Having looked at several pseudonyms that I have made for some people, they are incredibly obvious.
Ridiculously.
Except for like one which I cannot figure out.
Like, if you only ever glanced at those people and then saw the "nickname" it would be obvious.
Therefore, I will limit even more what I talk about and not use ridiculous nicknames like other "professional" blogs.
It's just not fair. Whatever.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Working for The Man
Living my luxurious lifestyle, filled with cocaine and Crunchy Nut (c), has its costs. And I mean money, not the impoverished people that make my favourite things. Therefore, money must be gained in some way. Traditional ways include: robbery, eBay, working the stock market and prostitution, the second oldest vocation in the world. The first being eBay.
This left me to follow the untraditional. I tried to get a job. Being of a youthful generation, I couldn't just print out a CV and go round places asking for jobs. That's old fashioned, man. Such a drag. The internet would help me, as it does with nearly everything else I do. Apart from being a genius that is, that's all my failure. I searched the website, Gumtree, which was a spectacular failure, yet if you want to become a teacher, it's magnificent.
I have neither the time nor the qualifications nor the patience nor the permanent smell of booze to become a teacher. Bust.
This left me looking at corportate websites' "Careers" pages to help me out. I eventually found one at VUE Cinemas. If you've never applied online before, you usually fill in a form with lies to blag yourself into an interview. An interVUE in this case.
Ha ha.
Let's not digress. Interview was offered, I accepted wholeheartedly, as I'm a stand-up guy. Went to the interview, dressed rather formally with a shirt that had buttons and trousers which had a zip. Classy, eh? Questions were asked, examples of certain situations where I had to deal with problems or customer service and whatnot. Once again, I passed with flying colours through the gift of the gab.
I mean, yno, lying.
Let's fast forward to the induction where I learned how to pick up a box, the science behind tripping over something, fire's Latin name is Mr Sands and I'm the lowest of the low so don't ask questions. We had to pass health'n'safety tests, which were made easier by the guy giving me the answers. I'll remember the answers when I need to. It's cool.
More fast forwarding and many episodes of LOST watched in the meantime, and I started work. It was on the tills for my first shift, which led to me dealing with "the public". Lowering myself. It's disgusting. Somebody asked for a refund within the first half hour. I had to call the manager. That's not a good thing to do, considering there are more managers than other staff. And they wonder why nobody goes to the cinema anymore.
Except...they do. In Fulham, money rains from the sky and wherever else it wishes. This is why I sold over £100 worth of popcorn and drinks to one group of five people. Ridiculous. That could've bought 18 LIDL brand mosquito nets. People asked me what I thought of films and I had to lie and say "It's worth the majority of that tenner you're giving me." So many personal mentras broken to keep a job at minimum wage. I also got a complaint that my ice cream scoops were not big enough. Fuck off.
Due to my work at the till, I am being formally investigated as there was £30 extra in my till than there should have been. I really have no idea why. Will I get the sack? No. It won't happen. If it does, I'll complain about the size of their ice cream scoops.
My next shift had me working on the floor, a test of stamina which lasts nearly seven hours. One basically cleans the cinemas after films have finished and get them ready for the next audience. Picking up rubbish and cleaning floors. Real bottom rung stuff that builds character as bullshitters love to say. After cleaning 15 piles of spilled popcorn in an hour really takes its toll as you begin to forget what real life is like. I saw a bottle of Coca Cola on the street and immediately reached for a non-existant broom to clean it up.
The tramp wasn't best pleased.
Another segment of the working day is based around toilet checks. We should check them once every 15 minutes. I checked them once in two hours. Maybe. Still filled in the forms as paperwork must be done correctly. Same with the piracy checks, which I've done six, maybe. And we don't get night-vision, that's total bullshit right there.
To be clear, cinemas are filthy and you can be a pirate, because everyone is like me. Yet, I still earn money for doing this in extreme amounts of hours. Not extreme, twenty. Whatever.
And in one day on the till, I saw more money than I would make in a month. Fuck Fulham.
This left me to follow the untraditional. I tried to get a job. Being of a youthful generation, I couldn't just print out a CV and go round places asking for jobs. That's old fashioned, man. Such a drag. The internet would help me, as it does with nearly everything else I do. Apart from being a genius that is, that's all my failure. I searched the website, Gumtree, which was a spectacular failure, yet if you want to become a teacher, it's magnificent.
I have neither the time nor the qualifications nor the patience nor the permanent smell of booze to become a teacher. Bust.
This left me looking at corportate websites' "Careers" pages to help me out. I eventually found one at VUE Cinemas. If you've never applied online before, you usually fill in a form with lies to blag yourself into an interview. An interVUE in this case.
Ha ha.
Let's not digress. Interview was offered, I accepted wholeheartedly, as I'm a stand-up guy. Went to the interview, dressed rather formally with a shirt that had buttons and trousers which had a zip. Classy, eh? Questions were asked, examples of certain situations where I had to deal with problems or customer service and whatnot. Once again, I passed with flying colours through the gift of the gab.
I mean, yno, lying.
Let's fast forward to the induction where I learned how to pick up a box, the science behind tripping over something, fire's Latin name is Mr Sands and I'm the lowest of the low so don't ask questions. We had to pass health'n'safety tests, which were made easier by the guy giving me the answers. I'll remember the answers when I need to. It's cool.
More fast forwarding and many episodes of LOST watched in the meantime, and I started work. It was on the tills for my first shift, which led to me dealing with "the public". Lowering myself. It's disgusting. Somebody asked for a refund within the first half hour. I had to call the manager. That's not a good thing to do, considering there are more managers than other staff. And they wonder why nobody goes to the cinema anymore.
Except...they do. In Fulham, money rains from the sky and wherever else it wishes. This is why I sold over £100 worth of popcorn and drinks to one group of five people. Ridiculous. That could've bought 18 LIDL brand mosquito nets. People asked me what I thought of films and I had to lie and say "It's worth the majority of that tenner you're giving me." So many personal mentras broken to keep a job at minimum wage. I also got a complaint that my ice cream scoops were not big enough. Fuck off.
Due to my work at the till, I am being formally investigated as there was £30 extra in my till than there should have been. I really have no idea why. Will I get the sack? No. It won't happen. If it does, I'll complain about the size of their ice cream scoops.
My next shift had me working on the floor, a test of stamina which lasts nearly seven hours. One basically cleans the cinemas after films have finished and get them ready for the next audience. Picking up rubbish and cleaning floors. Real bottom rung stuff that builds character as bullshitters love to say. After cleaning 15 piles of spilled popcorn in an hour really takes its toll as you begin to forget what real life is like. I saw a bottle of Coca Cola on the street and immediately reached for a non-existant broom to clean it up.
The tramp wasn't best pleased.
Another segment of the working day is based around toilet checks. We should check them once every 15 minutes. I checked them once in two hours. Maybe. Still filled in the forms as paperwork must be done correctly. Same with the piracy checks, which I've done six, maybe. And we don't get night-vision, that's total bullshit right there.
To be clear, cinemas are filthy and you can be a pirate, because everyone is like me. Yet, I still earn money for doing this in extreme amounts of hours. Not extreme, twenty. Whatever.
And in one day on the till, I saw more money than I would make in a month. Fuck Fulham.
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Manucho - 16/06/11
DISCLAIMER: This is not a film review. At least, not intentionally.
The amazing Holiblog is back (even though I still haven't talked about my homocidal trip to South France). However, we must remain topical and on topic and stuff similar to that. So let's start with the most amazing thing that has ever happened in the last week or so.
I got a car. Damn.
When I was in Aberdeen, my Dad continuously e-mailed and called to remind me to check my mail. I never did. It was just letters saying that I should get a TV license. That's not going to happen, I would rather shove a pine cone through my urethra. Imagine that, eh?
Eventually, I checked the post by accident and found quite a bulky letter, which I opened as I'm a curious little thing. It had my name on it after all (probably). There was a form that said various things about car insurance, so naturally, I assumed that I had been insured for the family car so I can go to TESCO and collect various sweatshop made items. Alas, the forms said that it was insurance for a 1994 Renault Clio. Who had a Renault Clio?
...Oh.
IT WAS ME! (Hopefully, you noticed the intellectual way I spaced out those sentences to show my actual excitement. I have a GCSE in English, you see.)
Fast forward some time and I was at home in London. Driving my car named Manucho, after the failed Man Utd player with whom I sympathised. No idea why. I do not support Man Utd or Angola. Whatever. However, after a year of no driving, I had become rusty. As rusty as my car. Yeah, check the year again.
Back? Good.
Driving with my Dad was an experience. Him telling me to speed up and then slow down reminded me of the time he tried to teach me how to put. The shots were always too hard or too soft. Whatever. Basic knowledge really. My handicap is still like 400. I could win the US Open with that handicap...if it's sunny, but not too sunny. I was sweating like a pig crossing the border illegally, that's my level of nervousness in that car. We were even pulled over by the police once, due to my car being registered in Aberdeen. There's a handy tip to get cheaper insurance.
My dad drives to work and used my car when I at university. Now that I'm back and remembered how to drive, he uses the family car and I drop my Mum off to work. A passing of the torch as she used to drop me and my brother off to school. I wanted to surprise her with a little treat, as I'm great like that, so I went and got her McDonalds, but the drink didn't come with a cupholder.
So this is how I nearly died. To avoid spilling the drink, I held it with one hand, using the other for the wheel. Genius. Unless you want to change gears that is. Or turn or signal or whatever. So, I drove like that around a couple of roundabouts before I realised that it was a pretty stupid thing to do.
Eventually, I arrived at my mother's place of work and gave her the food, which she enjoyed. She did notice the ONE DROP that I had spilled though.
Never be nice, that's the moral.
The amazing Holiblog is back (even though I still haven't talked about my homocidal trip to South France). However, we must remain topical and on topic and stuff similar to that. So let's start with the most amazing thing that has ever happened in the last week or so.
I got a car. Damn.
When I was in Aberdeen, my Dad continuously e-mailed and called to remind me to check my mail. I never did. It was just letters saying that I should get a TV license. That's not going to happen, I would rather shove a pine cone through my urethra. Imagine that, eh?
Eventually, I checked the post by accident and found quite a bulky letter, which I opened as I'm a curious little thing. It had my name on it after all (probably). There was a form that said various things about car insurance, so naturally, I assumed that I had been insured for the family car so I can go to TESCO and collect various sweatshop made items. Alas, the forms said that it was insurance for a 1994 Renault Clio. Who had a Renault Clio?
...Oh.
IT WAS ME! (Hopefully, you noticed the intellectual way I spaced out those sentences to show my actual excitement. I have a GCSE in English, you see.)
Fast forward some time and I was at home in London. Driving my car named Manucho, after the failed Man Utd player with whom I sympathised. No idea why. I do not support Man Utd or Angola. Whatever. However, after a year of no driving, I had become rusty. As rusty as my car. Yeah, check the year again.
Back? Good.
Driving with my Dad was an experience. Him telling me to speed up and then slow down reminded me of the time he tried to teach me how to put. The shots were always too hard or too soft. Whatever. Basic knowledge really. My handicap is still like 400. I could win the US Open with that handicap...if it's sunny, but not too sunny. I was sweating like a pig crossing the border illegally, that's my level of nervousness in that car. We were even pulled over by the police once, due to my car being registered in Aberdeen. There's a handy tip to get cheaper insurance.
My dad drives to work and used my car when I at university. Now that I'm back and remembered how to drive, he uses the family car and I drop my Mum off to work. A passing of the torch as she used to drop me and my brother off to school. I wanted to surprise her with a little treat, as I'm great like that, so I went and got her McDonalds, but the drink didn't come with a cupholder.
So this is how I nearly died. To avoid spilling the drink, I held it with one hand, using the other for the wheel. Genius. Unless you want to change gears that is. Or turn or signal or whatever. So, I drove like that around a couple of roundabouts before I realised that it was a pretty stupid thing to do.
Eventually, I arrived at my mother's place of work and gave her the food, which she enjoyed. She did notice the ONE DROP that I had spilled though.
Never be nice, that's the moral.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
The Paypal Visit 19/09/10
Background: I went to Lourdes. I helped out in processions, carrying the statue of Mary and bowls of incense.
I have experience in processions. I was called to do this one.
Right, the way there. Fairly unmemorable. The parish priest waited behind for all latecomers and the leader, some woman who has NEVER gone to church, was supposed to lead us. She has never been to London. Fucking hell.
Just in case you were confused, this is about the State visit of the Pope. Cool.
Got at Hyde Park and the leader's authority was challenged by my Dad and my uncle leading everyone to the correct entrance, not the one for the Pope. We cannot go there. Idiots.
I assembled my banner so the whole parish could follow me for some reason. I have no idea why I was suddenly made responsible for everyone. I was told to slow down so people could catch up. Fuck off, keep up. I am not responsible for the slow people that only go to church at Christmas and when the Pope shows up. Go away.
FEW QUOTES FROM MY DAD BEFORE LEAVING:
"You're dressed like that? Who do you think you're meeting?"
"Did you shave? WHY NOT?!"
"Wear a proper shirt."
Took ages to find the proper place to line up to proceed.
FUNNY LINE:
"How much is a programme?"
"£10."
"Well, that's hardly Christian."
Chortle.
Tired, I will finish this tomorrow. I apologise about that lack of quality.
I have experience in processions. I was called to do this one.
Right, the way there. Fairly unmemorable. The parish priest waited behind for all latecomers and the leader, some woman who has NEVER gone to church, was supposed to lead us. She has never been to London. Fucking hell.
Just in case you were confused, this is about the State visit of the Pope. Cool.
Got at Hyde Park and the leader's authority was challenged by my Dad and my uncle leading everyone to the correct entrance, not the one for the Pope. We cannot go there. Idiots.
I assembled my banner so the whole parish could follow me for some reason. I have no idea why I was suddenly made responsible for everyone. I was told to slow down so people could catch up. Fuck off, keep up. I am not responsible for the slow people that only go to church at Christmas and when the Pope shows up. Go away.
FEW QUOTES FROM MY DAD BEFORE LEAVING:
"You're dressed like that? Who do you think you're meeting?"
"Did you shave? WHY NOT?!"
"Wear a proper shirt."
Took ages to find the proper place to line up to proceed.
FUNNY LINE:
"How much is a programme?"
"£10."
"Well, that's hardly Christian."
Chortle.
Tired, I will finish this tomorrow. I apologise about that lack of quality.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Rants and Results 19/08/10
Dreaded results day. The bane of every 18 year old in the country. Unless you stopped at 16. In which case, enjoy living on the taxpayer's money.
Does that sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does.
The night before, everybody stayed up, unable to sleep due to anxiety. Chatting away on Facebook and the like, waiting until 8am when they could constantly refresh UCAS Track and find out if they got into university. I just lied on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Reading. I am so cool and above the system, it astounds generations.
Got up at 6am and tried to get my mind off the day with some Sky TV. It was all bullshit where kids opened their results and got what they wanted. In some cases, very elderly people were getting their results and then going to university. What?! Places are scarce as it is without octogenarians applying to UCL too. If you haven't gone to university by 35, fuck off and leave it to the people without liver spots and Alzheimer's. Greedy.
I was refreshing from 9-11 and eventually got an acceptance from Aberdeen...wait. That's my insurance. FUCK.
Suddenly, I was in a nervous sweat about how badly I had messed up my exams and how many lashes of the whip my parents were going to give me. All calm had taken a shuttle bus to Malaga and I was left like a wreck. I decided to go as early as I could to the tube station, thinking a nice walk would get my mind off the life changing results. It didn't. I waited calmly at the tube station for my friend to arrive, whose UCAS app was not working. Bricks will be shat.
Arrived to a school that had looked like it staged the Holocaust. Yeah, I went there. Someone was handing leaflets to a local university that said "NO UCAS POINTS REQUIRED!" Cheeky git. Anyway, we walked in and there were people frantically looking through the Independent and on the phone. Clearing has begun. I got my results and instructed to fill in a form telling the school where I was going. Aberdeen. This got me a crap Scottish accent, frankly racist, in a light attempt to make things less futile. Not that they were futile. I missed out on two marks. I can live with that, I can now sleep at night.
A trick to figuring out if people have to go through Clearing is that they tend to not stay for long, rushing out of their room with the paper to the nearest payphone. I feel for them, Clearing is a massive lottery that could end up with people making desperate moves just so they can go to university. It's a shit situation to be in and they shouldn't have to go through that. However, I am not nearly versed enough in the system to suggest any possible changes. I called my firm to ask/beg for a place and they told me that they were already 20 places overbooked. Wow. Maybe some universities need to get a grip.
This means that there will be a "Uniblog", hopefully starting on the 18th of September, writing about the 18th of September. It's been a long time since I wrote about something on that exact day.
This all depends if I meet the Pope or not. That'll be the last excerpt of Holiblog.
In the business, we call that a professional tease or a cliffhanger.
See you next time if something actually happens in this holiday. And I'll write about France too.
Does that sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does.
The night before, everybody stayed up, unable to sleep due to anxiety. Chatting away on Facebook and the like, waiting until 8am when they could constantly refresh UCAS Track and find out if they got into university. I just lied on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Reading. I am so cool and above the system, it astounds generations.
Got up at 6am and tried to get my mind off the day with some Sky TV. It was all bullshit where kids opened their results and got what they wanted. In some cases, very elderly people were getting their results and then going to university. What?! Places are scarce as it is without octogenarians applying to UCL too. If you haven't gone to university by 35, fuck off and leave it to the people without liver spots and Alzheimer's. Greedy.
I was refreshing from 9-11 and eventually got an acceptance from Aberdeen...wait. That's my insurance. FUCK.
Suddenly, I was in a nervous sweat about how badly I had messed up my exams and how many lashes of the whip my parents were going to give me. All calm had taken a shuttle bus to Malaga and I was left like a wreck. I decided to go as early as I could to the tube station, thinking a nice walk would get my mind off the life changing results. It didn't. I waited calmly at the tube station for my friend to arrive, whose UCAS app was not working. Bricks will be shat.
Arrived to a school that had looked like it staged the Holocaust. Yeah, I went there. Someone was handing leaflets to a local university that said "NO UCAS POINTS REQUIRED!" Cheeky git. Anyway, we walked in and there were people frantically looking through the Independent and on the phone. Clearing has begun. I got my results and instructed to fill in a form telling the school where I was going. Aberdeen. This got me a crap Scottish accent, frankly racist, in a light attempt to make things less futile. Not that they were futile. I missed out on two marks. I can live with that, I can now sleep at night.
A trick to figuring out if people have to go through Clearing is that they tend to not stay for long, rushing out of their room with the paper to the nearest payphone. I feel for them, Clearing is a massive lottery that could end up with people making desperate moves just so they can go to university. It's a shit situation to be in and they shouldn't have to go through that. However, I am not nearly versed enough in the system to suggest any possible changes. I called my firm to ask/beg for a place and they told me that they were already 20 places overbooked. Wow. Maybe some universities need to get a grip.
This means that there will be a "Uniblog", hopefully starting on the 18th of September, writing about the 18th of September. It's been a long time since I wrote about something on that exact day.
This all depends if I meet the Pope or not. That'll be the last excerpt of Holiblog.
In the business, we call that a professional tease or a cliffhanger.
See you next time if something actually happens in this holiday. And I'll write about France too.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
The Day I Just Couldn't Be Arsed 16/08/10
I have missed out about a week on this blog, because I do not remember the events in much detail. I saw some people, had a few drinks, played some football, I think. Whatever. Not that eventful. If I saw people in this time gap, then be more interesting or remind me to write it in this blog earlier. That would mean you were reading this. Ha!
Right, two birthday parties on the same day. Well...one and a half. PhD (I think that's what I called her) didn't celebrate her birthday because of exams, so she delayed it until the summer. When I am lacking funds. Some people just are not considerate of other people's bank balances. Whatever. The other party was at "fun-club-and-reasonably-shit-night", Oceana. Oh dear. It was on a student night when university is finished. So there are no students. Is it me? Am I the only one that sees this? Am I the only one that knows it will be a crap night? Let's continue...
I was drunk in the early morning and decided to confirm my attendance at Oceana with a lovely Facebook message, something about me being able to get drunk off of my own breath. The general gist of the embarrassing message was, "I am attending". That message more or less sends you to your grave. It's like a marriage proposal. You can't get out of it. For life.
Firstly, PhD's party at Nando's. This place confuses me. It's neither a restaurant nor a fast food place. They do not serve fast food, but expect you to get your own cutlery and order at the till. Weird. Surreal. Hmmm. Any fucking way, I turn up with a friend (that was invited, I'm an arsehole), only to find out that there is tension in the group. Somebody is now going out with somebody else's crush. This is an 18.5th birthday. Grow the fuck up everyone. After listening to this boring tale, I start talking to Sensible and delude myself into believing that I have a "shot" with her. My mind needs to shut up and see some sense. Wake up and smell the coffee, as idiots say.
Suddenly, I get wind of people going to the pub. People that I like. Going to the pub. The pub that I like. Nearer to my house than that awful club. Wheels start to turn.
I CAN GO TO THE PUB INSTEAD!
If there's something that I learn from this, it is never have an individual thought again. Attracts nothing but trouble.
Sensible laughs at my jokes. My work is done. Me and my friend leave for the pub, whilst I ignore every call I get frm the birthday girl, wondering my location. I eventually answer one and respond with "I'm on my way. Go into the club and I'll see you there." I'm such an idiot. It's unbelievable. I haven't even found the correct bus stop yet.
Eventually, we get to the bus stop to meet somebody who thinks that he is P. Diddy/Usher/Generic Black Urban Artist. He cannot read and supports Arsenal. I wonder what day it is and he stops me to say, "It's Monday. Hard to keep track. Time goes...so fast."
...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!
The bus arrives and a rotund man turns around and says, "Guys, the bus is here."
...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I'M NOT YOUR GUY!
Take the bus to the pub, general banter, pool, money lost on quiz machine. Nice evening. Followed by illegal activities with my friend, his brother and his brother's mates. Mint.
NEXT MORNING:
Birthday Girl's status: Some cunts are just rude.
Unliked my comment about turning up.
Bitches.
Fucking overreaction. I hope your party was absolute shit. My caring for your feelings went...so fast.
Right, two birthday parties on the same day. Well...one and a half. PhD (I think that's what I called her) didn't celebrate her birthday because of exams, so she delayed it until the summer. When I am lacking funds. Some people just are not considerate of other people's bank balances. Whatever. The other party was at "fun-club-and-reasonably-shit-night", Oceana. Oh dear. It was on a student night when university is finished. So there are no students. Is it me? Am I the only one that sees this? Am I the only one that knows it will be a crap night? Let's continue...
I was drunk in the early morning and decided to confirm my attendance at Oceana with a lovely Facebook message, something about me being able to get drunk off of my own breath. The general gist of the embarrassing message was, "I am attending". That message more or less sends you to your grave. It's like a marriage proposal. You can't get out of it. For life.
Firstly, PhD's party at Nando's. This place confuses me. It's neither a restaurant nor a fast food place. They do not serve fast food, but expect you to get your own cutlery and order at the till. Weird. Surreal. Hmmm. Any fucking way, I turn up with a friend (that was invited, I'm an arsehole), only to find out that there is tension in the group. Somebody is now going out with somebody else's crush. This is an 18.5th birthday. Grow the fuck up everyone. After listening to this boring tale, I start talking to Sensible and delude myself into believing that I have a "shot" with her. My mind needs to shut up and see some sense. Wake up and smell the coffee, as idiots say.
Suddenly, I get wind of people going to the pub. People that I like. Going to the pub. The pub that I like. Nearer to my house than that awful club. Wheels start to turn.
I CAN GO TO THE PUB INSTEAD!
If there's something that I learn from this, it is never have an individual thought again. Attracts nothing but trouble.
Sensible laughs at my jokes. My work is done. Me and my friend leave for the pub, whilst I ignore every call I get frm the birthday girl, wondering my location. I eventually answer one and respond with "I'm on my way. Go into the club and I'll see you there." I'm such an idiot. It's unbelievable. I haven't even found the correct bus stop yet.
Eventually, we get to the bus stop to meet somebody who thinks that he is P. Diddy/Usher/Generic Black Urban Artist. He cannot read and supports Arsenal. I wonder what day it is and he stops me to say, "It's Monday. Hard to keep track. Time goes...so fast."
...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!
The bus arrives and a rotund man turns around and says, "Guys, the bus is here."
...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I'M NOT YOUR GUY!
Take the bus to the pub, general banter, pool, money lost on quiz machine. Nice evening. Followed by illegal activities with my friend, his brother and his brother's mates. Mint.
NEXT MORNING:
Birthday Girl's status: Some cunts are just rude.
Unliked my comment about turning up.
Bitches.
Fucking overreaction. I hope your party was absolute shit. My caring for your feelings went...so fast.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Greedy Second Party 05/08/10
Right, there was a birthday drinks thing on the Tuesday. FINE.
Then, she decides to go clubbing two days later, in Central London. For me, this is just plain greedy. This happened earlier in the year when someone had a party at Orange RockCorps. Right, first off, that's not a party. They all had to do community service to get tickets to it, which is actually a good idea to get people involved. 'Tis a shame the line-up is always utter shit. Then, she had another picnic party where we had a water fight and played hide-and-seek. This is an 18th by the way. Shambles. I found a place to buy six cans of Strongbow. Drank it. There we go.
That was a nice interlude. Club was called On Anon. Looked it up on Google Maps to find the place and there were reviews of an average 1.5 stars. This evening looked like it would be a massive flop. Ergh, I hate being right...not really. I LOVE IT.
Got there just after 9:30, so I had to pay entry. Fuck. Got my arse squeezed by the bouncer. Fuck. Went inside to buy entry and got this exchange:
"By yourself?"
"My friends are upstairs."
"Aww, but you're by yourself?"
Patronising bitch.
Went up. Out group seemed to be half the people in this club. It's nearly 10. FUCK. A lot of Asian jokes that everybody gets but me and the other white person there. Great. A lot of complaining about Asian men looking at them, despite wearing low cut tops and short skirts. Such double standards. At least, I think they are. Do not truly know what "double standard" means. Ergh, fuck.
Crap music. Crap club. Good drinks, but at crap prices. Oh dear.
Two hour trip home. Nothing notable. Man with ponytail at bus stop wouldn't get off of his mail order bride.
Got home and just fell into a daze. Put some Barry White on. Pathetic. I hope nobody ever has a birthday again.
Then, she decides to go clubbing two days later, in Central London. For me, this is just plain greedy. This happened earlier in the year when someone had a party at Orange RockCorps. Right, first off, that's not a party. They all had to do community service to get tickets to it, which is actually a good idea to get people involved. 'Tis a shame the line-up is always utter shit. Then, she had another picnic party where we had a water fight and played hide-and-seek. This is an 18th by the way. Shambles. I found a place to buy six cans of Strongbow. Drank it. There we go.
That was a nice interlude. Club was called On Anon. Looked it up on Google Maps to find the place and there were reviews of an average 1.5 stars. This evening looked like it would be a massive flop. Ergh, I hate being right...not really. I LOVE IT.
Got there just after 9:30, so I had to pay entry. Fuck. Got my arse squeezed by the bouncer. Fuck. Went inside to buy entry and got this exchange:
"By yourself?"
"My friends are upstairs."
"Aww, but you're by yourself?"
Patronising bitch.
Went up. Out group seemed to be half the people in this club. It's nearly 10. FUCK. A lot of Asian jokes that everybody gets but me and the other white person there. Great. A lot of complaining about Asian men looking at them, despite wearing low cut tops and short skirts. Such double standards. At least, I think they are. Do not truly know what "double standard" means. Ergh, fuck.
Crap music. Crap club. Good drinks, but at crap prices. Oh dear.
Two hour trip home. Nothing notable. Man with ponytail at bus stop wouldn't get off of his mail order bride.
Got home and just fell into a daze. Put some Barry White on. Pathetic. I hope nobody ever has a birthday again.
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