Stranded at school

I am stranded at school. "Why?" you may ask with great concern, to which I would eloquently reply, "Because I am being cultural."

Tonight I am going to the theatre to see Translations, a piece about Gaelic signposting or some such excitement. In order for this to happen, however, I have to hang around at school - supposedly doing work - until the bus arrives. Joy of eternal joys.

Good thing there are bookshelves, I think.

Eugh, you're such a shower.

Me: What a douchebag.

Dee: What does that actually mean?

Me: Well, it's like a dick, isn't it? Let me google it.

Here is what wikipedia informed me:

Douche usually refers to vaginal irrigation, the rinsing of the vagina, but it can also refer to the rinsing of any body cavity. A douche bagis a piece of equipment for douching—a bag for holding the fluid used in douching. To avoid transferring intestinal bacteria into the vagina, the same bag must not be used for an enema and a vaginal douche.

Cheerful stuff, I hear you cry. It goes on to explain that:

Slang uses

Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s.^[5] The term usually refers to a person, usually male, with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

This, I read out with gusto. And, as my father agreed, it was 'suitably edifying'. We had a good lol at 'a variety of negative qualities'. Gotta love Wikipedia's wording.

So now you know, as I know, that being a Douchebag is quite similar to being a dick in its use, and therefore, to avoid the awkwardness of ever discussing this again, I declare 'like a dick, isn't it?' to be the official definition.

What do you get when you combine a Catholic, a procrastinator and a book shelf?

Abridged conversations are all the rage, so here's another one between myself and Miss Considine. The below is not for those of a weak, homophobic or tasteful constitution. A rude-imentary understanding of Harry Potter is also handy. Let's go!

Rachel: I need to pick a new book to read. mhmhm.

Anna: Read this book, it's well deep, by some bint call Rolling, it's about a child called HP, who's gay, and he has to adjust to a straight world.

Rachel: “You're a wizard, harry.” “I know, I know, I like wands, okay? Just take it. Get over it, Hagrid, God. Eugh.”

[flounces out]

Anna: Harry... they took my wand off meh. Snapped it in half.

Rachel: D: ... holy shitting fuck, Hagrid. I knew you were only half-man, but this isn't what I thought you meant.

***

"No, Harry... I'll set my house on fire if we do."

"Better setting the roof on fire than your pubes!!!!!! Dobby just wanted to be helpful, Harry Potter, Sir. Dobby just wanted to make sure Harry Potter was safe." [gives Condom]

"Where did you get this, Dobby? You're not allowed clothes!"

"You gave me a sock, sir."

"That wasn't a sock, Dobby! Waitup, Do house elves even have pubes?"

***

Anna: Dobby only wishes to keep Harry Potter SAFE sir! An evil is lurking at Hogwarts! It lurked and killed 50 years ago sir... Ever wondered why it's called Slytherin sir?! It is named after its greaters weapon sir... Syphillis....

Rachel: [gasp] Holy Hufflepuff Turd, Dobby!

Anna: So you see, HARRY POTTER MUST GO HOME!

Rachel: Is this true? You mean... that's what happened to Voldemort's face? DDDD8

But... But... Dobby - I can't miss the Halloween Orgy. It's the greatest opportunity to carve pumpkins naked for miles around. Last year, Ronny Babes had a squash instead of a pumpkin, and he decided to store his wand in it, all night long. Great times, Dobby, GREAT FRICKIN TIMES. I must go to Hogwarts.

Anna :Oh BUT SIR you are too GREAT, too GOOD to be hunted so sir! You are famous... the whole wizarding knows your name and wants to touch your wand sir!

Rachel: And with good reason, Dobby. Who am I to deny the people what they want? It would be cruel, Dobby. CRUEL. You saw what it did to Quirrell. He could barely say 'fellatio' after a year with me. No, I just can't do it to them.

***

"Do you think the werewolves were a metaphor for AIDs?"

The story of Wizard AIDs or How It Was All Kreacher’s Fault.

Once upon a time, in a land where wizards gallivanted about and lived in invisible houses with grotesque creatures who, in their pillow-case garms (rep your creps, kids, rep your creps!) inspired no other name but Kreacher, there was a Moste Ancient and Noble House of Black. That is not racist, kids, it’s their surname. Don’t be racist. Ever.

The Regular Black Child had ‘one lonely, unprotected night’ with the household slave (aforementioned elf with a bedding fetish) which he was to regret forever. Little did he know that elves are the main carriers of Wizard Aids, a disease which only presents real symptoms in half-bloods – this is the real reason pureblood is the Dolce and Goblin-Armour of the wizarding world. Unknowingly, Regulus had contracted the disease in Kreacher’s kitchen cupboard bed.

The next day, just before lunch, Regulus was chopping beets in order to prepare a salad for his rather more serious brother. Sirius was a greedy little doglet, and decided nothing could beat some stolen beets so he made to grab for Regulus’ big, reddish fruit. Naturally, this took him by surprise, causing Regulus to slip and cut himself with the culinary light saber, and began to bleed profusely.

Sirius knew this was serious. A spurt of blood caught him in the face before he could dodge, and sure enough, the Wizard AIDs virus crept into his eye. After much arguing, it was decided that they should never speak again, especially when Kreacher began to tend to the wound in an overfriendly manner. Sirius took bestiality seriously – seriously. He later told his mother about his discovery, starting a lifelong fuel which eventually resulted in a very pissed off portrait.

Later, Sirius decided that Beastiality and School had nothing in common – the only thing he could take seriously was his feelings for a particular Penis Lupin. Even his name wreaked of manliness and enigmagnetism. One night, after a particularly steamy Halloween Orgy, things got steamy in the dorm room.

The result of this was that poor old Penis managed to catch Wizard AIDs and, being a half-blood, was forced to face the long-awaited consequences of that cold night back in Grimmauld Place many years before. (Kreacher was later to put it down to Stockholm Syndrome, when Dobby liberated him by burning his pillowcase and gifting him a bra.) From then on, Penis Lupin was a werewolf.

Gives a whole new perspective to Fenrear Gayback...

***

And I leave you with one final, harrowing thought.

Arthur Weasley – he just loves plugs.

'Snow joke.

I am not amused. Firstly, I missed the time when snow was actually happening, thanks to sleeping. Secondly, the amount of snow is frankly not up to par. We're talking a sprinkling. I could have done that with a sieve and icing sugar.

The pros of going to the mysterious NewcastleU are stacking up right now.

Der Hund ist harmlos! Die Wirtin liebst den Kuche...

are both examples of my increasing, but still mediocre German. But that is not why I am here, I am here to explain to you something of the banter I share with my padre, as it gives me immense amusement, always.

Let us take, for example, yesterday night at Parent's Evening. Even talking about that makes me feel stupidly young and foolish, 'Parent's Evening' is something children have and, though I have been free of the concept (forever!) for about 24 hours, I already feel liberated and mature. In any case, enjoy this conversation:

The following is a rough paraphrasing of what occurred, as my memory isn't spectacular. Waiting for an appointment with the spectacularly verbose presence of Mr Anderson stand two parentfolk and their singular spawn (let's call her Rachel to avoid her being confused with tadpoles):

Rachel: Hey, Dee, I like your jumper, how much was it?

Dee: Not a lot.

Rachel: I bet you were fleeced.

Dee: [sideways looking] Don't be sheepish.

Rachel: After this, can we go to a bar?

Dee: Don't take this further afield.

Rachel: Best to keep it out of farm's way. What's the time? [whips out the old pocket watch to check]

Dee: Now you're just winding me up.

Rachel: That was bad, I can't even face you.

Dee: Well, that's handy.

Rachel: Don't try and fob me off with that.

Dee: I think we ought to break this chain, now...

Mim: What..?

:) Great times.

Whats-more, it's due to snow some time in the near future - hurrah!

If you look at people's faces long enough, they start to look very strange. A bit like saying the same word over and over again, it eventually becomes a meaningless alienoid sound.

Top notch procrastination going on here. Absolutely top.

I am currently waiting for my provisional driving license to arrive and free me from the final shackles of childhood. I am like a tame dog whose cage someone has forgotten to open, only a little bit more inclined to run around barking loudly if I am let out.

Right... Ethics... Hmm...

The last few days have been, quite frankly, shit.
Medicating with ridiculous dubstep music, loudspeakers and salt & vinegar crisps. I am what they call "hardcore".

Also brazenly handing in an Ethics essay late. Rebel.

I'M A

REAL BOY

MATURE PERSON NOW.

What A Week (Part the Second) + The Brink of Adulthood

The brink of Adulthood is where I am speaking to you from right this very moment. It is the strange sensation of feeling both old and desperately young at the same time. This week I have built up my transition to being an adult proper through embracing the opportunities given to me, first, becoming a cub leader, and now taking up my new vocation at Delapré Abbey.

I had my first day at the latter today and needless to say, it was a little bit daunting. At the same time, it was, however, hilarious. Let me tell you why:

Imagine a crisp November morning. A young (but also almost old) lady arrives at an old (but also very new to her) ex-nunnery-cum-stables-cum-wartime-base-cum-tea-room. She sees the door is closed and that no signs are out and therefore assumes she is the first to be there. Commence knocking on door, stepping back, peering through windows ad nauseum. After making a lengthy dick (ooer) of herself, she tries the door and finds it is in fact open and everything is GOING ON inside.

Rachel: 0, World: 1

Later on, after a delightful tour of the building and an introduction to the other staff (further details below) she takes her first order, serves up some darned good looking carrot cake and, feeling superb, suddenly freezes with horror. She's put the bell-jar-lid on another and it is now stuck there as though someone has glued it. After much flailing and (slightly too) loud wrenching, she is forced to concede and request help. Rookie mistake.

Rachel: 0, World: 2

The staff consisted on this particular day (I am informed it fluctuates) of two mid-twenties chaps and two mid-early-forties ladies. The chaps are named Ben and Alex. Now, I know what you must be thinking. Oh God, Rachel, your track record with people named Alex is shocking, keep back! But it was not Alex who was the issue. Benjamin (as I would never call him to his face) is lovely, I'm sure, but also has the quite annoying habit of explaining anecdotes with sound effects, which seems to be a marked trait of Northamptonian chaps who try to chat me up. (This being what he did, in a rather suave and charming, but also, parce que les sound effects, slightly grating fashion). Now, I'm not used to getting chatted up to begin with - on a normal day, this simply does not occur, and as such, it was difficult to know how to respond in the appropriate fashion without looking a) like a dick or b) like I was particularly interested. However, the interest proves that, somewhere, I have some form of feminine charm. Hurrah!

Rachel: 1, World: 2

I also discovered that the tearoom bookshelf is a swap-shop-free-for-all, with optional donations. Score!

Rachel: 2, World: 3

However, I also showed the reason for my dropping maths like a hot-potato after GCSE by proving my inadequate addition-under-pressure skills. What's more, Ben turns out to be something of a mathematical genius. This meant that I had to refer to him for quick-fire addition. He also makes a damned good tea (and for some reason was dubbed by me, in a moment of clear insanity the King of Beverages).

Rachel: 2, World: 4

However, there were comments made about my ability to bring in customers (hopefully not simply my status as a "free and single" young child-soontobe-woman) and I mastered the inclusion of sugar (and dog biscuits!) to outside table orders.

Rachel: 3, World: 4

And finally, I was invited back, and am soon to bash through the glass ceiling of childhood into adulthood, whether my maths and demure-womanly skills are up to par or not!

Rachel: 4, World: 4

It's a draw. Can't take me out THAT easily, world. Bahahaa.

Er, yes, composure.

Anyhow, I am very much looking forward to a lovely dinner with the girls in town, which we will be descending upon in a few hours in various states of dress! I'm sure it will be smashing!

All for now, ttfn.

What A Week (Part 1)

So first Leeds turn around and hate on me, then Newcastle want me to answer questions and then Birmingham offer me a place. It's crazy! But really damned exciting.

Not so gutted about Leeds as they were a plain English course, and because the best thing about them, really, was their lecture hall architecture.

Biiiirmingham, Birmingham, how I love thee. But also, a bit freaked out that they've not taken Film Studies into consideration with my offer, so I have to get 3 As THIS year, or they aren't interested.

This offer is subject to you obtaining

GCE A level
Grade A in English Literature
and Grades AA in any 2 of
Art and Design -Fine Art
History
Religious Studies

Definitely doable, but definitely means I am likely to run around in hysterics with multiple nervous breakdowns in the limbo time between exams and results. Scheisse!

Bloody excited, though, because this means I have two viable places - a proper and a back-up. Thank sweet Mary Jesus and Joseph (and their donkey).

Also, first impression time being a Scout Leader Proper in the village troop tonight. A little bit anxious, but I'm sure it will be fine, providing I don't start swearing among the little kiddies. :D

I have decided to force a massive confidence boost from now through my 18th year on Earth, by forcing myself into situations I would usually crap myself at, and dealing with it.

That is all,

Tata,

Rachel

Remember, Remember...

What a brilliant weekend.

On Friday were the annual fireworks at the Compass. For a few months beforehand the pub had a big jar on the bar for donations towards the fund, and the amount people were giving was amazing - there were more than a few notes in there - so, naturally, the display itself was excellent. Anna came along, which made it the best kind of ridiculous as we showed the village how loudly we could 'ooh' and 'ahhh' at even the tiniest little sparkles.

It was raining the sort of spit that meant you couldn't tell how wet you were until you went somewhere dry, and we faced the dilemma of trying to look into the sky, but being pelted in the eyes with water, leaving us both looking as though we had been crying ourselves into next week. (Thus lending a whole new level of literalism to the Flight of the Conchords: "I'm not crying - it's just been raining on my face...")

Afterwards, and after only one drink each, we came home because the pub was all kinds of crowded (not all of them the good kinds...) and somehow managed to go from philosophical conversation to drugless drug-style raving with improvised moves based on daily activities. We also jammed to a rousing rendition of the Joseph Megamix. I'm not sure I have ever laughed so much in my life; I headbutted a wall.

From the evening THIS plus a great number of ridiculous Facebook messages, including the Subliminal Penis Inclusion (when one attempts to penis include the word penis for male genetalia within sentences as one penis talks, with the aim of confusing the penis hell out of whoever's listening, additionally fun when typing, to draw attention to the penis best places for it to be placed.)

My favourite quote of the evening has to be: "So can you do that, just talk to me and put a little dick in?" Thanks Anna, and yes, yes I can.

***

Very few things epitomise ridiculous so perfectly as yesterday morning. There are days when one wakes up, full of the headaches of oversleeping and with all the honest intentions of ploughing out many and numerous Nobel Prize-winning essays and annotations of art work, only to have the opportunity snatched away from you on the cusp of personal fulfillment. Yesterday - Oh deplorable bastardery! - was one of those days.

Having woken up and found that I was in something resembling the 'working mood', I was promptly encumbered by the need to do admin. Most of the day was stolen by Santander's phone line and WH Smith's Customer Enquiry Services. If I ever get put on hold again, memories of yesterday will flood back to me, and the assistant will find me, when I am put through, weeping into my phone book.

Not a single sentence was written that morning, and the rest of the day was given over to watching Coupling and getting ready for the evening...

***

The evening. There was a bonfire the size of my house, a house the size of twelve of my houses, and a cabin with its own bar, a projector and a bloody sauna. But let me explain...

I met this chap Paul at the pub and, not knowing that he was practically God on the residential scale, greeted him with cheer and publy chatter while I was there. It later transpired that he had invited us out to his own bonfire party, which was held at his house - a gargantuan PALACE at the edge of the village. From personal observation, this dear chap Paul was not exactly the sort you would peg down as having a house the size of Toulouse.

So, when we arrived, I spent a few moments attempting to get my head around the luxury of the somehow Upper-Middleclasses (Experience, Anna! Closer already!) and then bumped into a couple of people that we knew, and all was fine and gosh darned dandy. Now, I had told my parents expressly that last night was for socialising, and I expected to see them both talk to at least ONE stranger at some point. (I have installed myself as something of a Relationship Manager, as per IT Crowd, for my parentfolk, who are simply some of the least socially adventurous people I have ever met. Our house is a fort, so are their social preferences.)

So, there were many schnapps and satay things and general noms, but these all came after the excitement that was the bonfire. I haven't ever been to a bonfire where there was an actual Guy - I had passed these off as a slightly violent and human-sacrificial tradition that people these days could generally not be bothered with - but there was one, and he was magnificent. His death was like something out of the Wicker Man. If he wasn't already an unconscious pile of stuffed fabric through smoke inhalation, there are no worries that the fire didn't burn him to a cinder. Often when I talk about fire, I am simply getting a little bit excited about matches and the mutant candle I ruin play with in my bedroom, but this was something else entirely. The fireworks, too, were spectacular!

Later in the evening, somebody broke out the guitar hero and singstar. First off, I cannot begin to play guitar (or even the easy level of bass) without getting very frustrated and growling as the song progresses. I can, however, sing to an alright enough standard, so I tried as much as possible to stick to that. It was great fun - the best score, I think, being 99% of Evanescence's Bring Me To Life. Oh so reminiscent, that song. My Padre did a stonking rendition of Tokyo Girl by Deep Purple, and sabotaged my (third) attempt at King Crimson's 21st Century Schizoid Man - I literally rofl'd.

They also made me sing the Barbie part of Aqua's Barbie Girl at least five times. So many times.

We stumbled our way back, quite loudly, at half two, taking revenge for all the times people have unsubtly gone home from the The Compass outside my window.

It is now twenty-to-one, and I think my parents are STILL asleep.

"The Saddest Music I KNOW."

*with a sad music background (The SADDEST MUSIC SOMEONE KNOWS)* "I've just remembered that knitwear happened... and I can't wear knitwear because... AHM ALLERGIC TO NITS."

I've just remembered that in winter you get rough round the lips... like carpet.
You get CARPET LIIIIPS.

And I've just remembered... that when you cut your nails... it feels FUNNY.

Oh...oh God.

And also, a memory what has just struck me... is that steel gives you STATIC ELECTRICIYY SHOCKS and it makes you feel ,like... someone's poked you... with skewer on elbows. OH GOD. WHY THE ELBOWS. WHY THE MOTHERFOKIN ELBOWS...?!?!?!?!?!

and...also... your bladder...

IT'S GOT NO GOLD IN, YOUR BLADDER.

and that's the saddest thing of ALL.

Hurrah!

No news is good news. This statement is no longer applicable to any situation I can think of. In a war, no news could as easily mean your platoon have been taken hostage and their lines of communication cut as that they're fighting away happy as Larry. In a political election, no news simply means that people are shit at counting, or voting, or both.

When it comes to university offers, no news is simply galling and leads to nout but constant anguish and self-doubt. In this, as with all these, news, of any kind is handy.

Today, not only was the fact I got news good, but the news itself was good. Doubleplusgood. SOMEONE doesn't think I am a layabout fraud! Newcastle want me and so, regardless whether they are practically in the arctic, are completely beyond my experience (I haven't visited them) and are my back up offer, there's a lovely glimmer of rekindled self-worth in my life again. Hurrah (and also Huzzah!)

NOM. NOM. NOM. :D

Today was very exciting in that it was the first day I released some of my creative writing into the wild. That is, let anybody read it who wasn't directly involved in its genesis. This was an intimidating prospect as I have always had a horrid, underlying sense of doubt as to whether it was any good. When you write something for yourself, and know it inside out, it's very easy for your mind to fill in the gaps and turn something mediocre into an absolute Odyssey of emotion and depth and what-not.

So naturally when I asked my dad to read the first (very tiny) bit of it last night, it was with a great deal of apprehension, and apology. Since then, various people have read and commented on it, and I am feeling a smidge more confident.

Aside from that, however, it is as though an entire new vista of excitement has opened up in that now I am able to share these characters and things which have been very close to my heart, but locked away in the realm of unspoken things, with people. It gave me a definite rush, which possibly contributed to my excessive hyperactivity this afternoon after a lesson with Mr Anderson where we discussed the thing for an hour solid.

I cannot recall ever being so naturally excited about anything as I am my writing - it's strange because for ages I was so sure that I wanted to pursue art, and now I can barely bring myself to dash out coursework pieces. I just want to write and write and read and do a bit more writing... Also, when I don't write for a few days I get horrid pangs of needing to, which is bloody disastrous.

It's part addiction, part obsession and 100% exciting. :D

---------------

In other news, Mr Anderson has been hiding the fact he has been in possession of a copy of Burgess' 1985 for as long as I have known him! This makes me one third annoyed, as I have been searching ad frustra for a copy for as long as I can remember, one third delighted, as it means my search is over and one third as though my day could not get much better.

All thought of coursework deadlines? Kaput.

Drowning in Paper (The Maws of Doom)

Half term, though good as far as doing exciting things and resting goes, has left me in a bit of a pickle.

I have a 3 A1 board deadline in three days, which I have almost absolutely no work for, I have coursework preparation coming out of my ears, am in the middle of reading three books which I would like to get through before my birthday when a new year's reading-list starts and, of course, my creative writing portfolio, which is an extract of 25PP.

Aforementioned portfolio is turning into a project worthy of a capital letter. It is supposed to be a sixteen page Portfolio of creative writing, with a two page commentary, and it is meant to be not shit.

Presently, my Portfolio is THIRTY-TWO pages long, lacks any form of commentary, and is very, very rough. It needs the largest amount of slicing and chopping and rearranging known to man. These pages are size 10 font.

Typically, the time when I really ought to be focusing on art deadlines, I haven't a painting bone in my body and just want to hack away at the giant redwood that is my Portfolio. So, I am sitting on my bed with a page full of 'TO-DO' list, absurd, loose pages of continuous prose and a cup of cold tea.

Let the carnage begin - I'll see you on the other side, providing I don't die in a bloodied mass of paper cuts and misfired staples, or have my pen run out half-way. xxx

History is too much fun...

These are some quotes which still kill me, from a conversation I had with Nat while we were reading up on Nazi generals one evening. All concern real people, and real facts - though Johan and Dicky are characters of ours. x)

"Kluge frequently rode in an airplane to inspect the divisions under his command and sometimes relieved his boredom during the flights by hunting foxes from the air—a decidedly non-traditional method." – “Decidedly non-traditional. I can imagine Dicky doing that” – “Waving a Winchester around”

“JOHAN alternative states "Women in uniforms are to be shot, unless they take them off."

“WHAT is this like CENTER OF FAIL NAMES or wtf is going on here -- Cäsar von Hofacker”

"As a leader who lectured his soldiers about the honor of dying for the German Fatherland, he was nicknamed "Der Sterber" (literally, "The Die-er")"

“this must be a piss take seriously BOCK also has: “He quickly earned the nickname “Holy Fire of Küstrin””

“Hofacker was later forced to betray him, under Gestapo torture, forcing Rommel to take his own life.” – “THAT HOFACKER” -- “Goodbye desertfox plz - Kluge would not join, despite Hofacker's exhortations. (Kluge later committed suicide, believing that he had been implicated). He's like a walking suicide machine. Also - he tried to kill Hitler, failed, and Hitler killed himself.” – “everyone around him kills themselves

"He possesses the Lance of Longinus (or "Holy Lance”) Johan possessed a Lance of Longinus too”

"Funk was held at Spandau Prison along with other senior Nazis. "

"Hitler is a dancing dervish. He must be shot down." – “dancing <__<>

“Stop, Hammerstein.”

“Because of the attack, he was removed from office and was reduced to his permanent two-star rank of rear admiral.”