(no subject)
I feel a little unusual today. It's really extremely rare that illness strikes, so naturally when it does swoop down I have to be as melodramatic about it as possible. The fact that I'm not really all that unwell is a dead giveaway. Still, there's been lots of pathetic snivelling and clutching of the brow going on round the 'hood today. And naturally, finally retreating here with tea, cake and Belle and Sebby for comfort. Woe is me, and all that.
(And before I forget, who fancies accompanying me to see the above in Jan? Any takers? No?! Your loss.)
The gratuitous laziness is going to cease soon, however, because tonight promises to be the aces and nothing, not even a slight wooziness nor all the money in the world is going to get in the way of that. You try and stop me!
These last couple of days I have mostly been conscientously avoiding work. All right, I fib slightly. I spent all of fifteen minutes after my intense Iliad-based seminar today half-arsedly "planning" my Importance of Being Earnest presentation with peoples from my 19th Century Lit seminar group. I feel a customary foot stomping is in order when considering how I feel about having to do that presentation, but on the plus side it has reacquainted me with an old favourite and endless opportunities for re-watching the deliciously foppish '50s film. Not the Rupert Everett version mind, aces he may very well be but a contemporary reworking would simply be a bastardisation of the old camp classic. No-one speaks like they did in the '50s, which greatly pains me.
I introduced Sarah to the joy that is the Basement yesterday. I was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms after having been Bristol-confined the week before, see, plus I'm rather enjoying having a fresh-faced, er, fresher to show how it's really done around here. Especially when they're not all that hot about most freshers either, enabling us to have a fleeting but great, "Aren't freshers rubbish?" type discussion. That's what happens when you're both elitists who took gap years. To cement Sarah's status as too-cool-to-really-be-a-fresher, I'm planning a crawl of the finest grassroots/vegetarian/generally non rubbish cafes and hidden hotspots in all of Manchester. Check me out.
In return, Sarah then introduced me to the equal greatness that is the Man Uni Film Society that same evening. I've been a fool. I've missed out on something fabulous these past two years due to silly paranoia about no-one else I knew being interested. Of course lots of people turned up on their own, mostly in berets. The snide amongst you might claim that no-one sees arthouse films for enjoyment anyway, which I would have to return with a suitably withering look. It would be no exaggeration whatsoever if I said that all the cool kids were there. So that explains why there are no decent club nights on a Wednesday!
Anyway. We saw Talk To Her. Now the film came out years ago and I'm sure those of you who haven't seen it won't particularly care, so I apologise not for letting slip that that ending simply couldn't have been any better. Well, not the very very ending, that was just contrived, the probably only genuinely decent characters in it were granted a happy ending, of sorts. Which was obviously no fun at all. I'm pleased to say the rest came to their wonderfully tragic ends, with a nice side serving of evil humour to jolly things along. And it was so generally gripping that I even forgot to put my questioning cynical face on throughout it and simply lose myself in the story. I'd all but thought A Level Media Studies (no sniggering at the back) and two Cultural Studies units here ("You're all fools! Stop sleeping and start hating everything!") had completely sapped me of that ability, so that was nice.
I spent a large part of Tuesday afternoon in my other favourite daytime hangout, the very prettyful Oklahoma, in the good company of Oscar Wilde (that counts as uni related, does it not?) and later, Ian and Danielli. We stayed until Danielli's and my rain drenched Converse could take it no more, and after more rejuventaing tea at home was ready to face Poptastic. I'm not entirely sure why I still go, but that place definitely does have something that's extremely difficult to get out of your system. Perhaps it's those smoke machines. Lauren and Rachel were there being coupley with people, and Ian had decided to tag along due to his doubtless more interesting plans falling through, before spectacularly failing to experiment with his sexuality in the way I'd been hoping for. Hehe. It only failed to be a great night due to the generally grumpy mood that had inexplicably grown on me, but even that managed to be partially remedied when Ian and I, on our return, did the bog standard post-club thing of abstract drawing until five a.m. Seriously, it's wicked therapy, not to mention the wonderfully, ahem, expressive pieces your future Turner darling effortlessly reeled off. I bet they would have been even more incoherent, I mean better, had I been alone!
It both bores and amuses me to think of last week's adventures in suburban Bristol, with its aimless searching for coffee shops and pubs open during the highly irregular hour of five p.m. It goes without saying that we had to give that one up fairly swiftly. Finer moments came with Kenny's presence over the first couple of days, resulting in more amusing meetings with more embarrassing friends and the obligatory adventures up the Brandon Hill tower, because that's just what you do with visitors. I'm rather impressed at the short space of time in which he's been introduced to both homes. I would suggest a swift progression to my third home, but he knows where that is and I feel it somewhat ambitious. Tee hee.
I also had the novel company of Bristol Uni student Caya, another one of those people I picked up in Poland (no, not in that sense, you dirty minded individual), to remind me that the city does have a side to it not comprised of hourly-after-8pm buses and bitching pensioners. Student parties in your own city are an odd, odd thing, especially when you're all ready to leave in the wee hours before realising Magic Buses are conspicuously absent. But Caya's hopeful presence on the occasions I return home may yet introduce me to corners of the city that still feel new and vibrant.
I've wandered off and made too much tea since starting this. It's about time I went for real and allowed myself another good half hour of recuperating from this non-illness before braving noise and general interest again. Just watch me go.
(And before I forget, who fancies accompanying me to see the above in Jan? Any takers? No?! Your loss.)
The gratuitous laziness is going to cease soon, however, because tonight promises to be the aces and nothing, not even a slight wooziness nor all the money in the world is going to get in the way of that. You try and stop me!
These last couple of days I have mostly been conscientously avoiding work. All right, I fib slightly. I spent all of fifteen minutes after my intense Iliad-based seminar today half-arsedly "planning" my Importance of Being Earnest presentation with peoples from my 19th Century Lit seminar group. I feel a customary foot stomping is in order when considering how I feel about having to do that presentation, but on the plus side it has reacquainted me with an old favourite and endless opportunities for re-watching the deliciously foppish '50s film. Not the Rupert Everett version mind, aces he may very well be but a contemporary reworking would simply be a bastardisation of the old camp classic. No-one speaks like they did in the '50s, which greatly pains me.
I introduced Sarah to the joy that is the Basement yesterday. I was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms after having been Bristol-confined the week before, see, plus I'm rather enjoying having a fresh-faced, er, fresher to show how it's really done around here. Especially when they're not all that hot about most freshers either, enabling us to have a fleeting but great, "Aren't freshers rubbish?" type discussion. That's what happens when you're both elitists who took gap years. To cement Sarah's status as too-cool-to-really-be-a-fresher, I'm planning a crawl of the finest grassroots/vegetarian/generally non rubbish cafes and hidden hotspots in all of Manchester. Check me out.
In return, Sarah then introduced me to the equal greatness that is the Man Uni Film Society that same evening. I've been a fool. I've missed out on something fabulous these past two years due to silly paranoia about no-one else I knew being interested. Of course lots of people turned up on their own, mostly in berets. The snide amongst you might claim that no-one sees arthouse films for enjoyment anyway, which I would have to return with a suitably withering look. It would be no exaggeration whatsoever if I said that all the cool kids were there. So that explains why there are no decent club nights on a Wednesday!
Anyway. We saw Talk To Her. Now the film came out years ago and I'm sure those of you who haven't seen it won't particularly care, so I apologise not for letting slip that that ending simply couldn't have been any better. Well, not the very very ending, that was just contrived, the probably only genuinely decent characters in it were granted a happy ending, of sorts. Which was obviously no fun at all. I'm pleased to say the rest came to their wonderfully tragic ends, with a nice side serving of evil humour to jolly things along. And it was so generally gripping that I even forgot to put my questioning cynical face on throughout it and simply lose myself in the story. I'd all but thought A Level Media Studies (no sniggering at the back) and two Cultural Studies units here ("You're all fools! Stop sleeping and start hating everything!") had completely sapped me of that ability, so that was nice.
I spent a large part of Tuesday afternoon in my other favourite daytime hangout, the very prettyful Oklahoma, in the good company of Oscar Wilde (that counts as uni related, does it not?) and later, Ian and Danielli. We stayed until Danielli's and my rain drenched Converse could take it no more, and after more rejuventaing tea at home was ready to face Poptastic. I'm not entirely sure why I still go, but that place definitely does have something that's extremely difficult to get out of your system. Perhaps it's those smoke machines. Lauren and Rachel were there being coupley with people, and Ian had decided to tag along due to his doubtless more interesting plans falling through, before spectacularly failing to experiment with his sexuality in the way I'd been hoping for. Hehe. It only failed to be a great night due to the generally grumpy mood that had inexplicably grown on me, but even that managed to be partially remedied when Ian and I, on our return, did the bog standard post-club thing of abstract drawing until five a.m. Seriously, it's wicked therapy, not to mention the wonderfully, ahem, expressive pieces your future Turner darling effortlessly reeled off. I bet they would have been even more incoherent, I mean better, had I been alone!
It both bores and amuses me to think of last week's adventures in suburban Bristol, with its aimless searching for coffee shops and pubs open during the highly irregular hour of five p.m. It goes without saying that we had to give that one up fairly swiftly. Finer moments came with Kenny's presence over the first couple of days, resulting in more amusing meetings with more embarrassing friends and the obligatory adventures up the Brandon Hill tower, because that's just what you do with visitors. I'm rather impressed at the short space of time in which he's been introduced to both homes. I would suggest a swift progression to my third home, but he knows where that is and I feel it somewhat ambitious. Tee hee.
I also had the novel company of Bristol Uni student Caya, another one of those people I picked up in Poland (no, not in that sense, you dirty minded individual), to remind me that the city does have a side to it not comprised of hourly-after-8pm buses and bitching pensioners. Student parties in your own city are an odd, odd thing, especially when you're all ready to leave in the wee hours before realising Magic Buses are conspicuously absent. But Caya's hopeful presence on the occasions I return home may yet introduce me to corners of the city that still feel new and vibrant.
I've wandered off and made too much tea since starting this. It's about time I went for real and allowed myself another good half hour of recuperating from this non-illness before braving noise and general interest again. Just watch me go.