Before we sing Auld Lang Syne...

   I know I'd said I wouldn't be on before the New Year but I've decided that annually I will now gift you fuckers with a present. So enjoy 2010's Fan... Brilliant Wordle Poster.

Click to enlarge and use as a desktop background.

   See you all in 2011.

-Nous.

Early Christmas presents from uncle Nous.

   After only a week and a day of blog-neglection I already feel bad. To say that is somewhat reactionary though, as the last of those eight days, at time of typing, has only been for thirty three minutes. The point of this publication however is that for thirty three minutes now, it has been Christmas Eve'.

   My good friend Toby, of Not Tonight Dear, whom I met over a fortnight in departement de Vendée, Pays-de-la-Loire, la France recently posted his first blog in over a month and included a selection of goodies which he has discovered over the last twelve, citing the season of giving as a bloody good reason to do so. Taking into account this and my guilt I have decided to break my fast of blogging with an late night Christmas-themed publishing of a similar manner, I can also use it as an opportunity to look back over the year's events.

   Things I have discovered this year then? Well, to keep in theme with the afore mentioned; blogging. I have started blogging and I'm bloody glad I did. I've always been frustrated by my lack of ability to use conventional social media to portray my beliefs, views and whimsical musings to a wider audience yet already armed with the excuse "the revolution will not be televised but somebody will bootleg it onto Youtube" to do so. Not only have I become consumed by my typing frenzy but I've also engaged two new friends in the art too; Hamandpeasepudding (a Northern joke, you wouldn't understand) and Jenni, two fellow English students have been updating, though, admittedly not regularly, and I thought plugging them here would both gift to them and to you.

   Similarly, my good friend Rude Rabbit has recently returned to Blighty from four years of living in dawdlingly-interneted Indonesia (only to end up in Swanage, Dorset) and my intense blogging has also spurred him to update more -ahem- regularly, his blog The Blog With A Memorable Name is, when freshly plackered, a hilarious read, knowing his voice personally, it is clear that his writing tone mimics his speech and I highly recommend not only his blog, but all the others mentioned.

"Worryingly, he's not far off with his analysis of bureaucracy" (click to enlarge)

   To skip back for a moment, I'd also like to introduce you to my new favourite cultures; firstly, France. France is brilliant, I love France, I would go as far to say that j'adore la France. France has never appealed to me before but is the most appealing country in Europe now. I speak a basic level of French, its not too far away and things aren't too expensive. The countryside is beautiful, the bierre-Picon is tasty and intoxicating and, as is the general rule in any country, if you've tried to learn some of the language, people are more than hospitable; be that giving you and your drunk mates a lift back to the camp-site twice, saying only "if he iz seeck on my car my 'oosband weel keel 'im" in English whilst playing loud Spanish music or letting you know that "c'est bon" and you needed bother apologising for "le sud d'Angleterre" because they already know northerners are brilliant.
   While in France we literally stumbled across a the band Vaguement La Jungle (literally meaning "maybe the jungle?") both at a gig in St-Gilles-croix-de-vie and in the pub on the way back in le Fenouiller. On the subject of le Fenouiller, who fancies sending a barman, Fafa, from Algeria, a shit load of post? I have his address.

   I've also become increasingly nerdy with Arabic culture and language, hoping to study for a degree in Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Leeds. This comes down to Soren learning a bit of arabi' on the side in PDR Lewisham and my increasing involvement in bits and pieces to do with Palestinian solidarity but mainly that the cultures of the Middle and Near East are f'kin' beautiful. Wide in range and vast in their differences, for thousands of years from the Med' to the sub-continent nations and empires have been exchanging scientific developments and religious traditions and have formed some of the greatest and most wondrous societies on the planet. At least give it a Google.

   I'd also like the gift you Glasgow, Leeds, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Aylesbury and Lewisham as places to add to your list of places to visit and/or get drunk in before you die.

   Something I've learned this year is that despite continuously underestimating the greed and cruelty of the human race, there are some bloody fantastic people about whose generosity and kindness I could not live without. Not least that of my many Aylesbury mums.

   Karen has always been happy to put me up (or should that be put up with me?) around the house so long as whenever I rouse from the mattress in the spare room, I put the kettle on and help with the dishes. I have been only under-crackered in her daughter's bedroom with other men she hasn't met and she's simply turned a blind eye and said good-morning, the charity she holds in unbelievable and I suppose I'd like to extend my thanks not only to her but also to Jane who's constant offers of a place to stay and a hot meal were comforting at times of hardship at home. Jane is also single-handedly responsible for my korma addiction.

   This year saw an end called on my musical expeditions with The Electro-Possums, a band I saw grow up, a band I joined and a band I left having spent many great years with all the members past and present. In the New Year I hope to continue performing and spread joy and happiness with my new-found knack for writing songs about drunk nights out. Tonight's pint-fuelled in-joke is tomorrow's download-fuelled platinum album, or some shit.

   The internet is a lovely place full of things that do your job for you, if you've been finding keeping an eye on important news somewhat strenuous, you've been looking for new ingenious spam topics and if you've been trying to find a blog about nerdy stuff that doesn't appear too nerdy but still is quite nerdy, I suggest checking out Super Punch on recommendation of Connor James. 

   In TV, not much this year has really grabbed my eye, the last series of The Inbetweeners of course and watching boxsets of The X-Files and 24 with Ed and Shaunagh but the BBC has just started showing a new drama of Douglas Adams's Dirk Gently which I enthusiastically encourage you to watch on the iPlayer.

   The Aylesbury Brewery Co.'s second and probably last attempt at successfully brewing cider in a bedroom is currently in Max's and hasn't been touched for a good seven weeks. Last New Year's Eve's christening of ThwackMooThud saw one vomiting into a bath and one pass out so let's hope that 2010's a good year and ThudSplashFlap goes down just as well, like it's namesake, the sound two pigeons make in a well when you throw a bit of castle at them. Food poisoning; the gift that keeps on giving. 

   Lastly, moving hasn't really taught me anything, I know I can make friends just as well as I make enemies and that geography has never been a big issue for me in any sense. I just hope I keep in touch with the many I've loved over the last seven years and indeed those who I love in the next seven.

   So here's to 2011, a year of hopes of happiness and dreams of drink. Enjoy it.

   I hope you all have a fantastic Christmas, I'll probably be taking a few weeks off this to concentrate on my sociology exam in January so take care and I'll speak to you all later.

   Seasons greetings,

- Nous.

I've found smog at the end.

   Six weeks is it? Can't be much more. I moved back up to Washington (local: "woshi'n'un") on November the first, handy date to count from though it is, I can't be arsed. I thought I'd write a few words about how bloody brilliant everything's going so far.

   College is great, its not falling apart and it doesn't smell anywhere. I've fitted in fine, the guys I hang about like a fart in a phone box are swanky characters who I reckon don't think I'm too much of a cock which is comforting.

   Politically, I am holding back for the next eighteen months or so, I do want to get myself right into it eventually but not having those three A-levels that'll get me into either Leeds, Exeter, Edinburgh or St Andrews to learn Arabic will greatly hinder my chances of succeeding in... Whatever it is I'll do with my life in the end. This is hard of course, needless to say, had I not moved I would have been smashing windows at Millbank, storming Parliament and hoying missiles in London instead of only attending a few of the many marches in Newcastle. This move has been positive in so many ways for my education and prospects, I even got a bloody A this week!

How many times have I walked that tunnel? Not enough.

   Of course, I still miss Aylesbury like a hole in the head, I even dreamt about the cobbles shining white in the lamppost lights under rain and cherry blossom in the Market Square the other night but then again, I have been listening to a lot of Marillion like I said. I was considering having "Market Square Heroes" across my shoulders, I owe the town that much, I loved it in many ways.

   Washington is a brilliant place, few places I end up have ever been bad but right now it seems almost soulless. Not as soulless as the day I arrived in Aylesbury though, I saw things as bleak for quite some time then and yet the outcome was truly magnificent. I'll grow to love my home town again.

   My darling David, weather permitting - fuck you snow, - is coming up this weekend to visit his folks in Sunderland. Understandably, he'd rather be seeing me so his 'rents are kindly bringing my ukulele and a bag of clothes up for 'is. My fingers have gone all soft and girly, I haven't played my guitar in pretty much two months. I'm reservedly excited, concerning the weather but I look forward to it nonetheless.

   My EMA contract has arrived finally so I'll get it in tomorrow, signed and pick up a camera from James, wor media tutor to borrow for the holidays. Of course, I'll be primarily studying for my sociology exam (14th January), re-drafting my English coursework, filming media material and getting pyuwa mortal but I might have time to film bits and pieces of things what happen and get them up on Youtube, if so I'll use it as an opportunity to report, in a journalistic sense, of course.

   Just to go back to politics mind, can I implore you all to make a formal complaint about the behaviour of Ben Brown, BBC journalist for his utter lack of professionalism in this interview with Jody McIntyre after he was pulled from his wheelchair at the student demonstrations in London twice by the same Polis. There's a link and details on the Youtube page linked on how to complain. Mine is on the Beeb blog by a Mr Bakhurst on the subject under this name. Thanks.

   So I'll be in Aylesbury after Christmas, latest date of arrival looks to be about the 28th and many exciting things are afoot, one of which is a closely guarded secret but I hope you can all make it. I look forward to seeing the town again and everybody in it, book in advance to avoid disappointment. Catch ye's after.

   Oh, and Courney said to say she says "hi"... Courtney says "hi."

-Nous.

Alcohol, n. A catalyst for the surreal.

   Saturdays aren't often a time of enjoyment during the day when your social circle is still quite small. Kyle reported severe chunderchunks by text and so I ventured in the Toon on me ones to sit in Costa, revise like a mad 'un and enjoy some coffee.

   A hard day's sociology revision and song writing later and it was five to six, Newcastle have kicked off some twenty five minutes ago, "where's the harm in having a wander up to the ground and listening to the crowd for five minutes?" I thought "I'll just have the one in the The Strawb' and go back at half time." Now, at this point it is important to note two things. Firstly, that nobody, in the history of beer, pubs and the number one has ever successfully "gone in for one" and secondly, something my dad said on his time at university in Belfast during the troubles, "alcohol is a catalyst for the surreal Richard, impromptu drinking only ever results in strange happenings."

   "Bottle a broon ale, ta flower." Lovely I thought, one-nil up against the Scouse at home, maybe this Alan Partridge bloke's alright. "Who scored mate?" "Nolan, three yards, tapped it in from Carroll's header across, we're all over them man!" I love how such a simple question can result in such an in depth analysis. 

   The Strawberry is the pub nearest St James' Park, it is a watering hole obsessed with Newcastle United, the walls are adorned with the city's adored from the last hundred or so years and nobody in there right mind goes in there to cheer on the away team on match day. Nobody that is, except one Scouser.

The Strawberry's the smaller of the two buildings, the other one is a football stadium.

   Anyway, the bloke I asked who'd scored, his name was Paddy and he was pished, like, right pished, and he kept buying the rounds. As a student, northerner and general small-time begger I've been known to check phone boxes for lunch money, busk for pints and scour the floors of bus stations for me fare. In short, I wasn't going to say no and eight pints later, we've won three-one, the Scouse bloke is wrestling Paddy and I, to put it lightly, am pissed.

   After being called Jamie Oliver in the bogs and kissing the match ball on me way out all I could think about was food. Walking through China Toon I'm amazed I made it to the bus without stopping for a Chinese, well I'm amazed I made it to the bus let alone without getting a take away. The X1 was packed and I decided that MaccyDee's was a good pit stop point for munch on the way though the Gall's and it was there that, pissed and full of chicken, I started posting on Facebook again, breaking my vow of a Facebook-abstinent fortnight.

   Stumbling in at half nine, over the moon as it were, I watched Match of the Day and logged on again where I discovered that wor Dave's coming up on Saturday! Gerr' in, I thought, should be a good crack in Newcastle and me day just got a whole lot better.

   Three or four hours of Facebook and ChatRoulette later I passed out and woke up with the most excruciating hangover I have ever experienced. Never mind though, that was the best Saturday I've had in a long time.

- Nous

Hanx! a f'kin' bunch.

   Parliament today passed the green paper to raise tuition fees to up to £9,000.

   Obviously, as a socialist student, this makes me sad. So much so, I've taken a few moments from typing out my English coursework (don't worry, I've not spent hours writing this) to have a radge. The BBC had their typical mention of "poor polis mans getting hurted!" and "nasty students making fings to throw at the polis" and then the awkward "so... Anyway!" when a sensible, straight-talking bloke has a go on camera about the intensification of the class divide.

"Here, Samantha's right, he has been working out, nice arse Dave,
 hands off Osbourne!"

   I got so angry I put The King Blues on. I haven't had a good rant about the fees yet, but here's my point of view: This isn't our mess, this isn't our fault, we haven't voted, we don't get to vote or voice an opinion but we are aloud to die in Afghanistan, we are aloud to pay taxes if we don't go into A-levels and we are aloud to accumulate £40,000 in debt for trying to better ourselves.

   The ConDem coalition formulated a web page this week declaring several "myths" about the fees. The answers to said myths are revealed when you click on the little angry placards in yet another attempt to belittle the student population. Funnily enough mind, I couldn't for the life of me find the placard reading "Scrapping Trident, ceasing the funding of the Israel Defence Force, pulling out of Afghanistan and generally not being the international relations equivalent of a complete cock would allow the state to completely subsidise higher education and give the working class a chance to educate themselves, achieve class conciousness and revolt."

   Maybe that's not a myth though?

   Anyway, that's not very in depth but it is my view. Have it, share it - sharing is caring after all.

   Me and Ms Peterson have been listening to the SLF album Hanx! for this evening's entertainment between bouts of Tory-aimed rage. The album was recorded almost entirely at Friars in Aylesbury, where I saw them last year and Fish of Marillion wrote the song Market Square Heroes about that night apparently, which is rather bloody wonderful. Check it out and listen to the interview with Jake Burns at the end.

   Have a lovely time without me,

-Nous

MyoldbloggothackedbytheFBI.ch

   Right then blog fans! (Sorry, I did try for five minutes solid to try and merge the word "blog" with the word "groupies" to make you all sound much more interesting than you actually are, unfortunately "bloopies" sounds like a six year-old describing breasts and "grouggers" sounds like a Medieval disease)

   So I've been comparably neglecting Fan... Brilliant since I went blog-crazy a week or so ago and a lot's happened in the world of NousAvonsLaRage and current affairs.

   Julian Assange, founder of journalistic light house Wikileaks, has been arrested and refused bail in London on account that he might well buggar off having handed himself in in the first place. The charges against him are of varying degrees of sexual assault from "unlawful coercion" to rape. He is wanted for those offences in Sweden and his details had earlier appeared on InterPol's most wanted list.

... And she pushed me away like this but I forced myself
 down, and then I woke up because it wasn't real!

   Now, considering his website has embarrassed most major world leaders and politicians over the last few weeks, his website first had Amazon pull out as a host and after the EveryDNS.net infrastructure was put at risk by the huge amount of hacking going on Wikileaks has had to move to a Swiss domain name (wikileaks.ch, if you're struggling). I'm not pointing the finger of blame, but if there was one, it would be pointing sternly at the US.

   Its fairly obvious to all that the charges against Assange are entirely unfounded, he will be extradited to Stokholm where they will find him not guilty. Unfortunately they'll then say "but you are wanted in the US, we'll just keep those handcuffs on you for a wee while longer." The man is being held for politically motivated reasons and all and sundry have turned up to support his cause.

   In other news, I had a terrible case of writers block this week, a bitch considering I had to write two drafts for English coursework. I've nearly completed the longer, more boring of the two now and the shorter creative writing task is in hand so-to-speak, in that I haven't actually started it but many ideas are written down on various scraps of paper, receipts, bus tickets, used tissues and the backs of my hands.

   In terms of media I am now the only student attempting a film introduction for coursework. The bright side of course is that I now have complete control (even over this song!)... Over the outcome of the piece, so long as I find people who can act, or even just one, its only the first two minutes and characterisation is a large part of it in terms of following a style model. 

   I have a new laptop called Clarence Peterson the Compaq Presario, Ms Peterson to you. She's lovely and nice.

   In other technological news, I have started a fortnight of social network abstinence and so I wont be on Facebook for two weeks, in short. This is intended to help me concentrate as I have all but been diagnosed with ADHD. I stress that's not a medical opinion, just my own and that of anyone who's ever had to speak to me. What's happened is I've spent a lot more time laughing at penises on Omegle.

   And on that note I will love and leave you all, have a superb time between now and the next time I bother publishing, take care, bye, bye, bye... Bye... Bye! xxx

-Nous

International relationship status.

   By the way, I tried to go all Hunter S. Thompson in the last blog, I started it in the morning, went out, came back twelve hours later, got drunk finished it badly and posted it. It was shit to start with, mind. So I'm sorry.

   I thought it was about time I gave you a rant about Korea, the UK media's quaint view of the situation is humouring me of late.

   The way I see it is; if fifty odd year ago England and Scotland had been a unified country, let's call it "Scengland" and a communist uprising formed in Scotland and then France helped the Scenglish government to fight it back to Carlisle, well then fifty years later France and England testing weapons out and playing war games in Berwick-upon-Tweed would seem a bad idea anyway. But then you're reminded that Alex Salmond is Kim Jong Il, an absolute nutter of titanic proportions.

As a box of frogs.

   Put into context it appears a different situation, eh? A bombardment of Berwick seems measured now.

   Don't get me wrong, North Korea's a weird place and I'm not going all UK Bolshevik Union on you or something but the west knows next to nothing about the country yet feels its necessary to bully it. It seems unjust. 

   North Korea's relationship with it's "communist" nieghbours China is an interesting one, especially in the light of the recent Wikileaks files. To paraphrase comrade Patrick, North Korea is like a younger brother to China. China slags North Korea off to her mates the UK and US and when her boyfriend Russia comes round she has to hide him or ignore him. Occasionally North Korea will do the political equivalent of shaving your big sister's Barbie doll and test nuclear weapons on her border but all in all, China's not threatened, only ever embarrassed or annoyed. When North Korea has a falling out with China's friend the US's little brother South Korea, the big sisters just want them to get along. You can see where I'm going with this.

   Of course, I sympathise with none of them.

   In other news, FIFA have a lot to sort out, a few hours ago the host countries for the 2018 and 2022 World Cups were announced, England's 2018 bid failed and Russia picked it up whereas the small gulf state of Qatar will be hosting the World Cup 2022.

   Now, as the biggest anti-nationalist, anti-patriot you'll meet I don't care that we don't have it, the entire exercise has become a bastardised method of advertising for the same brands every four years. 2010 South Africa was global capitalism on speed, taking advantage of the third world in the most depressing of way and leaving nothing of any benefit to the people at all. The next competition will be held in Brazil, themed swimwear and pictures of Pele will be order of the day and I can imagine the Coca Cola adverts now. But Russia and Qatar? Really? We send a prince and David shitting Cameron to save face over the behaviour of our press and files leaked in recent weeks but I thought the whole thing was about football.

   Interestingly, Cameron has come out as a Villa fan which gives us all another reason to hate both of them.

   No, football is now at the bottom of the list, it now comes down to name calling, face and personal profit. Much in the same way children behave Russia has won 2018 because its becoming the super-power it once was, once again and Qatar will host a competition its people know very little about because the inhabitants of the Arabian peninsular fall just short of being literally made of money. 

   Or to put it another way, Russia's been very liberal with the Farmville invites and Qatar is now friends with The West - Sepp Blatter likes this.

-Nous

Students, students, student.

   Student action day two, Tuesday, 30th of November 2010. Heavy snow across the east coast means Newcastle has eight inches in places and there's something very 1905 about marching in the snow.

   The Monument's surrounded with foreign food outlets for some overpriced Christmas market shite and with no sign of any students yet I head up to Newcastle Uni campus where flags and banners tell me to follow a small crowd who, when we arrive back at the Monument, join a few other small groups and speeches get under way.

   I was thinking, I need my instruments back, live music might liven up the open mic situation.

   I decide I need a sign, so I ask in broken German and French for a box from the guys on the stalls and armed with a empty bratwurst box I return to my spot and ask a passer by for a witty signage idea.

Childish, I know.

   This entertains onlookers all the day through.

   Our march takes us past all the banks and big businesses in the city whose debts we are being asked to pay off and eventually we're kettled by the Uni. Speeches are made. Music is played. We spear head the Polis blockade and try to join the occupation at Newcastle University Fine Arts building.

   A sign emerges reading "please come back later" and some arsey group of anarchists end up ironically leading the group, speeches are made on the campus and we move off. We storm Eldon Square and the security staff get a little bit gun-ho. They decide that sitting down in Fenwicks will xort it out and I walk away. 

   I'm finding this all a bit frustrating, just wandering about, its  mentioned to me that we need to try and occupy a meaningful target so we don't just look like we're causing trouble.

   HSBC by Monument? So we're in, we're making a point, its all going well, the Polis aren't getting too arsey... The children get excited and run upstairs trying to smash a few windows.

   But our point is made.

   Throughout the day there's a few cases of Polis heavy-handedness, the worst of which being a young lass getting a back hand and one of the young Muslim lads being dragged by the neck for hoying a snowball.
   All in all its a good day mind.
-Nous.

He's big, he's black but apparently he doesn't take it up the crack.

   Sol Campbell played his first home game for the Toon the day against a Chelski side who failed to impress anybody, not even their mums.
   I should mention now that in an attempt to piss me grandmother off I told her Sol Campbell was gay and quoted the song but apparently he's not. Not that it matters like, couldn't give a shit meself. But he's not. He's married to a tidy Geordie interior designer and he's massive so Sol Campbell's not gay.
   But he is bigger than me.

Sol Campbell's gravitational pull appears to be a fanny magnet.

   But back the the game. Sol and wor Steve played well together at the back, even if Taylor (S) was a bit rusty after returning from a this-time-nothing-to-do-with-how-much-of-a-slut-Andy-Carroll's-ex-is-injury. I'm sure he'll be fine though, it just looks like he's been taking a leaf from Sol's book and none from any salads.
   Without Nolan we were a bit lost as a team, no real direction and that shows the shallow nature of the squad but all wasn't lost. Andy Carroll played his usual best, chasing the ball around like a nutter to slot Alex's streak of piss back to the helmeted wonder into the goal. Cech even did the FIFA 2010 goaly shuffle, hands a side like a crab, beautiful.
   Shola had a bad day, missing one or two barn doors with a fairly large banjo but he's a good lad, reminds me a bit of wor 'Tino so I'm sure he'll redeem himself.
   A drop in defence which can only really be blamed on Steven Taylor lead to a Chelski equaliser but to be honest, they didn't deserve it. Without Terry and Lampard they were left to throw it all up pitch, at the end on the game they had four strikers on and still Drogba was making Ameobi look good. Even when Didier did score, he'd handled it and the goal was disallowed.
   I've never liked the Cote d'Ivore international mind, not since that fateful night in Marseilles - we needed a nil-nil draw to go to the UEFA cup final and that bastard scored a hatrick through Ashington's third favourite son Steven "no Sir Bob, let Shay have his moment" Harper.
   A special mention for Ashley Cole who managed to behave like a child for ninety minutes because the Toon Army booed his disgraceful actions of sacrilege against Wor Peoples' Princess of Geordieland Cheryl of Tweedylass. I don't know, we send her down there to strengthen relations with That London and that's how they repay us?
   All in all we can't complain, Chelsea are shit this season and Man U will win the league but on form like this we could expect to finish sixth. Unfortunately, on account of results like losing five-one to Bolton f'kin' Wanderers we should really expect fifteenth.
   And on the subject of footballing figures and gay - Chrissy Hughton, best looking manager in the league? I would.
   That's my first attempt at real sports journalism, I hope you liked it. I don't know when my next publishing will be but Tuesday's jollies out to Newcastle as part of the walkouts look to be a good place to report on shit, so maybe Wednesday night, what with college and sleeping.
   For now, peace and solidarity,
-Nous.

I speak funny.

   I felt it was about time I explained to you why I speak funny.
   Born in Gateshead, raised in Washington by a Geordie dad and Oxford-hailing mam I've never had a Geordie accent really. When I was ten and we moved to Shitley Bay I had to change me accent to avoid sounding "like a mackem" but I wasn't there long and so when we then moved down to Aylesbury me idiolect was in limbo, still trying to sound Geordie in a vain attempt of overt prestige and yet having to slow me pace, flatten me vowels and clear me diction so this lot could understand worr'a wis sayin'.
   And so for a year or two that continued and then a strange phase of sounding like I was from Leeds, the less said about that the better. I think meeting Joe and David shaped my speech greatly. Dave's north east roots made it possible for him to understand me, same goes for wor Charlee and Joe's Glaswegian lilts made my stomach throw deep booming round vowel sounds into my chatter as we competed to be the most incoherent speakers in Vale.
   All this made me a bit nerdy about spoken language and linguistics and stuff and maybe that's why I picked up so much basic French while in France and why I want to study Arabic now. Strange really.
  Anyway, as the years passed my Geordie dropped somewhat and  this left my idiolect fluid and floppy. Visits to Glasgow have given me "yas" and "ketch'yiftir", reading Irvine Welsh has given me "likesay" and my seven years in Aylesbury, Multicultural London English staples "bare", "long", "eneh" and "peng", to name but a few, as additions to my vast and wonderful vocabulary.
   So moving back to Washington after being laughed at for the way in which I speak for best part of a decade leaves me in a bit of a pickle, do I fight the accent change and stay independent and unique or do I let me accent evolve like the language its based in and see what happens? Either way I reckon it'll be interesting.
   Thanks for reading this again, lucky you anyway, twice in two days, I spoil you.
-Nous.

Caution, this is the wind, you two play nicely.

   Although she wanted it to be, this blog is not solely on the topic of wor ever subtle Grogz but I am going to throw caution to the wind.
   Okay, so I'm doing it, I'm blogging but not on a Sunday, I know its new and scary and many of you may not like it but tough shit, I have too many things not to blog. You might not even get one on Sunday, then again, you might. The point is I am no longer tying myself to a fixed day of blogging, thou shalt now bloggeth on any day thou liketh.

   So I've started to think of song lyrics and I should probably write them down, they just appear in my head and usually about stuff I care to care about - ladies, politics, the football, getting drunk... This isn't particularly new, I've written songs before and music too, to an extent, but they've always been slow in coming and few and far between but now there're many things in my head. I just need my instruments back so I can musicalise them!

   It's started snowing up here of course. You'll all know this because weather is now the news and not, as is traditional in broadcasting, the f'kin' weather. In fact, Tyne Tees TV had the audacity to announce "tonight's top new story; the weather" which leaves me questioning why they had to send three weather folks to Jesmond Dene, Morpeth and the borders just to make sure it was snowing and yet still have that smiley mackem toss-pot and anorexic aald whore in the studio. But maybe I'm too easily angered.

And bears shit in the woods, read all about it!

   The first round of education cut walkouts were on Wednesday if memory serves and I couldn't make it. That was a bit shit but there's another lot on Tuesday! Which is all good. Two sets of national demonstrations in less than a week. Yum. I'm trying to get together a group from college to attend and a few of these lovely people seem up for it. I look forward to marching through Nye'casel toon centre in the snow with thousands of others, especially as last week's were the biggest the city had seen in years.

   In other political news, there's a team of guys occupying the Fine Arts building at the University of Newcastle, the afore mentioned Hufi is one of them and the blogspot is here. Read it, link it, show solidarity.

   So I need to move me doctor's appointment so I can unite and fight on Tuesday and I need to do a load of coursework before then too, it'll be fine, they're first drafts of stuff and short essays, calm down Mammy Stiles.

   I impressed the staff in Washington Village Chippy this week when I reached over and double wrapped me chips for the cold weather with professional skill. If there's one thing my time at Hi-Tide to taught me its how to wrap a bag a' chips properly. Not that that's a skill which will help me in any other career like, not one I'll be putting in me personal statement and maybe not me CV but all the same, a skill.

   The whole post thing: I haven't mentioned on here but I've got a bit Matt Woodley and decided that post is way cool and so I'm now many folks's postal correspondent, which is nice. Its far more productive to sit and write a letter than it is to send a text and my handwriting has to improve, as well as me spelling and grammar. And letters are cool, so shurr'up man.
   I've also been thinking of tattoo designs, I'm big into the idea of the chorus to L'Internationale atop a red star on the left of my chest, big curvasive font, likesay. Lovely.

C'est la lutte finale,

Groupons-nous et demain,

L'Internationale,

Sera le genre humain.

   And so between my grandmother's wrath for the Clay's Garden Centre advert and putting my beers in the snow for saving on 'lecky, I've decided this blog will now be spontaneous, let's not hope I piss it in the north easterly breeze. Be warned, see you Tuesday.

-Nous.

Cheaper than Beamish.

   There's a certain Sundayness to the qualities of a Sunday spent in Washington Village. The Village, for those of you not in the know of such things, is a proper actual village with all village-y things - two pubs, a church a village shop and a school -around which they built the New Town of Washington, Tyne and Wear with it's various "villages" of Barmston or Glebe. The Village however, is still as it was over a hundred years ago, with only a few additions, a bit like Walton in Aylesbury. Or the Beamish Museum.

An attractive shade of yellow for an attractive new town.

   Anyway, taking a stroll past the village green to the shop in the light Sunday morning Geordie drizzle really is something to behold.

   Yesterday (Saturday) I went into Newcastle for the first time since arriving home in the North East. A visit to Waterstones ended in me acquiring copies of Lieth-hailing word-smith Irvine Welsh's Reheated Cabbage and Glue and that Great Depression-botherer John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath.

   My plan was to find a coffee shop out of the busy town centre, have a warm sit down in a battered old armchair looking through a moisture-covered window at the rain as the steam from the barristas' work filled the room, take a couple of hours to read a few chapters and write a few letters. But my other Sunday plans scuppered such goings on.

   The Northern March Against Racism 2010 was late but when it got going it was a great success. When the EDL did turn up, the other group of fascists in hi-vis jackets chased them away, Northumbria's finest trundled the Munkee 'Angers Division from 'Artlehpoowel doon Grey Street. Together we are stronger!

   I even made a new friend in Hufi who is very possibly the very coolest big sister on the planet. I mean, who else takes their wee sister and a box of biscuits to a demo? Too cool. Here we are on North East Tonight (ITV).

   Anyway, after that there was a social in Manors where I enjoyed a bit of munch from the All African Women's Campaign for Something I Forget and a bottle a' dog. There's always a right cross sample of folks at demos like this, I had a chat with a Kenyan refugee rights campaigner living in Boro', a French lass, a Glaswegian polis brutality fella whose accent I picked up by accident (damn my fluid idiolect!) and the usual lot from the local unis and NEAR. Then I went home.

   On Friday Kyle - whose blog I look forward to - took 'is up to the music shop here in The Village which I didn't even know existed, it is however, a strong contender for taking the title of Richard's Favourite Music Shop from Mackay's of Newcastle. Then in the evening I went round Jade's for a few drinks.

   And that was my week in a blog-sized nutshell, I need to nerd up on class and gender in socialisation so that's my task for the next week. See ye's all next Sunday.

- Nous.

Students of the UK unite, you've nothing to loose but your education, civil rights and your pocket money, you naughty boys.

   I love the internet, its fantastic, the internet has found me a place to stay, made me new friends and made me famous on a very small scale. The internet has kept me in contact with my friends, found my old ones and gotten me more acquainted with brief acquaintances. The internet is also an excuse to find the weird and the wonderful, wasting hours on end.
   Unfortunately, some of the internet holds the views of people we disagree with and occasionally, in moments of weakness, we can't help ourselves. To be honest, they're usually held by folks we don't like and so when we tell them what we think, we couldn't give less of a shiny shit if it bothers them and now that I've moved away and their opinions don't affect me socially I'm even less bothered, nice knowing you.
   Y'see, the thing is, I don't care and don't see why I should really, if I don't like somebody I'm too tempted just to tell them, sod the niceties.
   Anyway, that was just one highlight of the week. What else has happened?
   Went out with me aunty mid-week and got drunk in the Washy Arms, went round me da's Friday night and got drunk and I went out mid-week with the lads and got parred, strongly so. Other than that its only really been college and laughing at the telly.

Possibly better than "overthrow capitalism and replace it with something nicer."

   I'd have been there too, if only I'd've had the time, the opportunity, I'd have been there alongside my comrades smashing those bastards' windows. Oh the beauty of it all, the stunning panic on the faces of the Met as they failed whole-heartedly to hold back the pure anguish of the student population. There'll be more of course, and I'll be there. The Tories are going to struggle and the Lib Dems are finished.
   The issue of course is the way in which the media have portrayed those few as naughty school children, the bright side is that when the unemployed burn down their houses they'll be more careful with their words because this is not the end of civil unrest amongst those hit by slashes in the public sector.
   So yeah, that's that.
   I found myself on Youtube shouting at Abdul Salaam in Bradford, that was fun, and  there's this awesome punk cover of Bandiera Rossa by Pankrti as two more examples of internet brilliance but maybe I wont just be nice to everybody from now on.
   Oh, and a hello to Ashley. Thanks for loving this.
- Nous.

If you missed the clocks going back, its now five past the mackems.

   Evening blog fans. Hope you like the new design, that's some good quality Spanish Civil War propaganda, that is.
   So my first week back in the north east has been a relative success, I've bumped into a fair few folks I knew years back and made a few new friends too. On top of that, the Toon stuffed Albania-on-Wear five-one and today held the Arse one-nil putting us fifth. Fifth! I haven't felt this optimistic since 2002.
   Anyway, in my wide search for a topic for this week I've found pretty much nothing, yet again. So I'll just mumble.
   Let's see... School! Okay, so I've got two coursework pieces to do in English; one creative writing piece which could be literally anything, anything at all, I mean, even this! And there's an analytic piece on either how different news publications represent a story or how the story evolves in a particular news publication. This could be anything from a huge range of topics but trying to find something covered in the Morning Star in any depth also covered in a right-wing print is problematic.
   As regards the creative writing, maybe a return to the Welsh-inspired Geordie dialect fiction? Or a journalistic piece on the zionist call for an Israeli pledge of allegiance to a "Jewish state?" Either way, I'm confident I can manage.
   I've sort of dumped myself in a group with two other lads so my media course work doesn't have to be a print piece as they're doing a film opening scene for theirs and seem pretty open to my ideas. My sociology work is up-to-scratch so far too.
   Of course I'm missing Aylesbury, that place is a second home to me, but Washy's being kind so far and I'm getting back into the swing of it.
   I've noticed in the last week that my accent, as incoherent as it is to you lot down south, is actually piss-weak, the flat vowel sounds have gone as quickly as they appeared but the odd consonant that shouldn't be there in Geordie still turns up and calls me a soft, shandy-drinking southern jessie.
   Anyway, life goes on and unless I get a larger social circle it'll be more repeats of Darling Buds of May and jelly with Nanny Sharp on Sundays so I'll be back on the charm offensive the morra morn'.
   See ye's later.
- Nous.

Thank you and bye.

   To start, I apologise for the lateness of this week's post and I also apologise for the utter rage of last week's.
   Since last week a lot's happened if you hadn't heard, I've moved out, I've moved school (hopefully) and I've moved home to live with me Nanny Sharp.
   I wont go into the details of this week but tomorrow I've an early meeting with the staff at Usworth Sixth Form to see if I can attend their and continue my courses, if not I don't know what I'll do but I'd much prefer to use this post to thank Aylesbury for seven fantastic years.
   For every time I've woken up in mate's houses and not remembered why and for every time I've woken up in my house and remembered just as much, for every glass I've nicked from The Kings' and got all the way to the end of my road before dropping or left it in the taxi and for every friend I've made through those antics, thanks.
   To those I've known from day one, those who I knew before I arrived, friends of my family and those who I'm maybe not in touch with any more, thanks.
   To the best of you who I've known for years, to Kelly, Max, Becca, Crilly, Liv, Ben, Sam, Paul, Jack, Rob, Patirck, Zelie, Bethany, Ellis, DM, Booth - to all of you, thanks.
   To those of you I've not known for long, with whom the memories are still lengthy and plentiful like Jenni, hen, thanks.
   To those of you I've spent many a night in obscure places around the county in the woods, to Sergejew, Emerson, Stewart, Jake, Jarrod, Maisie - thanks.
   To Charles, John and to Dave, I'm gutted we wont release the album or gig with it over the summer and I'm sorry. Thank you for letting me vent my lack of any musical skill into something brilliant.
   To Ed, thanks for your endless hospitality and to you and Dave for your unbreakable friendship.
   And to my many mums, thank you all.
   And to you who if we hadn't been so busy, we'd have made it pretty good, thank you.
   In the seven years I lived in Aylesbury I've done some magnificent things and met many more superb people and I'm sorry to be leaving, I'm honoured to be welcomed back at any time and you're all welcome here in Washington too.
   Thank you all so much Aylesbury,
- Nous (AY4LYF)

Laptop Nazis.

   Friends, followers, Elliot,
   We've got a new computer, the last one died so we've replaced it, like a dog or a family member. Brilliant as this is, its taken the mother less time to strangle online freedom than the Chinese government.
   Except, she's a dafty so it'll be him then.
   I've just been told the laptop's gonna turn off in twenty minutes, because there's a timer on it now, it turns off at nine o'clock. Why? Why the fuck does it need to? On a Sunday! On a fucking Sunday! On a Sunday where tomorrow I've no school! Fucking graaaaggghh!!!
   Sorry.
   Not only this but she's also employed a "child safety" feature and put a pin on the Sky box which it asked me for earlier to watch a film rated 15. Censorship can fucking die. My kids are being encouraged to watch porn just to spite this woman.
   I stress that my frustration is not through my struggle for hand-shandy now. She knows full well that I'm not gonna go for wanking material on here, she's doing it to piss me off, to get at me.
   Anything, absolutely anything to get my back up.
   She's sat through the front room watching X-Factor filling the room full of smoke slowly killing herself, the bloke and the bairn and yet stops me from watching The Inbetweeners in the house in case me sister hears the word clunge from upstairs. Stupid, bitter hypocrite.
   My life's not worth the bother of telling her these things though, it never is.
   On the bright side though, Thatcher's nearly dead. Remember, the Saturday after she snuffs it, party, Trafalgar Square, 6pm - bring a bottle, bring a friend.
   Last night was Shned's 18th and a mullering night it was too. I was told I was an attractive young man, which is an ego boost at any time. For some reason I asked what could be done to improve such attributes, "loose a bit of weight" was the reply, I then must have spent a good twenty minutes telling all who's listen "I'm going on a diet!" which is bollocks.
Keep calm and carry on - Nous.

I bloody love days like this.

   Its amazing how relaxed you can be on a Sunday. Coffee Republic is a lovely place, one of those few places in Aylesbury where you can sit for hours and not be bothered by anybody, the music doesn't loop too much, its quiet and student-friendly-ly cheap (Toby, this is a adjective to adverb neologism, calm down).
   Today's been cool, bright and refreshing like any Sunday should be and this has lead me to a brilliant conclusion.
   Every day should be a Sunday!
   Not just a month of Sundays but an eternity of Sundays, every day, forever a Sunday and forever like this one. The papers are better, people are happier, coffee house music doesn't grind on the ear and the stresses of life melt away into the sunlight playing through the window across a tea-stained copy of The Bucks Herald.
   Everyday would go like this:
   Get up at about happast nine, ten o'clock, put on a T-shirt and go downstairs; make toast and watch some cartoons; head up town to a quiet corner and do a few hours work; have a sandwich; do some more work; leave at five and head to the pub to watch the football (all kickoffs are happast five); have a few more drinks, get a takeaway and not worry about the weight or the hangover because of the supernatural phenomenon of nothing mattering on a Sunday.
   Perfect, eh?
   Today's a lovely day and if tomorrow was Sunday it would be even better, its that time of year when during the day it's either just warm enough for a T-shirt or just cold enough for a woolly jumper and at night its cold enough for a big coat and a vest and clear enough to see the stars. It might be the soppy romantic inside me but I bloody love it (Keegan voice).
   The crispness of the leaves and the roll of the conkers underfoot, the freshness of the air on your face and the warming sunshine in a a still, windless park.
   Time seems to go slower, as if there's twenty-five hours in the day, you can afford to take your time and still have everything done; lie in the bath for that extra five minutes, have a proper shave, mess about with your hair, have another coffee,walk around in a circle just to see something again and read things you already know but be interested nonetheless.
   I want everyday to be just like this.
-Nous

I survived.

   The week's been pretty mundane, the weekend was pretty lush.
   Friday night at The Rivets Club, The Electro-Possums play drunk to  crowd of some forty at what is basically a jam night but hopefully will become a decent music event monthly. I ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers, Paddy got me a Maccy Dee's and I got a taxi home with my bollocks hanging out.
   Saturday night was a party at Jesse's place for her 18th up in Newton Longville, bit of a trek to be honest, had a chat with the Marxist Glaswegian bus driver who has a laugh with me all the time and got trolley'd, as is to be expected. Half four in the morning I wake up to find some twat with a pole and no T-shirt on shouting about how "if [we] all don't get out here now and own up to whoever put Charlie's jumper on the fire and take it like a man then [we're] all getting smashed up."
   After explaining, calmly that Charlie "probably deserved it, he was shouting racist torrents of abuse at the only black lad at the party earlier and maybe he should just shut his cake hole next time" and even so that this was all "by the by because if you don't stop playing Tarzan so the bird in the conservatory can see waving a stick about and saying things like "I will defend your honour!" I'll be unable to sleep and thus, be a little bit grumpy, resulting in the hideous mutilation of certain areas of your more delicate body parts" he calmed down too.
   The world isn't built for those of us hovering over 6' but it does have it's up sides.
   So yeah, that was a laugh, got a lift to Bletchley of Jesse's mum, assumed that the buses didn't stop there for AY so got on one to MK City where I discovered I'd missed a bus by five minutes and would have to wait three hours for the next one, scrounged in phone boxes until I had enough for a chip butty, got the bus back through Bletchley -.-... and got hyem.
   After a heavy night and long journey, no matter how warmingly sunny, a shower is usually first port of call...
   I got naked, as usual.
   I grabbed the stuff I usually use to wash myself with, as usual.
   And slipped on my arse, sprained my ankle and put my right elbow through the wall...

No, I didn't have a fanny transplanted to my arm.

   Now, you know when people say "yeah, but you should have seen the other guy?"
   You should have seen the other guy.

The other guy.

   Yeah Roy, I fucked that tile up big time.

   The staff were very understanding when I took the camera out of my pocket though, and for those of you who haven't had this sort of thing done, go and injure yourself, local anaesthetic is the most fun you can have with a needle this side of heroin.

"This might sound weird but I write a blog and up until this happened I didn't
have a topic for today's entry, when you're finished, can I take a photo?"

   So there we have it, I survived 10/10/10, just about.
   Catch ye's next week.
- Nous.

SAY NO TO TORY CUnTS!

   Less than a month after my court appearance as a witness I've been thrown a possible appearance in the dock by West Midlands Polis over what I deemed to be a rather ingenious use of the word "cunt".
   My placard, which I can't show you because it was confiscated by PC Overkill, was deemed to be in breach of the public order act in Birmingham today and I'll find out within a fortnight whether or not I've been summonsed to a Magistrates' Court hearing with, presumably, three Tory voters on the bench and my pleas of "I'm dyslexic" (I'm not *tehehe*) or "well, let's be honest; they are" are unlikely to rub them up too well.
   The fact that it was to be viewed by members of the press who wouldn't be able to publish it, fellow anti-cunts, I mean, cuts protesters and the occasional Alsation didn't seem to matter, truth be known, I shouted "Tory cunts!" at the ones I did see without my sign anyway.
   So yeah, wish me luck.
   The rest of the day was a laugh though. To be fair, it was all a laugh, even the replacement bus services me and Jake had to put up with.
   Anyway, I've forgotten what else I had planned for this blog entry, (maybe it's better to keep the shorter?) so hence forth this is a "freestyle" blog.
   Today's happenings have influenced me to use the following uses of the English language as features for my English language lessons:

Turds are funny, class inequality is not.

Poo jokes are common place.

I haven't used "cock-faced tit wank" enough as an insult.

   To be honest, I'm tired, here's the link if you're enjoying these - http://www.moneymad.org/David_Cameron_defaced_posters.htm

   Same time, next week?

- Nous.

That's right, beer made me lose all my ideas.

   To spare the gory details for the sake of Charles' mam being this blog's number one fan, I've had a frigging good weekend.
   But all jokes aside I've got nothing for you, 'kin nowt, not a bloody sausage.
   Sorry.
   A short recap of the weekend though, the nerd-themed fancy dress party for Abby's birthday resulted in me and Sam talking shite for hours with her step dad Kris Needs.
   Kris is one of those incredible men who have been there and seen it all.
   "Kris, is it gay to get a blowie off a man?"
   "Well it happened to me once when I was on tour with David Bowie, his little helper bloke went at my cock when I was a sleep, nice bloke actually."
   The second reason for his incredibleness is the fact that he survived any of it.
   Then last night we went to a Youth Fight For Jobs benefit gig at the Hop Pole, they refused us service and then kicked us out so we did a wee circuit of The Harrow, The Green Man and The Swan and headed away home.
   Then the day we had band practice, polished up some more and had a laugh as usual, upon my arrival home I hit up the Sky+ box for the Toon-Stoke game, watched it, got angry and stopped feeling quite as apathetic as I had done toward James flat-heeded, bollock-brained, own goal-scoring wanker Perch, as I now call him.
   Same old, same old wi' Newcastle though eh?
   Anyway, next Sunday's post should be a tad better, I'maway on Sunday to Birmingham for the Tory Party Conference, currently I've a road sign with "I didn't pay for this sign and I wont pay for your mess" written on it.
   Thanks for reading this again.
-Nous

Help for... Horses?

   I love pissing people off, me like. This week it was the moral majority again, spouting their usual shite about Afghanistan. Specifically, about the charity Help for Heroes.
   As head of house at school, myself and my female counterpart (no, not like that) have the duty, to some extent, of choosing a charity for the house to raise funds for. Unbeknown to me was that she had put forward and basically agreed on Help for Heroes, a charity I have one or two issues with...
   Brace yourselves...
   First and foremost, use of the term "heroes"; what exactly is it that soldiers serving in Afghanistan do that warrants the label "heroic"? "Putting their lives on the line for your safety, rights and freedoms" according to most people, but what safety? I was unaware that I would be unsafe without the war going on, this points to the consequences of the war, the effect it has on me, is in some way safer than the state I'd be in without the imperialist invasion.
   So, cheaper fuel, lower taxes and three hundred odd young men and women not being dead is more dangerous than the reverse of this situation?
   Okay, so let's try my rights. My rights to what? That's right! My rights to other people's land, dignity and oil, my right to drop bombs on schools, mosques and hospitals and my right to Islamiphobia and to shoving my own British brand of democracy into somebody else's similarly broken system! Thank fuck for "Our boys" then eh?
   So are they pulling me over with freedom? No, no they're fucking not, what freedom do I have the right to that warrants them committing atrocities on the other side of the world? If they were fighting to the freedoms which I deem myself entitled to, they'd by in Parliament Square with the guns facing the door.
   Secondly, oh yes, "secondly", don't even think we're done yet, Help for Heroes is hugely backed by The Sun newspaper, The Sun is owned by NewsCorp which is owned by Aussie TV Hitler himself Rupert Murdoch. As a result, The Sun supports the Tory Party in their attack on the public sector that can't cope with the returning injured from the middle-east as it is and as a result HfH has to step in; when Jason Manford pointed this out on stage at a HfH concert the BBC, his employer, censored it. In a nut-shell, supporting HfH is encouraging the savage cuts in the public sector and the planned replacement of public spending in some services, such as youth clubs, with charities. All sounds well and good but why do we pay taxes? It's a system that doesn't work.

Two examples of  vicious circles.

   And lastly, HfH, as I said, is massive, it's funded by The Sun, it just held a 60,000 sell-out gig at Twickenham, I hardly think that Nightengale House's £200 will make a huge difference.

   £200 to a child with no family, no home and no future as a consequence of insurgency on the streets on Basra, however, that's a different story. What about he Solidarity for Palestine Campaign even? I doubt these will be taken seriously as ideas though, the school can be seen as politically motivated now, can it? Fucking ridiculous.

   In other news this week, The Electro-Possums are now recording artists! We started recording at Sir Henry Floyd Grammar School Friday gone and intend to record every Friday from here on in, referring to it as "The Henry Sessions", because it makes us sound cool.

   And myself, Jarrod and Elliot are currently in talks about starting to actually produce a comic book for Bag-Man, Tape-Boy and Reallydoesn'tlikespidersman.

   See you all next week, thanks for bothering to look at this again.

- Nous.

DePreston

  I've woken up in some pretty grim places before, sofas in dodgy flats, in my own chunder, dribble and pish, in kids play-parks, small villages in the Home Counties, once in field in France just north of Le Mans and in train stations up and down the UK but none, without exception, grimmer than this.
  For today (9.9.10), the Caledonian Sleeper I jumped on in Westerton on my way from Glasgow to Leeds, has dropped me off at happast four in the morn' in Preston, Lancs.
  This isn't a negative review of the Sleeper or of it's staff, they were kind, charitable and all in all, went out of their way to give me the beautifully comfortable bed they did. I of course thought I'd pay them the favour back by cleaning the room... Out of pretty much anything that wasn't nailed down.

  "Why", I hear you cry, "are you in Preston at half four in the morning on a Thursday Richard?", well, I've just spent Sunday to Wednesday in the fabulous Glasvegas with Joe and Rachel seeing unis and I'm on my way to Leeds to on the same. I'm resitting my AS levels but I need some inspiration to, well, to not sit on my arse for another nine months, pretty much. I'm looking at Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies at University of Leeds.

  It's also a right jolly to get free biros.
  So I'm on platform 1b in Preston station scribbling this on paper to blog it later, I did go outside but it dePrestoned me (see what I did there?), I know its happast four but, howay, this is a large(ish) city in the north west! Two shopping centres, a taxi driver in a cowboy suit, charvers, fat people and a cat that looked to be doing a Great Escape style getaway from, I'd assume, the home of one of the above hardly screams "we're competing with Lancaster or Manchester" but rather, "have you seen Blackburn, Burnley and Chorley? We needn't bother standing up to say hello."
  But that's the issue here, towns like Preston are continuously overlooked because of this attitude and yet they could become a centre for something. Take Brighton and LGBT celebration, Scarborough and the goth scene, these places are no-longer over looked whereas the Prestons of this world are.
  Clearly, once upon a time, Preston had something, that's why it has this magnificent Victorian railway station but as that attraction buggared-off, whatever it was, so did all the people and their money.
  Coincidentally, they've unreasonably moved my train to Manchester Picadilly to platform 5, time I buggared-off too.
Tara. - Nous