Pure Class

I really want to become a Duke. It's definately the best title, though an Earldom also has it's attractions. I mean, look at the portrait of Earl Grey just there. He already looks damn classy in that outfit, but it's the height of Victorian couture to live in black and white. Just look at those regal sideburns. His noble forehead. Check the stare of sheer contempt for the artist that dares to replicate his form on mere canvas. Only papyrus for the aristocracy. There's possibly a modicum of pensivity creeping in there, but it's obviously swept aside by the presence of that piece of paper in his right hand. Paper equals business. The Earl's a busy man and he doesen't have time for all this frivolity - his wife probably had him pose.

To put the cherry on the top of the bourgeousie gateux, he has a brand of twinings tea name after him. Only best of Her Majesty's subjects are allowed to endorse truly Imperial products and therefore we can surmise that the Earl has stepped on a lot of Frenchmen if he's got this far.

Any-way. That's what I'm currently aspiring to - maybe someone can find me an internet site that sells land and titles with free shipping. I could tread the well-known route of crushing the proles, but that might require exertions not befitting a gentleman of Society.

On The Buses

Maybe the reason that nobody with money uses public transport is that there are some really weird people on buses. It’s like a musty sitcom; there are the few regular characters, the Joeys and Phoebes – and the fringe cast, the Mikes and the Franks. There’s always a couple of Old Dears who look disapprovingly at every young person that walks past, whatever they’re wearing or listening to. It’s like they’re trying to suck the youth out of them through their eyes. Then there’s Suspicious Suit Guy. It’s only suspicious because people who wear nice suits should also have nice cars and all the trimmings. Therefore there’s something pitiful about a businessperson on the bus – admittedly they could just be going “eco-friendly” or could be a fledgling entrepreneur, but it’s doubtful. They just look too down-and-out. For all you know they could be international assassins… or wealthy tramps.

There’s the Heavy Metal Dude – not actually a rockstar, but an overweight, balding sweaty man who still insists on listening to symphonic black metal in the room he’s had at his parents house since he was born. He’ll leer at the girls, sneer at the boys and in general think he’s the coolest cat to wear Goth-pants since Ozzy Osborne. Watch out for World of Warcraft merchandise interspersed with a band t-shirt (invariably black, to mask the sweat marks) bearing the name “Social Dismemberment”, accompanied with a Photoshop-created image of a corpse. Understandably, he’s the last person everyone sits next to, just after Suspicious Suit Guy.

At the back of the bus there are several options. You could end up with Rowdy Year Ten Kids, who insist on playing the latest chart music from a cheap iPod speaker, squabbling in their blazers. Or alternatively you could have Rowdy Chav Kids, who insist on playing the latest drum n’ bass/trance/hip-hop music from an ever cheaper iPod speaker or the classic scally favourite, your mobile. Both will swear and use the latest playground slang and delight in defacing the lives of others. If you’re lucky, they might even venture a conversation with you (if you’re sat too close), usually asking “where yoo from mayte” or “iziiiiiiiiiiiiiit”. A new take on this one is the Chav Mum-And-Dad duo, who walk onto the bus just lighting the kindling of domestic-argument fires and leaving it in a state of divorce and/or child (and woman) beating frenzy.

Often, there’s Neighbourhood Drug Runner – you’ll recognise him with his shaved head, bloodshot eyes, Baltimore-inspired slang and aspirations to be 50 Cent (who he may or may not refer lovingly to as “Fiddy”). Ideally, he’ll entertain himself by making fun of his henchmen (who are smaller and have more GCSE’s than him– which is a real achievement), though he might try to sell you some self-raising flour in a bag marked “Coke”.

A final addition (usually a late-night attraction) is the Surly Drunk. Somehow finding the willpower (and change) to get onto the bus, they usually collapse in a alcohol sodden mess right next to you. Even if the bus is empty, they want human company – whether to show you war medals or pictures of their numerous children, or to complain about how “the nanny state is letting muslims steal our MP’s” (for a more diverse range of subversive bollocks, see the Daily Mail).

A usual episode including the above cast might go vaguely like this: Old Dear frowns disapprovingly at Rowdy Year Ten Kids, who chastise Heavy Metal Dude for his existence. Rowdy Chav Kids threaten them with their dangerous reps, but soon clear off when they realise there is a very real chance of Neighbourhood Drug Runner pulling out a knife. Suspicious Suit Guy huddles into his window away from Heavy Metal Dude’s stench, whilst Surly Drunk mistakenly recognises Neighbourhood Drug Runner for Barack Obama. Old Dear realises that she was meant to get off two miles ago, and the driver professes a deep desire to drive the bus off of a steep cliff.

Double Booked

I'm not really looking forward to the coming week. I've gotta go to normal classes at college, which although we've basically finished and are not really doing very much, the teachers are rather unnecessarily piling the homework on like it's going out of fashion. On top of this, i've got to find an opportunity to phone Louise, the friendly editor of Cheshire Life where i'm doing a spot of work experience the week after this one coming. This is hard, because the only properly quiet place in college (where I have to be all day) is the library; the thing that keeps it quiet is a ban on phone calls. Ergo, I am snookered. It seems the only way to break this check-mate of a Catch 22 would be to "persuade" everyone in the library to turn a blind eye, mafia style - but i'm no Michael Corleone. Me making someone an "offer they can't refuse" would just result in me being asked to politely leave. And to rub salt into the proverbial wound, I'm off on a country jaunt into the Peaks for 1 of 2 Duke of Edinburgh expeditions. Although it'll be fun once i'm up there, happily trampling over the gorgeous landscape, it means a hell of a lot of packing and whatnot the night before.

So it's probably a stroke of good fortune that I have procured four yes FOUR different types of Twinings tea to get me through this chokka-blok week. Firstly I have refilled my supply of Green Tea, that verdant leaf that had left a sophisticated hole in my beverage repetoir. Secondly, I've gotten some Afternoon Tea which is similar to normal Everyday Tea but less harsh when drank sans lait. And of course let's not forget the upper-class resident Earl Grey, who is an essential guest in any gentleman's cupboard.

So, equipped with said existential remedies for the coming whirlwind of a week, I'm off. Bye bye.

The Fast And The Fictitious

Another day, another driving lesson. Today I actually managed to drive from Aquinas all the way back to the merry shire of Cheadle Hulme. This might not seem too great a feat for those of you who've passed the fabled Test - which recieves more attention within the teenage sphere-of-prestige than anything else in the world. You'd be mistaken for thinking it was a titanic gladitorial struggle; the only way to pass The Test would be to destroy the instuctor's face with sheer lateral G force. Maybe that might spice it up; survival of the fittest and all that. They always say "drive defensively" and so a brutal fight to the death in a televised showdown would put this to its limit. You can't be criticized for giving way too much once you've annhilated you're opponent's car by ramming it into a spiked titanium wall.

As I was saying - this might not seem an awesome human achievement to be remembered in centuries to come, but - at least in my mind - my driving lessons are a lot like the Playstation classic Need For Speed Underground 2. Everything's the same - the hot girls waving from the sidelines, the perpetual night, the custom-built cars and the nitro speed. 0-60 in under a milisecond. The Stig ain't got nothing on me, however I suspect that I'm the only one of this opinion. My perception of certain areas of the Stockport transit infrastructure has been irepparably altered by other people's scary stories - Josh's frequent allusions to the nerve shattering experience that is the Stanley Green roundabout, or my mum's aversion to the (not actually very) scary junction just outside of Aquinas. Understandably I was fairly intimidated by the stampede of cars that hurtled in my direction the first time I was asked to turn left after Nangreaves Road, though I didn't kill anyone and did not juggernaut into anybody else's vehicle. This is even more of a celebratable event because I have approximately 2.5 near-death experiences per-day on the said crossroads.

I reckon I'm the next Michael Schumacher. My driving instructor thinks I'm the next road-traffic accident statistic. We'll see who is proven right first..

P.S. When Sebastian Vettel won his first grand prix, the press in Germany went wild. One journalist asked him;
Reporter: "This must be the greatest day of your life - how does it feel?"
Vettel: "You weren't there the day I lost my virginity"

Dry

I have run out of green tea. I was only introduced to this wondrous substance a while back and I want more. I'm sitting here with a cup of Earl Grey but it just doesen't feel the same. Please, reader, mourn my fragrant and healthy-tasting loss.

On the right side of the tracks, I have finally decided that "Independent study", the concept of doing homework without being asked - so trumpeted by the Aquinas elite (teachers, admittidly not quite the intellectual bourgeousie they aspire to be yet) at the start of the college year - might be a bit useful. And of course, now the exams are over and I've three weeks of college left, now is the time to start!

So I have made about 15 lines-worth of extra notes from my lessons today, and I'm proud of myself for that herculean effort. I even highlighted a word; it helps to go the extra mile. And while i'm still doubtful that this monumental step towards becoming the next Darwin or Dickens has entirely secured my academical future, it's a start. I'm really just waiting around for Have I Got News For You (henceforth HIGNFY); I'm not actually this focused on learning. Even so, don't pretend you weren't fooled by my elaborate charade.

Getting an iPod has made me once more realise once more the decrepid state of my iTunes Library; there's loads of albums spelt wrong or split up because of damned capital letters. They're like the master criminals of the lexigraphical world, the McCavity-cats of glyphs, the Moriarty of fontcrime (which I assume is like Orwell's thoughtcrime only it is restricted to keyboards). Hopefully the dashing and heroic officers of Scotland Yard's celebrated Flying Squad will put their finely tuned detective minds to taming my errant Caps Lock. Or maybe I could learn to type; time will tell who is more effective.

But anyway. The thunderstorms before were lively! Gosh they were nice. I love summers like this and if this is what climate change is going to bring us then I better get polluting. I mean, sure, it's a very good idea to "save the world" and all that jazz, but, with the gift of global warming, a British Summer actually is a British SUMMER. Y'know, with sun and stuff? Not just with wasps and chavs bereft of clothing.

Well that's enough uninformed writing for one night. I shall bit you adieu and farewell.

When Violence Is Permissable

It seems really idiotic that in one of the biggest cities in the country, a city that hosts the world's best football teams, has given birth to some of the best rock and pop acts ever, that's probably one of the most liberal and tolerant and has such a multifaceted identity, that the BNP can claim to represent us. They only won because people were registering their anger at a stagnant incumbent government and because a few skinheads who can't spell "ballot" managed to find their way into a polling station. I wish someone would voluntarily repatriate Nick Griffin's head to a lightning rod.

Let's suspend disbelief though, over the fact that a guy sent to prison for inciting racial hatred has been sent to legislate with people from other countries and that a former member of the British arm of the Nazi party has been elected. Maybe once they come face to face with their demons they'll become traumatised or something. Hopefully a cat burglar or international assassin just passing by will violently murder Griffin in an ironic fashion. I mean, these people can't even string a sentence together without it sounding like pub-talk. In fact I'm pretty sure they wrote their shoddy manifesto on the back of a beer coaster in a suitably British pub, called something like "The White Heart" where about fifteen unemployed 50-somethings spend their days looking trying to glance down the barmaid's top.

I mean, they're like children, with Griffin as their teacher. he's constantly having to restrain them from shouting old policies in case they get arrested. Doesen't sound very organised to me. They can't exactly claim to be sticking to their ideals any more than Labour or Conservative because just a few years ago they patronised involuntarily repatriation, that is, deporting people. The hypocrisy is ridiculously obvious.

Let's think about nicer things though. I ordered a bunch of books so once I've finished Tony Benn's excellent but seemingly endless collection of diaries I'll be nerded up to the max on such jewels as Heart of Darkness and Brave New World. However, I have lost my little diary thing so I have therefore misplaced my ability to remember anything. Anyway, I'm going to go before my computer's astoundingly frustrating slowness destroys me. Au revoir.