However I do think a little write-up about my first car is needed!

I had a modest budget and sensible criteria, they were, in order of importance:

Rear wheel drive.
Older than me.
Play my Rush mix tape(s).
Raced at Le Mans/Excellent racing heritage.
Pop-up lights.

And so naturally, I came to the conclusion that my first car should be a 25 year old Porsche.

It’s a well known fact that Porsche make the best racing cars and this history is something I wanted to be a part of. Whilst my car only has a tenth of the power the venerable 917/30 of 1973, I’d like to think it has some relation. Indeed, with the rear transaxle setup, the car has a near perfect 50/50 weight distribution. Simply, by having the engine in the front and the gearbox in the back, it’s very balanced and handles excellently. Weighing in at 1080kg and powered by a 2 litre engine, I’m not going to set the world on fire, but equally, I’m not going to crash at 150mph. It also means I can expect a reasonable 30mpg.

Getting it home yesterday was tense at times, but it’s everything I want: old and noisy. With no power steering, anti-lock brakes, airbags or traction control it’s going to be exciting to drive. I’m going slightly mad seeing it outside, knowing it’s 3 weeks before I’m 21 and insured to drive it myself!

I’d already been to see a crap one earlier in the week, so this time I went to look at a slightly dearer one with the intention of buying it. Here’s a little diary with awful photos.

It was a long day, starting with snow.

And then just 1 of 4 London trains were running, so I was standing all the way to Swindon! This definitely let my standards slip for the car, almost to “as long as it starts, anything but the train.”

Finally, after 5 hours, Farnborough!

I got a taxi with my Dad to the house, where we found one of the owners relatives outside. The reason for sale was a baby. I can back this up, as the owner was inside giving birth in the front room!! I had a good look around the car and then the relative took me on a drive to show it was all working. After some more time checking all the switches and finding no rust, I made my offer. The owner was then consulted and he came back out with a counter offer slightly higher. Given the circumstances I agreed. As we were signing the paperwork, the midwives came out of the front room! I expect the first words the child heard were “Porsche” which is good, obviously. The 924 isn’t really a child friendly car, even the torso of a small child would be cramped in the back seats. This isn’t a problem for me however, with so few, if any friends (to give lifts).

There were some anxious moments as my Dad pulled out of the driveway and proceeded to get lost before the M4! But then we filled it up and headed for home, as conditions got progressively worse! Time for some more ironically bad photos:

The exhaust is much quieter than expected.

Home at last, just 9 1/2 hours later!

The car was flawless on the way back! Apparently it’s happier at 90ish than 70. Our personal highlight occurred when going down a slip road by Cardiff with a 10 plate Cayman spinning out in-front of us! We then made it down with ease with some decent driving. Cheekily, we stopped in our “classic” Porsche to see if they were okay in their poor mans Porsche. It was a 4 hour drive in snow, and it was absolutely fine. The heater makes quite a bit of noise, something which I’ll sort out. There is no wind noise, this is probably because there’s a lot of engine noise, thanks to the driveshaft and exhaust running between the seats. You feel like you’re sitting on the ground when you’re inside, it’s no exaggeration to say your eyeline is about equal to the height of a Ford Focus’ door. It would be fair to say it looks, sounds and feels like you’re going a lot faster than you really are. Pleasingly, the pop-up headlights can be seen at the end of the bonnet, and looking out the back, the rear hatch clearly marks the end of the car.

The car came with 12 months MOT, having hundreds spent on it this year and it went through the last two MOT’s with no advisories. In 25 years, it has only had 5 previous owners, and I hope to keep it for a few years. There’s a few cosmetic things to sort out, namely replacing the stickers that were removed for a respray, otherwise it’s all sorted for me to enjoy!

Oh and this morning I went outside to check on it, the car started first time of asking! I just need to think of a name!

Here’s Caerphilly Castle.

Another time I took on Caerphilly mountain with a housie, a tough challenge but totally worth it once we descended really, really fast.

Some crap places in the distance.

And today I got the train to Bristol and cycled to Bath with a hipster on a fixie. A fixed gear bike does at least have some advantages though, single speed is just silly. Here’s some trains which weigh slightly less than the Raleigh I sold.

At the outskirts of Bath (I actually used the manly gear all the time, as can be seen in the photo)

And finally at the station shop we got some food. I got a massive piece of chocolate cake and ate it with my bare hands, reminiscent of the fat kid eating the chocolate cake in Matilda, perhaps a little more dignified though. I’m sure you’ve noticed my bike is now sporting some classy mudguards too. I think “mother-bitch” is a fair way to describe how difficult they were to fit.

I have been living in Cardiff for 2 weeks now. To summarise University, I’d say the first year went like: “Oooh, hmm.” With the second year being: “Sigh. Awwww.” and now, entering the third year: “SHIT.” Soon to be: “Fuuuuuu. Uck.” As I work through it. I really do wonder quite what I was thinking during my UCAS application. At least soon I will be able to join the ranks of Freelance Benefit Claimants. Still, just one dissertation and 2 (or 3?) projects until I’m officially unemployed, and sick of all things photography. Strangely, I’ve been officially unemployed and sick of all things photography for a while now.

However, I am looking forward to living this year in Cardiff. That’s how good Newport is, I’d rather walk for miles to a station, catch and train and then a bus. Then leave again. My room in Cardiff is okay, there’s awful textured walls, I imagine living inside an iced cake would feel much the same. There’s also a really bad Venetian blind. The other day I managed to knock my clock off the wall, it fell onto the radiator, which now clings awkwardly to the wall. Fortunately, I was able to grab my clock before it hit the floor. There’s no visible damage, it must be pretty hard. With just enough space for my double desks I have to squeeze past them to move around the room. When I was walking about this week I was surprised to see some nice houses in Roath and imagined their spacious bedrooms. I’m still planning to paint my floors white when I own a house. And I’ll have two dining tables from Habitat to work on, a worthy investment. If I were to hit my Habitat clock onto a Habitat table, the mysterious outcome could herald a break through in science, marking the Large Hadron Collider obsolete. Continuing with the repetition of future plans, I saw a brown Porsche 924 for sale at just £850. Great value for someone seeking a repulsive relic, like myself. That’s another criteria for my first car now, the name of the colour should begin with B, apart from Blue. I’m thinking Brown, Bronze or Black.

Rubbish cars aside, I haven’t listened to much Rush lately. I don’t think I’m in the mood for it. I am so severely lacking ambition that I cannot rely on A Farewell to Kings to scream me into action. I’ve started to listen to Porcupine Tree again, something I’ve avoided since Easter. It’s not an attempt to be trendy or relatively up to date, it’s just because. Perhaps I’m trying to make up for my Supertramp indulgence of late? Yesterday I cycled for 50 miles. Passing through progressively more shit places in South Wales, such as anywhere North of Cardiff. Finally, I reached Aberfan, luckily the hillside wasn’t too muddy. I was concerned about my bike, not children. Apart from some on-road obstruction, Supertramp was on emanating from my mp3 player. There were some epic moments as the songs matched my actions. It was a fantastic afternoon and here are some excessively captioned bad photographs to celebrate:

I stopped on a damp bench to blow my nose here. It’s shocking the amount of times I blow my nose when I ride my bike. I take between 4 and 6 tissues with me.

Horse poo related near fatal accidents are a regular occurrence for me. Here, I stop to scrape some off my shoe. I wear Adidas trainers on my bike because they’re comfy. I had to get them from Sports Direct, a local Chav Church. It was awful. Until today, I wore shorts when riding my bike. This was until I went to the pub in cycling attire, it got very cold.

Packing 2 Penguins, I eat one in Pontypridd. The joke on the Penguin was “snow” much better. Ha.

Leaving Pontypridd, some plants obscure other dire places.

Suddenly, my progress was halted. I had to go around in circles until the Crime of the Century concluded. I’m glad I don’t have a mountain bike, they’re shit.

I wind up at an industrial estate, get a bit lost and blatantly include my Brooks bar tape in another suitably crap photo.

Returning home I identify a lone Skoda Felicia and what appears to be an empty budget supermarket. But it’s not Aldi, Lidl or even Morrisons, it’s another Welsh University that disappoints me. Glamorgan, the one in an inconvenient place. At least Newport’s new campus is in the middle of an awful place, not next to one. Thinking of Newport, I switch to Journey’s Edge of the Blade. An excellent song which accompanies me when I strop in my room or speed past inbreds walking dogs.

Only now have I realised that I’m yet to introduce my bike that I’m planning to keep. It’s a 1986 Koga Miyata Flyer. I got it imported from Holland because I didn’t want a bad Raleigh bike and the man had a neat garden and some deck chairs. I added some toe clips, a bottle cage, a Brooks B17 and some Brooks bar tape. Buying a Brooks was a tough decision, however it’s worth it. The tape probably isn’t though. I was relieved to appreciate how much better my bike is than the 2 previous £30 bikes I had. It feels like an old friend already. Here it is in Cardiff, I added my OMP vintage racing gloves and made the photo black & white for maximum twat factor.

I have since cancelled my new bike, having lost all my patience. Since the frame on my red single speed bike was bent, I threw it away. Responsibly too, not into a hedge. It wasn’t worthy of being recycled though. Looking for a functional bike to ride whilst I wait for my perfect road bike to come up for sale, I bought this Raleigh Stratos for £36.

I’m assuming Stratos meant rusty garden gate in the 80′s. I thought there was some potential however, and immediately took off the mudguards and luggage rack. I used it like this for a while, cycling to Castell Coch 3 times in one week, enjoying gears and brakes, as any cyclist should.

After a few days I tired of it and went to B&Q for some Hammerite. I’m sure such paint is highly regarded when it comes to a smooth, even finish, rite? I went for Hammered Green, because I didn’t want black. One evening I took it all apart and quite carefully painted it. Then I did the lugging details in some left over black Hammerite, probably from an actual garden gate.

Then I went to the cycle shop and asked if my £50 deposit for the bike that didn’t turn up could be used on tyres & lights, they obliged. And so today it was finished, and I took some wanky photos, because it’s raining outside.

Some disctinctly average tyres.

I just painted around the badge.

I nearly crashed into a bin changing gear once.

Hammerite “Smooth” in action. It’s like Custard mixed with PVA glue, and it doesn’t ever come off. Lovely stuff.

Drilling holes reduces weight.

Suntour: Mediocre at best.

Those notoriously unreliable brake levers for people who don’t use drop bars.

And some quite good brake calipers.

Total cost:
Bike: £36
Paint: £5
Tyres: £15×2

Not bad! Anyone for a bike ride?!

It’s an obscure internet thing, and you probably didn’t get it, but I hope the gentle Rush plug wasn’t lost on you.

Anyway, I will start, as usual, on the topic of Rush. I watched a feature length documentary on them recently, something which I decided I could never speak of. But, this is the internet, so there must be someone worse than me out there. Infact, there’s a few, judging by the film. It was good. I slightly cringed at myself noticing several subtle references. The worst bit was when Jack Black appeared on the screen at different intervals, being an idiot, because, he’s an idiot. Overall, I came, away with more appreciation for it all, feeling slightly motivated even. I wouldn’t recommend the film to anyone though, it’s too niche. And it holds even less appeal to a casual audience than Le Mans, another of my favourite films which I would never subject anyone to.

The only other thing I’ve done with myself lately is cycle around inanely. I get a lot of abuse on my bike. After being bottled from a car, I can now say I’ve been appled from a bridge. Well, there were some teenagers in a shit bit of Cardiff throwing apples from a bridge, aiming at passers by below, and one got me ripe on the head. I don’t like overtaking people much, I don’t care who is faster on a bike, I just want to go my own pace, but not everyone feels this way. I overtook a middle aged man across the barrage. He had an expensive bike though and had to show me. I always cycle past the Welsh Assembly, even though I’m meant to dismount, in a pathetic act of defiance. Later, I get off by the restaurant area, which is often full of awful people. He didn’t do this, and instead passed closely by me, shouting “Mate, your bike is shit!” Lastly, I was chased by about 15 men on mountain bikes as I left St Mary’s Well Bay. It was a bit scary, but I lost them through a housing estate.

The worst thing this summer is not having my new bike. Many, many, MANY weeks ago, I ordered a new single speed bike on the cycle to work scheme. The most frustrating thing about it is the loss of time. At the end of June, I could’ve got together all the parts for a nice bike and waited a week or so. Instead, I’ve waited almost 6 and paid a non-refundable £50 deposit. I would love to know where the Cycle to Work people live. I would cycle for many miles to see them. I can ride quite far now, I regularly waste time cycling 25 miles without stopping, unless it’s to put my chain back on. It’s not even a compromised, hypocritical statement about material goods now, it’s an exercise, in frustration. The one gear it has is just wrong. I spin my legs furiously, hoping to reach 10mph. The frame is so bent now that the rear brake hardly works, and the front one doesn’t work because the wheel is dented. And after cycling a good 100 miles a week for several weeks, the already worn rear tyre in down to the canvas. I’m reluctant to spend any money on it though, because, surely, my new bike will be here tomorrow?! It’s going to be great when the whole contraption falls apart in Penarth town centre over one of the huge potholes and I get run over. I’ll blame the Cycle to Work scheme for being slower than a fucking tectonic plate at sending invoices.

Now, I feel I have no choice but to send them one of my FUCK YOU forms. I keep a bunch of these FUCK YOU forms on my desk, ready for action. Everyone loves some good correspondence. I don’t hand out said FUCK YOU forms casually, you have to be on my list to get one, not my Christmas list, although I don’t have one of those.

When I say the people at the Cycle to Work scheme are special, I follow it with NEEDS. Invoice this, you numpties!

I had actually written an ultimate blog post during my final days, in Malpas at least. However, I didn’t put it online as some of my lines would stride over the line. Simply, there would be no winners. I could go all chronological, recalling the last stretch of second year, but instead I’ll just take sections of the unpublished blog post, saving time and words for some more recent anecdotes.

Inevitably, I shall begin with Rush. I’ve been listening to them a lot, as per usual, particularly those live albums I mentioned. There’s a few subtle variations in the performances, so several versions of each song are justified, I have 383 in all. The recording of Witch Hunt on A Show of Hands is beautiful. Towards the end there’s a little outburst of guitar, it’s only a few notes or whatever it is, but, oh, it’s so perfect. Doesn’t quite bring a tear to my eye every time, but it is just sublime. The soliloquy from 2112 live is equally flawless, I listen to it at least once a day, in the same way I watch a small piece of footage of a Shadow testing at Laguna Seca in 1974. It’s just it. No more is needed. It’s absolutely refined and correct. I guess that’s what I’ve learnt this year, Rush are good, motorsport was better before I was alive and, finally, a big monitor does nothing to make me happy. If anyone would like to watch “Can-Am The Speed Odyssey” you’re most welcome, not only does it have the fantastically raw footage of the Shadow, but an awe-inspiring section on the racing car to end all racing cars, the Porsche 917/30. I may have to buy a tape deck too, so I can announce my all Rush mix tape.

Whilst paying little attention to a Come Dine With Me marathon in Malpas, I wrote this, probably sums it up quite well.
Hand in was odd. At first, I was looking forward to it, but after giving my work in, no weight was lifted. Still another year, only it should be better, because I will be living with people and spending minimal time in Newport. At least there’s a core of decent people here, so we left the SU early, speaking to people about their time here, one of these phrases is used: “Fucking hell.” “I fucking hate this.” “Newport is fucking shit.” “For fucks sake.”

With my University review concluded, with plenty of fucking, it’s time for Summer! I’ve got myself a new thing to do. I’m riding solo. It has relieved me of a lot of, just, stuff. So, cycling, it’s good. I bought a totally shit single speed bike from eBay, it was delivered from Barry, by a man called Barry. Anyway, the bike itself is in very bad condition, the front wheel isn’t actually round, so the brakes don’t work. The frame is bent, which in turn bends however many new axles I fit. This also hinders chain tension somewhat, which is useful of a bike, especially one with no gears. However, I can get past all of this. Riding my bike is fantastic. The moment I clumsily push it through the front gate and get on the saddle, I can go anywhere (Within a small radius, admittedly.) As I ride down the road, I can stick it to the man, driving that bloated BMW. I cycle past teenagers and ugly people on mountain bikes, trying to make it look as effortless as possible. Men wearing jerseys overtake me, laughing. The one gear I do have is very low, however this means getting to 10mph on my bike is now one of the greatest experiences. For extra cool points (In my opinion at least) I have added a bell which says “I <3 my bike”. As I coast through Penarth town centre, I ring my bell, being a vague, floral shirted, hindrance to the public. I don't always use the bell though. One of my regular routes involves Lavernock Point, up Fort Road, which is a pleasant country lane, gradually falling down hill. I pick up speed, probably on the slightly scary, undignified side on 20mph. The road surface, as is common in Penarth, is bumpy at best, so I take a certain line through the turns. Up ahead are two joggers. Immediately, I know I really don't like joggers, I mean it's one thing to be a cock on a stupid bike, but running around in public, looking exhausted, playing some generica on your iPod and discussing a meeting? I don't approve. With this in my mind, I try not to startle them with my bell. So I don't use it. Approaching relatively rapidly, I believe, surely, that they can hear me? About 5 metres away, one turns around to see me, makes a strange squealing noise, alerting her jogging partner, who shouts: “OHMYGO–” It's at this moment I zip through with centimetres to spare. The action replay would've been fantastic. One of the joggers shouts “BELL” at me, it was nice of her to notice it as I passed. As I swept along the road I decided it would be best to go home quite quickly, in case their boyfriends or something chased me, trying to run me down. If I hit them with bullhorn bars, I'm confident I could've actually removed a kidney at such speed. Later, someone in a gaudy Vauxhall Corsa 1.1, which had crashed into Halfords and raped the cheap parts section, threw a plastic bottle at me as I was cycling. Had I been a bit more annoyed, I could've turned around, pursued them slowly to the end of the road and thrown my cheap and heavy bike at their car. After that I would have to improvise though, and that's hardly a strong point of mine. Yesterday I visited a local bike shop to order a new bike, which should be more reliable and road-worthy than my current, not very noble but at least mobile steed. I'm getting some lights too, so I can cycle around in the early hours of the morning, there's absolutely no way it cannot be as good as I'm imagining.

To finish, here's a photo of my bike, which looks better in photos than real life. I guess my bike mattress to me.

And then I rode my bike somewhere and then I took a photo when I got to wherever and had a brief rest and then I went on my bike more and then I got home and put in on a blog. I have since removed the last reflector, and the stand, seeking form in what is actually a functional object. I can’t get the stickers off though. Imagine someone leaves Weetabix to dry onto a cereal bowl, but instead they’re stickers left on a bike for 40 years. Impossible.

And here’s a Shadow DN-4, at Laguna Seca no less, although it’s from a recent event, so the car would’ve been slowed by the infield section added in 1988.

And thanks to everyone who came to visit in Malpas! No, really! Have a good summer!

This week I gave a really awful presentation on my theory work. I mean, sure I can bullshit if what I’m presenting is any good, but I can’t bullshit shit. I’ll probably just write the rest of my essay on Sunday, then rewrite it during the week. I’ve already shared my views on theory at Newport before, using the word holocaust, so I won’t dwell on it any more.

My second point, if there is ever one, is public transport. Today I allowed 1 hour and 10 minutes to get to Cardiff. That is a 4 minute bus journey and a 17 minute train journey. Still wasn’t enough. How utterly useless. Bring on my car, ASAFP. The ‘F’ standing perhaps for feasibly, more likely fucking.

Third up is crap sellers on eBay. I sold my Bronica equipment and bought an A4 Inutos4 tablet. Still hasn’t arrived. I paid for it a week ago. I want it now, I want to open it and I want to be happy for an hour, thanks.

Now I’ve remembered my Bronica experience. What a useless piece of crap! 2 of them broke in a row! That’s obscene! Everything about it was rubbish. Film is rubbish. To quote that amazing fashion photographer totally out of context, “who gives a flying fuck?” I’m not dicking about with something that breaks all the time, I’ll be awesome with my 6 year old digital camera. I’d say my 8 mega pickels are better than an ISO 50 6×6 negative, since I’m not stupid enough to buy a new gimmicky camera and instead invested in 3 good lenses. So there’s the only argument for film, that it has more detail, trumped already. It was obsolete 6 years ago, at least, get over it. And if you want to say film just has something extra, that’s completely unquantifiable, that’s like saying vinyl is warmer or whatever. It’s just silly.

Today something defining happened. Looking back, there’s been a few defining moments in my life which have made me what I am. In school it was being sellotaped to railings/walking around in my shoes after some bastard stole them and pissed in them/not recoiling fast enough to dodge a ruler soaked in fish guts/having a javelin thrown at my head, so on and so forth. Out of school it’s probably witnessing Group C sports cars at Brands Hatch, burning myself on the exhaust of a McLaren M8D, being drunk and sliding down the stairs on my arse. Today? Discovering some live Rush material I’ve not heard before. I’ve been listening to Rush for about 6 years now, quite how this passed under my radar I’m not sure. It is so exhilarating. I’ve actually closed my bedroom window so I don’t upset Malpas by enjoying it at such a volume and/or having taste. I noticed that next door have put their house up for sale too, so I looked at it online. Holy fucking shit. They must’ve worked their whole lives or wasted so many benefits on a hideous place. You know that grotesque varnished pine furniture which should carry capital punishment? They’re got more than 1 piece of it. My reaction was a bit like when I’m not in my beautiful room and being a big fish in the sea of shit that is Newport, it was so unfathomably awful that I was just still, contemplating my disgust. Now I’m just sat in my room attentively listening to Rush. Geddy Lee’s voice is perfect. The whole band is. I honestly could listen only to Rush, for the rest of my life, which, I pretty much have done so far. If it were not for today, I could be writing about Porcupine Tree, a sort of prog rock band that are bordering on being sociably acceptable. They’re alright. But, Rush, live, that’s something else. If they don’t die just yet, I have to go on a pilgrimage to see them.

Finally, I’ll ramble for a bit about my project. The tutors like it. Lots. So that’s good. Today I was on the tour bus for about the 20th time. I know it all off by heart now, it’s bored me. It’s not even like the Canadian American challenge cup of 66-74, which I can almost pretend to have an ironic yet meticulous knowledge of, it’s gone past that. It’s just not fun any more. Paul suggested I don’t need to photograph anything else, but, since I’m working at perfekt (sic) I wanted to go on it again. Now I’ve realised that actually, I’ve seen all possibilities and taken every photo there is to take. Which means it’s time to work out the book. The only thing the tour bus is good for now is having an excuse to go to Cardiff. Then I can go to Habitat, with my 20% off voucher and buy overpriced items I don’t need, just so that I can pretend I’m in touch with design. Man, I wish I had somewhere to put an occasional table.

Here’s some photos from a bus. My concept is basically look at people in crap places, buildings in good places. To me, well, I’m just honing my panning skills so I can take even better photos of cars.

Bus-ted! I can’t think of a decent title for the book, evidently.

I have, perhaps, been trying too hard lately, so, with that in mind, here’s something funny. It’s me with a daisy chain necklace.

I don’t remember having downs syndrome.

And now for my latest series. It’s photos of me not from this year so, look at me, I looked different, slightly, how interesting. Also note, I am not from Penarth, I am not posh.

“Raised By My Parents”.

I wrote on the photos, that’s deep. As deep as the ocean. Or, as predictable as the tides.

Lately I have made the decision to drink copious amounts of caffeine instead, especially in the morning, then descend into alcoholism in the evening. Everyday. That’s probably where my troubles have stemmed from. My sole remaining house mate has been very busy too, they don’t come home for days at a time. Living effectively alone in Malpas is not something I’d wish upon anyone. It’s the Easter holidays now though. Which means I have to leave my wonderful clock behind and endure my parents.

I’m also going to take the opportunity to clear something up. Yes, I did fall out of a moving bus. It was a paid bus, not the free one. Approaching the back of the campus, the bus doors opened before it had come to a stop. Moving through Newport with a purpose is something I enjoy, so I took the chance to depart from the bus once the doors had opened. It was going about 10mph. As I took a stride onto the pavement, my foot then stopped travelling 10mph and I tumbled dramatically out of the bus. I imagine it was like try to step onto a treadmill sideways. I’d like to think it was like a scene from The Matrix, for retards.

I had a dream this week. I never remember my dreams. It was very strange. I was at a funeral I think, though I’m not too sure. And then I was outside in an infinite car park. There was a wall down one side. In front of me was a black Mercedes 450SLC. There was a lot of wood trim. Then I sat in the driving seat and my Mum appeared before telling me Volvo S40′s are boring. I agreed. Then I was wearing black driving gloves and coasting down a cobble lane. And then I woke up. Bizarre. I mean, I don’t even like SLC’s that much, I prefer the vast solidarity of the SEC. Pondering this, I went to buy some milk. Having just got a large bowl of Coco-Pops, I place them on my desk. That’s when I realise: In 12 minutes there is a very important lecture. One word sprung to mind, repeating itself very loudly. Fuck. It takes me 1 hour 10 minutes to get to Campus, not 12 minutes. Miraculously I manage to get a taxi and arrive with 2 minutes to spare! It was totally worth the taxi fare too. We had two lectures about books, and so now, I need to make a book out of everything. And I need to buy the definitive motorsport photobook for an obscene amount of money.

Our practical module has been really good this semester. In school, my favourite teacher was Mr Jones. I am going to pretend I’m talking about him now, but actually, I’m talking about one of our current tutors, I’ll call him “Mr Jones” to not avoid confusion. Don’t be upset if you disagree, just imagine I’m talking about a school teacher you don’t know. Mr Jones was excellent because of his amazing sense of humour. Lots of people didn’t like him. But that’s because they were rubbish. If you couldn’t grasp his humour it was your loss. Some of his quips I shall remember forever. Though I won’t recall them on this blog, as I’ve learnt stories ending with “you had to be there” don’t work. I actually have a post-it note with “WHY?!?!” written on it. It’s basically a religious artefact. A few people will understand and now think I’m even more lame. Anyway, so this new “Mr Jones” might even be better. School must’ve limited Mr Jones in what he could say. Not so at University. Everything they say is right. And that’s why dull people don’t like them, surely, they must realise, actually “Mr Jones” is perfectly fair, I am just bad. At everything. There’s a great amount of satisfaction when so much is said in a seminar, which really means so little. You just come out and think “yeah, I’m good, I’ll just keep going and it will be good.” Oh and also, I am going to have a shirt off. An over-priced shirt, preferably with flowers, can only be worn by relentlessly successful people and twunts. I tend to mingle in both of those categories and the “you look so stupid it’s almost funny” and “you’re like an embarrasing Dad” classes. Obviously, people new to the shirt game are just twunts, I can think of one. To win this, I may have to get more shirts from Jaeger. Which aren’t even in the sale. That’s how important this is. Shirt’s going down.

Finally, I should probably put a photo up. Meet our new house mate, Mo-nique. She lives in her own little world. She has an IQ of about zero. She’s orange. She will make no contribution to anything. She eats a few grams of food a week. Other people have to clean up after her. She can’t sing. Come to think of it, she’s a lot like the last house mate. I’m going to sit down now and try and think of more of those. And I will create the parody I previously promised, probably over Easter, because I’m meant to be doing constructive things over Easter, like my project and an essay.

Soon I shall be relaunching myself into the blogosphere, with a Tumblr. The purpose of which will be to appear professional and diverse, as well as procrastinate and follow friends. I am going to sync it with Twitter and Facebook too, sorry. But don’t worry, I will continue to update my WordPress, as I step ever closer to realising Godwin’s Law. And there’s the small matter of 1,000 monthly readers gawping at me.

Lately, I’ve been toying with an aspiration. It’s actually very useful, though it does have one downfall. When I sit down at my desk, I immediately want to stand again, go outside, and make some friends. This urge brings its own problems, as, unfortunately, I am stuck in Malpas. So far so good, life’s not unpleasant in their little neighbourhood. That pretty much sums up Malpas, a dull mix of inbreds, just plodding along with no aim or purpose. (I can say that because someone else did and thought they were the only one to think it. And by now the flow of the sentence is broken, so I’ll continue in the sanctuary of the brackets by saying come at me bro. On an unrelated note, I walked home last night from the station to save on the Taxi fare and I saw a big knife on the pavement. It was like a combat knife. It’s okay though, at least I live on the other side of Newport, evidently, it’s the stabby side, not the shooty side.) That was a Rush quote too, by the way. It’s better with synthesisers. And I have two things to clear up: I don’t really like Rush quite this much, it’s more of a fabricated obsession for satirical purposes, and the photo captioned Bitch took all the saucepans is because some bitch actually took all the saucepans. Cooking soup in a frying pan is almost as demeaning as eating two 36p pizzas with added Oregano to pretend they have any flavour or nutritional value.