The Zed-Word

   Do you have a zombie apocalypse plan of action? No? You fucking should son. I had one for Aylesbury, no bother but since I now live two hundred miles away, I can't take Andy's car, fill it with food, barricade The King's Head and then arm myself at the sports shop on Bourbon Street with as many alive friends as possible, slowly, over the coming months, using the high rooftops to gain advantage over the undead and capturing the town centre for a safe zone. Mainly because the petrol to get down there is pretty hefty in price.

   I need a new plan then, and here it is. Here is NousAvonsLaRage's Plan of Action for the Impending Threat of Zombie Apocalypse in Washington, Tyne & Wear.

   So where will it start? And how? Let's assume it's say, the contamination of a batch of KitKats, I don't eat them and I think blaming Nestlé for zombies is a fairly easy thing to do, as they're already fairly responsible for child mortality and ting. So a day's worth of KitKat consumption turns say, four million folks into crazy flesh-eating fuckers and the dead are caused to rise. Of course, the next sensible queries aren't of "oh dear Christ, where is my family?" or other such frivolities, we need to know who the enemy are. They'll be like in Shaun of the Dead, no questions, okay? If they're any more athletic, it makes most of my plans fairly hard to execute and we should, at that point, give up and get eaten.

Avoid zombified companions.

   Monday morning then, we all wake up, Margaret next door's a zombie, Nanny Nous was eaten on the way to the paper shop. First thing's first, secure the building, buy some time, put the telly on, make a coffee, you need to be sharp. Now then, attire:

   Zombie's are best fought in close-combat skirmishes and as such, one must be dressed appropriately or risk contamination. A dressing gown and pants is not going to do. Go upstairs and get dressed; jeans and a tee-shirt will suffice but if there is body armour in the house, put it on. Make sure footwear is comfortable and durable and that you have a big coat, this could go on for some time or even at night. Other than that, all you need is a mobile switched to vibrate (so as not to attract attention) and a weapon. A weapon!

   Work with what you've got, something easy to hold, heavy at one end, preferably with a blade and at least four feet long to ward off the infected at length. In my room, I've got a pool cue, that'd do but say a friend had stayed over, there's also chair legs, guitar necks, even the plumbing can be pulled out so long as, in case you do have to hold up at home, it doesn't effect all access to water. It's also worth pocketing a smaller weapon; a hammer or a kitchen knife, something you can do damage with, but only as a last resort so as not to get too close. Obviously, if you have a gun in the house, that's also useful. Oh, and my dad once had a dream about what'd happen and apparently, they couldn't stand Olbus oil tissues, I had a similar vision about Listerine mouth wash, might not work, but if it does, fucking handy, eh?

   Now we're armed and dressed we need to plan what we're doing. Try and call friends and relatives (the phones might not be down) you trust. You do not, I repeat, not want useless twats in your zombie killing A-Team gang. From here it becomes a more localised issue, try the internet connection, if it's working and you can print, Google maps the town you're in and any surrounding key places: cities, towns, army barracks, that sort of thing. You need to know where you are, where you're going and if possible, what you're going to do once you're there. For example, I'd map Washington, Newcastle, Sunderland, and Gateshead, although these are densely populated areas, they will house some of the easier to defend spots and possible weaponry. 

   From here, you need transport. Your street might be clear, but the next one could be swarming with dead pricks just wanting to chew you. Pick the nearest car to the front door, coat-hanger the lock, hot wire the ignition and race off to your first stop. Remember to secure the house again upon leaving, you might need to return. My first stop would have to be Ross's at the end of the road, furthermore, he has a car and I can actually reach him via back yards. Gardens are good routes to travel by, they are usually secured well and your route is then cut into clearing smaller sections at a time. 

   Once in a vehicle, you must acquire your gang, if the phones were down you're going to have to drive to mates' houses and honk, you may also need petrol, steal it. Three is a minimum number and anything bigger than five at the earlier stages is cumbersome, if during life your friends were all useless wanks and now they're undead, strangers will do. From here hit up the shops for your food needs, one needs to keep the car moving and safe, at least one person needs to be on look out and another should be doing the Supermarket Sweep. Fill the car with tinned food, water and anything else you can fit after the shelves are empty, remember that when looting, you don't have to restrict yourself to what's usually on sale, take stuff apart and take the floor tiles if you reckon they'll help.
   Back in the car/van/tank you'll need to find somewhere easy to defend to hold up, in Aylesbury, the Kings Head is an easy choice, big old doors, barred windows, only two entrances and upstairs windows, here in Washington, the central polis shop would be my destination A. A large concrete building with defensive ramped base and large, barricaded doors, the upstairs entrance via a bridge can easily be cut off or armed and the bizzies are bound to be out and about, either trying to fix things, what with the undead being loose or at the kebab shop, as usual.

Impenetrable fortress.

   Once you've secured the safe house, wait for people to arrive, then when there's about a week's worth of food left, leave. The more the merrier, just make sure nobody's got any open wounds or anything and head off in search of survivors, safe camp zones or anything like that, it might be that land-piracy has set in but if you'd stayed still, it'd've happened to you eventually so your best bet is to head for safety and kill any undead you come to.

   Stay safe, stay together and stay alive.

-Nous

"That's going in my Facebook favourite quotations." - Nous

   Quotes a brilliant, small snippets of wisdom from an absolute flood of shit that usually comes from your friends, family and idols. My Facebook's favourite quotations section is fairly big and even then I still forget to publish half of the brilliance I come across. I thought I'd take the time to share few with you and explain their relevence to me.

   Dracz (on Phatbeats.com DnB Radio) - "We got HP21 bubblin' right now!"

Me - "I wouldn't say HP21's bubblin' mate, mum's watching Eastenders and I'm having a beer."

Dracz - "Yeah, you're probably right bruv."

   Although it might not fit in with your perceptions of me, I like drum and bass, particularly jungle. I don't know much about it but I listen all the same and Dracz' show on Phatbeats is a good way to get into it. Me and wor Tom often sit and listen to it on Friday nights when we should, by rites, be out on the lash, but sending ridiculous shout outs in to get a man we know to say things like "Cruising with R-Bizzler, he's all out of Rizla." is just too good an opportunity to pass up.

   This favourite quotation is fairly self explanatory from hence forth then but it tickles me whenever I look at it.

Papa Smurf

"You've always got to think that in the cold harsh light of a Magistrates' Court at ten o'clock on a Monday morning, can you really justify your actions to a panel of three elderly, middle-class white men? If the answer's no; don't do it." - My dad

   The life advice quote is always good, a few have come from my dad and this is one of the better ones. He's right too, in truth this quote sums up the complete ludicrousness of the British legal system and yet, at the same time, makes me laugh. I think that's the secret to a good quote, set out almost like a good joke and yet always either poignant, useful or simply a reminder of a brilliant time or place.

Pussy magnet

"My bed is a fucking fort Richard!" - Ed

   I've spent so much time in Ed's house this quote doesn't really do it justice, nor do the mere two on there from wor Dave do our hours of philosophy, football and bird banter any. This one encapsulates one of my proudest moments, when given an hour alone in a friends room with two cans of Monster, a jar of old foreign currency, a pile of cardboard boxes and some Blu-tack I whole-heartedly recommend you turn his bed into a castle and make a sword and a crown to attack him with when he tries to invade upon returning and he wont see the coins on the ceiling for at least an hour.

"Integrity is what black eyes were invented for." - Johnny 'Itch' Fox

   The King Blues' lead singer also does poetry and this line from Five Bottles of Shampoo about respecting women means something to me. It's something I fully support, if you believe in something you should always be willing to take a beating for it and I do enjoy a scrap. Unfortunately I don't have any photos of black eyes, torn shirts or grazed legs.

"Some people say football is a matter of life and death and I'm disappointed with that attitude, it's much, much more important than that." Bill Shankley

   Football means as lot to me, arguably my passion for Newcastle United is a religious one and I will eventually get round to blogging on that. The last time I cried was nearly two years ago, in St James' Park. Sir Bobby Robson had not long passed away and I sat amongst the sea of shirts, scarves, flags and footballs on the Sir John Hall lower tier and looked across the bright green pitch, panned up and right to the top of the Milburn Stand and then out up to the brilliant cloudless blue sky on a stunningly bright day. As I dropped my head to my hands I caught sight of a Sunderland shirt a few rows in front of me next to a Newcastle shirt, both with similar messages of mourning for the gentleman of football and I was overwhelmed with the utter international admiration for Sir Bobby and wept, I'm not afraid or embarrassed to admit it.

   I looked up and a man of forty or so looked at me, his face red and his eyes raw, his son holding his hand, looking at his dad confused as to why he'd been crying and we laughed at each other, simply laughed. That young lad probably wont forget that day and neither will I.

"If you are trembling with indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine." Ernesto 'Che' Guevara

   Che's words beautifully sum up everything about my philosophy. Injustice is something I despise more than anything else, the intolerance of people and the mistreatment upon that impulse being the intolerance in question. It is these things which hold the human race back from stepping forward into revolution. On a more human level, Che was a fairly well-off young guy with a doctor's qualification who went off on a motorcycle with a friend and then wanted to change the world, along with Karl Marx, Rosa Luxemburg, Antonio Gramsci and various others, their only aim was to change the world and their only fear was being ignored. Rebels. To the end.

"Philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point, however, is to change it." - Karl Marx

   I hope this has given you some inspiration, that's what quotes are best for.

-Nous

Nuff cheese.

   If you're not familiar with Cbeebies' racial stereotype creole Rastamouse, this blog looks to service such lack of knowledge. I was recently pointed in the direction of Rastamouse by fellow fan Kiah and have made the following observations on the show aimed at three to five year-old children and available on iPlayer here.

   The series of ten minute stop-motion animations is set in Grovetown, Mouseland and its worth pointing out now that all the characters are personified mice voiced by, among others, Reggie Yates, Radio1 DJ and star of whatever that thing on a Saturday morning was that threw the horrific Fearne Cotton into our lives. The main character Rastamouse is the frontman and guitarist of the Easy Crew, a reggae band who have a direct radio link with President Wensley Dale (see what they did there?) for the purposes of crime-solving, but not prevention.

Easy Crew at Nuff Sound Records.

   Most crimes in the city seem to revolve around the theft of goods and the impact of this upon the children at one orphanage run by what can only be described as the greasiest, dodgiest looking mouse this side of Tower Hamlets, Harlem or the heartier side of Kingston is the basis of the story. Apparently President Dale's dictatorship didn't go down well with the city's polis who now refuse to solve crime without large payments in cheese, which the president doesn't have because it keeps getting nicked. Grovetown's security is therefore instead left to a reggae band on roller blades, though Rastamouse has a skateboard, because he's the flyest of motherfuckers about.

Bagga T, Mouseland's leading hip hop act, dj, drug dealer and
owner of the most crime-ridden orphanage in the world.

   Bagga's employment policy is just as questionable, the chef was convicted of the theft of food way back when and was given the job on the word of all people, President Dale. The President himself wears a military uniform and awards prizes unduly to his family members. His nephew, a convicted thief, is at one point awarded a trophy for art work, much in the same was Rupert Murdoch's son is head of New International for Europe or Kim Jong Un is an army general.

Colonel Dale pleads to a group of musicians on children's modes of transport
to help find missing cheese.

   Beyond the political corruption, child abuse and lawlessness of Mouseland though, there are some good messages. The theme tune proclaims that Rastamouse and co. are "always there to make a bad thing good" and to be honest, they usually are. Most criminals seem resentful and any negative situation is eventually turned around by Easy Crew, even if Rastamouse does most of the work. 

   The haplessness of President Dale and most other members of the society however, overshadows the whole show and you can't help but think that Rastamouse feels they're all beneath him, single-handedly solving most crimes in the city when the witnesses come out with such beauties as "No clues 'ere Rastamouse... But da window was open and it shouldn't 'ave been" and keeping together a band whose drummer is a serial eater and the bassist a whining whore "Wha'cha a'lways tinkin' 'bout cha stomach bwooy?" I don't particularly blame him for making a pretty penny from the broken system.

   In conclusion, Rastamouse may appear to be an entertaining ethnic quota-filling children's television show but on closer inspection it tells the tale of political corruption, high rates of criminal activity and the story of one mouse holding together a whole system.

   Irie man,

-Nous.

Under Byker Bridge, there lives a dirty woman... Filthy in fact, atrociously so.

   I'm sat in Maccy Dee's in Byker, in the East End of Newcastle, contrary to popular belief, Byker does actually exist and is not a parallel universe for Ant, Dec and that bloke who went on to work on Doctor Who as the token Geordie to attend a youth club.

   I've an hour to kill at time of blogging before a meeting which I probably shouldn't go into too much detail about but I thought I'd take advantage of capitalism's free WiFi to give everybody a quick update on what's occurring. 

   Egypt anyone? I've seen a few people complain online about how they feel ignorant to the who thing, which is fair enough, as Charlie Brooker mentioned earlier on the Tunisian situation "I don't know what to think, these Arabs are angry but where is my flag being burned?". Usually we only see folks in the Middle East shouting about beheading members of the press or, more recently, stoning women over adultory but this time, they aren't angry at the west. Well, not first and foremost anyway.

   The Egyptian people have had the same president for thirty years. Mubarak is/was held up by the US and their allies over issues like Israel and oil, in short, and in recent weeks, with the help of Tunisian action, the Egyptian working class have announced they ain't having it no more which is canny. The army have also announced their reluctance to shoot their own people which is always a nice thing - Churchill had "Our Boys" fire at Welsh miners way back when.

The only fairly related photo I could find, the conversation
may or may not have been revolutionary.

   The danger with the Egyptian situation is that as a reaction to American foreign policy, any new government may look to Iran for a model on which to base themselves. When American foreign policy was anti-communist, communism spread like wild fire, now that the US is firmly anti-Islamic or anti-Arab the best place to turn may well appear to be into a Mosque and non-secularism is never progressive. Many are claiming that this is not an Islamic revolution, and they're there so who am I to say?

   I've been taking far too many photos, you can see them on my Tumblr page, I'm planning to blog on why Lomography is fucking awesome, I'll get round to it.

   Anyway, that's about all I've actually got time for, just a few words of warning, when you mention online that you're in Byker and somebody posts you a link for the Byker Grove title sequence, make sure you have the volume down, the locals don't take to kindly to it.

   Oh, and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Emily for this paragraph, she asked me to mention her but not to mention her getting stuck in a children's play area on the phone to me, but I don't do requests.

-Nous.

... Where the fuck! Where the fuck is Milton Keynes?

   Non-league football at its finest, half empty stands, dodgy hot dogs and made-up-on-the-spot songs on a Friday night. Gateshead lost two-nowt to Wimbledon but I'd been meaning to go and see The Heed play for a while and I'm glad I did.

   Gateshead fans are basically Toon fans without a bus pass. Its one of the few football teams whose rivals are not their closest by geography (Newcastle and Sunderland) or by competition but instead by process of elimination coming to a peak at Blyth Spartans, some forty odd miles away in Northumberland.

   I enjoyed the game actually, we were a tad late in from jumping the Metro but we wouldn't have gone at all if I hadn't been watching the news. Thirteen quid for a Blue Square Premier game isn't bad and the Tynesiders don't half know how to defend. The two AFC goals were lucky and Heed came just as close. The first goal came from a goal mouth scramble, not pretty like but deserved I suppose, the second from an indirect free kick given for what was clearly no way to a back pass and managed to weave it's way through all eleven men on the line.

Gateshead International Stadium

   To be honest, the game was a good 'un, The Heed were robbed and I'd highly recommend it as a night out and an excuse to have a few bevvies on the Metro.

   I was going to take me camera but decided against it last minute, which was daft, so there's no pictures from me. 

   In other lomo-related news, I had Courtney and Louise do me a favour but they only dropped off four of me five negatives meaning I had to take the fifth in the next day, this did allow for a cock up on the staff's part though and in stead of putting them all on a CD, the lass on the counter printed them for me, so I've not got a load of prints for free. Cannit get vexed like but at 25p a print I might get a few more done anyway, start an exchange with wor Sam and post people the better ones.

   On the subject of post, I'm away to the box in the village now so tara!

-Nous

Mr Strummer, what was number three again?

   The Polit hate doing their work, they're lazy, incompetent bastards, trust me, I have contacts. If they're not shit at their job its because they enjoy it and enjoying that work makes them fascists. Those who can do it well but don't, don't because they hate it. A career's a career when you've got a family to feed and they do pay well, they often have to.

   Now, I have my fair share of deserved charges, nothing too serious, one or two public orders, vagrancy, one assault, one possession of stolen goods for having a road sign at a demo and countless times I've been picked up by the ironically named FIT squads, this stands for Forward Intelligence Team, the irony works of both levels.

   However, in recent months Newcastle has been the scene of many student-orientated protests aimed at cuts in the public sector and in education primarily using occupation tactics and picket lines outside of businesses like Marks & Spencer, BHS, Carphone Warehouse, Vodafone and Boots to highlight the issues regarding the millions these businesses owe in tax or that their billionaire owners reap the rewards of their poorly-paid staff and those in the third world who make their merchandise earning well below a dollar a day and yet then sign an open letter supporting the ConDem cuts.

   This has led to a large amount of polis interest.

"Mam said I was special... branch"

    Now, nobody's in charge of these protests, they work in much the same way an ideologically communist society works, through a mass consensus. Choices are made by the whole group as a group on the day without any prior planning other than a word-of-mouth transition of "be here at this time". With there being nobody in charge, the popo do of course need somebody to scape goat, usually the familiar faces within the groups, those who turn up all the time because either, they feel more ferociously passionate about the cause or because, quite simply, they can.

   My case in point for this scape-goating is the arrest of three individuals now referred to as "The HSBC 3" - Facebook them. On the 18th of December last year two activists were arrested after occupying the HSBC branch next Grey's Monument in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, according to police, the arrests were made for breach of conditions applied to the march not to enter private premises. I myself was on the march and can confidently confirm that no such order was made, I'll be in touch with a solicitor. 

   Similarly, I myself had my details taken on Tuesday night following a demonstration outside the Civic Centre where the governor of the Bank of England was holding a dinner to speak to people about the current "economic situation". All well and good you might say, fair enough, good lad, how much were tickets? Yes, tickets. £55? Oh, well I wont be asking him owt then. Anyway, the dinner was to be held from around six with the protest heading for a six o'clock kick-off I received a tip off at six so I was late, by the time I arrived any excitement had died away, I greeted and bid farewell to a few friends and had a few pints before heading to the Haymarket with a fellow protester to get my bus. In unlocking my companion's bike from the grounds of the Civic Centre we were approached by two uniformed officers who then demanded our details on private property, in the dark. Had this been in a public place, no doubt we'd have argued the toss but PC Overkill and Sgt.Suddenlyveryinterestedinyourhobbies took our names, dates of birth and addresses and then buggared off but this had me thinking; what are my rights?

   These are your rights:

If you are stopped by an officer he may search you by removing only your hat, gloves, scarf and coat, anything more intimate must be done in private (the "Pilgrim Street Hylton" in Newcastle), the officer searching you non-intimately has no right to ask you your name unless they can give you a reason for why they'd need it. The only reason they'd need you name and address is to send you a summons so unless they can tell you you've committed an offence and produce some sort of evidence you can exercise your right to shut up. Search records (which you should ask for straight away, it annoys them, they can tell you to pick one up from such and such a pig sty but asking keeps them suitably pissed) have a section labelled "description" which is for when folks don't give a name.

  In short, if you are stopped and searched under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 (PACE) the polisman must produce to you his name, number, station, reason for searching and the offence he believes you have committed before he can ask you of your name. If you haven't done anything wrong, don't tell them anything.

   They can search your "outer clothing" as before stated under section one but again, no name need be taken, they can simply write down what you look like and draw you later. They have no rights to search "electronic media" either that is, they cannit look through your phone or iPod without an inspector's permission. 

   To conclude, know what your rights are before taking anything on where police confrontation or communication, however you look at it, is likely. I was stopped and accounted under s.1 for associating with a known activist, freedom of association ring any bells?

   Though having a camera often helps,

Officer, putting hand on my chest: "You've been asked to wait here before leaving Eldon Square."

Me: "Why?"

"To establish where the march is going next."

"I'm not on the march."

"You've been taking photos of them all day, I've seen you."

"That makes me a journalist mate, not an activist."

-Nous

Atychiphobia-et-atychiphobiaphobia-phobia.

   The fear of fucking up is so much more fearsome than actually fucking up. I don't know why this is, I can easily reserve myself to failure, I'm not afraid of actually cocking it up; or am I? In wanting something to succeed so much I have become obsessed with its avoidance of crashing and burning when in truth, its not the crashing or the burning I'm afraid of, but the fear of said flaming explosions.

   I don't like being confused.

   So, I don't want to fail, but I don't want to fear failing... And I don't want to be afraid of both of those things, which I am, but only in these circumstances.

   Usually I'm care-free and happy to just go for it but this time, on this occasion I want to make extra-sure I don't fall on my arse, taking extra precautions to assure a falling upon my feet. This isn't easy for me, I've become incredibly used to just getting stuck in of late, not being afraid of anything, that's not me. In much the same way a bluebottle becomes used to landing in exactly the same place on a fridge door, sure in the knowledge that not only will I go at it with the same copy of OK! but also that as a curved figure of Kerry Katona comes rushing toward him, he'll be able to simply hop up, flap and fuck off.

   

Kid knows how it is, cool jumper by the way.

   My point is not that I'm a fly, which is pretty much what I've managed to surmise from the above, but that I'm not a bluebottle at all. Well, I usually am. But not in this instance. Its that I can't bet on it this time. I don't usually bet on not being hit by the paper, but being crushed isn't usually bother.

   No!

   My point!... My point is that I'm always sure that I'll either be able to sit on the fridge door quite happily or just be batted off by Kerry Katona, but this time, I'm too full of whatever bluebottles eat - jobbies isn't it? - to fly off and so if I do decide to land I'll either be okay and happy and fine and whatnot or be destroyed by a massive metaphorical Hello! magazine which, I'm sure you'll agree, is a fate worse than death.

   Or is it just shit analogies I'm afraid of?

-Nous.

I'm a man of means, by no means.

   The thing about moving is that social circles often stretch out pretty far, so when you leave somewhere, and you don't have the same time to spend with those same people, you end up concentrating on only the most important people in that past life and feeling guilty for both ignoring the old peripheral friends and making new ones because you know that one day, you'll leave again and those people will mean very little to you once again.

The move, I'm on it.

   On various occasions I have promised myself I would get to know them better or even just get to know them but in reality, that's unlikely now. Lasses I met once and thought I'd text a few days later, but never got round to it, musicians with whom I exchanged numbers, promising to hook up for a jam that never happened or just people who frittered away in the background of you life, you knew them by name and face but actually, you didn't know them at all until you talk to them drunk on chat, take them to a party, kiss them and then realise you never really liked them in the first place and bail.

   Life's strange like that.

   But at the same time, that whole process is beautiful, I love meeting new people. I talk to strangers on the train, I would hitch hike if I could all the time, I enjoy having no money and its these things that get you acquaintances. "How much is a beer on the buffet car pal?", "Two-eighty son.", "Sod it then.", "Eh, what? Here man, here's a fiver, get me one an' all". 

   There are a few rules by which I govern my life and they've helped in gaining and maintaining these relationships for many years:

      1. Always look up.

      2. For the times you wished you had a camera, you should probably also carry a pen and paper.

      3. It probably wont hurt.

      4. A fiver is more than enough for any trip.

      5. Wine is cheaper.

      6. Bed's aren't important.

      7. Always know where your towel is (more of a nostalgic comfort thing).

      8. Never underestimate the kindness of people.

      9. See everything in uber-saturation.

      10. Engaging conversation is half the battle.

   Yeah, so the last one's an Adam Sandler quote, sue me. But aye, there are my tips for healthy living.

-Nous.

Where's the Pink Panther from?

   Durham, Durham, Durham Durham Durham Durham Durhaaaaam! Durham!

   I like Durham, I like it quite a lot. I like the hills and the old cobbles and the cool walls and the little stair-cases leading to the backs of pubs and the weir on the Wear and the bridges and the castle and oldness of it all. Every time I get all poetic in the head box, whenever I imagine wet windows and steamy rooms with people sitting on dark woods wearing knitted items, I think of them doing it in Durham. It truly is a beautiful city.

   The way I see Durham is like "Edinburgh Light", "Diet Edinburgh" if you will. The city isn't quite as extensive as the Scots capital and it doesn't have the same feeling to it, not quite but the winding narrow streets, Medieval bridges and distinct student population does give it a similar flavour, just without the sugar.

See? Just like Edinburgh really.

   I was in Durham today, I had nothing else to blog on.

   There was one busker in Durham, using a small amp I reckon he was allowed to be there and it got me back to thinking about the legalities of busking. I recently tried searching the Newcastle City Council website for the rules and reg's on busking in the Toon but to no avail. Glasgow has a leaflet online plainly explaining what you can and can't do, Oxford tells you what you need and even TfL leave you some inkling that getting a permit is hard but Newcastle are awful for it. 

   I have it on decent call that just turning up and moving on when you're told is a canny plan but if anybody knows anything else on the subject, let me know.

   Apologies for the somewhat half-arsed approach to this blog post, I'm feeling strange today. visit durham though, its canny.

-Nous.

"Education? Maintenance? Allow that!" Says Cameron.

   So Wednesday nights aren't usually the sort of evening you spend in Newcastle shouting at the Northumbria Polit but hey ho, Thursdays aren't usually this boring so perhaps this week's just going to be a bit strange.

   Yesterday parliament voted on "changes" (read "destruction") to the Education Maintenance Allowance or "EMA". Though, how getting rid of anything can be described as a reform is beyond me. The Tory darlings had their way and as such, I wont be getting the thirty quid a week I desperately need from next year.

This is one of my own for a change, I now have a Praktica LTL

   What annoys me more than anything else as regards this topic though, more than any cut to these vital services, more than any defence of it by the Tory foot-soldiers who themselves are on the receiving end of a five-year pay freeze instead of the 2.5% increase they were promised is the complete and utter apathy of students, workers and the unemployed who aren't currently being held at the knife point. This disgusting display of "not my problem"ism is the most down-heartening thing of all. Of course its your problem, to coin Rude Rabbit's speech (one I'm sure will go down in political history with "I Have A Dream" "We Will Fight Them On The Beaches" and "I Know I Have The Body But Of A Weak And Feeble Woman") outside the Topshop in Eldon Square;

"You, woman in the coat that looks incredibly like a sheep. This concerns you!"

   I'm not sure if you're all aware of a section of German history between 1933 and 1945 where gradually anybody who wasn't in line with a status quo was either killed or imprisoned, there's a similar pattern of behaviours from 1945 in soviet Russia under this blowkie Stalin but as hyperbolic as this seems, if you don't stand up now and have your say, if you let this bulldozer flatten your friends, eventually, you become the victim as the Jews of the forties found to their peril.

   Just because it isn't effecting you right now doesn't mean you wont be metaphorically shat on next time round.

   Wake up people, please.

-Nous.

Glad to have me back?

   So its been a while, since Boxing Day in fact, but the whole point is (as me grandmother would say) I'm back. And ye's should all be over-joyed.

   So obviously, this blog is gonna be a long 'un. For your benefit I shall be using a fairly basic form of chaptering my high jinx so as not just to mumble incoherently.

29th of December, 2010

   A party. Of course it is, how else would my story start? One at Jarrod's to be precise. Now then, I walked from me mother's place to the college and wor Rolf give 'is a bell to direct me to the flat. Upon arrival, already quite drunk, singing Market Square Hero fairly loudly, Rolf handed me a rather smashing Praktica LTL and having lost my last Soviet camera at Thorpe bloody Park of all places, I was in a sodding good mood, handed him me Leffe glasses I had for him, received a bottle o' Dog and wandered about in a thoroughly good mood with myself.

   Then I thought tobogganing was a fantastic idea for an indoor sport, broke a bin lid, owned up to it and had to find somewhere else to kip. To be fair to Jarrod, I did also hide cans and bottle all over his house, though, he wont know about that.

   Upon arrival at Brand HQ then, I had to be all ninja and that, what with his da's last words to his sister, Heinrich Himmler, being "don't let him sleep here" it turns out, when you're pished, you can be all ninja, but opening tinnies is fairly loud and so Miss Marple walked in to me trying to hide behind a semi-clad Charles. Hilarity ensued and we ended up at Charles' gaff, because she kicked us out, at half three in the morn'. Needless to say, her boyfriend wasn't the most helpful person to have stood behind her like some sort of over-protective berk, but never mind, I think I'll get over it.

Katherine Brand

   The walk to Charles' was a bit surreal, with a stop off at the Premier Inn and with there being no room at the 'Inn so close to the festive period, we all became biblical characters for some twenty minutes as we struggled across town.

   Of course, a thanks to Jane again for her hospitality, and to Charles for the pair of socks.

   On the subject of footwear, I would apologise for putting people's shoes on the roof when I left Jarrod's, but to be honest, I've come to the conclusion that I should only apologise for regrettable instances, and I don't regret that at all, it was jokes.

New Years' Eve', 2010-11

   Of course, this was a busy night, during the day we were busy bottling up the AY Brewing Co.'s latest bevvy ThudSplashFlap and then in the evening, drinking the vinegar-like substance with great hesitation. I'd been staying at Ed's for the most part of the week (many thanks again to Karen) with occasional visits to me ma's to see the bairn and receive the unnerving level of hospitable behaviour, egg and chips.

   Come the actual evening then and "pre-lash" - as it has come to be known - round Ed's continued into the taxi and round to Ryan's place where, from what I remember, I almost sat on a lass I then tried to chat up, saw Kelly and got me secret Santa presents a Man Flu Survival Kit and a leopard print thong, gave my present to Keirsty, the mug with my arse on it, and then proceeded to vomit pretty much everywhere.

   It was one of those nights where you but back a couple of cans and a bottle of Leffe and then chunder everywah like you're in Burma. I've been known to put back fifteen or more and walk away with a slight wobble but I suppose its the luck of the draw in the end.

Zedman enjoys her first taste of ThudSplashFlap

   The last moments of 2010 were spent swallowing my own vomit, wrestling Ed in a bathroom, falling downstairs onto Shaunagh, kissing somebody and then seeing 2011 in with a party-boy. All in just a thong.

   When I woke up (yes, I passed out) I apparently turned into a child and decided bothering everybody was a good idea. I left at about four and then had to break into Ed's place, basically.

The next few days

   The hangover was a long one and I did nothing toward my impending sociology exam, I found COD's historical inaccuracies frustrating and me and Black Jenni finally had a Chinese, even if it was in a beer garden at some ungodly hour out the back ot the Newey with some woman having some sort of stroke on the table next to us. The point is, we fulfilled a life goal.

   Of course, over these next few days I was informed of my complete disgrace on New Years'. Apparently, I was quite rapey. I went for a few pints with some friends and coffees with others but in the end I had to leave Aylesbury again and the coach journey was long. Particularly as I spent most of it passing out from the dangerous dinner time bevvies and the waking up really suddenly from the motorway coffee.

Then to now

   So that was what you'd missed, now since returning to college and to Washington I've been fairly busy, revising mostly or complaining to myself about not revising but Friday gone my exam went well and I'm feeling canny about the whole thing.

   I've started uploading songs onto Bandcamp as El Richito Bandito. So far, its just the one, and the chords are nicked from a song I'd written the music for the band, when I was in it, but the lyrics weren't mine, so I've haphazardly written new 'uns. Check them out.

   One night last weekend I got a phone call from wor Ashley that lasted three or four hours which doesn't seem that odd in terms of these crazy teenage lives we all live, but she rang me pished at one o'clock in the morn', so I didn't get much sleep.

   

   Today then, - though its two in the morning so, yesterday - myself and the afore-mentioned blogging colleague Rude Rabbit who is currently residing in the spare room took the magical X1 into Newcastle and marched against public service and education cuts, as you do. As a new thing for the Rabbit, he did bloody well for himself, even making a speech. A bloody speech! And tomorrow I'm taking him back to wor fine city to experience yet another of the north east's cultural delights, other than working-class political activism, getting drunk and watching the derby.

   So on that, I leave you, because its daft o'clock, pure windy as outside and I need some sleep. I'll probably blog tomorrow now I'm back on the tracks, if not, most likely Tuesday. But before I go, can I please ask everybody to attend the Bombarding The Cottesloe School Page event and wait for further instruction, even if you don't care, this is a positive form of that "cyber bullying" they keep warning you about, a kind that's okay to do because the people we're going to bully are bad. Anyway.

   Glad to have me back?

-Nous.