Blah.
Yesterday, I visited London with fallensnowdrop. We met up with a friend of hers called Ian, who I was vaguely indifferent to until we went into Borders to look at CDs on sale and he exclaimed, "ooh! David Grey!" in the same manner I'd exclaim, "ooh! Chocolate!" after not eating for a week.
Apparently, all the 16 year-olds needing fake IDs nowadays scan their NUS cards and Photoshop them. In my day, it was photocopies of birth certificates doctored with Tippex and ballpoint pen. This was then sent off to Prove Your Age Cards who were myopic when it came to realising what a '4' changed into a '1' looked like. Going to Newquay is, apparently, the new Ibiza.
I spent £3.25 on the world's most disgusting Frappucino, brought to you by a Camden Starbucks that doesn't seem to grasp the concept that iced tea should contain ice. We laughed at a Covent Garden street performer whose entire act consisted of climbing a stepladder while holding a diablo, and groping himself while wearing tight white trousers. Har Mar Superstar will probably be doing this in fifteen years. We also looked at badly-named products in Chinatown. ("Men Shun Fireworks Ltd.")
British Rail is not my favourite company. Charging £11.40 to get from Reading to Paddington is ridiculous. It's partly my fault for not renewing my railcard, but still, it's only a 25 minute journey! And the route is so depressing. Firstly, it reminds me of going to UCL and being stuck under sweaty commuter's armpits. Secondly, it represents the worst of London. Dilapidated tower blocks in Acton and Harrow flecked with the dirty confetti of satellite dishes unhappily commingled with brand new glassy office blocks, identical cubicles so faceless they have matching waste-paper bins.
Urban environments fascinate me, but living in the thick of them is something else. I'm staying in Headingley, which is supposed to be a student-focused area with pubs that haven't been turned into Wetherspoons chains and cinemas that haven't been swallowed up by chains charging £5.00 for a matinee performance. I fervently hope Leeds will actually feel like home, and provide more of a social life than my usual Friday night of sitting at home, either puking up food or longing for it, and counting down the days until I can escape from Reading.
Okay, enough of the badly-written and self-indulgent stuff. Hopefully nobody will have got this far.
Li let me borrow 'Normal Girl', by Molly Jong-Fast, to me. Complete disappointment. It read like something one of the popular girls whose parents let her drink Chablis would have written for her English homework at the age of 15 or so. I couldn't put it down; it was like a trainwreck. A pseudo-autobiographical, trainwreck peppered with cliche-like pop culture metaphors that became weaker in plot and exposition as it protracted itself. What was I expecting from a story about a detoxifying, eating disordered New York society girl that the author claimed was inspired by her own experiences? Well, wit, for a start.
It's the Mercury Music Prize tomorrow. There are so many good bands up for it, so if Keane win, expect me to explode with disgust.
Apparently, all the 16 year-olds needing fake IDs nowadays scan their NUS cards and Photoshop them. In my day, it was photocopies of birth certificates doctored with Tippex and ballpoint pen. This was then sent off to Prove Your Age Cards who were myopic when it came to realising what a '4' changed into a '1' looked like. Going to Newquay is, apparently, the new Ibiza.
I spent £3.25 on the world's most disgusting Frappucino, brought to you by a Camden Starbucks that doesn't seem to grasp the concept that iced tea should contain ice. We laughed at a Covent Garden street performer whose entire act consisted of climbing a stepladder while holding a diablo, and groping himself while wearing tight white trousers. Har Mar Superstar will probably be doing this in fifteen years. We also looked at badly-named products in Chinatown. ("Men Shun Fireworks Ltd.")
British Rail is not my favourite company. Charging £11.40 to get from Reading to Paddington is ridiculous. It's partly my fault for not renewing my railcard, but still, it's only a 25 minute journey! And the route is so depressing. Firstly, it reminds me of going to UCL and being stuck under sweaty commuter's armpits. Secondly, it represents the worst of London. Dilapidated tower blocks in Acton and Harrow flecked with the dirty confetti of satellite dishes unhappily commingled with brand new glassy office blocks, identical cubicles so faceless they have matching waste-paper bins.
Urban environments fascinate me, but living in the thick of them is something else. I'm staying in Headingley, which is supposed to be a student-focused area with pubs that haven't been turned into Wetherspoons chains and cinemas that haven't been swallowed up by chains charging £5.00 for a matinee performance. I fervently hope Leeds will actually feel like home, and provide more of a social life than my usual Friday night of sitting at home, either puking up food or longing for it, and counting down the days until I can escape from Reading.
Okay, enough of the badly-written and self-indulgent stuff. Hopefully nobody will have got this far.
Li let me borrow 'Normal Girl', by Molly Jong-Fast, to me. Complete disappointment. It read like something one of the popular girls whose parents let her drink Chablis would have written for her English homework at the age of 15 or so. I couldn't put it down; it was like a trainwreck. A pseudo-autobiographical, trainwreck peppered with cliche-like pop culture metaphors that became weaker in plot and exposition as it protracted itself. What was I expecting from a story about a detoxifying, eating disordered New York society girl that the author claimed was inspired by her own experiences? Well, wit, for a start.
It's the Mercury Music Prize tomorrow. There are so many good bands up for it, so if Keane win, expect me to explode with disgust.