gingerchris.co.uk

Haven’t updated this in a while. I’ve let you all down, but more than that, I’ve let myself down. I had hoped that by this stage in my life I would be living the veritable, man-about-town dream worth blogging about on a regular basis. But so far, my life is less “Sex and the City” and more “Croissant Crumbs in the Lecture Hall”, and whatever few hard hitting issues I deem blogworthy are subsequently lost and forgotten in all-night essays and Facebook F5-marathons. I’m of the belief that quality and frequency are inversely proportional anyway, so fuck it.

In fact, it was only in a Journalism tutorial the other day that I was reminded that I still had a blog. While we were moping around on various news websites, taking note of word choice and emotive language and other such pish, our tutor enthusiastically asked the class if any of us owned a blog.

Our current lecturer and tutor for Journalism is, in an astonishing break from past lecturers, an actual journalist. The difference is clear. Where previous lecturers wallowed their way around clumsily-constructed Powerpoint slides, he glides through his concise and structured presentation - which he e-mailed to the entire class the previous night - armed with a sharp tongue and a laser pointer. Where previous lecturers desperately and blindly grasped for any semblance of a punchline to their mundane stories that were regretted half way through telling them, he is no less than a walking compendium of witty and endlessly rehearsed anecdotes and impressive namedrops. He’s been a journalist for as long as I’ve been ginger, and in that time he’s amassed countless awards and the earnest respect of his fellow peers. I’m choosing not to disclose his name, partly because it would be unprofessional, but mostly because I’m almost certain he Googles it on a daily basis.

Having tried to attract the attention of this colourful character for several weeks now, I raised my hand, hopelessly trying to stifle my enthusiasm with a false, casual apathy that ultimately made this simple action look like a tragic physical disability. “Oh really?” he says with genuine interest. “What’s your blog about?”

Before I have time to try and sound impressive, my mind naturally responds with its preset answer to this question. “Basically, it’s just me tossing off into a text box.” A few guffaws are shared around the class, and I naturally assume that my self-deprecative answer would be sufficiently dry enough to evoke a good response. But no. Instead, he solemnly responds with “Just watch your language. Don’t forget where you are.”

I’m not even going to bitch and whine about how I got told off for using a fairly inoffensive metaphor, or how journalism is largely acknowledged to be rife with profanities most of us are yet to discover, and that it should be his job to desensitise us to it. This isn’t about any of that. This is about my attempt at righteously proclaiming my existence, once again, being met with defeat.

And yet, minutes later, he starts asking the class for analyses on word choice, emotive language and other such pish. And while I’m already drawing up a formation of a blog entry about this incident, he looks at me with raised, expectant eyebrows, looking for an answer. And, for the very first time since the beginning of the year, says “Sorry, what’s your name?”

I’m trying to find a moral to this story that’s a little more elegant than “if you want to get noticed, swear”. But to be honest, it’s not an easy task. Apart from anything else, I’m distracted by the fact that the sentences in the last paragraph all started with “and”, and I’m trying to work out whether it makes me a poor English student or a rebellious maverick of language.

Before I finish, I’d like to draw your attention to Natasha’s recently established blog. She’s made the move from MySpace to a “proper” blog, thus fully uplifting the MySpace Triumvirate - an order of vaguely acquainted friends-of-friends who, back in days of yore, mutually wanked over how fantastic they and each other were - to “proper” blog status. Having been thoroughly entertained her simultaneous condemnation and celebration of popular culture for a good while, and having properly met her only last month in a display of bumbling social awkwardness (see: “good chat vs shit chat“), I welcome her late entry to the world of “proper” blogging and suggest you go massage her ego a bit.

She’s only on Blogspot, though. Me and Davie are both living it up on Wordpress. Get with the times, hen.

My masturbatory style of writing, coupled with the sheer triviality of its content, makes this blog a fairly inaccessible read as it is. Therefore, if you don’t really care about studying English, you might want to skip this post. I wouldn’t blame you. After a couple of weeks of doing Romanticism and Modernism at Uni, I would hastily close the window at the mention of studying English as well.

Having said that, I’m pretty sure about two thirds of my entire readership study English. Hello, both of you.

When you go to University, you don’t really realise that first year is the most despicable, deceptive ploy that you’re likely to face in your entire academic life. You’re too busy stealing an infinite amount of mugs and pens at the stalls during Freshers’ Week. You’re having all-night parties, following the all-evening poker games. You’re sitting in the Union, having copious amounts of cheap drink practically thrusted into your hands. You’re sitting in the library writing essays in the clothes you slept in, hoping that a lack of sleep and a murderous hangover will somehow make the essay you’ve just started read better when you have to hand it in in a couple of hours. You don’t have time to sit back and think about the future. Of course you don’t. “They” don’t want you to.

Above all else, you’ll be sitting in a lecture, with a big can of Relentless, thinking to yourself “Hey! This subject’s pretty interesting!” And that’s you: a naive, first year student, conned out of your wide eyed enthusiasm for your chosen subject. You fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

In first year, as well as Journalism, I got the option to pick three additional subjects. I went with Politics, Sociology and English. Of the three, English was the most exciting and engaging subject I could’ve hoped to take. I don’t get enthusiastic about many things, but every lecture was a blast. We studied the stylistic Scotticisms present in an episode of River City and we analysed the metric structure of Kelis’s Milkshake. Dr. Hope and Dr. Fabb, whose names alone filled the hall with childish glee, were dynamic and passionate about their teachings. They could’ve spent the lectures clubbing seals and we’d still be a bunch of pathetic sycophants.

And it wasn’t just the lectures that made the year worthwhile. In tutorials, we would sit about discussing Jeremy Kyle instead of doing any work. When a tutor finally came over, asking us about our deconstruction of the text, we would just sit back smugly and say, “We reckon that the poet’s taking a post-modern approach, and the poem is therefore essentially meaningless.” The tutor would then nod, smile and congratulate us on our good work. The entire year was nothing short of beautiful.

So alongside Journalism, taking English was the obvious choice. Of course it was. If first year was that interesting, surely when you take it up a notch it’ll become even more engrossing? Enter Romanticism and Modernism, the core subject for second year English. With a reading list that looks like pseudo-intellectual pornography, and a lecturer not unlike the Ben Stein economics teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Romanticism and Modernism has singularly succeeded in destroying every enthusiasm I ever had for English.

The first lecture was spent studying Wordsworth. In fact, it physically pains me to tell you that we spent the first lecture studying that… fucking… Daffodils poem, that has now become a self-perpetuating parody of itself. We spent forty minutes listening to monotonous mullings about the poem’s meanings, most of which were just paraphrased versions of the text rather than actual analytical accomplishments. What made the whole lecture even worse is that when the lecturer eventually read out the immortal line, “A poet could not but be gay”, nobody giggled. Not even playground humour, on which I have so steadfastly relied in the past, could save me from this oratory equivalent of Chinese water torture.

Breaking point came towards the end of the lecture, when our academic afflictor was content that every word had been unnecessarily clawed at to the extent that there was no meaning left. He then paused, stood proudly, and finally announced, “This poem is a good example of Wordworth’s Theory of Poetic Diction.”

Well bugger me sideways and call me your mum, Professor. What are the fucking odds that one of Wordsworth’s poems would be a good example of his own theory?

Last night, I didn’t sleep at all. My sleeping patterns, as is the norm for most people with free time and the internet, have been distorted into an unmaintainable flurry of involuntary power naps and 3pm “breakfasts”. During what will be affectionately looked back on as my Summer of Inexcusable Unemployment, this wasn’t really a problem. But now that University has started back, it’s time for me to get back into the unfamiliar swing of actually having something to do.

The initial plan was to stay up until about 3am, get some sleep, wake up early and use the remainder of my unfinished sleep cycle to lull me into a sweet slumber at a reasonable time. This was met with a few slight deviations, with each one spawning three more like it. At 3am, just as I was about to go to bed, I realised that I hadn’t printed up a timetable. At 3:10am, I realised that the online student area was shut down, and would only open up again at 5am. At 5am, I realised that I didn’t have any software I could use to map a timetable. At 6am, after vigorously wrestling with Google Spreadsheets, I realised that I was getting up in an hour, and would’ve been better just watching old episodes of Peep Show than going to bed. And somehow, over the course of the past few hours, I had developed a rather undesirable cold.

I missed the train I had intended to get, and had to jump on the next one, leaving me with a somewhat miserly ten minutes to get to my first class. As I ran through George Square, jumping over puddles, with my hair flailing in the wind like a Baywatch opening sequence, I washed down a couple of Lemsip Flu capsules with a can of Relentless. It was at this point, as I narrowly avoided being mowed down by a Ford Ka, that I suddenly realised exactly how much I had missed student life.

My initial plan to get my sleeping patterns back into sync had failed miserably. I got home at 1pm, lay on the bed, and slept until 6. And now, here I am, at 3:20am, attempting to re-sync my sleeping patterns for a second time.

I might just watch another episode of Knight Rider before I head off to bed…

I thought it was time for an update on the search engine keywords, now that blog’s developed an infinitesimal but mildly dedicated readership. So what, pray tell, are people typing into Google to get to these hallowed pages of vague coherence?

I really hope those last two aren’t related.

I got a message in my Honesty Box on Facebook the other night. In answer to the question “What do you honestly think of me?”, an anonymous male said:

chris needs a target, a goal, something to be passionate about

Thank Christ for the internet. Without it, I wouldn’t have these anonymous psychiatrists trying to put me on the straight and narrow. It was an answer that seemed less like a personal response and more like a snippet from my fourth year report card. The serious, seemingly genuine tone of the message - as well as the unnecessary use of third person - was unusual for an Honesty Box, which is mostly utilised by either comedy geniuses saying “ur well fit btw lol”, or cruel pranksters leaving fake messages of unrequited love and watching from a safe distance as their victim frantically sends bulletins and status updates begging for the unsung devotee to make themselves known.

I made a minor self-discovery recently that even though I’m more than happy to criticise myself and list all of my flaws in a well-structured, bullet-pointed list, I really don’t like other people criticising aspects of my own personality. I like to think that I have a fairly elevated level of self-awareness, and that I can usually recognise and acknowledge my own flaws. On that basis, I tend to think that my own personality is my own problem. Obviously, in a heated argument, it’s acceptable. But when people spout all manner of psychological platitudes at me in a friendly manner, in a half-arsed attempt to “help” me, I start getting pissy.

A lot of people would much rather psycho-analyse others, at a very amateur and rudimentary psychiatric level, as a distraction from how fucked up they are themselves. If I wanted someone’s opinion on how my mind works and what I really need from life, I’d ask them. If not, then I’d suggest they iron out the problems of their own inner workings before jumping at the opportunity to criticise mine. Let’s see how bloody much they like it.

Facebook allows you to respond to comments left in your Honesty Box. Being a funny little twat, I thought I’d reply with:

Is that you, Dad?

Within ten minutes, this mysterious, enigmatic entity of enlightenment responded with:

the person doesnt matter, just an opinion.

take care

He’s probably wanking off to his own inscrutability as we speak. I only added that Honesty Box in the hope that people would tell me that they fancy me. Between this gash and the numerous “your gay” comments, I’m finding myself increasingly disillusioned in the utopian dream of Facebook.

Danny stole this from the pub the other night. Unfortunately, the effects of half a pitcher of Cheeky Vimto were beginning to affect his hilariously lightweight frame, and he forgot to pick it up as we were leaving. Not wanting to let his tactical espionage go to waste, I thought I’d stuff it in my pocket and try and walk past the bouncers as nonchalantly as is humanly possible when you’ve spent five hours in a pub with doubles at £2.79.

It’s brilliant, because it’s another addition to my own, homemade bar: a rudimentary construction of stolen, pub-related tidbits from various nights out.

It’s a work in progress, admittedly.

I seem to write better when I’m on a foreign computer or laptop. Or in a foreign city, perhaps, and it doesn’t get much more foreign than Portsmouth. Either way, I seem to write better when there’s an element of foreignness involved, much the general dismay of my conservative readers.*

So let me just hammer out the final chapter of my shockingly uninteresting trip down South and we can all move on. I got back on Tuesday morning, stumbling into Buchanan Street Bus Station as a sleep-deprived urchin, dragging a weekend’s worth of unwashed clothes behind me. The coach journey from Portsmouth to London was surprisingly pleasant and relaxing, despite the amorous Spanish couple sitting behind me, who were determined to make me squirm uncomfortably with a mixture of slurping noises and obnoxiously loud football anthems as their ringtones.

When I got into London, I got lost on the streets for a bit, found Victoria Station and sat down and had a McDonald’s. This doesn’t seem interesting, but I was fantasising about this McDonald’s for the full three hours I was on the coach. I ate away while having a fairly conspicuous phone conversation with Danny, replete with over-exaggerated Scotticisms. I considered the phone conversation my rehabilitation into Glaswegian society again.

The eight hour bus journey from London to Glasgow was the kicker. It was sweaty, the patrons were bothersome and getting any vague semblance of sleep was impossible. I sat next to a polite though increasingly disgruntled Iranian gentleman, who got about four minutes of slumber throughout the entire journey. Behind me sat the most irritatingly self-absorbed woman I could possibly imagine. She also appeared to be fucking nocturnal, and decided that talking about herself for most of the journey was the best course of action.

I don’t know what to write about now, which is a shame. This small diversion has made me realise how ultimately boring my life is, normally. I need inspiration. Blogging inspiration. Blogspiration.

This was a shit entry. Sorry.

*Dear Chris: Clever wordplay and half-arsed politics don’t mix. Please stick with what you’re best at.

That’s me getting ready to leave for home, now. Anna, being the hardcore party animal that she is, is juggling between taking me to the bus station and going to a Beach Party themed club night. This essentially means that I’m going to be sitting at the Hard Exchange, waiting on a coach to whisk me away back to sunny Glasgow, with a crudely packed bag of unwashed clothes on one side, and a poster girl for the Hawaiian tourist board on the other.

It’s been a surprisingly tolerable weekend, considering the copious amounts of sheer pessimism I had reserved before I got here. I don’t work well in other people’s houses - especially if it’s a house with a stable family unit, a pet dog and a fridge freezer that dispenses seemingly infinite amounts of ice. And I especially don’t work well in other people’s houses if I’m staying there for four days. Case in point, yesterday I woke up to Anna politely knocking on my door and telling me that my hair had clogged the shower drain. FACEPALM.

Despite this, my stay in Portsmouth has been surprisingly painless. In a short period of time, the spare bedroom had been transformed into Chris’s bedroom. It had my clothes lying around the place, books lying open in a satisfying “bohemian tosser” fashion, and for two nights, it even had a plate with a slice of toast on it - slowly decomposing. I’ve cleaned it up now in preperation for my long haul home, but the smell of Herbal Essences and manly, Scottish sweat should linger long enough to keep my memory alive for a couple of weeks.

The members of the family have been cautiously accepting of me, or at least they’re doing a fantastic job of pretending they are (must be that charming, English accent). The father is docile, jovial and unagressively inquisitive; the brother and I have an unbreakable bond that consists of suffixing every sentence with the word “man”; and the mother, at the very least, finds my bizarre eating habits a vaguely amusing novelty. The brother’s girlfriend is a greatly appreciated asset to the household, providing numerous parallels that have made things significantly less awkward: she’s staying in the house but isn’t part of the family, she’s eager to please and win the approval of the parents, and best of all, she’s considerably shorter than her romantic counterpart.

Alarmingly, the member of the family I seem to have connected with the most is the dog. Of course, dogs are indiscriminately sociable creatures and implying that I’ve developed some form of unique kinship with one would be foolish to even suggest. Having said this, however, the dog and I have wiled away the lonely hours together, playing games and lying in the sun. It’s a silent, mutually-understanding relationship that not even Anna can compete with.

To say it’s been a perfect weekend would be a hideous lie. But if I do end up coming down here again, it’s good to know that I don’t need to be horrendously paranoid about the whole thing. The experience was a surprisingly comfortable one.

Infinitely more comfortable than this fucking eleven hour journey home’s going to be, anyway.