drinking session with bloke mates. [Check the time here: 1.40am, I didn't even go out!]. I can't do anything right at the moment. I can't even hold together a night of drinking.

So here I am, amongst the millions of other bloggers. Sad and alone, vying for any form of attention. Trying to keep myself awake, because it's always most comforting feeling sad.